MALEMA MORONISMS

This Malema idiot is getting away with way too much. On being questioned on where he is getting the money for his R16m bunker/mansion on a salary of R25,000 a month, the Mugabe-in-waiting's response is "I am not a pubically elected ofishool. I don't have to tell you where I get the money from."

O yeah? Let's apply something to which Malema is totally unaccustomed: logic.

Let's assume he has a number of patrons who are bankrolling his mansion - among other expenses. The logical question to ask is 'why would they do this?' In the cut and thrust of politics, no-one does anything for nothing. The patrons obviously believe Malema will one day become a publicly elected official. They are investing in that belief and expect to be recompensed by his largesse once that becomes a reality.

Another glaring piece of logic everyone is ignoring is that although he is not a public servant, he IS an elected official. As such, his electorate, the ANCYL, has every right to demand full disclosure of his income. The fact that they haven't shows just how easily they are beguiled by Melema's bullshit. Idiots.

But getting back to Malema's patrons. How do they stand to benefit? Tenders, of course. This country has a long history of 'tenderpreneurs' - Roux Shabangu and others - who ride the gravy train to Lamborghini bling-paradise through winning contracts via irregular and illegal means.

So, Malema is basically promising to assist his patrons by using his influence unconstituionally, and therefore illegally, IF he becomes a political kingpin. Note I said IF, not when. I live in hope.

As Roux Shabangu has recently found out, the patron's scenario doesn't always work out. Public Protector Thuli Madonsela is making Shabangu's life a living hell, and even Shabangu's mate, General Bheki Cele can't dig him out. Cele should be unceremoniously fired for awarding the contract to Shabangu in the first place, but this is Zuma's ANC, so instead, Cele will be 'redeployed' to inflict untold damage on the hapless Japanese as SA Ambassador/Bull-in-a-china-shop.

How stupid are these patrons? Throw money at a fascist megalomaniac who counts Bob Mugabe and Brother Leader Gadaffi among his heroes, in the hope that he will become, erm, another Mugabe/Gadaffi. If, God forbid, that nightmare does come true, the country will be so fucked that the patrons will be the last things on Malema's mind as he goes into perpetual denial that the country is becoming ungovernable, while simultaneously siphoning billions off to his Swiss bank account. Talk about backing a lemon.

But this is Africa, and stranger things have happened.

WHEN GOD GETS YOU BACK

The day before my son went back to Cape Town, we went on a hike in the Magaliesberg. Well, it started out that way. It ended up by God getting me back for all the horrible things I've done to Him.

My nephew, who's done this before, warned us: "Don't go in the fast group. They're insane. Go in the middle group." So when the guide said "Leisure over there, Medium minus over there, medium plus over here," we went with medium plus. I thought there would be a fast group that followed. Big mistake. Medium plus is hike-speak for fast. These long, sinewy silent types that look sardonic even when they'e pissing into the wind. The tall woman's badges on her backpack said: "Santiago de Compostela Pilgrimage Walk - 880km", and "Drakensberg Grand Traverse - 220km". These weren't poser-badges. She'd actually done them.

By the time my son and I realised that our group's cracking pace was not just a warm-up burst, it was too late. "Our friends seem to have lagged behind," I said to our guide during the twenty second drinks break. "We'll wait here for their group to catch up". "Oh no," he says, "They turned right about four kilometres back. They're slow." The last phrase was said dismissively, as one might disregard a lower species.

This posed a problem. "What time will we get back? We're all in the one car," I said. "The same time," he said, cheerily. "But this group is hiking 22km," I pointed out. "The middle group is only doing twelve."

"Exactly," he said, and walked/ran off to lead our group of sardonic former Reconnaisance Commandos. Then the penny dropped, and with it, my stomach. We would be hiking 22km in the same time my nephew and his friend - oh you lucky buggers - would be hiking twelve.

I don't know if you've ever hiked cross country before, but it's an entirely different experience from walking on even ground. There are no footpaths, roads or anything vaguely flat. There are thick, snagging tufts of grass which hide rocks just loose enough to deprive you of a firm foothold. For the inexperienced hiker trying to keep up with those who can read this terrain like a book, you don't walk so much as lurch. It's a fast-forward stumble, and it was due to continue for the balance of our 22kms.

