Tussen Stasies

Recently my mom and I went on a train trip down to P.E. It turned out to be somewhat of a disaster, but it was still a lot of fun to observe all the characters on the Shosholoza Meyl. Here is a short story I wrote about the experience for an Afrikaans writing competition (since I didn't win I guess I can publish it myself :)

Tussen Stasies

Tannie Loretta klim in. Sy het twee koffertjies met wiele, die res van haar pakkasie is net sakkies en tassies en kussings en komberse. Sy dra ‘n ou army-groen t-hemp en ‘n pers broek waarin sy sommer ook kan slaap. Tussen die rol van borste en die rol van ‘n magie sit nog ‘n rolletjie. Haar gesig is kwaai met mondhoeke wat lyk as of hulle altyd vir haar ken,  en nie vir haar wange groet nie. Sy het klein ogies wat agter ‘n ou bril skuil, wit hare wat bruin gekleur is en ‘n sakkie om haar nek vir haar selfoon.

Sy sê vir my ma dat sy haar maar ‘Loretta’ kan noem, maar omdat ek jonk is mag ek ‘Tannie Lorie’ vir haar sê. Let wel, ek noem nie eers my tannie ‘tannie’ nie. Ek is geleer van jy/jou en u/Mevrou, nie van tannies en ooms en mense op die mond soen nie. Dus is dit vir my ‘n hengse taak om vir wat ek dink 20 ure gaan wees nie ‘jy’ of ‘tannie’ te sê nie.

Dis 1 uur. Die trein behoort binne 15 minute uit Johannesburg stasie te vertrek. Almal het gesê ons is mal om die trein te vat. Hulle het vertel van mense wat oorval is en wat ure langer gevat het,  as wat op die kaartjies aangeteken was. Hulle het ons gevra hoekom ons so iets sou wou doen, die trein is moes net vir die “anderskleuriges”, soos my ouma sou sê, of vir die wat arm is. Dalk beteken ‘anderskleurig’ en ‘arm’ maar dieselfde ding.  Hulle sê die Shosholoza Meyl is nie vir mense soos ons wat grade het en ander tale praat en moes eintlik van OR Tambo af  vertrek.

Nee, die Shosholoza Meyl is vir mense wat te baie bagasie het vir die bus. Dis vir die twee ouer kleurling dames wat in een hoek van Park stasie op ‘n bank sit en ‘n wyntjie uit ‘n plastiek beker drink terwyl hulle tussen berge kussings wag. Dis vir die man in die straatskoonmakeruniform wat op ‘n koffer sit en met sy klein dogtertjie speel. Dit is vir die ou mense wie se pensioen nie genoeg is nie, wie se kinders nie omgee en wie se lywe nie meer werk nie. Dit is vir armblanke oumas en kleinkinders in goedkoop sweetpakke waar die ma haar twee dogtertjies met die woorde “soet wees” groet.

Ja nee, die trein is nie vir mense wat ‘n Gau- voor die woord moet sit nie.

En tog trotseer ons die idee van wie waar hoort, van wie wat mag doen, van ‘n apartheid wat nou tussen klas veel meer as tussen ras is.

Tannie Loretta vertel hoe sy 49 jaar terug haar man in die stad van goud leer ken het, hoe hy vir haar na die Baai toe getrek het, hoe hy nou onlangs dood is. Sy lyk soos iemand wat te baie al swaargekry het om aan die vinnige veranderinge van die moderne lewe aantepas. Gelukkig is dit net ons drie in die kompartement wat eintlik gemaak is vir ses. Tannie Loretta en haar pakasie is versprei op die bank wat in ryrigting kyk, ons twee aan die ander kant. As dit aand word klap ons die beddens af en slaap bo terwyl sy onder skuins lê.

13.20 trek ons weg. Ons ry deur die ooste van Johannesburg, deur Denver en Driehoek en Germiston. Dit is net vullis en slegte graffiti op die spore, met plakkerskampe en industriele areas wat mekaar afwissel as mens uit die venster kyk. Ek is baie opgewonde, na ‘n halwe jaar van onsekerheid en verwerping het ek ‘n avontuur soos dié nodig.

Ons stop op Vereeniging. Nettie klim in en moet eintlik in ons kompartement sit. Sy is aan die verkeerde kant van 60, met ‘n lyfie wat lyk as of hy dringend kos nodig het en hare wat al te baie keer deur kleur en krullers gemartel is. Sy sien daar is geen plek vir haar by ons nie en verdwyn. Later vind ons uit sy is in ‘n coupé langs ons, lekker op haar eie.

In ons kompartement kuier ons verder. Die padkos is eerste uitgepak en wag op die tafeltjie by die venster vandat ons op Parkstasie gesit het en gewag het om wegtetrek. Dis mos maar hoe Suid Afrikaners is: ons het ons padkos nodig, maak nie saak hoe ver ons op pad is nie. Toe my vriendin Karen die min goedjies in my mandjie by die supermark sien was sy skoon bekommerd, sy het gedink dit sal nooit genoeg wees vir 20 ure op ‘n trein nie.  Minwetend  sou sy nog reg wees ook.

