The way things are...

Coping with no-berry

2011-10-12T10:08:00.000+02:00

I was off on the day it happened. So I hoped for, and thought, that my wish was being granted. Very few e-mails came through on my blackberry. I received less than 10 calls that day.

I only became aware that something's wrong when I tried accessing a few sites from my phone. And when I couldn't I assumed it was the network (nothing new). So I did what I needed to do from my laptop.

The next morning, however, I tried to BBM a few mates. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Tried to check on my peeps on facebook. Couldn't. Twitter. Aikona.

The only thing I could do was sms or phone! That is so last century! I wanted to voice my frustration and tried to log on to facebook... OK, forgot...

So I had to go back to basic and went to look for my old Nokia, charge it and then go to facebook... by then I wasn't that frustrated anymore...

What bothers me is how long it's taking BB to sort this mess out. It's been like, two days, dudes. That's like forever. So what's the problem?

Blackberry is very popular, but I think over-subscription is sinking it at the moment. So please bras van die Blackberry, please fix your nonsense. The world without technology at your fingertips is not cool, my bra.

Censeless… you can count on it!

2011-10-05T13:38:00.000+02:00

The guy in the blinding yellow knock on your door, asks to come in. You check his credentials, and do as requested.

You offer coffee – the visit is going to take more than 10 minutes, afterall. He’s nice, this man, that you have to let into your house. Immaculate manner, soft spoken, you somehow can’t help but trust him.

His pulls out his papers, as you fills the cup with steaming coffee. He pulls his sleeves up and then you see it. A Tatoe – not the artistic one of a little dolphin or a Chinese word meaning something nice translated. No, it’s that crude green-only ones, made in an overpopulated prison somewhere in South Africa.

You mind flies to newspaper articles, written a week or so ago, about this armed robber who missed his court date because he was on training do to census. Is it him? Is he violent? Are you going to survive this count?

Don’t worry says, Statistician General Pali Lohahla, a week after the story broke, we have checked the background of all the people who will come into your homes. Last count those numbered more than 150-thousand. Whoa, that was fast.

I was going to allow the counters to come into my home, tick me and my family off, so that government can make decisions on how to better service delivery.

I’m hoping the guy comes on a nice Spring Day, cause he’s not getting past my security gates. I answer all his questions, but the coffee, biscuit and some HD TV watching while I look for some documents for him, is out.

Sorry bro, but my fears have to count.

Bumming it - Madiba style!!!

2011-09-29T12:23:00.000+02:00

The view from the Nelson Mandela museum at Qunu in the Transkei is breathtaking. From the hill, where it’s situated, you have a panoramic view of the rolling hills of the Transkei.

If you stand at a particular angle, you can also see the Mandela house, where the elder statesman is currently enjoying time.

There’s off course lots of history here in this place where Mandela grew up. The people from the museum – infact everyone in Qunu - can tell you something about Mandela.

A nice thing that they’re doing at the museum is that visitors can follow the footstep of Mandela – visiting sites that he used frequent as a young man.

A Day before our broadcast from there last week, we were taken to the stone slide where he and his tjommies played.

We were literally walking in his footsteps. The slide though is a slippery stone, bumpy and very steep.

The seven of us all stared at the slide – two taking photo’s. And then, I threw caution at the wind. I sat on my bum – and wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee….

I went down on my bum… all the way to the end of the rock. I was exhilarating… I can imagine why Mandela and his mates walked up that steep hills and rocks to come here over and over again.

Then, my colleague asked me to do it again (to take a few photo’s), and I obliged – my bum sliding where Madiba’s once was. Now how many people can say that!

I heart you, Dr. Death

2011-09-27T09:24:00.000+02:00

It strikes while you walk in Cape Town, smoking your cigar, after having the greasiest, cholesterol-filled food ever imagined.

A pain shoots through your chest, you are short of breath – the literature that you were once forced to read while you were waiting for some sort of service – tells you are having a heart attack.

You start coughing – deep throaty once – that the magazine article told you might buy you time while you experience cardiac arrest.

Someone helps you – you get to a hospital and they get you stable – but you are in need of a doctor. “The best cardiologist in this town, please,” you tell them.

“That’ll be dr. Basson,” they tell you. You nod and doze off.