It was about this time that I realised I was wearing the wrong shoes. Somewhere among our many moves my hiking boots had been nationalised by the cleaning staff, and I was wearing some very upmarket black suede ankle length boots. Not appropriate I grant you, but in my outdoor-challenged wardrobe, they were the best of a bad lot. Just how bad, my feet were now beginning to tell me. And the right boot was beginning to complain audibly. Step groan. Step groan. Please God, stay in one piece, I prayed. We were too far gone to be bootless. In this terrain, to be bootless was as good as being quadriplegic.

In addition to all the above, another reason hiking is one of the most character-building activities I've done, is that the hills in the Magaliesberg are cruelly dome-shaped. They're not honest. In the Drakensberg, the terrain is lest duplicitous. You can see the top of whatever mountain you're hiking toward. Not the Magaliesburg. What looked like the top of the hill turns out to be a nipple on a convex slope that teases you with one mock-summit after the next, all the while leading you inexorably upward. If the Magaliesburg was female she would be the ultimate tease.

Fortunately, unlike the female variety, the Magaliesburg is a tease that delivers. After about eleven kilometres of lurching up one side of innumerable domes and staggering down the other, we slotted into a ravine drenched with greenery and the clearest, coolest water I've ever seen.

The ravine sloped gently upward, and after a few easy rock-climbs we found ourselves at a place my sardonic colleagues called 'Dome Pools'. Six metre deep granite pools so clear you could make out the grains of sand at the bottom. Waterfalls and rapids so crisp and cool you could fill your water bottles from them. Evian and Perrier tasted like drain water by comparison. There was no road, footpath, contour path, cattle path - nothing to give away their existence.

They were literally in the middle of nowhere. We stretched out and unpacked our lunches from our backpacks. The silence was so complete that for awhile, talking felt like sacrilege. Just a forty minute drive from Joburg, and we were in a cathedral so gentle, calm and sacred just thinking about leaving filled you with regret.

Realizing we had to, and that we had eleven more kilometers to cover at the same pace we'd hiked the first eleven, filled me with undiluted terror.

But that was in fifteen minutes. Right now, my son and I looked at our reflections in the water, ate our sandwiches, and chatted about small, insignificant things. It was the best time I'd spent with him in months.

The journey back would be hellish (for me, not for him), and it was. The next day would be even worse. (It was. Getting out of bed felt like being tortured by a hundred gargoyles while walking on red-hot coals.)

But for those moments at Dome Pools, it was as if all our arguments turned into water and dissipated into the cold Magaliesburg granite, and all that was left was each other, stripped down to the silent basic essences of who we were.

And in that essential solitude, we saw and valued what was in the other. Like the hike home, there was a journey to come. It would not be easy. But now we knew each other. We were a team. And that made all the difference.

Yes, God got me back. He got me back like He always does - by giving me unexpected gifts I don't deserve.

PROF GUY BUTLER

I'd forgotten just what an exceptional man Guy Butler was.

Go to:
http://www.ru.ac.za/6246

Or if that's too much effort, just read this, one of his poems:

The Divine Underground

Souls in flagrante delicto or in extremis
stretched on the rack or Cleopatra’s bed,
you have no news for me,
me, not fit to tread
where hawk-sure men of the media
zoom lenses down on your limbs in spasm
or claw at your grunts or ululations
with glittering microphones.

No, I go hungrily slumming for those who wear
a habit of discipline on every gesture, armed
in still affection, steel-bright after years.

I find them poorly disguised as morons,
under distorting stars,
lost in their lands of birth, quite ousted by
smooth bastards or daughters in gorgeous gowns:
in the cold, in the shade,
like lepers, like untouchables, in whose eyes
our storms of guilt dissolve in their light of forgiveness:
they know what they have lost,
they guess at what they have gained;
divining an innocent justice, they endure
our grand and murderous razzmatazz
as if they were God’s spies.

The effect of Keats, Donne and Eliot on lady students

The Grahamstown Festival of the Arts is almost upon us again. Which always makes me think of Rhodes University back in the seventies, and of poetry and young ladies.

The thing is, I was a late starter. When my high school classmates at St Benedict's were boasting of their conquests with the opposite sex, I was so terrified of women I REALLY didn't even know how to talk to them. I probably put them up on a pedestal. Bit of a romantic twat.

It took a year of national service in the Navy to beat that out of me. In the seventies, national service - especially in the Army - did a lot of things to a lot of young men, so I am eternally grateful that all it really did to me was make me "cowboy up, cupcake", as they say in Arizona.

