Boer soek iets anders

Agricultural body, Agri SA, joined the easily upset masses of our country by getting it's thick farmer socks in a bundle over yet another inane remark by a top ANC leader. This time it was Cyril Ramaphosa who, imbued with electioneering hubris, warned those attending a public meeting in Limpopo recently that the evil Boer, replete in khaki and frothing with 'dop en dam', Calvinist zeal will encircle the country, turning it into a laager of the past.
'If all South Africans don't vote, we will regress. The boers will come back to control us,' he apparently stated. With elections looming, hyperboles, rhetoric, jargon, jingoism and propaganda will find their way into anything coming out of the mouth of a politician. At a cursory glance Ramaphosa's remarks constitute nothing but piffle. Yet I find myself having to ask why this term 'Boer' continues to irritate nerves to such ridiculously histrionic levels.
Any Afrikaans dictionary, let's take the intimidatingly title 'HAT: Verklarende Handwoordboek van die Afrikaans Taal' (try say that fast three times over!) defines 'Boer' as, 'Landbouer; plattelander. Die boerderybedryf uit oefen.' I'll put you non-Afrikaans-speaking lot out of your misery by paraphrasing this definition; in it's purest form it basically refers to a farmer. It's also refers to a member of the 'Afrikanervolk' or the Afrikaans culture. On its surface its a word which too many remains sinister, a label to be attached to the backward among us.
Languages, however, are dynamic and the word has maybe for too long been associated with those hawkish, God-haunted white men who helped reduce South Africa to a pariah state for decades: The Nats.
But 'Boer' can mean any number of things in the South Africa of the 21s Century. Often I've heard the term used among coloured people in referring to police officers. The link is easy to understand. Under Apartheid many an Afrikaner rushed to defend the 'Volk' by becoming either a cop or a soldier. When in the field as a reporter I couldn't help chuckle when I heard a black police officer being called a 'Boer' by a coloured person, usually amid a heated atmosphere. In such cases its derogatory, though.
In our modern day language 'Boer' can be a verb, also applying to situations where you find yourself 'hanging out' or 'chilling' somewhere. Example: I'm boering with my mates. Coloured people's linguistic equivalent would be, 'I'm blomming with my bras,' yet another beautiful example of a South Africanism.
The expression, ' 'n Boer maak a plan' has also weaseled its way into our ever-growing body of colloquialisms. It's a fantastic, and rather accurate, way of explaining resourcefulness, especially amid adversities. You can say what you want about Afrikaners, but their history is filled with examples of just how hardy, tough and resourceful Afrikaners have been throughout history. Think of the Great Trek and the Anglo-Boer War.
For those inclined to refuse to accept the ambiguities of  the word 'Boer' I'd suggest, as a last resort, watching a programme on KykNet on DSTV idoneously called 'Boer Soek 'n Vrou.' For me it's a peek into the lives of real old fashioned farmers; toughened boere who, despite their two-tone shirts, veldskoene and bakkies are themselves trying to do what every human does: Try to find love. When I'm not buckled over laughing at the fascinating cultural disparities between those featured in the series, I'm genuinely intrigued by these purebred brethren of the Afrikaans culture. To me, watching this programme settles my mind (at the very least) that the ubiquitous, and let's face it, bizarre paranoia that a khaki clad army will again take over the country, Boermag style, is ridiculous. Yes, of course there are still Afrikaans people who have the Viekleur emblazoned on their wall, who still sing Die Stem and insist HF Vervoerd was simply misunderstood. But then we also still have many who will still sing 'Kill the Boer, kill the farmer.' I'd like to think, though, that these types are gradually finding themselves in ever-shrinking corners and the word 'Boer' will find itself freed from the stifling confines of the past.

