Summer has worn herself out. The party is over, and the kids are back at school.
But what a grand summer we have had this year. My girls overdosed on the luxuries of not having to get up to a hectic schedule every day and had enough time for dreaming, sleeping, reading and playing their music. They also spent their summer perfecting their dolphin kicks and cannon-balls. The weather has been glorious with a typical wind-free balmy and dry season. We ended up going to movies only once and watched almost no Netflix movies and television. We went to Monterey, the Children's Discovery museum, and listened to the San Francisco Symphony play for free in the park. Sarah composed her first violin piece, and Jenna patiently practiced her new Classical guitar moves. Naturally we all still sighed, and some stomped off in a huff when we tried to play ensemble pieces. Hmmmmm -- we have a ways to go, as the Americans say!
I am not a huge sports fan, but the Olympics were intriguing. Mostly, I read about it in the paper. Last Sunday morning when Master Phelps was on the front page, I said to Henk it is surprising to me that such a national sports hero doesn't have a fabulous nickname. If he had been South African, he would not have got off so lightly. Oh, no.
He would have been rechristened something suitable. No formal Namby Pamby Michael Phelps would be heard or written about. So I thought, let's check out Wikipedia for possible nicknames. Blank. Then I googled the question. Well, I found one page that asked for suggestions, but had no responses. Some radio show ran a competition online and got one entry which was declared the winner -- the Phelpinator. Seriously lame, people.
Apparently the Chinese call him "The flying Fish" in Chinese, which is terribly cute and witty if you are, or understand Chinese. Kudos to you guys.
If he had won so many gold medals for South Africa, he would never forget it. His nickname would be chanted at meets, it would be yelled in greeting every time he passed a stranger.
As a multicultural nation, we are fond of nicknames, and of course the African languages, of which we have nine, lend themselves beautifully to fun and quirky names.
South Africa is gearing up to host the finals of the Soccer World Cup in 2010. The soccer world will experience Cup Final Soccer ala African style for the first time ever, they say. It will be the first time in its history that an African nation hosts this big sporting event. If you are there, or watch the game, here are a few pointers.
Our team is called "Bafana Bafana". Go ahead and say it. Fun to say, isn't it?! It means "The Boys The Boys". And my personal favorite: "Laduuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuma!"Literally means goal. But with much more panache, I think.
You will hear the loud elephant trumpeting of the fans. These are plastic horns that bellow like Buffalo and are easy and fun to use, making every grown-up feel like a kid again. Go ahead and buy your own Vuvuzela for the game. Fellow fans will eventually give in and ask to have a go on your "Voove" as they're known locally. Be a sport and lend your voove to the guy. Originally, they were Kudu horns, used to summon African villages to meetings, but before long they were so popular at Soccer games, that one enterprising company mass produced them in cheap plastic and a cultural phenomenon was born.
You will hear names like Sibusiso Zuma aka "Zuma the Puma";Phil Masinga aka "Chippa"; and my personal favorite, Mr John "Shoes" Moshoeu. When he gets the ball and zips along the field the crowd roars "Shoe-oes"; Shoe-oes!". Men and women finally united in a love for shoes. Nirvana. So I am holding out for the day that we get to host the Olympics, and give some African nicknames to the American stars. Think Brangelina is unique? Just wait.
Oh, and I forgot to mention the under 23 national soccer team, the "Amaglug- glug". Sponsored by a large petroleum company, of course. Get it?
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Free Washing Machines
This morning I was listening to a convoluted discussion about America's Health Care System.
Messers McCain and Obama are both making big promises to remove the fear of not having a trained medical professional save your life when you or someone in your family gets horribly sick.
Over here, we are all familiar with the pitfalls and expenses of the health care system. The only truly interesting part of the discussion was not the promises of free services, tax breaks and health care for all, but rather the fact that someone mentioned that although the health care system is significantly worse than 16 years ago, the Democrats and Republicans offered exactly the same solutions then as they do in this run-up to the election. Hmm --- smacks of free washing machines.
When South Africa heralded its democracy in 1994, it was obliged to do so with the industry of good old politicians. Of all descriptions and ethical tendencies.
Occasionally, as a junior member of staff, I was summoned to deal with the awkward delegations who had arrived at the Houses of Parliament for their washing machines.
These were rural people. Usually elderly, wrapped in blankets, the harsh poverty of their lives carved into their faces in jagged lines. They were almost always quiet and dignified, and definitely more than patient. They arrived and waited. They stood quietly to one side and waited and waited. Everyone around them got uncomfortable.
A junior staff member was sent to speak with them.
I learned they had spent all their money to take a bus to the Capitol. They had arrived without money, food or anywhere to stay. They arrived, trusting their leader whom they believed in completely, would care for them, make good on the promises of food, jobs, health care and schooling, and -- give each one of them a free washing machine. Honestly, I have never seen people so set on not leaving without this promised luxury.
At first I had been incredulous and a bit amused. These people live in huts without running water, not to mention electricity. Then, it was just sad that they had been duped.
I knew the politicians they were waiting for. Their childlike expectations humbled me and made me angry that they had been manipulated in this manner on the rural campaign trail.
But it was not my place to do anything about it. I tried my best to get food and accommodation for these people and hoped for the actions of ethical elected leaders.
Sometimes, the government paid to send them home -- but naturally there was never any sign of a washing machine.
This played out a few times that year. It always ended the same, and I guess word eventually spread of the phantom washing machines. They stopped coming.
But I have retained my nose for free washing machines. If it sounds too good, it is. If a politician promises you something that seems impossible, it certainly is.