Van iewers af organiseer ons vir elkeen ‘n koppie tee. Ons pak choc-chip koekies en beskuit uit wat my ma gebak het. Tannie Loretta soek dadelik die resep, maar my ma kan hom nie onthou nie. Ons belowe om hom met die pos te stuur. Die gesprek wissel van hoe mens pruimkonfyt lekker by ‘n sjokoladekoek kan voeg na hoe Tannie Loretta- hulle alles verloor het weens die sanksies. Hul het hul plaas vir “’n appel en ‘n ui” verkoop en op ‘n kleinhoewe gaan bly. Nou, net na haar man se dood, het die eienaars van die erf vir haar kennis gegee, sommer so oor die draadmuur.

My ma en ek gaan kry aandete in die eetsalon net voordat ons Kroonstad tref. Ons deel ‘n beeskerrie met geel rys terwyl die landskap buite donker word. ‘n Ouer engelsman en sy seun sit links van ons. Die man maak as of hy vreeslik belangrik is en is ongeskik met almal. Dit lyk nie of hy en sy seun ‘n goeie verhouding het nie, ek sou nie geraai het hulle is familie as een van die dames wat op die trein werk dit nie sou gesê het nie.

Toe ons terugkom na ons kompartement toe, is ons beddens gemaak en almal is reg vir die kooi. Ons sien uit daarna om rustig op te staan, te stort en teen 9 uur die volgende oggend in Port Elizabeth se stasie te wees.

Ek sluimer in die donkerte van die kompartement in, maar ek hoor hoe ons net voor middernag in Bloemfontein stop en mense inklim.  Ek dink nog dat ek nou rustig sal kan slaap omdat daar geen groot stasies meer is nie en die trein soos ‘n reusagtige wieg voel.

Toe slaan die horlosie een uur en die nagmerrie begin. Eers skreeu ‘n baba sonder einde, met ‘n ander dogterjie wat “Heidi” sing en ‘n man wat hardop met sy vrou baklei. Dit klink as of ‘n hele kindergarten deur die gang hardloop en speel terwyl die personeel op die trein ook vir mekaar skreeu. Ons lê al drie wakker.

Ek kom agter die trein beweeg nie en ons hoor die woorde “big problems” buite ons deur. Tannie Loretta sê haar slaap is skoon uit haar uit. ‘n Half-uur later snork sy so hard dat ek en my ma soos tiener dogters in ons beddens lê en giggel: mens kan net niks anders doen nie omdat dit voel as of die hele dekselse wêreld vir jou uit  die slaap probeer  hou.

Ons verneem dat ons net 20 minute buite Bloemfontein is. Dit is nou 3 uur die oggend en mense toyi-toyi in die eetsaal. Niemand weet wat aangaan nie, die trein staan-staan- staan net. Iemand sê die lokomotief het gebreek, dat busse sal  kom om ons te haal. Tannie Loretta steun dat alles  nou “oppie koffie” is. Ons besluit maar om nou te gaan stort, want om so vuilerig nog ure in ‘n bus te sit klink soos hel. In elk geval kan ons nie slaap nie en dit lyk nie as of enige iets gebeur nie.  Gelukkig werk die krag op die trein nog en daar is warm water. Tot nou dink ek steeds ons gaan maar net ‘n paar uur laat wees, dat alles nie so erg is nie: soos met meeste goed in ons land moet mens maar net ‘n bietjie geduld hê en dan werk alles tog uit.

Die son begin stadig opkom oor die Vrystaatse vlaktes. ‘n Nors mannetjie kom sê vir ons dat ons oor 20 minute gehaal sal word, ons moet ons goedjies pak en regstaan vir die busse. ‘n Man begin hardop preek oor hoe hy ‘n getuie is van God en hoe Suid Afrika se tyd gekom het. Na ‘n uur is daar geen busse in sig en God lyk ook nie as of hy baie omgee vir treine wat gaan staan nie . Die gepreek raak net te erg, so ek gaan vra  die man of hy nie kan ophou nie,  of  ten minste sy deur kan toemaak, sodat almal nie deur hom gepla word nie. Hy sê almal moet hom hoor, maar na die nag wat ons gehad het is niemand lus nie.  Die baba begin weer te huil.  Ook dit nog.

‘n Ander trein kom stop langs ons. Niks gebeur nie. Die trein ry weer weg. Ons hoor later dat die helfte van die personeel op daardie trein terug is Johannesburg toe. Ons sit verder en vries, die wind blaas sterk buite die trein.

Net na 10 uur is ons terug in Bloemfontein. Eintlik moes ons nou al in P.E. afgeklim het. Al die mense in derde klas, wat net ‘n sitplek en nie ‘n hele bed op die trein kon bekostig nie, peul uit die trein met hul kinders en bagasie.  Vir ons is gesê dat ons op die trein kan bly, maar ek is onder die indruk dat die mense dit nie weet nie, hulle word na die busse toe gestuur. Dit is een hengse deurmekaar spul, vrouens sukkel om swart sakke en klein kindertjies bymekaar te hou.  Daar is een klein seuntjie wat ‘n koffer dra soos ‘n groot man. Ek wonder waar hierdie kind gaan opeindig, so belas deur ander se goed.

‘n Uur later is ons weer op pad. Van vyfhonderd mense is daar net vyftig oor. Die personeel is op hul derde skof sonder slaap. Dit voel as of ons nooit die Vrystaat sal verlaat nie, asof ons gevange is hier. Die ironie. ‘n Sterk wind fluit buite, ons sit toegedraai in komberse en peusel. Uiteindelik ry ons oor die Gariep en in die Noord Kaap in. Dit voel darem nou asof ons beweeg.