Electioneering marketing 101

The ANC's knickers are in a knot... yet again. Cynical and supercilious billboards 'congratulating' the governing party for delivering e-tolls to Gauteng sprung up recently and have the party convulsing with anger. Reading from the party's now well-rehearsed script of knee jerks and automated ripostes, the ANC's top brass reached deep into its stale arsenal of  slamming, criticising, lashing, dismissing, baulking and pouring cold water on what appears to have been a carefully crafted and wily attack by the DA, which is behind the cheeky billboards. And the opposition can be pleased with itself. On Helen Zille's pre-election fever check list she can safely tick off the box, "Annoy the ANC and in so doing get publicity." Mission accomplished... so far.
If only the ANC's election campaigns were half as impudent and creative. Party officials have vowed to take the matter up with the IEC and the Advertising Standards Authority. Yawn. Spin doctors have been reaching for the Thesaurus as they pen press releases and vice their dissatisfaction in sleep-inducing radio/TV sound bytes. Snore. The ANC best get with it.
Putting the merits of the issue aside, I believe the ANC is missing a great opportunity to take this impertinent dig from it's arch rival and use it to overhaul it's own election strategy. We've already seen the ruling party's big-wigs take to the streets to kiss babies and to pray away the opposition. It's going to get  even more heated - and possibly even more mundane - as the days tick by. Expect over-inflated politicians cutting ribbons, ponderous dancing, uncouth attacks on their rivals and brain-numbing 'election messages' EVERYWHERE! It's all from the age old book of electioneering, where imaginations and creativity are dumbed down and filed under the rarely-read chapter titled, "Creativity: Not really necessary,. unless of course you are desperate".
The DA pricked a nerve by employing some lateral thinking through some cheekiness. It helps the party picked an emotive issue such as e-tolls.
 Sure, call an imbizo and implore people to vote for your party. It's one of the few occasions voters get to be in the same vicinity as those who'd promised them 5 years earlier an array of wish list items.We'll see many of these in coming weeks and months. But the ANC, and other parties, could also allow their imaginations to run rampant as they shift into electioneering gear. The party may be loathe to now follow suit and engage in a billboard war as it wouldn't want to be seen as copying the 'enemy.' . But marketing is more than just a public message visibly from the road. It should become a way of life for those in the movement tasked with building it's brand.
The ANC and DA are getting more nifty with social media, like Twitter. The two at times even embrace some humour and some party stalwarts aren't scared to venture into the uncharted wilderness that is marketing through social media . But is it enough for elections in the 21st Century? The billboards move was daring and sarcastic, and it achieved it's objective of getting up the ANC's nose.
The humdrum promises and tedious reminders of political party's achievements won't suffice in 2014, especially if you want to secure the much sought after youth vote. Lateral-thinking messages needn't be oblique and cerebral, but can be impudent, thought-provoking, daring and emotive. In a time when cynicism, particularly around elections, is has become the norm, political marketing paradigm shifts could be key next year.

NIN's new found funk

All great musicians deserve some time out from their brilliance. They also 'deserve' a dud in their careers (granted it comes on the back of a hit). It's from mistakes and failures, lessons are learned. And believe it or not, even the great Trent Reznor, can err. His 2007 concept album, Year Zero, failed to reach the same heights as The Downward Spiral and The Fragile - albums which helped secure his fame. Year Zero It was a lacklustre muddle through what seemed to be an overly-packaged techno-industrial lark, devoid of orgininality and bloated with pretence. While I never expect musicians to refrain from exploring other avenues in sound, I do feel such endeavours should at the very least sign post originality. Not so with the orotund machismo offered on Year Zero.
But fans sharing my view on the mediocrity of that album and the subsequent The Slip, which slipped (forgive me for a I pun!) into obscurity, may agree Hesitation Marks is a comeback of sorts for a man, faced with turning 50, but who seems unaffected by age; a man who is always transmogrifying yet at the same time keeping musical leitmotifs of the past alive in his distinctive sound.
Since the precarious wilderness years of The Slip Reznor's gotten married and procreated... oh, and he won an Oscar and a Golden Globe and formed a side project with his significant other. All this can be diluted and interpreted as a procession into his ubiquitous success and, seeing as though he's nearing 50, perhaps a midlife crisis... gone right (?).
Gone are the angst-stricken screams, the raging against God and hints of bestiality. Away with the jarring grind of effects, samples and guitars mashed into schizophrenia and heart-grinding laments, glued against atmospheres of hazy auditory shimmers.
 Reznor's demonstrated on Hesitation Marks a new found 'angle' on music technology and (are you sitting down) a taste for funk. Yup, I said 'Funk.' I find myself doing an awkward jig as tracks like 'All time low', with it's Bowie-esque swagger lead you through characteristically meticulous textures of near drum-and-bass moments and dangerously dancey beats, which mark the record's progress from past offerings. By the time you get to the bubbling, foreboding bass that unsettles 'What I have done', a song which could easily lend itself to hip-hop, you're left wondering: Is this a midlife crisis? And by crisis I mean the good kind. Like the 'crisis' that resulted in the self-loathing, dystopian heresy offered by The Downward Spiral, an album which seemed to track Reznor's personal descent into substance abuse. So, a good kind of crisis then, one which only the dark prince of industrial music could accept and use to his advantage. Despite the unsettlingly upbeat Everything, it's a hump in the road to what could be a defining moment for Reznor and the future of NIN. His bleak world view so evident in his body of work gives way to a taste for the funk. He's still a little angry, though, as he screams "Thrive/Just become/Your disease" on 'In two', which at first reminds you of  the texturalexploration The Spiral. But then a Bowie moments returns jolting you back. Reznor sounds confident and seems hungry again.