You wake up a day later. Dr. Basson had done something to you arteries and you should be able to live another three or four decades, if you watch your diet etc etc etc…

Dr. Basson comes in. He looks familiar, but you are so grateful, you thanks him, saying his name over and over again.

“Ag, call me Wouter,” he says.

I heard the other day that Dr. Death is still practicing in Cape Town. I must admit that the man is brilliant, but I really don’t know if I’ll let him treat me and I’m almost certain I’ll get a second and third and fourth opinion if I’ve been unconscious in his presence for more than 10 seconds.

Dr. Wouter Basson was involved in the apartheid government’s Project Coast, which produced various drug, teargas and other chemical agents used in crowd control and against enemies in the Border War during the 80’s.

An never-to-be confirmed rumour that he engineered the Aids virus was also circulating a decade or so ago.

He was tried on a few dozen charges and found not guilty.

I wonder who seeks him out for treatment – how many patients he has – who they are. Are there black and coloured people sitting in his waiting room and what goes through their minds as he’s alone with them with so many chemicals and other medical things.

Do they trust him to cut them open? I need to trust me doctor, and with one nicknamed Dr. Death, not sure he cuts it.

That place across the Kei, I love to hate...

2011-09-26T12:35:00.000+02:00

A Trip across the Kei normally fills me with excitement, but also with dread. I have to take the N2 to that part of the world at least three times a year, but mostly more.

The excitement is seeing the beautiful scenery the Transkei has to offer. Damn, that place is beautiful. Then of course its hills, the river, the valley and the people.

The dread of course is its capital, Mthatha. That city is an assault on all of one’s sense, leaving me senseless. Too much noise, too many smells, too many people, cars… And those potholes! The list goes on.

It’s like I’m unable to function properly while I’m in the city. And don’t get me started on their animals. Strays in the city; cows, donkey and horses on the main roads. Transkei robots, they call them. Drive slow – accidents aplenty in that part of the world.

But drive out of the city, less than 10 km’s and it all becomes worth it. Those rolling hills, dotted with the colorful houses. Rural life – friendly people – typically South African.

The Mbashe river cutting through the hills – a photographer or artist’s paradise.

I understand why Nelson Mandela and Bantu Holomisa love this place.

I’ve travelled most of this country of our – along the west and east coast – in the interior, the Namaqualand. I’ve seen the Augrabies in flood and the majestic Drakensberg. The Orange river mouth and Richtersveld - all silently boasting their own beauty – and the Transkei, which I love to hate is among my top ten.

The beautiful game, minus the main ingredient...

2011-09-19T12:25:00.000+02:00

If it was in the afternoon, we would have started a fire about an hour early. We would have talked about the event that was due to start. Some would’ve argued, others would’ve talk about the meat, the marinate, the weather. But we’d all be worried and, of course, hopeful.

We’d open a few beers and have some biltong. Some of the okes would’ve started making jokes about others’ choice of brand. But it’ll be all just for fun.

Then we’d listen to the experts as they talk – and we’d brand them as hasbeen, wannabees, but still listen and agree with what they say.

Then we’d be glued to the screen for almost two hours – shouting, screaming even, and coming within an inche of a heart attack. I would’ve personally smoked double the amount of cigarettes I normally do.

That’s the lekkerte of a “normal” rugby world cup. Unfortunately, we don’t have that this year. We have to wake up, get some coffee going and sit alone and watch the game. Don’t get too excited, because loud screaming will wake up the baby.

And beer is out at that time of the morning – unless you’re an alcoholic or a badass babelas from the night before. I don’t know about you, but a rugby match without a cold one, just isn’t the same.

So what to do? Could record it on the PVR, invite some bro’s and watch the match at a decent hour. But then, how to avoid being told the score by some or the other idiot?

Because rowdy celebrations by the neighbours will tell you who scored. And facebook friends will vent their disappointment or celebrate their excitement.

Nah, don’t see a way out of this one – back to waking up and watching the game alone with some coffee and biscuit.

Stalkers paradise...

2011-09-13T15:17:00.000+02:00

He breaths heavy as he sees her undressing. First the top goes, revealing a sexy bra. Then the pants and she stands in a matching panties. She looks good, just the way he had always imagined she would.