Tannie Loretta vertel hoe sy in Junie verloof geraak het en in Augustus getroud is, destyds. Ons ry deur  lang oomblikke van swart, die tonnels het begin. Die kompartement het al klaar die reuk van mense wat te lank saam in ‘n klein spasie is, maar nou raak dit erger: Tannie Loretta se chili-sous het uitgeloop en sy wil dit steeds nie weggooi nie. Alles ryk nou net te sterk. Ons ruk die vensters oop en gaan ontsnap na die eetsalon toe vir ‘n teetjie.

Daar ontmoet ons ‘n ouer paartjie wat na die see toe trek. Hulle vertel hoe twee ouer dames twee klein hondjies in ‘n koelsak saamsmokkel. Almal deel stories, mens raak maar gesellig so as mens deur dieselfde ding gaan en nie weet wanneer mens gaan aankom. Die nors man met sy seun kry weer ‘n plek net langs ons. Hy is vreeslik onvriendelik met die personeel, en blaf bevele as of hy die baas is. Almal is moeg, almal wil by die kus aankom, almal is al baie langer op die trein as  wat hulle gedink het hulle sal wees. Maar dit blyk nie asof Meneer Gifappel dit kan verstaan nie.

Ons gaan maar terug na ons kompartement toe. Die passasiere kuier so oor en weer by mekaar. In die donkerte  sien ons af en toe ‘n eensame lig, dit voel as of ons deel is van die Neverending Story. Hier kom verskillende wêrelde bymekaar, mense wat nooit mekaar se geselskap sou gesoek het nie, deel stories terwyl die trein stadig soos ‘n slang sy pad deur die land kry. Soos wat die verkoper vir my ma by Pretoria stasie gesê het toe sy die kaartjies gaan haal het: mens moet nie die trein vat as mens haastig is nie. Dalk was dit die sjarme: om rustig ‘n pad te vat wat net in een rigting gaan. ‘n Trein kan moes nie ‘n verkeerde draai maak nie. Ons, in teendeel, kan.

Tannie Loretta sit tussen al haar pakkies. Sy is reg om af te klim, maar is bekommerd oor hoe sy alles van die trein  gaan kry. Ook sy het al haar komberse  weggepak en nou kruip die koue weer in ons kompartement in. Ek kry vir elk ‘n kombers wat saamgevrommel bo op die een kooi lê.  Mens hoor net die geluide van wiele op spore. Daar is niks om na te kyk in die donkerte nie, daar is niks meer om te eet nie,  die gesels het opgedroog.  Almal wil nou net aankom.

Uiteindelik raak die liggies meer en almal skuif hul bagasie in die gang in. Ons ry-ry-ry deur Port Elizabeth, ons is hier maar kom net nie aan nie. Na ‘n hele ruk gaan staan die trein eers. Mense wag op die peron, hulle haal hul vriende en familie. Almal is gedaan. Ons help vir Tannie Loretta om haar goedjies van die trein af te kry, gelukkig is haar mense daar. Sy gee vir ons elk ‘n stywe druk en verdwyn.

Na alles was sy tog reg toe sy nog in Johannesburg vir ons gesê het dat “mens nie oorsee hoef te gaan om te travel nie”. Nee, al wat mens moet doen is in die trein klim. 

Die Blou Bul weet nie van verloor af nie /Die Blou Bul sukkel nie sy roer af nie /Nou vra jy my vir wie ek skree

I've successfully avoided watching rugby for the entire 15 years that we've been living in Pretoria. Not live, not on TV, not by listening to the match on the radio. I went to a cricket match once, but it was a 20/20 between two IPL teams, so it was short and I didn't know who was playing. And it wasn't rugby.

Rugby to me is always associated big men with thick necks ramming one another repeatedly. And by that I mean both the players and their fans. Maybe the fans just have the added padding of their beer bellies. It has never seemed like much fun. But in Pretoria rugby, and the Loftus Versveld stadium, is an institution: families and friends meet up hours before the match begins to braai (barbecue) a "vleisie" (a piece of meat), to drink some beers and socialise before heading into the stadium decked out in their blue kit and enjoying the match.

The local team is called the Blue Bulls, and from years of reading the news headlines on the lamp poles I believe they are one of the best teams in SA, maybe in the world. They seem to always win, but I have a feeling that it is because they are one of the wealthiest clubs and can thus afford to coax young, promising players away from clubs that do not have the same means.

This Saturday was the first time I went to Loftus to watch rugby. I'd been there in 2010 for one of the quarter finals of the soccer world cup, but it was an extremely boring, extremely long match between Japan and Paraguay and thus the place holds no fond memories. This time it was interesting to observe how much MONEY goes into rugby, or any sport for that matter.

The Blue Bulls have been renamed the Vodacom Bulls, because yes, you guessed it, they are sponsored by Vodacom. Thus the Vodacom branding is everywhere. And the fans are committed to buying blue jerseys, blue flags, blue caps, blue everything. One man even had a Blue Bull cushion to sit on. Adding ticket sales, TV sales, ad revenues, drink/food sales, etc. to the costs probably makes the sport quite a profitable business. I found it quite strange to think about how invested people become in a game that could theoretically be played anywhere and by anyone.