And if a politician takes advantage of a weaker person, there should be outrage and vocal opposition. The weak in our society must be protected by the ordinary, strong, educated and healthy adults who have the responsibility to dictate to our leaders how our personal world will be governed.
Messers McCain and Obama are both making big promises to remove the fear of not having a trained medical professional save your life when you or someone in your family gets horribly sick.
Over here, we are all familiar with the pitfalls and expenses of the health care system. The only truly interesting part of the discussion was not the promises of free services, tax breaks and health care for all, but rather the fact that someone mentioned that although the health care system is significantly worse than 16 years ago, the Democrats and Republicans offered exactly the same solutions then as they do in this run-up to the election. Hmm --- smacks of free washing machines.
When South Africa heralded its democracy in 1994, it was obliged to do so with the industry of good old politicians. Of all descriptions and ethical tendencies.
Occasionally, as a junior member of staff, I was summoned to deal with the awkward delegations who had arrived at the Houses of Parliament for their washing machines.
These were rural people. Usually elderly, wrapped in blankets, the harsh poverty of their lives carved into their faces in jagged lines. They were almost always quiet and dignified, and definitely more than patient. They arrived and waited. They stood quietly to one side and waited and waited. Everyone around them got uncomfortable.
A junior staff member was sent to speak with them.
I learned they had spent all their money to take a bus to the Capitol. They had arrived without money, food or anywhere to stay. They arrived, trusting their leader whom they believed in completely, would care for them, make good on the promises of food, jobs, health care and schooling, and -- give each one of them a free washing machine. Honestly, I have never seen people so set on not leaving without this promised luxury.
At first I had been incredulous and a bit amused. These people live in huts without running water, not to mention electricity. Then, it was just sad that they had been duped.
I knew the politicians they were waiting for. Their childlike expectations humbled me and made me angry that they had been manipulated in this manner on the rural campaign trail.
But it was not my place to do anything about it. I tried my best to get food and accommodation for these people and hoped for the actions of ethical elected leaders.
Sometimes, the government paid to send them home -- but naturally there was never any sign of a washing machine.
This played out a few times that year. It always ended the same, and I guess word eventually spread of the phantom washing machines. They stopped coming.
But I have retained my nose for free washing machines. If it sounds too good, it is. If a politician promises you something that seems impossible, it certainly is.
And if a politician takes advantage of a weaker person, there should be outrage and vocal opposition. The weak in our society must be protected by the ordinary, strong, educated and healthy adults who have the responsibility to dictate to our leaders how our personal world will be governed.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Barbara.
I met Barbara one Saturday sunset at the most desirable place to be in Cape Town at this time of day in summer.
La Med was, and may more than likely still be, a great place to have a cold sundowner with a bit of kick, and a tasty seafood snack. You could depend on live music wafting to the airy tables outdoors, a spectacular view of the sun setting over the ocean, and a high probability of bumping into people you know, like and may even care about.
Barbara, a petite, blond, tanned, and blue-eyed German girl was a friendly cocktail waitress who brought our gin-and-tonics, and lingered to chat. When we revealed ourselves to be a bunch of bar and nightclub workers, she charged us only for the alcohol, not the soft drinks, and removed the cover charge from our bill.
Although new to the job, she had quickly learned we were all part of a unspoken club that granted each other favors and special privileges on the infrequent nights we were not working long, hard hours serving revelers to pay our bills.
We stayed until dark, and reluctantly left when the party was ratcheting up for the raucous evening groove. We had clothes to change, comfortable shoes to pull on and floats to count. I waved goodbye, and told her to come by my place of work after her shift for a drink - I would put her on my staff guest list, and the bouncer would wave her in and usher her to the depths of the VIP lounge, a privilege for which social wannabes vied.
She appeared at midnight, her boyfriend, Mike, accompanying her. He was also blond, blue-eyed, sunburned with a very wide smile, and a heavy German accent. They were charming. They were traveling the country together, and had decided to spend some extra time in Cape Town in the summer.
A few days later, she called me early in the morning and asked whether I wished to explore the city with her. It sounded like fun, and I arranged to pick her up in my battered light yellow VW Jetta, which made up in attitude for what it lacked in youth and vigor.
We drove up cobbled, forgotten back streets of Cape Town City, unfashionable and seemingly ordinary. We walked for miles. Up rickety staircases careening up impossibly steep hillsides, and into garishly painted tiny corner cafes which sold spicy, deep fried snacks I was sure were going to poison us.
We sat on an old church wall, and ate ice-cream while talking about unimportant things, and watching the passing lives scuttle by.
Barbara had an incredible eye for minute detail, pointing out quietly ornate architecture made mute in the noisy city. She noticed absurd behavior in people, parents blindfolded by rushing, children protesting the pace and more aware than their protectors. We pulled faces at toddlers, who returned them more ghoulishly with glee and enthusiasm. We bought dates in a paper bag and spat the stones out under a tree in the empty botanical rose garden. It buzzed with insects, and the heavy scent of a thousand roses in full bloom made talk unnecessary. We had a good day.
Barbara told me stories of her travels. She and Mike hailed from a small, conservative town in Germany. She had yearned for the hodge-podge of cultures, colors and tongues of Africa, and the two of them had packed their rucksacks, pooled their savings and landed up in South Africa. They also arrived armed with legitimate, big-rig eighteen wheeler truck driving licenses. They had transported paper plates and plastic cups from coast to coast, industrial printing paper and printing press ink from North to South. They drove the country's vast landscape in the slow trucker's lane, with the truckers' radio and each other for company. They took breaks at friendly truck stops, and bought snacks and supplies at approved rest areas on the company's expense account. On long trips, they curled up tightly for the night in the big-rig's little sleeping cab, their big truck dark and still under some trees in the pitch black of the empty, long highways far from town. She said she heard the soul of the earth in those nights. And the safe voice of a dispatcher was just one button-click away.