It happened on Navy shore-leave, with a very forward girl who started the evening as a friend's date and ended up as mine. Parked outside her parent's Kempton Park home, it happened in my mom's hand-me-down old Opel Kadett with the gear lever that came out of its socket every time you engaged third - a pretty apt description of the evening, come to think of it.

Things did improve after I left the Navy and became a student. Rhodes in the late seventies was a universe populated with the likes of Andrew and Janet Buckland, Ian Roberts, Jeremy Mansefield, Shaun Johnson, and many others who went on to achieve great heights.

I, like many of them, found myself studying English, Speech and Drama, Psychology and Journalism. Unlike them, instead of paying attention when demigods of literature like Andre P Brink and Guy Butler had the lectern, I was falling for a series of remarkable young women I really didn't deserve.

It never occurred to me until many years later that this was more due to simple availability than ability. I spent the vast majority of my time in the Drama faculty, where women heavily outnumbered men, and where straight men were few and far between. So the reality was simply a matter of statistics.

I remember I never went home in the July holidays. It was the Festival of the Arts, and I tended to be cast in the festival productions. Drama students from UCT, Wits, Natal, Stellenbosch, Tuks and other faculties descended on Grahamstown to perform their Festival productions.

There was a bakery opposite the main pub where one could buy raw dough (cheaper than bread, which meant more money to make gluhwein - it's really cold in Grahamstown in July).

In between productions, the drama students would meet at various digs, and the dough would be baked in strips on a fireplace (many student digs were in old Settler houses with massive hearths and yellowwood floors), and we would discuss Pirandello, Lorca, Ibsen, Brecht, Chekov, Sartre and God knows what else over copious amounts of gluhwein and hot bread.

Among other poems, I could recite 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci' by Keats, particularly when drunk, and it had a remarkable effect on young ladies.

I really did love Keats. And John Donne. And a good few Shakespearean sonnets. And if I was really far gone, then out would come a few quatrains of The Waste Land. The drunker I got, the more readily their poems tumbled from my lips. I couldn't help myself. An unanticipated side effect was it got me a fair bit of action.

Except T S Eliot.

Eliot's poems really turned girls off. Especially The Waste Land. With me, it was always a toss up between Eliot and Donne as my favourite poet of all time. It took a couple of disappointments that should have taught me to avoid Eliot, especially when la belle dame sans merci was a really interesting, bright, witty, gorgeous actress, touched by the muse with truly ridiculous amounts of onstage presence, and I ruined the moment by slurring out 'April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land...'. Idiot.

Start the evening with Donne, build up through a few of the Bard's sonnets and end with Keats. Avoid Eliot. Not difficult to remember. Except when you've had an entire bucket of gluhwein chased with couple of glasses of Tassies. Then out came Eliot, and good-bye la belle dame.

Is this what the Jews felt like before WWII?

In the face of mounting evidence to the contrary, I've been resolutely optimistic about this beautiful country of my birth. I claim as much right to be an African as anyone else born on this continent and reject the label of settler with contempt. I have put down roots, worked hard, got married, had kids, bought property. This is my home. I cannot conceive of life without vermilion-sky sunsets, umbrella trees, cicadas, boerewors, the penny-whistle, the Hector Petersen Memorial, Table Mountain, Highveld electric storms, fresh mango, the Springboks and Kaizer Chiefs.

But as I was editing a debate by high school kids today, their incisive minds gave me pause. You would not expect to learn pessimism from the youth, but they made me think seriously about their and my future in this country.

The topic of the debate was, "This house would recommend the lifting of sanctions in Zimbabwe if that country gave unconditional access to the international press to monitor the next elections."

As the sides argued their points they reminded me that Zanu PF had actually lost the 2008 elections. They reminded me that in 2008 SADC and South Africa in particular had been tasked with the job of monitoring and enforcing the Global Political Agreement (GPA) between ZANU-PF and the two factions of the MDC.

And that got me thinking. Not only has our government been woefully remiss in its job of umpiring the GPA, allowing Mugabe and his military cabal to get away with one crime after another, but they also turned a blind eye to Juju's rock-star visit to Zim in April 2010 when Malema endorsed Mugabe's economic policies and talked of importing them to South Africa to nationalise white-owned farms and mines. Since then, he has been on trial for refusing to back down on a song that a judge admitted has racist consequences, he's called white opposition politicians cockroaches and madams, and their black colleagues tea girls. He's called white land-owners criminals.