It is also fascinating to see which sports are popular in different countries: here, rugby, cricket and soccer dominate. I assume soccer is popular all over, but as an example handball is hardly known in Africa, whereas it is on probably the same level as soccer in Scandinavian countries. Or rugby even:  in America people don't even know what rugby is because of the popularity of American football.

Well, back to the game. As far as watching sports goes this was quite fun, but I won't go buy my seasonal tickets just yet.

Obama coming back from his day in Joburg maybe?

Like I said, a Blue Bulls cushion

Society, you're a crazy breed

Friends and I have started to work on a project. We are not entirely sure what it is or what each of us wants from it, but at the centre is this idea: "play your part". Being in academia is a lonely place where one trades in egos and needs to constantly side-step conversations because no one ever says honestly what they think. It is also an elitist space with people often presenting papers and speaking in such a way that the average Joe is clueless as to what they are actually saying. Maybe it's only me who does not understand.

It bothers me that being 'learned' is restricted to those that can afford learning. It is not like that everywhere in the world, but here (and I am assuming in many third world countries, which South Africa is not and still is, somehow) getting a good education often seems out of reach. I am not sure if the reason people don't demand a better education is because they are uneducated ; if the government preaches better education but does nothing to improve the system in order to keep the majority of the voters dumb and clinging to the ANC's 'liberator' persona; if many are simply not interested in learning, or if the concept of education in itself is wrong.

In the gym the other day I overheard two middle-class white ladies saying that the schools had failed their children because the kids were told that they were bad at a particular subject when in effect it was just the teacher's style of transmitting the information that was wrong. I don't know. I never liked our math teacher and thus also did badly in mathematics, irrespective of going to additional classes and trying to study. I still think that trigonometry and algebra were torture. But young people should also learn that life is not handed to you on a silver platter and that the average person is not great at everything. Finding one thing you are good at is already an achievement. I mean, I know I can bake decent cakes, but beyond that who knows what my strengths are.

Anyway. Back to project no-name. It really doesn't have a name. But the idea is to change the way academia works and to make learning more horizontal instead of hierarchical. Learning doesn't stop when you finish school/university/etc. Learning never stops. And I think that is what is fundamentally wrong with the education system here: it preaches that when you complete your matric or your degree or your diploma, you will get work with that and then you have stopped learning. But in the 21st century it is no longer plausible to believe you will be employed by the same company for your entire life, or that you will find a job doing exactly what you studied. Let's see if our project can succeed in helping to change the way society thinks of education and thus play our part.

I wish

n

I've been watching The Voice and Nashville. Never in my life have I listened to so much Country music. One the one hand it is not really what I would choose to hear because I can't relate too much to what they are singing about and it just doesn't do much for my ears. Like I'm an okie from muskogee. Ja, that one made me forward really quickly.

But some of the songs were really cool. And apparently The Civil Wars count as country, so here is a little taste.

Someone told me

2008.
It was time to chose what I wanted to study.
Law? Yes. Law.
But I wanted to keep the languages, somehow.
BA Law? Sounded good. The "law" part made it sound official enough to contrast with the frivolity I had often heard associated with a BA degree. For instance, when my older sister went to the university's campus with me for their open day we walked past the Humanities building and the drama students were performing something. My sister said: "Just don't study something in the Humanities, they are all weird".
So I thought the whole law dealio would lead to success and happiness and just a great life, and would protect me from being associated with the weird people.

Somehow I mistakenly only enrolled for a general BA, without the -law, and that has been the best error I have committed so far. By coincidence I took a visual communication course because my one friend said it was easy and all one did was watch music videos. Yay, easy peasy credits.

Now, years later I am really happy not to be a lawyer. Sure, sometimes I think other professions make more money, but my non-profession at the moment and my desire to never stop studying is a happiness factor that other things would have deprived me of.

Look, no one wants to constantly hear that what they studied/are studying is a joke, that they won't find work, that anything in the humanities is just a recipe for struggle. No one should be ignorant enough to believe themselves immune to recessions, changes, choices and personal disasters that happen at 2PM of a perfectly normal Tuesday. That is just the way life rolls, it is not restricted to Bachelor of Arts graduates.

And so the rector of the University of the Free State, Prof. Jansen, seems to think as well:

"Don't kid yourself about BAs
Jonathan Jansen: "So what's the difference between a BA degree and a large pizza?" one of my student leaders recently asked a large group of parents inquiring about sending their child to university. "A large pizza can feed a family of four," she joked. I laughed, then cried.
Laughed, because of the obvious wit of the comparison. Cried, because this is one of the most misleading pieces of information about BAs in South Africa today.
It was not that I had not overheard "BA jokes". At my previous university, there was rampant talk among female students of a "BA man-soek" specialisation (BA find-a-husband). After all, what other reason could you have for doing a BA than to prowl the campus for a life mate?
Sadly, many parents buy into this myth about the uselessness of a BA. The actuarial science degree gets you a specific job, as do degrees in marketing, optometry or accountancy. With this common-sense, though often wrong understanding of a degree, parents guide their children away from a BA towards "something more practical" or "something that can get you a job".
The truth is I have seen as many BA students get good jobs as I have seen BComm Accounting students without jobs. In fact, I would argue that a BA from a good university is likelier to get you different kinds of jobs - not a bad option in an economic recession - than a single-career job that comes with a degree in physiotherapy or in law.
Why is that? A good BA qualification from a good university would have taught you generic competencies seldom learnt in narrow occupational degrees. A good BA would have given you the foundations of learning across disciplines like sociology, psychology, politics, anthropology and languages. A good BA would have given you access to critical thinking skills, appreciation of literature, understanding of cultures, the uses of power, the mysteries of the mind, the organisation of societies, the complexities of leadership, the art of communication and the problem of change. A good BA would have taught you something about the human condition, and so something about yourself. In short, a good BA degree would have given you a solid education that forms the basis for workplace training.
The head of Johannesburg's Stock Exchange, a gentle man called Russell Loubser, taught me a valuable lesson the other day. I was talking to this astute businessman about the training function of universities when he gently chided me, the education man, with timeless wisdom. "No professor," he said, "you educate them. I train them."
This is where the American colleges get it right when they talk about a liberal arts education in the undergraduate years. There is more than enough time for the occupational training that comes later and is best done in the workplace.
What we fail to do at South African universities is educate young minds broadly in ethics, values, reasoning, appreciation, problem solving, argumentation and logic. Locked into single-discipline thinking, our young people fail to learn that the most complex social and human problems cannot be solved except through interdisciplinary thinking that crosses these disciplinary boundaries.
Anyone who thought HIV/Aids was simply an immunological problem is the victim of the kind of narrow training restricted to the biomedical sciences. The syndrome is as much a sociological, economic, political and cultural problem as it might be a problem of virology. Do not get me wrong: HIV causes Aids, period. What I am arguing is that its resolution will take more than an injection, and that is the broader value that a BA degree can offer a well-educated youngster.
So the next time you hear people make jokes about a worthless BA degree, tell them about Bobby Godsell (the BA graduate who served as the CEO of AngloGold Ashanti), Vincent Maphai (the BA graduate who rose to serve as chairman of BHP Billiton), Clem Sunter (the famous scenario planner and former chairman of the Anglo American Chairman's Fund), Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka (the former deputy president of South Africa) or Saki Macozoma (the chairman of Stanlib and Liberty Life).
The list of highly successful graduates with BAs, or equivalent degrees, is endless.
Then go out and buy your family a large pizza." 

 Copied from the UFS Humanities FB page.

Gotta keep moving with a troubled mind a following

Twee jaar gelede wou ek vir my ouma se verjaarsdag foto's van die hele familie se hande kry en op een of ander manier bymekaar sit. Sy het foto's van almal in haar huis, maar die hele klomp is nooit saam op een foto nie. Ek dink daar is net een foto van 1996 waar die een oumagrootjie verjaar het en omtrent almal daar was. Maar nou bestaan dieselfde eenheid nie meer nie: van hulle is oorsee, ander is geskei, ander is nie meer deel van die familie nie en ander het weer nuut bygekom. In die ou end het my idee nie gewerk nie, maar ek het tog die cool een van my neef se hande geneem.

Dit is nogals vreemd. Al die niggies en neefies kom nie gereeld bymekaar nie, maar as dit gebeur kuier ons tog heel lekker saam (dalk dink ek net so, haha). Van hulle is nou meer Engels as Afrikaans, van hulle is/was oorsee, van hulle kom dalk nooit terug nie. Op een of ander manier bly mens steeds familie, en stel belang in mekaar se lewens. Ek dink net dit raak moeiliker hoe ouer mens word en hoe verder weg mens van mekaar af bly. Destyds het ons ouers vir mekaar gekuier en so het ons maar met mekaar gespeel, maar nou moet mens moeite doen dat die kringe van ons lewens nog steeds mekaar oorvleuel.

Dit voel vir my ook altyd as of die ander weet waar hulle hoort.

My neef klink soos sy pa as hy praat, en waneer hy goed vertel klink dit as of hy weet waar sy wortels is en waar hy wil bly. Hy het 'n passie vir sy omgewing wat ek eer het as ek in ander stede die metro kan vat en kan rondstap. Die Vrystaat is vir my 'n plek waar ek ons trein te lank gestaan het en waar die lig altyd mooi is om foto's te neem. Dit is nie naby aan my hart nie, maar Pretoria of Duitsland is ook nie eintlik nie. Dalk het ek wieletjies aan my boude en kan nie ophou beweeg nie waar die ander al 'n plek gekry het waar hulle maar die remme kon trap en hul wortels kon ingrawe.

They can all/just kiss off into the air

Nicholas Mirzoeff is here.

Initially I did not understand why everyone was so very taken with him. It is just another person, another Professor presenting some lecture on some topic using some words that I don't understand.
Now, I can comprehend why he is the academic equivalent of a rock star. And he is very nice, too.

Visual Culture Studies is not the most widely known field of research. When people ask what it is, I am not even entirely sure myself, although this searching for the visual and what it means is what I am passionate about. Often VCS or just Visual Studies is hidden away in some corner, stashed behind the star attraction that is graphic design or fine art or even art history. We are a field without clear parameters, and as such revel in interdisciplinarity (ja, I know, that is not really a word, but the perks of not knowing what you are doing for sure are the ability to add -ity and -ness whenever you feel like something needs distinction).

Now, with a NYU professor coming to South Africa, coming to speak to US, it validates this existing in the corner and this incomprehension by others (and perhaps by ourselves, too, at least in my case). Having someone come and say, hey, the way you are thinking and questioning and wondering is great, we need to re-evaluate what we know, we are on the cusp of a revolution in the way the world is seen, well, that is like a pat on the shoulder from a father who never shows any emotion.