She and Mike remained in Cape Town for the summer, and when the weather cooled, they packed their rucksacks, kissed us all goodbye, and bought air tickets to Kenya with their trucking wages. A small German girl had changed my perception of Cape Town forever -- and of course, of truckers.
La Med was, and may more than likely still be, a great place to have a cold sundowner with a bit of kick, and a tasty seafood snack. You could depend on live music wafting to the airy tables outdoors, a spectacular view of the sun setting over the ocean, and a high probability of bumping into people you know, like and may even care about.
Barbara, a petite, blond, tanned, and blue-eyed German girl was a friendly cocktail waitress who brought our gin-and-tonics, and lingered to chat. When we revealed ourselves to be a bunch of bar and nightclub workers, she charged us only for the alcohol, not the soft drinks, and removed the cover charge from our bill.
Although new to the job, she had quickly learned we were all part of a unspoken club that granted each other favors and special privileges on the infrequent nights we were not working long, hard hours serving revelers to pay our bills.
We stayed until dark, and reluctantly left when the party was ratcheting up for the raucous evening groove. We had clothes to change, comfortable shoes to pull on and floats to count. I waved goodbye, and told her to come by my place of work after her shift for a drink - I would put her on my staff guest list, and the bouncer would wave her in and usher her to the depths of the VIP lounge, a privilege for which social wannabes vied.
She appeared at midnight, her boyfriend, Mike, accompanying her. He was also blond, blue-eyed, sunburned with a very wide smile, and a heavy German accent. They were charming. They were traveling the country together, and had decided to spend some extra time in Cape Town in the summer.
A few days later, she called me early in the morning and asked whether I wished to explore the city with her. It sounded like fun, and I arranged to pick her up in my battered light yellow VW Jetta, which made up in attitude for what it lacked in youth and vigor.
We drove up cobbled, forgotten back streets of Cape Town City, unfashionable and seemingly ordinary. We walked for miles. Up rickety staircases careening up impossibly steep hillsides, and into garishly painted tiny corner cafes which sold spicy, deep fried snacks I was sure were going to poison us.
We sat on an old church wall, and ate ice-cream while talking about unimportant things, and watching the passing lives scuttle by.
Barbara had an incredible eye for minute detail, pointing out quietly ornate architecture made mute in the noisy city. She noticed absurd behavior in people, parents blindfolded by rushing, children protesting the pace and more aware than their protectors. We pulled faces at toddlers, who returned them more ghoulishly with glee and enthusiasm. We bought dates in a paper bag and spat the stones out under a tree in the empty botanical rose garden. It buzzed with insects, and the heavy scent of a thousand roses in full bloom made talk unnecessary. We had a good day.
Barbara told me stories of her travels. She and Mike hailed from a small, conservative town in Germany. She had yearned for the hodge-podge of cultures, colors and tongues of Africa, and the two of them had packed their rucksacks, pooled their savings and landed up in South Africa. They also arrived armed with legitimate, big-rig eighteen wheeler truck driving licenses. They had transported paper plates and plastic cups from coast to coast, industrial printing paper and printing press ink from North to South. They drove the country's vast landscape in the slow trucker's lane, with the truckers' radio and each other for company. They took breaks at friendly truck stops, and bought snacks and supplies at approved rest areas on the company's expense account. On long trips, they curled up tightly for the night in the big-rig's little sleeping cab, their big truck dark and still under some trees in the pitch black of the empty, long highways far from town. She said she heard the soul of the earth in those nights. And the safe voice of a dispatcher was just one button-click away.
She and Mike remained in Cape Town for the summer, and when the weather cooled, they packed their rucksacks, kissed us all goodbye, and bought air tickets to Kenya with their trucking wages. A small German girl had changed my perception of Cape Town forever -- and of course, of truckers.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Happy Birthday, Madiba!
Yesterday, Nelson Mandela woke up and remembered that on this day, he was 90 years old.
Eighty-plus years ago, he was just a black kid in a racist country who lived in a small rural village that no-one had even heard of. He never looked special, really. Just regular, not too big, not too small, no distinguishing marks or features.
Yet this ordinary kid changed the world as we know it.
He fought for noble ideals, making enormous personal sacrifices. And he succeeded greatly. He won the Nobel Peace prize, and was on the cover of Time magazine five times, and all because he turned a major African country about-face from oppression to democracy with skill, love and genius. Everyone has heard of him. So, whenever I see his face gracing the cover of a newspaper or magazine, I search for the story written with cynicism, complete objectivity, and a little pessimism. As we all know, everyone has their supporters and their opponents, their champions and their naysayers. Well, I'm still looking.
Madiba Magic I guess, or perhaps just the presence of a great soul that no-one with honesty and journalistic integrity can deny.
This week I ripped out the Mandela pages from the Time that shows up in my mailbox every week.
Madiba is graciously photographed, radiating calm, self assurance, and the kind of dignity I strive to have one day. The accompanying article sets out to be objective, analytical, written by a seasoned senior editor, who worked with Mandela on his biography, A Long Road to Freedom. His love for this great man begins to peek through from the beginning, and by the end, is undeniable. Another life touched, it seems.
All around the country, there are celebrations, even a big party in England. There are websites. www.happybirthdaymandela.com. where 30 000 people from Tanzania, amongst others from every corner of the earth, wished him well personally. Celebrities, politicians, important folk. And housewives, bakers, electricians, teachers, bus drivers and children. Imagine that.
Take a look at the messages. They will move you. And hopefully, inspire you.