Give us strength!

A sole goat grazing on a piece of veld outside Nelson Mandela's Qunu home in the Eastern Cape shouldn't have caught my attention. But by day 5 of covering all things Madiba related in this rural outcrop of the republic, even such banalities clearly threatened to amuse me. I watched this goat (by no means a unique sighting in a province known for its errant livestock) as it languidly ambled from the veld to the heavily guarded main gate to the Mandela's property. It appeared to have cocked its head to one side, much like a dog would in response to a human's beckoning. For a few seconds it seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Amid my boredom I personified the goat, giving it a bleating-type accent as I provided a running commentary of this animal. 'Good moooorning Mr. Security maaaan. Please could I cooommee in?' My colleague and I chuckled as the goat continued to wait, staring longingly at the gate. By this stage I noticed a few photographers clicking away at this animal, which had by then started bleating. It seemed to stubbornly refuse to leave the main entrance, much like the contingent of reporters, parked across the road, waiting for anything to happen.

After a few moments the goat eventually moved on. As mundane as this observation may seem, to me it adequately summed up how my sense of humour and logic had been warped by the intense coverage of Mandela, his ailing health, the never-ending outpouring of support for him and the bitter dramas that have gripped his kin.

By the time the lonely goat's 'homage' to Madiba caught my wavering attention, my brain felt like pulp. I'd only been covering the court drama plaguing the the Mandela family of grave sites and exhumations for just a few days by that stage, but my sanity was already being challenged. I was number 3 in a rotation of reporters dispatched to Mthatha and its surrounds to expand EWN's coverage of Mandela, such was it's intensity. The Mandela family feud became ugly, largely distracting the rightful focus on Madiba's health, taking it away from the Pretoria hospital where he's being treated, into a courtroom far away. As meretricious as it had become, we couldn't ignore this development in an ongoing news story of one of the world's most beloved people.

And so we reported on every aspect of a story which at times was frenetic and tough to keep track of in the Eastern Cape - a province which was never prepared for this media onslaught. It was a black void for technology (at least in my exeprience) where even the most basic form of communication (making a call from a mobile phone to a land line) proved to be near impossible. But the story wouldn't tolerate technical glitches or technophobia, as oscillated along a continuum of frenzy. In it's wake: a ubiquitous troupe of journalists.

By my fifth day of covering the Eastern Cape league of 'Mandela watch' I couldn't help notice the whites of eyes had taken on a red hue. Bones started aching from sitting in cars for too long. My stomach rumbled for a home cooked meal in lieu of fast food and dodgy room service. My colleagues from other media houses too struggled to get the white back into their eyes. Rubbing them never helped. The gesture only served to further remind us just how fatigued we'd become. Sleep had become a luxury to many of us. Hacking coughs, elongated yawns and muffled curses had become a backdrop to the soundtrack of this maniacal rolling coverage. 'My blue jeans are no longer blue,' remarked one reporter to anyone who could summon up the energy to listen as we camped outside Mandla Mandela's Mvezo property, 'they're now brown jeans, that's how long I've been here.' To which a colleague added, 'I'm down to my last pair of underwear.' In any other context, this would be considered over-sharing, but, you see, most reporters had been in the region for as long as a month, and by that stage, it was a free-for-all in info sharing as no one cared enough to filter themselves. Airs and graces had long fallen away, substituted with fatigue, irritation and a distinct lack of the ability to reason. When an EWN videographer suddenly burst into a peels of laughter, which took on a tone best described as unhinged and evil, on one occasion, I realised, maybe she'd been doing this story for too long.  It had been her 19th day in the Eastern Cape and her outburst of laughter was for me a sympton of a sense of humour easily tickled; much like mine was at the lonely goat.