It's a much bigger deal than I had initially realised.

Blurred Lines

The words on the paper read "Casual Staff needed". Nothing more. I was waiting for my mom to finish at the bank, so I went in and asked about the position. The manager wasn't there but I got her e-mail address and sent my CV. Then I heard nothing for a few days, so I assumed the position had been filled.

On Thursday I received an e-mail asking if I could stop by, and then the manager lady asked if I could start the following day. In my eagerness I agreed.

The day started at 8.30 and ended at 17.36, with one hour lunch break. What did I do for 8 hours? I stood behind a cash register, scanned items, packed them in bags and had people pay me large amounts for art supplies. It was the very opposite of exciting.

Lunch time was the highlight, because in the shopping centre there are three benches, and all the shops' employees crowd onto the benches. It was really stupidly designed to not at least plan a little green area outside or add more benches or something for people to sit on. I was sitting alone, wondering what to do for an hour, when a lady who works as a cashier at the Pick 'n Pay came and sat next to me. She was eating a custard-pudding mix for lunch and started asking about the new job.

Two other ladies arrived. They tried teaching me some Sotho. I sounded very white trying to say "Dumela", "O kae?" and "Ke teng", which is hello-how are you-I'm fine. They told be that earning R200 (a bit less than €20 at the current exchange rate) a day is an ok salary, and if there were other jobs available because the one lady's sister was looking for work.

The manager at the store had told be she was looking for young students to work on occasion, and she did not want to sound racist when she said she wanted to hire people who were good with customers. It is a really disparate situation: here I am, thinking that this is really bad pay for a days work because I am overqualified and cannot imagine how anyone could survive on a salary of R4000 per month. Rent alone costs that, never mind paying for anything else. And then there is this lady's sister who is in desperate need of a job, but she can't even apply for it because she is not what they are looking for.

I know it is like that in every job, that employers have a specific idea of what they want, which is naturally their right. But this job? It is not hard to learn, one needs no real previous experience except for actually being able to talk to people.

Meanwhile the government is spending excessive amounts on renaming streets and building toll-roads that no-one can really afford. Good lord, people. I do not understand how you cannot see that educating people and giving them basic access to services is more important than throwing a big bash for fat cats that are all abusing their countries in the same way.  It seems that in Africa, maybe everywhere?, as soon as one has power one becomes corrupt.

A friend of mine in Romania started this group called Incubator 107, and I think their aim is cultural interaction through everyone teaching everyone else something. I don't understand Romanian, so it could be completely wrong. I think it is aimed more at an artistic exchange of abilities, but for a South African context the same model could perhaps be adapted to have a more educational component: how to write a proper CV, how to dress and act during an interview, basic computer literacy, etc.

There are so many charity organisations, so many volunteers that come from overseas, so many people willing to help one another. I just wonder how one could get the government to realise they are working for the people, not for themselves, and that improving the situation for all in South Africa is more important than drafting the Secrecy Bill or flying up an entourage to celebrate the AUs 50th birthday.

It's a Good Life

My mom reused the birth-announcement-card as a birthday card this year. Now I know I was born at 00.25 AM. Being born at twenty-five minutes into the day turned out to be a good sign for my 25th birthday. It was the first time in my life that there was no one in the house with me on the day. Normally someone puts out flowers and presents and a cake, even if they had to already leave for work/school.

This time my mom wrote down clues for me to find objects stashed in the house. It wasn't entirely successful because she thought writing down clues about what the present was, and not about its location, would help me find them. No wonder we suck when we're partners in 30 Seconds. Nothing a phone call couldn't fix though.

I am aware that as soon as you hit the double digits, birthdays become less cool. No more goodie bags at the end of a party, no more running around and frolicking in the pool, no more waiters at Spur bringing you something with candles on it and singing to you. Then all you care about is turning 16, turning 18 and getting your licence, and, the big one, turning 21, because then you are an adult and your parents pay for your last big fiesta.

I am still not an adult, but somehow, 25 feels like no one can treat me like a child any more. At a quarter of a century into life, it is a great balance between having experienced enough not to be a completely ignorant fool who thinks she knows everything (me at 19) and still being young enough to depart from what I know without the weight of mortgages, car payments and a long career at the same company.

This was the first birthday of being a semi-adult where I thought, well, you might just be able to do anything you want successfully. And the reason for this was all the great people I have in my life. My mom made a gigantic effort to bake a cake and organise a treasure hunt. She also involved my aunt and cousin to fly up a cape I wanted (yes, cape, like superman-ish, but better). My sister also helped with this cross-country endeavour and spent hours looking for a silk dress she thought I might like (I do).

My friend K planned a super surprise brunch date, with awesome self-made presents. Another friend called completely out of the blue from France and sent me the funniest YouTube video. I got  'Happy Birthday' sung to me via WhatsApp and sent in messages, in emails, in Facebook posts. Other friends, family and neighbours called. Often, sure, it was because someone had been told by FB that this was the day of my birth, but I appreciated all the little and great efforts equally.

William Somerset Maugham said that "we are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person". A birthday provides the opportunity to reflect on what one has done in the past year, how things have changed or not, and which friends you still wish to invite to your party. I remember how I realised a friendship was over: for the first time since 7th grade, I was not invited to her birthday party. 