Inspiration for ordinary people, from ordinary towns, with ordinary families and ordinary lives.
Seems like ordinary has the potential to change the world, as we know it.
Eighty-plus years ago, he was just a black kid in a racist country who lived in a small rural village that no-one had even heard of. He never looked special, really. Just regular, not too big, not too small, no distinguishing marks or features.
Yet this ordinary kid changed the world as we know it.
He fought for noble ideals, making enormous personal sacrifices. And he succeeded greatly. He won the Nobel Peace prize, and was on the cover of Time magazine five times, and all because he turned a major African country about-face from oppression to democracy with skill, love and genius. Everyone has heard of him. So, whenever I see his face gracing the cover of a newspaper or magazine, I search for the story written with cynicism, complete objectivity, and a little pessimism. As we all know, everyone has their supporters and their opponents, their champions and their naysayers. Well, I'm still looking.
Madiba Magic I guess, or perhaps just the presence of a great soul that no-one with honesty and journalistic integrity can deny.
This week I ripped out the Mandela pages from the Time that shows up in my mailbox every week.
Madiba is graciously photographed, radiating calm, self assurance, and the kind of dignity I strive to have one day. The accompanying article sets out to be objective, analytical, written by a seasoned senior editor, who worked with Mandela on his biography, A Long Road to Freedom. His love for this great man begins to peek through from the beginning, and by the end, is undeniable. Another life touched, it seems.
All around the country, there are celebrations, even a big party in England. There are websites. www.happybirthdaymandela.com. where 30 000 people from Tanzania, amongst others from every corner of the earth, wished him well personally. Celebrities, politicians, important folk. And housewives, bakers, electricians, teachers, bus drivers and children. Imagine that.
Take a look at the messages. They will move you. And hopefully, inspire you.
Inspiration for ordinary people, from ordinary towns, with ordinary families and ordinary lives.
Seems like ordinary has the potential to change the world, as we know it.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The Breakfast Meeting.
My empty stomach dropped as I stared fixedly at the electronic red numbers counting down in the darkly lit and heavily insulated hotel elevator. It plummeted soundlessly from the sixty second floor down to zero.
The doors hummed shut on a steady sixty two, and then the numbers spun faster and faster until, seemingly giving up, and showing fifty five, forty two, thirty, twenty, eleven, nine, five, four, three, two, one and ping, the ground level.
I took a steadying breath and stepped out, adjusting to the hive of activity before me.
I glanced around the unfamiliar palatial lobby of this grand hotel in Georgia.
I did not consciously acknowledge the complicated, heavy chandeliers, Elton John-style flower arrangements, marble and velvet surroundings. Traditional super-luxuries designed to pamper the affluent Southern visitors.
I found my bearings, and headed for the morning dining room, tinkling with teacups, tiny silver spoons and murmured conversations. The smell of black coffee permeated the air, and made me feel unexpectedly optimistic. An inappropriate emotion, I thought, as I was meeting with a senior, black female member of parliament who refrained from even pretending to like me. My directive was to help her in most any way she needed me to on this particular trip abroad. This delegation of dignitaries from South Africa had set out on a study trip to parts of the United States, and wished to get a first world perspective on a number of similar issues arising at home.
She had married a prominent man of the people.
He was a folk hero, a soldier, a fighter, a charismatic leader.
He championed the poor, exploited, and most of all, the oppressed.
He was loved, and like most enduring folk icons, died young, violently and unjustly.
No-one had really heard of her.
She had three children, and carried an impressive last name on her shoulders. In the new regime, someone gave her a job. Quite a good one, actually. Perhaps she had fought in the back trenches, like most women. Perhaps her sacrifices, and fight for the struggle had merely gone unnoticed and unheralded. Maybe she had given it her all. I did not know.
I did know that I more than likely epitomized everything she had fought against, considered unjust, cruel, and oppressive.
I was young, blond, looked educated, and as though I had not struggled a day in my life. My notorious family name had been a pillar of apartheid, and had to be uttered when one was being either formal or unfriendly. And that was just at first glance.
I saw her sitting alone in a corner of the huge dining room, a generic coffee cup placed to one side and the hand written menu ignored. She peered closely at a notebook in front of her, and frowned in concentration. She sensed my recognition across the room and looked up at me in irritation. Her eyes narrowed as I approached.
I mentally thickened my pale skin, placed an objective, professional smile squarely on my face, and sat down opposite her when she gestured that I should sit down. We had both already decided to keep this meeting efficient so that it could be short.
She began running through her notebook page of key words, and sharply added pointed instructions as she listed her litany of directions for me for the week. I took notes, my neutral expression reflecting no surprise or disbelief when she demanded something unreasonable.
She spoke urgently, with unnecessary emphasis. Her conservative white blouse was buttoned up to the top, and her ethnic hair pulled back tightly into a small, wiry bun at the nape of her neck. It looked like she had resigned herself to a bad hair day. Her severe hairstyle emphasized her wide forehead, unplucked brows, and unexpected narrow mouth. The overall effect was vulnerable, unsophisticated and disconcerting. She wore no jewelery.
I put down my pencil, sat back in my plush chair and wished for more courage in a coffee cup. My fairy materialized, wearing a traditional waitress uniform and brandishing a heavy silver coffee pot like a regal hostess. She smiled at my grateful anticipation as I met her gaze, and wordlessly poured a steady stream of coffee into my cup.
My boss was still talking quickly, reiterating instructions I had already mentally planned and arranged.
The waitress stepped back, and I noticed her elaborately braided African-American hairdo. It hung down her broad back in ropes of colorful beads and stiff, straightened artificial curls. She boasted a womanly cleavage which looked as though it smelt warm and inviting. Her face was buffed and smooth, and her brows dramatically arched and delicate. Her face bloomed when she smiled. She was beautifully chocolaty.