At night, once stories had been filed and deadlines met, reporters, camera people and photographers would congregate in Mthatha's limited offering of restaurants. Drinks would be ordered, food would be played with. But lap tops, iPads, and all manner of other devices would never be too far away. The work continued, the madness persisted and the fatigue grew. There was no such thing as 'knocking off' for the day. When the sun set, my phone would never be too far out of sight or grasp. My exhaustion had grown into paranoia.

Amid my stifling fatigue, I could only feel from my fellow-reporters who've had to virtually live outside the Heart Hospital where Mandela has been receiving for treatment for weeks. The bending of brains to circumvent the boredom and ennui so as to keep news stories fresh has been herculean. But as veteran radioman once told me, you learn to live tired in this job. And so the fatigue gets pushed down deep into our beings, the rolling coverage will carry on and us journalists have long come to accept given the immensity of the story at hand, there's plenty of time to sleep when we are dead.

The Election Baby Boom

Like clockwork South Africa's politics is shifting into top gear as general elections loom. Predictably a smattering of new parties are being birthed, along with ever-growing election manifestos and, of course, those elusive election promises. With this comes a general sense that anyone can make a go of running in general elections. First out of the birth canal in this heady season of electioneering was South Africa First. This conglomeration of ANC has beens and MK vets made a rather low-key appearance, possibly overshadowed by Mamphela Ramphele's brave foray back into politics.
Much like COPE, a bunch of disgruntled ANC vets have pooled their collective petulance together to take on that monolith that is Luthuli House. Good, luck is all I can say. A political party based on divorce-like resentment rarely fares well (remember that once esteemed ANC-breakaway the PAC? Does the party even still exist?!) COPE could also be filed under that raft of once-were-warriors of political groupings. The party has all but completely combusted amid the egos and opportunism that plagued its once promising advent onto theatre that is politics. To think COPE came in third following the last elections. Shame shame. But, hey, that's politics. I fully expect an orotund and macho veneer and election piffle from SA First as the polls draw closer.

One would like to think a woman as brainy as Mamphela Ramphele has done her homework as she embarks on this perfidious journey into the maw of SA politics. She has a history with the struggle, on par with any stalwart. She's made a name for herself in other spheres partially free of the political world. More importantly she's an intellectual who could inject some much needed intelligence into a sphere of South African life dumbed down for too long. Agang SA has positioned itself as the thinking persons party. Although around election time, thinking is optional, while sentiment and nostalgia rule supreme.

On the other end of the intellectual continuum, however, we have Julius Malema. I won't bore you with the details on his meteoric and amusing fall from grace, which seems to have framed a political rebirth for the once powerful ANCYL leader. Safe to say he's clearly desperate and very lonely. He's launched his band of red bereted 'Economic Freedom Fighters' and wants to make a go of it without the backing of his once beloved ANC. He'll no longer kill for Zuma, but for anyone who is willing to jump into bed with him. But Malem'as heading down COPE Avenue - a street so potholed with griping, whinging, moaning bitterness, it resembles a street in his own Limpopo home town.

The communists, never one's to stay silent in spite of their backward Marxist interpretations which are almost totally out of kilter with the current world, are also making a go of it. No, the SACP hasn't decided to sever ties with the ANC and go it alone at the polls. Cue the entry of the Workers and Socialist Party. Launched earlier this year the party has largely latched it's mandate onto the plight of mineworkers following the grim events in Marikana. Nothing wrong with giving the voiceless an outlet, but why oh why must socialism be resuscitated in the process. WASP (by far the coolest name for a political party, by the way!) can't offer anything really new in the way of a manifesto. Yes there's the mangled Marxist war talk, interspersed with 'Amandlas' and 'Phansis' which will always fire up a crowd. But nothing new can be offered if socialism is the backbone to your movement.You simply have to Google 'Communist Manifesto' to get an idea of how the party is structuring itself. If you don't fall asleep, at least laugh at the anachronism of it all.