He's been waiting for this moment for more than a year now. He met her in a bar one evening, approached her and when she had told him to bugger off, he felt angry, vengeful and started following her. He followed her home. The next day, he followed her to work, gym, to the bar where she goes.
He had tried many times to try to ask her out again, but the shame of being told off in a busy bar was still vivid in his mind.
And so she became alive in his fantasy. There she doesn't say no to anything he asks, infact she offers to do to him all the things he likes and more...

Tonight, after a year, he had finally gotten into her apartment. He was waiting for her wardrobe, watching as she was preparing for him...
I've been watching with interest, the new application on facebook and people's excitement in using it. I'm talking about the checking in tool. Whoever has checked in wherever.
Call me negative, but can't help thinking how easy it becomes for stalker to check out their prey. No need to sit things out anymore. Missed her/him while you had to go take a wee - don't worry, check their facebook profile.

Want to quickly break into their apartment to get your hands on some undies and need to check if your okay with time, check facebook.
Need to get her while she's nice and drunk. Just wait for the check-in at the local watering hole and your good, buddy.
So keep on checking in, people and welcome to the Stalker's paradise...

It's a dirty job, but we love doing it...

2011-09-03T10:12:00.000+01:00

One of the interns in the newsroom got his dream realised shortly two months into his internship. A Big story broke and with most journalists already on stories – he was told to go.

I could see the smile, the veins in his neck and under his eye popping as the adrenalin started pumping. He left.

A few hours later he came back. Excited, but very quiet. He was green, and I don’t just mean in experience.

He wrote his story for radio. And the well experienced TV reporter wrote his. When the TV reporter started eating a sarmie, he disappeared, running to the toilet in a speed matching that of Flash Gordon.

He came back to merciless taunts from his fellow journalists. Shame, it was the first time he’d seen a murder –a badly beaten and burnt body.

He couldn’t eat for two days, as the image of the body haunted him. We all told him what we were told when we saw our first mutilated bodies: “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

[courtesy: SABC news]

And he did, or if he’s pretending now, he will. We all did. To a point where we are so desensitised it’s actually scary.

The cameraman who filmed it and the reporter eat shortly afterwards as they were busy calling into words the dreadful deed.

I drive by accidents without flinching. And a few years ago, in Cape Town, a man’s car burst into flames while he was in it. The way he was still clutching the steering wheel, looking straight ahead, burnt beyond recognition was the attraction for me.

I started thinking of why the accident happened and if there may be culpability from the manufacturer or the garage perhaps where he probably filled up shortly before the accident, while me fellow passengers were throwing up through the nearest window.

I think of the police, ambulance staff, the army and all those people who have to see these things. And I wonder, as I pray for those who lost their lives in some of the most gruesome ways, how the handle images at night, shortly before they go to sleep.

Exciting advertising...

2011-09-01T10:38:00.000+01:00

I was very excited after watching the latest Sealy ad, currently running on TV.

Breathing heavily, I burst into our bedroom and told the wife: “This is a perfect time to have another baby.”

She gave me the lazy eye (that I for a fleeting second first confused with the “come-get-it-eyes”) and went about her business.

“No, I’m serious,” I tell her, trying to get my heavy breathing under control. I had done the five metre sprint from the sitting- to our bedroom in a new world record time.

“Bokkie,” she smiled, “we really can’t afford another baby now.”

“That’s just it, Bokkie, we are not going to pay for it,” I tell her with a know-it-all smile.

“I’ve just saw the Sealy ad on tv, where Sealy says they support everything that happens on their beds,” I tell her.

So, I argued to her, obviously we’ll conceive the little one on the bed – we’ll take leave in order to make sure it happens.

And just in case Sealy tries to pull out of it, we’ll organise a home birth. Just to be safe, we’ll get two doctors to handle that. We just need to get them both on the bed during the process and here’s your account, Sealy.

And so we’ll have a little one – and Sealy will “support” it for the next eighteen years. Hopefully, I tell her (to sweeten the deal) we can get Sealy to pay for its university fees.

By now off course, by my thinking, I’ve sealed the deal and I start my advances. That’s till wifey stops me and says: “Great plan, Bokkie. Pity we don’t have a Sealy!”