"Where are y'all from?" she asked loudly and confidently. Perhaps our accents had intrigued her. I deferred to my boss, and did not respond immediately. She stopped mid sentence, looked up at the waitress for the first time, and replied with quiet venom.
"That is none of your business."
The waitress gaped like a plump goldfish, turned quickly and threaded her way quietly through the white linened tables. I was surprised and embarrassed. I felt my growing indignation flush my cheeks and I focussed on ending the meeting as soon as possible.
I was not hungry.
I wondered if I had identified more with the waitress than she had.
I left shortly thereafter, and began my day. In parting, my boss mentioned that she had a hair appointment first thing that morning, and would not be available for a few hours. She was off to the best African-American hair salon in Atlanta, Georgia for a new 'do.
The doors hummed shut on a steady sixty two, and then the numbers spun faster and faster until, seemingly giving up, and showing fifty five, forty two, thirty, twenty, eleven, nine, five, four, three, two, one and ping, the ground level.
I took a steadying breath and stepped out, adjusting to the hive of activity before me.
I glanced around the unfamiliar palatial lobby of this grand hotel in Georgia.
I did not consciously acknowledge the complicated, heavy chandeliers, Elton John-style flower arrangements, marble and velvet surroundings. Traditional super-luxuries designed to pamper the affluent Southern visitors.
I found my bearings, and headed for the morning dining room, tinkling with teacups, tiny silver spoons and murmured conversations. The smell of black coffee permeated the air, and made me feel unexpectedly optimistic. An inappropriate emotion, I thought, as I was meeting with a senior, black female member of parliament who refrained from even pretending to like me. My directive was to help her in most any way she needed me to on this particular trip abroad. This delegation of dignitaries from South Africa had set out on a study trip to parts of the United States, and wished to get a first world perspective on a number of similar issues arising at home.
She had married a prominent man of the people.
He was a folk hero, a soldier, a fighter, a charismatic leader.
He championed the poor, exploited, and most of all, the oppressed.
He was loved, and like most enduring folk icons, died young, violently and unjustly.
No-one had really heard of her.
She had three children, and carried an impressive last name on her shoulders. In the new regime, someone gave her a job. Quite a good one, actually. Perhaps she had fought in the back trenches, like most women. Perhaps her sacrifices, and fight for the struggle had merely gone unnoticed and unheralded. Maybe she had given it her all. I did not know.
I did know that I more than likely epitomized everything she had fought against, considered unjust, cruel, and oppressive.
I was young, blond, looked educated, and as though I had not struggled a day in my life. My notorious family name had been a pillar of apartheid, and had to be uttered when one was being either formal or unfriendly. And that was just at first glance.
I saw her sitting alone in a corner of the huge dining room, a generic coffee cup placed to one side and the hand written menu ignored. She peered closely at a notebook in front of her, and frowned in concentration. She sensed my recognition across the room and looked up at me in irritation. Her eyes narrowed as I approached.
I mentally thickened my pale skin, placed an objective, professional smile squarely on my face, and sat down opposite her when she gestured that I should sit down. We had both already decided to keep this meeting efficient so that it could be short.
She began running through her notebook page of key words, and sharply added pointed instructions as she listed her litany of directions for me for the week. I took notes, my neutral expression reflecting no surprise or disbelief when she demanded something unreasonable.
She spoke urgently, with unnecessary emphasis. Her conservative white blouse was buttoned up to the top, and her ethnic hair pulled back tightly into a small, wiry bun at the nape of her neck. It looked like she had resigned herself to a bad hair day. Her severe hairstyle emphasized her wide forehead, unplucked brows, and unexpected narrow mouth. The overall effect was vulnerable, unsophisticated and disconcerting. She wore no jewelery.
I put down my pencil, sat back in my plush chair and wished for more courage in a coffee cup. My fairy materialized, wearing a traditional waitress uniform and brandishing a heavy silver coffee pot like a regal hostess. She smiled at my grateful anticipation as I met her gaze, and wordlessly poured a steady stream of coffee into my cup.
My boss was still talking quickly, reiterating instructions I had already mentally planned and arranged.
The waitress stepped back, and I noticed her elaborately braided African-American hairdo. It hung down her broad back in ropes of colorful beads and stiff, straightened artificial curls. She boasted a womanly cleavage which looked as though it smelt warm and inviting. Her face was buffed and smooth, and her brows dramatically arched and delicate. Her face bloomed when she smiled. She was beautifully chocolaty.
"Where are y'all from?" she asked loudly and confidently. Perhaps our accents had intrigued her. I deferred to my boss, and did not respond immediately. She stopped mid sentence, looked up at the waitress for the first time, and replied with quiet venom.
"That is none of your business."
The waitress gaped like a plump goldfish, turned quickly and threaded her way quietly through the white linened tables. I was surprised and embarrassed. I felt my growing indignation flush my cheeks and I focussed on ending the meeting as soon as possible.
I was not hungry.
I wondered if I had identified more with the waitress than she had.
I left shortly thereafter, and began my day. In parting, my boss mentioned that she had a hair appointment first thing that morning, and would not be available for a few hours. She was off to the best African-American hair salon in Atlanta, Georgia for a new 'do.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Freedom or Exploitation?
Two of the largest Internet Service Providers in the world, Verizon and Time Warner Cable have joined forces with Sprint, another giant wireless company in the United States, to eliminate access and storage of child pornography online.
They are putting aside their compulsive competitiveness, and have committed money and resources to stamping out the exploitation of our most fragile members of society.