The former mayor of Port Elizabeth, Nceba Faku, in the wake of the recent Municipal Elections urges ANC supporters to chase those who voted for the opposition into the sea - and goes un-reproached by the President.

Roux Shabangu is exposed by Thuli Madonsela, the Public Prosecutor, who also fingers shenanigans in the CCMA and others, for renting a building to the SAPS at inordinately inflated rates (a R500 million deal), and her findings are ignored, swept under the carpet or become the subject of protracted civil cases.

In the wake of mounting media criticism about its fielding of candidates for the Municipal Elections, reports on corruption, accusations of racism and criticism of its economic policies, the ANC threatens to steam-roll the Protection of Information Bill through parliament, which will substantially limit press freedom.

The ANC, in these and many other actions over the past few months, is becoming increasingly similar in style, policy and thinking to Mugabe's ZANU PF.

What, one wanders, would the ANC do if it ever got to the point where it may be in danger of losing an election? Based on what has transpired in the last year or so, I have no doubt they would resort to the same dictatorial tactics Mugabe has employed over the last decade in Zimbabwe.

My wife's family has roots back to Germany before and during the war. Her grandfather was killed by the Nazis. Her grandmother was Jewish. Her mother and aunts have talked of the decision to finally leave Europe. I am relating more and more to those conversations. I have two sons. What future will they have here?

I am starting to think about that parable of the frog who never knew he was being cooked because the water he was swimming in was heated up so slowly. By the time he realised things were too hot, it was too late.

A part of me would be eternally rootless for leaving this place. Am I being selfish, leaving others to a destiny they do not have the resources to escape from? I know there are thousands of township families with the same misgivings, who have fewer options than I.

But perhaps its time to cut those ties. I and the skilled South Africans of all races who can sell their labour overseas are looking at our options a little more closely. Putting out feelers. Looking into possibilities we would never have considered two years ago.

All this because our leaders show no signs of change. On the contrary, their rabid nationalist Africanism appears to be hardening and entrenching itself further. Which reminds me of another parable where the electorate can be compared to a tortoise and the ruling party to a scorpion.

There was once a land where greed, corruption and lies turned to water, and caused a flood, the like of which had never been seen before. Everything sweet and fertile was washed away by the relentless waters. The lone survivors were a scorpion, on the highest stone, and a tortoise, who could swim in the water. As the waters continued to rise, the scorpion knew that even his high stone would soon be covered. 'Carry me over the water so I don't drown', says the scorpion to the tortoise. The tortoise refuses, knowing that the scorpion has stung many of its fellows to death. But the scorpion insists, 'If I sting you when we are in the water, we will both die', so the tortoise relents and gives the scorpion a ride. Half way across the water, the scorpion scuttles up to the tortoises' neck and stings it to death. As it is dying, the tortoise says to the scorpion, 'Why did you do that? Now we will both die.' The scorpion replies, 'I couldn't help myself. It's in my nature.'

The Greater Joburg Braying Diva in Austria

The ski slopes of the Tyrol in Austria are slowly succumbing to the most frightening species on the planet: the greater Joburg braying diva.

The one in our group had waist-length blonde extensions, a bright pink ski-jacket, even brighter pink skin-tight ski-pants, and outsize Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses instead of ski goggles.

It would have been easier to tolerate this wodge of dayglo loudness if she’d shown even a smattering of ability, but after five days on the beginner’s slope, we had all but given up hope.

Hope, however, had not given up on us. With a logic uncharacteristic of her species, she deduced that her skiing ability – or lack thereof – was due to vertigo. Even looking down the gentle gradient of the beginner’s slope left her giddy with distress.

Desperate not to be the outcast of our group, she suddenly remembered a previous ‘expedition’ in the Magaliesberg, in which her vertigo had been cured by copious amounts of alcohol.

A rack of Jägermeister shooters later, and the transformation was almost immediate. Her shnowplows were sufficiently convincing that our group was finally cleared to head off to the ski-lift and take on the pistes of Westdendorf!

The diva arrived at the ski-lift, pockets jingling to the sound of dozens of Jäger shot-bottles.

The broad, long Blue slopes finally crunched under our skis as we snaked down kilometre after kilometre of pristine runs, flanked by fir forests laden thick with snow.

By the time our group arrived at the first Red slope, our diva was not only ready for it, but was advising everyone in earshot that Not only am I ginna go Red, I’m also ginna do the Black slope! Jis washme!