My hate, my shame...

2011-08-31T11:51:00.000+01:00

The little boy I wrote about in my first blog - the one who was instrumental in my young ones discovery of race - gave my another surprise today.

I have been dealing with the problem. Perhaps, you'll disagree with the way I've done it - perhaps you will agree. But at least I'm not guilty of causing the boy our his family grevious bodily harm.

I've been ignoring the boy and his family, waiting for a report from the creche - that I suppose won't come. I have been giving the boy the death stare and putting my child in other play groups in the mornings, so that at least in my mind he will not have as much access to her. And off course, I've been interrogating her in the evenings - not really interrogating, but you know what I mean.

The other day, the grandfather picked the laaitie up - he greeted as friendly as he could - and I ignored him flat. "You bloody racist, I kept thinking," trying to keep my cool.

As I said before, children, I believe, do not think in colour. The think in terms of attitudes towards them. If they have fun with someone, they will play with them and not because someone is not the same shade as them.

I have been ashamed, I must admit, on the way I've treated the boy. It's really not his fault. But I'm not Nelson Mandela, who forgives so easily. Would be great country and world if we all could.

But this morning, my shame grew even more than I could imagine. As I was bending to drop my child's bag - I felt a pair of arms around my legs. I smiled as I looked down - thinking I'll see my little princess' smiling face looking up at me.

Instead it was the little boy - giving my a huge hug... laughing as only a healthy, playful little child can.

The quiet and the weird...

2011-08-23T12:49:00.000+01:00

She sits in an office on the top floor of the 4 storey building where I spent 8 hours of my day on week days and some weekends.

She’s not mad – at least I hope not. She works with finances, but on the other hand, she just might be a bit wacko. She’s supposed to handle the company’s finances –and there no money.

She’s married, has children and is a nice enough person, as far as I can tell.

She an introvert – rarely speaks unless addressed directly. And then she tries to get away with nodding, a smile…

I recently sat next to her during a company function. I tried and tried to get her to say something – it was only when asked about her family that she started talking – not much, mind you – but enough to find out she’s a compassionate, bright person.

She could do with some fashion advice, even a bit of a makeover. Don’t get me wrong, she’s neat – just not someone who stands out in a crowd.

She parks close to me. The other morning we entered the parking lot together. She got out of her car and waved. I acknowledge, before turning my eyes to close the boot. When I turned again she was gone.

It was a spilt second, and for a second there, I thought the cigarette in my mouth has something stronger than just tobacco in it.

Three days later – the same – just we were on our ways to our cars this time and I did not have any cigarette lit at that time.

Finally yesterday, I saw her crouching behind a bush – what appeared to be talking to herself. Wacko, I thought, and tried to put some distance between us.

Then a little meow drifted across the wind to my ears. And I heard her conversation witbh a bunch of cat. Not mad – just friendly and a bit lonely.

2011-08-21T11:36:00.001+01:00

My three year-old child - the result of a mixed marriage - told us the other day that a friend at crèche told her she was coloured - and he white.

It was a shock to the system - a blow to the mind.

We are not naive - we have always known that people will stare, that comments will be made - even after 17 years of our country's democracy. That we will have a conversation with the little one at some point in the future - just not now - not at this tender age.

Children are not suppose to see colour - it shouldn't be an issue to them. They play with another - for the sake of having fun with each other.

We do not discuss race in front of our child. We have a range of friend across the spectrum - she sees people as just that. Hopefully even after her "friend" told her she's not exactly like him.

Who should we blame - society, her school, the friend's parents or should we blame ourselves? Should we have told a toddler that mommy and daddy are different and that you are special? That had we met two decades earlier, we would've broken the law having her?

Him being three as well, could not have made the distinction, could he?

His parents must've had a discussion about my child in front of him and he took it in, the topic making such an impression on him that he was able to recall it, discuss it.

Were we a bit too idealistic to think that our children will be non-racial? That we'll live Mandela, Tutu and King's dream?

Perhaps we were - perhaps we should shift the goalposts and hope for the best - perhaps in two generations, or five.

But I'll start today - I'll continue to show my child that race does not matter - that her mother remains her mother and I, her father. That her friends are beings to have fun with, even those who say she different.