It's a bold move, and over here, it's a first.
Whilst everyone publicly applauds this idea, I am always intrigued by the dissenters, the ones who protest for the protection of freedoms and other notions of this ilk.
Their fear of sounding like perverts is overwhelmed by their fear of losing some fundamental rights to expression, movement and speech.
To most of us, these are abstract ideas and don't pack a punch like explicit child pornography which makes every mother gasp with anxiety and horror, no matter how liberal or worldly.
In 1995, the South African Parliament tabled a bill that changed the regulation and definition of pornography in the New South Africa. It all began with a few controlling boards and bodies in the old apartheid days that needed to be reinvented and redesigned, and made fit and suitable for a spanking new democracy.
The Film and Publications Amendment Bill was born, and seeing that in this ideal new world every person could have their say, public hearings were arranged at parliament so that all interested parties could air their point of view and concerns.
The whole shebang became my first bill to guide through the entire parliamentary process.
Political party members huddled behind closed doors and discussed possible amendments and party policies.
Secret and meaningful glances and notes were exchanged in passages before our Committee met solemnly in dark, teak-and-leather boardrooms. The chairperson heading this group of serious politicians spoke with calm authority and suitable officiousness at all of these preliminary meetings. Political parties were asked to consider all input and submissions carefully, and to draft amendments to the old Act in a timely manner. Procedures, rules, regulations and guidelines were carefully covered and documented.
As for me, Mr Chairman confidently handed me all his correspondence, schedules and assorted documents, and made it all my problem with one winning smile. I was to schedule the public hearings, press releases, meetings, deliberations and all the logistics that were required for these. It was a public hot potato, but he knew I was up for the job he said.
My name and number was published as the contact person for all inquiries and information. Boy, oh boy. The smart man had shifted all the hoopla onto my unsuspecting shoulders, whilst the members of parliament prepared in earnest for this bill.
I got a nice big office with a lot of space and started collecting public opinion.
You can only imagine the volume of calls, faxes, petitions, letters, mail, and surprising office visits that came my way.
I scheduled an entire week of public hearings before the parliamentary committee.
Citizens literally got fifteen minutes of fame, and both left and right, conservative and liberal, jostled equally for the limelight.
I think I may have seen and heard it all that month.
Ultra conservative religious groups sent petitions and hand delivered them with vitriolic zealousness that was at times quite frightening. These pale men and women stood around in the hall outside my office peering anxiously over piles of documents and papers, nervously worried that they may inadvertently spot some real pornography and have to loosen their skinny ties. Their sour fear was awkward in the carpeted passages of our bustling, multi colored New South Africa government buildings. Nevertheless, they got a spot to say their say. So too the local artist who brought large examples of her erotic art into my office one busy Thursday afternoon.
For weeks I answered what seemed like hundreds of calls a day. Each one, carefully planned by the caller to achieve maximum satisfaction. I heard verbosely angry, businesslike calm, emotionally wretched, esoterically nonsensical, religiously outraged, friendly, flattering and cajoling.
There were religious groups of all persuasions, performance artists, the gay community in its many forms, Hustler and Playboy magazine dudes, prisoners, and many extremely odd people.
Every one of them had a point of view, opinion and a strong yen to state their case.
They sat all day and waited for their number to come up during the hearings. I herded them in and out, took their notes, tried to calm their nerves and strong emotions and once even frog marched a tiny man off the stage who inappropriately dissolved into a tirade after his fifteen minutes were up.
Democracy in action. The chairperson always in control, running the show and asking relevant questions. Astonishing mounds of information and opinions. And always, an outstanding lunch served at noon. I quickly learned that this was essential for goodwill, progress and general happiness. I skimped on other things to stay on budget but made sure there was extra dessert.
Amendments were drafted, negotiated and voted upon. A new Bill was submitted to the Houses of Parliament and adopted.
The new Film and Publications Act kicked in in 1996.
Many people don't like it. They say that it infringes on freedoms of speech, expression and movement.
But it distinctly bans child pornography and protects the vulnerable members of our society, and for that, every South African mother, black or white, liberal or conservative, is grateful.
They are putting aside their compulsive competitiveness, and have committed money and resources to stamping out the exploitation of our most fragile members of society.
It's a bold move, and over here, it's a first.
Whilst everyone publicly applauds this idea, I am always intrigued by the dissenters, the ones who protest for the protection of freedoms and other notions of this ilk.
Their fear of sounding like perverts is overwhelmed by their fear of losing some fundamental rights to expression, movement and speech.
To most of us, these are abstract ideas and don't pack a punch like explicit child pornography which makes every mother gasp with anxiety and horror, no matter how liberal or worldly.
In 1995, the South African Parliament tabled a bill that changed the regulation and definition of pornography in the New South Africa. It all began with a few controlling boards and bodies in the old apartheid days that needed to be reinvented and redesigned, and made fit and suitable for a spanking new democracy.
The Film and Publications Amendment Bill was born, and seeing that in this ideal new world every person could have their say, public hearings were arranged at parliament so that all interested parties could air their point of view and concerns.
The whole shebang became my first bill to guide through the entire parliamentary process.
Political party members huddled behind closed doors and discussed possible amendments and party policies.
Secret and meaningful glances and notes were exchanged in passages before our Committee met solemnly in dark, teak-and-leather boardrooms. The chairperson heading this group of serious politicians spoke with calm authority and suitable officiousness at all of these preliminary meetings. Political parties were asked to consider all input and submissions carefully, and to draft amendments to the old Act in a timely manner. Procedures, rules, regulations and guidelines were carefully covered and documented.