So who's next? Will political chameleons like Patricia De Lille or Phillip Dexter change their colours again? In other words, who's brave or silly enough to get into SA politics amid the senselessness and madness? There's never a lack of idiots and so I fully expect the ballot paper for the 2014 polls to be longer than it was in 2009.

The Mogginess of Mula

Like many of my fellow citizens I too moaned until frothy bits of bile and vitriol overcome me after learning  a wealthy family jetted in a bunch of people from the subcontinent into South Africa via a military base all so they could get to a wedding on time. Just further proof - if you have more money than dirt, you can go anywhere... including specially arranged sight-seeing trips to national key points such as an air force base. But wait, that's not all! If your bank accounts are bulging into the billions you can also arrange for police escorts and bend the arms of officials, not  just of one government, but two! The exploits of the Gupta's might as well be documented in a reality TV show, that's how mad and tacky the family's display of wealth has become. I can see the TV teasers: Guptawood: The Tales of the Rich and Idiotic. I see A Bolly-wood-esque production complete with protocol-bending, preferential treatment and some curry.

Like billions across the world I too, from time to time, daydream of having billions in my bank account. Wouldn't that solve all of our problems? On paper maybe, but with mo' money, come mo' problems, to quote any number of hip hop artists. I've personally witnessed relatives who've come into fortunes have their entire lives turned around (mostly for the worse) as they learn being rich means just that - you are now rich, but you remain 'poor' in some many other aspects of life. That old cliche, money doesn't buy you class, can be elaborated on to extend to other areas. It also doesn't buy you happiness or an escape from the world's problems or personal malaise. Not so for the Guptas.
Their influence has secured lucrative business deals, along with equally fruitful political connections. It seems at times they have some much wealth, they can buy entire governments and countries. What is South Africa's price?

Throughout what's now be dubbed Guptagate, the only people to emerge from the scandal unscathed are the Guptas. At no stage did I sense any stress within the family's ranks as this scandal unfolded, each revelation as bizarre and stunning as the next. Life went on as per usual for a family clearly used to creating an alternate universe around them where money and power rules supreme above laws, logic and common sense. As the fallout from the now controversial and alarmingly audacious landing of a private jet, chartered by the Guptas, at Waterkloof airforce base continues, the only people still standing are relatives of the powerful Indian family. 

As arrogant as the family may now seem, it's made even more shocking by the tone of some relatives, more noticeably the Gupta brothers. I think it was Atul Gupta who issued a statement as heads were rolling and government officials were left stumbling and fumbling for answers, who indicated the furore has not dampened the wedding celebrations. Well, I'm so relieved for the family! Another statement was We wouldn't want a pesky national security breach interfering with your ostentatious and disgusting money grandstanding now would we?!

It was amid this tawdry, grandiose approach to wealth and the abuse of power I came to the conclusion: I'm actually happy I'm not rich. Money makes you moggy (and I'm mad enough as it is.) Sure, a few million Rand in the bank could just very well maybe, perhaps almost help bring a daily smile to my splenetic face. But would it make me a better person on the whole? Would it solve all my problems? No. With lots of money you can create lots of troubles. Not so for the Gupta's it seems. They seem to make their fortunes work every time, leaving us ordinary people; who don't have the ears of presidents, who can't afford lavish weddings, who can't set up massive companies with politically connected people; sitting on the sidelines witnessing how power (and cash) corrupts and robs one of their senses and humanity,

Democracy Bliss(ter)