Somehow, this birthday made me realise the truth of W. Somerset Maugham's quote: things change all the time, people drift apart, and we should value the ones that remain, steadily, in your life because they are the one's that will make an effort to celebrate you being born even if you aren't throwing a party this year. They are the ones that will be there throughout the curve balls that life throws at us, and in turn, so will you, because nobody can make it on their own. 

 

Never without cake. This one: Frozen Chocolate Mousse Cake. 

Affection

My sister calls it my "flop": I made gluten-free brownies once, where one had to mush up a can of butter beans and use those instead of actual butter. The "brownies" were edible, but it was one of those weak attempts at making a healthy version of something that is not healthy. Rather eat one normal brownie than suffer through a few of the gluten-free ones. I don't see them as a flop though, rather as an experiment that won't be repeated. You can't stick to your fail-safe recipes when there are sites like foodgawker that present endless options to taste new things. Sometimes they turn out better, and sometimes worse.

Last Friday both my mom and sister returned home, so I relished the chance to actually make something for more than one person. The problem was the fridge didn't really contain much and in my standard outfit of a manly robe (think your grandfather, not Hugh Hefner) over tracksuit pants and an old Tshirt, well, it is not really what one should leave the house in. Not even if there is a fire.

So I found a cake to fit what I actually did have, and boom!, Mother's Day cake was sorted. And, hah, it was gluten-free as well. Te he he.

Nigella's clementine cake turned out really well, surprisingly.

Here are the ingredients and instructions (copy/pasted from her site, you can also simply follow the link above):

Ingredients

• 375 grams clementines
• 6 large eggs
• 225 grams white sugar
• 250 grams ground almonds
• 1 teaspoon baking powder

Method

1. Put the clementines in a pan with some cold water, bring to the boil and cook for 2 hours. Drain and, when cool, cut each clementine in half and remove the pips. Dump the clementines - skins, pith, fruit and all - and give a quick blitz in a food processor (or by hand, of course). Preheat the oven to gas mark 5/190ºC. Butter and line a 21cm Springform tin.
2. You can then add all the other ingredients to the food processor and mix. Or, you can beat the eggs by hand adding the sugar, almonds and baking powder, mixing well, then finally adding the pulped oranges.
3. Pour the cake mixture into the prepared tin and bake for an hour, when a skewer will come out clean; you'll probably have to cover with foil or greaseproof after about 40 minutes to stop the top burning. Remove from the oven and leave to cool, on a rack, but in the tin. When the cake's cold, you can take it out of the tin. I think this is better a day after it's made, but I don't complain about eating it at any time.
4. I've also made this with an equal weight of oranges, and with lemons, in which case I increase the sugar to 250g and slightly anglicise it, too, by adding a glaze made of icing sugar mixed to a paste with lemon juice and a little water.

I didn't have clementines, so instead used 4 small naartjies (tangerines, thank you Wikipedia). I could've also blended the cooked naartjies for a bit longer, because there were a few pieces of skin that were too big for my liking. Also, I think adding a shot or two of Cointreau would be quite tasty. My mom  (like Nigella) commented that it was better two days after it was made because by then it was really juicy. Lastly we had pomegranates so instead of icing the cake I just poured some pomegranate rubies over the cake, which also worked rather well.

That invitation is all I'm waiting on

In one week I turn 25. I was watching Smash and the one character also celebrated her birthday. Her GBF tells her that birthdays present an opportunity reminisce about what one has achieved in the year and how one is different, somehow. Last year I was in the middle of my degree and I was all supercertain about where I was heading, but then came 2013 with its roller-coaster-ride of rejection and now it means is looking elsewhere. 

But with birthdays come presents, which are a lot of fun to find and wrap up. Ja, I get a bit overzealous when it comes to wrapping. A friend is also celebrating his birthday today, so his bottle of wine is hopefully made somewhat more exciting looking like this: 

Choose your own adventure

My cousin posted this on FB, and I wish my graduation speech could have been like this. I can't even remember what we were told. Something about "go out there" and then "give back to the university". Pshhhh.



THIS IS WATER - By David Foster Wallace from The Glossary on Vimeo.

Walk it off.

It was not like touching another living thing. Snakes, dogs, cats, lovebirds, horses, sheep, cows, humans, everything that breathed still somehow conveyed its being-alive-ness. I mean, Jesus, that snake-touching was no fun because it was a 3m python, but still, through the clammy coldness it was alive and, well, it could (try to) eat me.

Not the elephant though. The elephant felt strangely like touching a stuffed museum exhibit. Her skin was harder than I had expected, seemingly impenetrable, with bristles sticking out and a layer of mud caked on. I knew she was observing me, and feeling me sort of man-handling her stomach, the bottom of her back foot, the hairs at the end of her tail and the patch of skin behind her eye with some kind of special gland in it (I wasn't listening as intently as I should have to the elephant handlers). It was as though I was playing every part in the parable of the blind men and the elephant, except that I knew I was touching an elephant.

Only upon touching the back of her ear did it feel less like interacting with a 7t dirty rock and more like she could crush me whenever she felt like it. I felt an interesting contradiction between fascinatedly touching something so big and powerful, but at the same time so silent and vulnerable. All the elephants at the sanctuary near Hartebeespoort are orphans. Their families had been culled because of overpopulation in the Kruger National Park, and they were the only ones that could be relocated. So aside from the threat of crocodiles mauling their trunks, predators attacking them and humans killing them for their ivory, the elephant is on the endangered species list because it needs space to survive, and we are encroaching on its habitat.