As for me, Mr Chairman confidently handed me all his correspondence, schedules and assorted documents, and made it all my problem with one winning smile. I was to schedule the public hearings, press releases, meetings, deliberations and all the logistics that were required for these. It was a public hot potato, but he knew I was up for the job he said.
My name and number was published as the contact person for all inquiries and information. Boy, oh boy. The smart man had shifted all the hoopla onto my unsuspecting shoulders, whilst the members of parliament prepared in earnest for this bill.
I got a nice big office with a lot of space and started collecting public opinion.
You can only imagine the volume of calls, faxes, petitions, letters, mail, and surprising office visits that came my way.
I scheduled an entire week of public hearings before the parliamentary committee.
Citizens literally got fifteen minutes of fame, and both left and right, conservative and liberal, jostled equally for the limelight.
I think I may have seen and heard it all that month.
Ultra conservative religious groups sent petitions and hand delivered them with vitriolic zealousness that was at times quite frightening. These pale men and women stood around in the hall outside my office peering anxiously over piles of documents and papers, nervously worried that they may inadvertently spot some real pornography and have to loosen their skinny ties. Their sour fear was awkward in the carpeted passages of our bustling, multi colored New South Africa government buildings. Nevertheless, they got a spot to say their say. So too the local artist who brought large examples of her erotic art into my office one busy Thursday afternoon.
For weeks I answered what seemed like hundreds of calls a day. Each one, carefully planned by the caller to achieve maximum satisfaction. I heard verbosely angry, businesslike calm, emotionally wretched, esoterically nonsensical, religiously outraged, friendly, flattering and cajoling.
There were religious groups of all persuasions, performance artists, the gay community in its many forms, Hustler and Playboy magazine dudes, prisoners, and many extremely odd people.
Every one of them had a point of view, opinion and a strong yen to state their case.
They sat all day and waited for their number to come up during the hearings. I herded them in and out, took their notes, tried to calm their nerves and strong emotions and once even frog marched a tiny man off the stage who inappropriately dissolved into a tirade after his fifteen minutes were up.
Democracy in action. The chairperson always in control, running the show and asking relevant questions. Astonishing mounds of information and opinions. And always, an outstanding lunch served at noon. I quickly learned that this was essential for goodwill, progress and general happiness. I skimped on other things to stay on budget but made sure there was extra dessert.
Amendments were drafted, negotiated and voted upon. A new Bill was submitted to the Houses of Parliament and adopted.
The new Film and Publications Act kicked in in 1996.
Many people don't like it. They say that it infringes on freedoms of speech, expression and movement.
But it distinctly bans child pornography and protects the vulnerable members of our society, and for that, every South African mother, black or white, liberal or conservative, is grateful.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Happy Birthday, Jenna.
Tomorrow, Jenna will be ten years old.
And yes, we are having a party. Friends, cake, games, swimming and hot dogs.
I love, love hot dogs.
I know they are rubbish food, but I am one of millions who will swear they can mark out their lives in hot dogs. I know everyone thinks hot dogs are American, and epitomize everything good and bad about this society. You know the bad -- fat, piggy kids, lazy mothers, preservatives and saturated fats -- and the good -- cookouts, family, friends, party, fun, celebration, outdoors, festivals and amusement parks.
But the African hot dog most certainly does exist.
They are not quite like their American cousins -- a little skinnier, toned down, a little more basic really. Usually a fairly humble bendy vienna sausage nestled in a smallish white elongated bun, and smothered in tomato sauce, or ketchup, depending on which country you speak from. They don't get the royal treatment of grill marks, relishes, onions and gourmet mustards. They don't cost much, and can be bought at a vendor who fishes the warm viennas out of some boiling water where they are heated through, and pops it into its bun, wrapped in a scant napkin.
It is a great and ongoing mystery to me and my brethren as to why exactly Americans grill hot dogs. We just don't get it. We grill steaks, lamb chops, pork chops, marinated chicken, boerewors (a spiced local sausage, hopefully homemade) and exotic kebabs.
A South African braai (barbecue) is all about the great, succulent grilled food, and then the beer and company.
For us, the humble hot dog just fills an empty spot in a satisfying fashion. Not really a celebrated food, we say. Not fit for company.
And yet if I think about it, I remember when growing up, fast food joints and take-out spots were virtually non-existent. Exhausted mothers picked up supplies for hot dogs at supermarkets and headed home to feed the kids at the end of the week. Ditto for maids-day- off nights. When hot dogs were served, everyone relaxed. Parents' expectations were low, bad table manners were ignored, kids could lie around or horse about. Dinner was straightforward.
Frequently, hot, sticky Durban summers were packed with pre-adolescent friends at our suburban pool, piles of white buns and lukewarm viennas, gaily accented with bright bottles of ketchup and potato chip packets. Instant kid food readily available without much grown-up intervention required. Adults stayed in calmer, cooler shadows with wine spritzers and olives.
When I was thirteen and broke my arm with a resounding snap on the beach, my mother took me to the emergency room across the street. The huge community hospital, Addington Hospital, must have had the best in-patient view in all the world. All I really remember was feeling weird because someone had wrapped their ketchuped hot dog half in my t-shirt --for safekeeping I guess -- when I undressed and ran off in my swimsuit. I smelt and felt like a hot dog for hours while I waited, and kids showed up mangled and screaming from motorcycle accidents.
In high school, upon strict instruction to come up with a booth, game or carnivalish side-show for our annual fund raiser, my assigned partner and I unenthusiastically decided to man a no-frills hot dog stand. No gimmicks, fair price and good quality buns. (There is no such thing as a good quality vienna.)
To my astonishment, I sold three hundred hot dogs in just over an hour. Our target was exceeded, and my lifelong fascination with a simple, good commodity, marketed and sold to the masses was stirred. Humble hot dogs were a hit.