Democracy. Say it out aloud, spell it out: D-E-M-O-C-R-A-C-Y. I thought I knew what it meant. I've even had to dig out actual dictionaries (you remember, the one's that look like books, which involved the deaths of trees and so forth) to ensure my understanding of this word, this concept hasn't gone astray. The Oxford dictionary defines it as: 'Government by the people; a form of government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised directly by them or by their elected agents under a free electoral system.' Got it! So When President Jacob Zuma bemoans how all us seem to want to have a hand at running the country,you know, like a democracy should, traditional definitions of the concept become blurry... more so to him than us. If I had R5 for every time I heard Zuma mangle this word and its meaning in his many bumbling, awkward speeches I wouldn't have to keep writing columns on how Zuma has mangled and abused the concept. Indeed the word has been battered to such an extent, perhaps the traditional definition of democracy doesn't stand anymore. Maybe a new edition of what I've always regarded as a trustworthy dictionary, the Oxford, is due. A new Zuma-esque dictionary where words like freedom, rights and choice can be spruced up and given entire new meanings. In the case of the word 'freedom ' Zuma could even suggest a new word - free-ish: A feeling where one wrongly believes they are free to think what they want. The word 'rights' could be  Zuma-fied to mean: A just claim or title, whether legal, prescriptive, or moral for only a select few who obey blindly.
Indulge me for a second or 20 as I take a stab at propitiating the president with my own stab at the art of bending semantics. Democracy: Government by an elite grouping of society, usually closely affiliated with the government of the time; a form of government in which the power is made out to be vested in the people, but can be taken away from the very same people by a government as it pleases; a form of power which should be exercised by the people or by elected agents chosen for them under a disputed and imperfect electoral system. It's wordy, I know, but it seems to roll off the tongue. More importantly it's a definition which Zuma may be more comfortable with. We all want to run the country he moans at a memorial service for soldiers killed in a distant civil war. Shock and horror! To think we should want to be afforded that basic right of speaking out against the state when we feel genuinely aggrieved! God forbid we try to make suggestions on how government can best govern South Africa! Banish the thought of criticising the powers-that-be on how they are burning our tax money!
Government and the ANC have templates for every kind of criticism levelled against them. If it's not lashing the media for urinating of dead soldiers graves, it's labelling ratepayers as criminals for threatening to withhold their rates due to local government mismanagement. If you dare compare how the country at times resembles pariahs like Zimbabwe, you are automatically called neo-colonialist or unpatriotic or something like that.
On at least two occasions in parliament Zuma has contorted and distorted the concept of democracy, mangling it into an elephant man-type shadow of it's real definition. During one such particularly memorable parliamentary debate last year, in true Zuma fashion he bumbled his way through his (mis)understanding of democracy, 'In a democratic situation, it is the majority that prevail. I can't change the rules because you want to make a particular point. You can't then say, smaller unions must then be compared to the bigger unions in the same way.' I recall my ears started burning by that stage as slack-jawed I listened as the man who supposedly runs the country told off smaller trade unions saying they don't enjoy the same privileges and rights as their bigger counterparts. This informal lesson in semantics stemmed  the bloody union rivalry which fueled the deaths of from 34 striking mineworkers, gunned down by a 'new, democratic' police force (no longer in service) which has come to resemble more of a paramilitary grouping under Mr. Democracy 2013's watch. But fellow citizens, don't even harbour the thought of criticising Zuma on this point, that would be undemocratic, according to him, his party and his administration.


 

In Zuma we (mis)Trust

Do you trust Government? I would rephrase the question by asking: Do you trust our Government? But I just can't find it in myself. Government no longer seems like it's 'ours'; it doesn't appear as if this Government is 'For the people, by the people' anymore. To borrow one of the ANC's favourite words when describing and criticising tendencies, actions and beliefs which counter its own: Government seems alien to us, the electorate, the taxpayers, the citizens.

With each month that goes by under President Jacob Zuma's governance, the State drifts further away from us (and reality) and mistrust grows. A government task team's investigation into the Nkandla debacle signals yet another of these moments where the powers-that-be vacillate to the other end of reality, where absurdity thrives under deceit and incompetence. For me personally, it was a watershed moment of sorts where I witnessed Government continue to defend a glaring, shameless display of arrogance on the part of a president who seems comfortable in showing off his power, influence and wealth amid uncomfortable poverty. His blinkered approach to the assembly line of scandals resembles an abuse of power. Cynicism dictated to me that there was simply very little of transparent substance to accept from a government-sanctioned probe into whether our tax rands are being misspent, this time on ensuring Zuma and his familly are as comfortable in their daily lives as possible; all at the expense of an entire country. Some opposition parties have labelled the probe's findings as a 'whitewash'. I choose to call it an attack on our intelligence and trust.