It was a bit sad to have to resort to making an interaction with elephants all about taking photographs. On the tour one hears almost everything one can about the loxodonta africana. Then one proceeds to feed them handfuls of pellets, after which one enters one by one to pat the elephant down and pose for a photograph. At the end one walks around an enclosure, with the elephant's trunk in hand.

The entire visit was very cool to experience, but it also felt a bit rehearsed, as though we were at Disneyland queueing to go on a ride. Here we were just queueing to touch something frightening and beautiful. For instance, for the trunk-in-hand walk, I know the elephant did not want me to hold his trunk (I was walking with a different one than Ms. Elephant) because he kept pulling it away. Which I can understand, I also don't like holding people's hands. But then the handler would authoritively say a command, and the trunk would be back in my hand. Sorry Mr. Elephant.

If you are ever in Gauteng and don't know what to do, this is great. But I would bear in mind that this is an animal that could crush you, and not merely a great photographic opportunity to show to your friends back home.

Hello Ms. Elephant

Designed/ to keep me discreetly/ neatly in the corner

Whereas Pretoria is a well-trained dog, with its neat city grid and orderly street signs, Johannesburg is a constantly changing beast, a chimera of (all) sorts that breathes fire and continuously threatens your comfort zone. It is exhilarating though, crossing the border of whatever is familiar and heading to a place where the guide fuels the fear by telling you that if you stray, you will get robbed. Even the four security guards lined up in an orderly fashion in front of an office building smile when they say we should watch where we are going.

I don't know if we looked like victims because we were in full tourist gear (think backpacks, cameras, tickets for the hop-on-hop-off bus and a twinge of fear) or because our whiteness made us stick out like gulls in a sea of seals. Fear gains power if you are in an unknown area and have heard of its dangers. Hell, we live in South Africa, anything is dangerous, so I think most people just get on with their lives. If violence wants you, it will find you. All you can do is not be stupid (as in don't go into dark alleys, don't dangle your 7D from your neck, don't flash your Rolex), and find a little courage to remind you that most people are just like you and have no desire to rob or harm you. And for the few that do, well, we'll cross that bridge of trauma if/when it plants itself in our path.

We went to Joburg because a friend is here from Mexico and it seemed like a good excursion. We went up the Carlton Towers to see all of the city at our feet; we saw the Oppenheimer Park and the old Rissik Street post office; we marched onwards to the Johannesburg Library and peeked inside the Rand Club. Then we caught the bus to the Apartheid Museum (more on that in a future post). Afterwards we tried to get into the Origins Centre at Wits, but they were really unhelpful so we headed to the Wits Art Museum with the exhibition of Gerard Sekoto's work currently on show. Finally we went to Constitutional Hill and returned to Pretoria exhausted.

Most noticeable however were all the signs and graffiti. When you reside in suburbia it is all homes and fences and lawns, so to see some colour was one of the best parts of the day.

At Constitution Hill, the Bill of Rights is carved into the door.

Metal plaques with words from the South African public, who were asked to pen down their hopes and ideas in 2004. 

We're beautiful like diamonds in the sky

The robbers wanted the jewellery.
I pointed at the earrings I had, mostly made of beads. They are valuable because there is the pair my friend brought me back as the gift; there are the ones another friend made out of coins for me for Christmas; there is the pair with the light-blue moonstone (?) that I stole from my mom and have never given back; there are gifts and self-bought earrings, but they have no dollar value that makes them worth stealing.
So the thief grabbed the box with the earrings I got for my 21st birthday, with jewellery I had bought as a child in Mexico, with objects I never really wore because they were too special. Hmm. Now someone else is wearing them.

Anyways. I am not so much for jewellery. Earrings, yes, bracelets, on occasion, but the rest you can keep. I like wearing earrings I have made myself, even if they are not identical. All the expensive gems have never had any allure. Even going to a diamond mine on Monday could not change that.

It was very interesting though. The Petra diamond mine in Cullinan (originally named the Premier mine and renamed the Cullinan mine for its centenary) is about 30 minutes drive from Pretoria, and  is the home of the largest diamond ever found. The Cullinan diamond was found in 1905 and given as a present to Edward VII by the Transvaal government. Then the diamond was split and cut into 9 major stones and 96 smaller stones, which form part of the British Crown Jewels. I thought this was pretty cool.

We went on a tour of the mine (you could also do an underground one, but we remained on the surface), and since it is still a fully functional mine we had the pleasure of wearing blue hard hats. It is fascinating how much money is spent to find the diamonds, and how much value a stone has. I don't really understand why people like diamonds so much. The industrial use of diamonds I can still see, but why would anyone spend millions on a stone that can so easily be lost? Also, it is not as though you will be wearing it often. It is a strange thing, this need to be bejewelled.

I don't know, maybe the rarity of a diamond is why some want it. But going down 1000m, deep into the heart of the earth for it? No, thank you. I found the myth surrounding diamonds unfitting to the physical labour needed to surface even one tiny little stone.

After the diamond tour we went to WetNose, to walk with some of the dogs, and somehow that was more rewarding than any stone I could stick on my finger or pin to my ears.