But, as she glanced down the steep Red slope, the gradient penetrated the Jäger-induced stupor just long enough to create a sudden, unstoppable urge: she had to go to the little girl's room. Now!

Since the closest loo was about 5km straight down, and since any semblance of modesty had long ago been smothered by the liquor, the diva promptly shnowplows off-piste to piss. Behind a hopelessly inadequate pine tree, she shuffles down her bright pink pants, heaves out her ample bottom, squats between her skis - and promptly passes out.

Whether it was the warm wee that did loosened the ski's grip, or the inert body tipping forward, we'll never know, but the kiddies ski-group halfway down the Red slope suddenly found themselves targeted by a low-flying pink and blonde projectile.

Like skittles in a bowling alley, kids in Skischule Westendorf vests explode out of the flight-path. Undeterred, the missile continues resolutely downward to where the Red slope converges with the near-vertical Black one, overtakes a posse of racing ski instructors and would in all likelihood have completed the run in record time, had she not woken up at approximately 85km per hour.

What happened next was not pretty, and gave new meaning to the term "rag-dolling". Views of her cartwheeling, wailing body were periodically interrupted as the wave a mini-avalanche swallowed and then spat her out like flotsam on a spring tide.

By the time the instructors caught up with her, she was in a tree. The snow-laden branch had stopped a trajectory that would have had a rather messy end in the ski-lift parking lot. Instead, group after group of passing skiers lifted their ski-poles to point out the loud fraulein from Sud-Afrika with her dropped skipants and big white bum, 8m high in a fir tree.

Brazilian bikinis - a mixed blessing

My family and I recently visited South America to say hello to some of my wife's relatives, who live in Argentina, Uruguay and Brazil.  From a South African's perspective, Argentina is all noise and fury but not much substance - fiery tango and bad infrastructure.  Uruguay is - well, it's Montevideo and Punta del Este.  The former is eminently forgettable and the latter is the Plettenberg Bay of South America.  Brazil, however, is in another league - clearly the economic powerhouse of the continent.

Take their inner city. In Sao Paolo, where robbers, hawkers and pickpockets once roamed the streets around the main train station, a clever set of tax incentives has transformed it into a place where families now enjoy coffees at pavement cafés, visit the new art gallery or enjoy a world class experience at the Portuguese language museum. They're getting a lot more right than we are, but their democracy is a bit older than ours, so we'll reserve judgement till later.  Mostly, it's amazing, but when they get it wrong, it's terrifying.

I could quote many examples, but Brazil's most enduring phenomenon, the Brazilian Bikini, is the perfect metaphor.

For South Africans not accustomed to this tiny excuse for beachwear, it can be unsettling to see women as scantily clad as they are on a Brazilian beach. South Africa has a more conservative view of the bikini – on most of our beaches they still tend to cover almost all of the bum and breasts (except for the odd topless bather in Cape Town). As far as body image goes, our women still appear to view the breasts as their primary asset when in beachwear.

In Brazil, my wife and I immediately noticed that the focus moves further south, with virtually everyone, right up to grandma, wearing bottoms that show a generous acreage of buttock. Although all the private bits are covered, it’s more of a gesture rather than actual concealment. It's obeying the rules, but not obeying them.

It's a contradiction that reflects a larger blurring with a lot of things in Brazil. Take race, for example. Unlike South Africa, where everyone is terribly hung up on whether you are white, coloured, Indian or black, in Brazil everything is far less definable. It's a true rainbow nation with so many varying shades of coffee that no amount of classification could ever work, so people just forget about it, ignore your colour and get on with life. What a massive relief!

But back to the Brazilian bikini - on pert bodies it is truly a wonder to behold. The bright tiny wisps of cloth happily wave hello as they bounce firmly by.

So much for your typical postcard image of the Copacabana. Now for reality: on latina matrons of a certain age, the Brazilian bikini is a deeply disturbing sight. It’s probably the only time on a beach that I ever found myself thinking wistfully of those whalebone swimsuits my mom used to wear in the sixties. No matter how far you’ve let yourself go, at least they preserved a measure of dignity.

In Brazil, the grannies wear Brazilians. Oh, the horror. The top part struggles with the engineering, a lightweight façade making a spectacular failure at heavy-lifting - a pair of neon teaspoons trying to scoop up two recalcitrant wodges of molasses. The bottom part, however, is where it really becomes the stuff of nightmares. From the rear, the pitiful strip of cloth is engulfed between two gelatinous, dimpled tsunamis, drowning rather than waving.