At sixteen, my friend Janine and I (I know, I know) would take a bus to the beach, hang out all day, and on our way home, stop off at the hot dog stand outside Durban's City Hall and feast on the meaty, bread and ketchup concoctions. Pure heaven. A day of sand, sun, friends and the utter bliss of being sixteen and free, was completed with a hot dog on the steps of the bustling city square. The world was fascinating and rich, and it responded to our colorful nubile presence with delight and pleasure.
Through the years of young adulthood and poverty, hot dogs featured as emergency food, quickly swallowed outside busy nightclubs in the wee hours of the morning. Cheap, quick and delicious fuel for a night of pouring drinks behind bar counters mobbed with beautiful people determined to have a good time.
And now, I am to my dismay, a mom to a ten-year old.
And when there are kids, there are hot dogs.
These days, on the rare occasion that I venture into Costco with champagne-tastes Henk on a weekend, we always order a round of hot dogs for everyone, and nod our mutual approval and delicious satisfaction as we eat them with the throngs on the plastic benches in the store.
We always smile at each other conspiratorially, compliment each other's cleverness at discovering the best hot dogs in the country, and always smugly marvel at the price. A buck fifty of pure heaven on so many levels.
Happy Birthday, Jenna. Have a hot dog on me.
And yes, we are having a party. Friends, cake, games, swimming and hot dogs.
I love, love hot dogs.
I know they are rubbish food, but I am one of millions who will swear they can mark out their lives in hot dogs. I know everyone thinks hot dogs are American, and epitomize everything good and bad about this society. You know the bad -- fat, piggy kids, lazy mothers, preservatives and saturated fats -- and the good -- cookouts, family, friends, party, fun, celebration, outdoors, festivals and amusement parks.
But the African hot dog most certainly does exist.
They are not quite like their American cousins -- a little skinnier, toned down, a little more basic really. Usually a fairly humble bendy vienna sausage nestled in a smallish white elongated bun, and smothered in tomato sauce, or ketchup, depending on which country you speak from. They don't get the royal treatment of grill marks, relishes, onions and gourmet mustards. They don't cost much, and can be bought at a vendor who fishes the warm viennas out of some boiling water where they are heated through, and pops it into its bun, wrapped in a scant napkin.
It is a great and ongoing mystery to me and my brethren as to why exactly Americans grill hot dogs. We just don't get it. We grill steaks, lamb chops, pork chops, marinated chicken, boerewors (a spiced local sausage, hopefully homemade) and exotic kebabs.
A South African braai (barbecue) is all about the great, succulent grilled food, and then the beer and company.
For us, the humble hot dog just fills an empty spot in a satisfying fashion. Not really a celebrated food, we say. Not fit for company.
And yet if I think about it, I remember when growing up, fast food joints and take-out spots were virtually non-existent. Exhausted mothers picked up supplies for hot dogs at supermarkets and headed home to feed the kids at the end of the week. Ditto for maids-day- off nights. When hot dogs were served, everyone relaxed. Parents' expectations were low, bad table manners were ignored, kids could lie around or horse about. Dinner was straightforward.
Frequently, hot, sticky Durban summers were packed with pre-adolescent friends at our suburban pool, piles of white buns and lukewarm viennas, gaily accented with bright bottles of ketchup and potato chip packets. Instant kid food readily available without much grown-up intervention required. Adults stayed in calmer, cooler shadows with wine spritzers and olives.
When I was thirteen and broke my arm with a resounding snap on the beach, my mother took me to the emergency room across the street. The huge community hospital, Addington Hospital, must have had the best in-patient view in all the world. All I really remember was feeling weird because someone had wrapped their ketchuped hot dog half in my t-shirt --for safekeeping I guess -- when I undressed and ran off in my swimsuit. I smelt and felt like a hot dog for hours while I waited, and kids showed up mangled and screaming from motorcycle accidents.
In high school, upon strict instruction to come up with a booth, game or carnivalish side-show for our annual fund raiser, my assigned partner and I unenthusiastically decided to man a no-frills hot dog stand. No gimmicks, fair price and good quality buns. (There is no such thing as a good quality vienna.)
To my astonishment, I sold three hundred hot dogs in just over an hour. Our target was exceeded, and my lifelong fascination with a simple, good commodity, marketed and sold to the masses was stirred. Humble hot dogs were a hit.
At sixteen, my friend Janine and I (I know, I know) would take a bus to the beach, hang out all day, and on our way home, stop off at the hot dog stand outside Durban's City Hall and feast on the meaty, bread and ketchup concoctions. Pure heaven. A day of sand, sun, friends and the utter bliss of being sixteen and free, was completed with a hot dog on the steps of the bustling city square. The world was fascinating and rich, and it responded to our colorful nubile presence with delight and pleasure.
Through the years of young adulthood and poverty, hot dogs featured as emergency food, quickly swallowed outside busy nightclubs in the wee hours of the morning. Cheap, quick and delicious fuel for a night of pouring drinks behind bar counters mobbed with beautiful people determined to have a good time.
And now, I am to my dismay, a mom to a ten-year old.
And when there are kids, there are hot dogs.
These days, on the rare occasion that I venture into Costco with champagne-tastes Henk on a weekend, we always order a round of hot dogs for everyone, and nod our mutual approval and delicious satisfaction as we eat them with the throngs on the plastic benches in the store.
We always smile at each other conspiratorially, compliment each other's cleverness at discovering the best hot dogs in the country, and always smugly marvel at the price. A buck fifty of pure heaven on so many levels.
Happy Birthday, Jenna. Have a hot dog on me.
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