There's a photo I see often of the now infamous Nkandla compound (I'm sorry I simply can't call it a 'residence' without being attacked by nausea). It's a panoramic shot of Zuma's sprawling estate, in all its vainglory. Nestled in the foreground of the photo, virtually in the shadow of the compound, is a mud hut, a woman sitting outside the dwelling doing what seems like washing. The hut can't be more than a few square metres in size, it's decrepit facade stuns me when compared to how the president thinks he is allowed and entitled to live just a few kilometers from the rank-and-file of the country's poor. It speaks the proverbial 'a thousand words'. While Zuma and his family visibly benefit from the spoils of his presidency and influence, the multitude of South African citizens must accept the grim realities that plague the country. For the middle-class, we must shut up (that's the message being sent by Zuma's spin doctors) and deal with it. Accept is all we can do because whinging about Government's shortcomings (especially if you are a White person) is dismissed by the ANC state as unjustified; as for criticising Government, well, we all know what happens if you dare to speak out against the the Zuma administration. However, my acceptance comes with immense amounts of anger and cynicism. I will accept this is how Zuma rules. I accept he probably feels nothing for those who vote him and his party into power. I also accept I have lost complete trust in him and the state.

I'd like to travel to Nkandla and meet the woman in the photo. My question to her would be very simple: Do you (still) trust Msholozi? As I ask the question, my eyes would survey her reality, one characterised by desperate penury. My eyes would then glare through one of her windows at the growing compound where Zuma and his family will languish. For now, I can only guess her answer(s). Perhaps like the millions who share her fate she too is waiting for those election promises to come to fruition.  Maybe she's one of those eternal optimists or die-hard 'Nkandlists' who will continue to suffer from a condition I call 'Zanu-PF-isis (a key symptom includes the inability to be able to vote for any other political party other than the one which has consistently lied and cheated it's electorate decade after decade). Like Robert Mugabe, Zuma seems detached from reality. Like Mugabe, Zuma seem oblivious to how compromised and tarnished he has become. Zuma's Nkandla neighbour could, on the other hand, be seething, like many of us are. She could launch into a bilious tirade of how she feels cheated by the president's conspicuous consumption. I can only hope this is her response, if I'm to retain a sembelance of faith in my fellow South African.

When levels of trust sink to dangerous lows, we know what happens. Zamdela happens. At least two service delivery protests a day happen. Credit down gradings happen. Marikana happens.

Many senior government officials have been transformed into nothing more than sycophants who fluff, bluff, pad, skirt, dodge and dive through one Zuma scandal after another, much like kamikaze pilots. Their compliance, their blind loyalty and willingness to be party to the Nkandla saga (and other controversies) only further serves to erode public trust in Government.

Backward, ho!

If you come across a MyCiti bus stop sign anywhere in the Woodstock, Salt River or Walmer Estate area, don't bother assembling under it. You'll be waiting a long time for a bus to arrive! There should be MyCiti buses operating in these neighbourhoods. But the closest I'll get to seeing a top class bus service in Woodstock (where I live) is on the City of Cape Town's web site. As we've come to expect, where efforts are made to improve public transport in this country, the mini-bus taxi industry seems to have the last say. In the case of the expansion of MyCiti services, an existing bus company, Golden Arrow, is also in a huff. And where there's a huff, there's also a puff of asininity. Golden Arrow and taxi groups fear the competition MyCiti will bring with it.
As a resident of Woodstock I've long wished for added public transport in the area so I can get out of my car, save some fuel and maybe even do the planet some good. There is a desperate need for added public transport in Woodstock and neighbouring suburbs. Taxis rule the roads in these areas. I reluctantly accept they do offer a much-needed service (albeit amid a flagrant disregard for their commuters' safety and the laws of the road.) Golden Arrow too has a role in getting people to their destinations. For decades the company has been, as it's slogan says, 'The bus for us.' But it's monopoly is in danger and as we know, when confronted with competition and change this country, the well- rehearsed reflex is to kick, scream and hold your breath until you get your way. Hey, the taxi industry is an expert in this regard. Ask the City of Johannesburg what happened when it started introducing Rea Vaya buses on its roads.
It will probably remain a wish and nothing more to have a quality bus service in my neighbourhood and the opportunity to choose the means of public transport I prefer. 'Get over it, you whinging twit' I hear you saying, 'Just use taxis or Golden Arrow buses like the rest.' A perfectly acceptable smack down response to my malaise... or is it?
Why are so many of us scared of competition? Why is it when attempts to introduce progress are made, knickers fly into knots? Surely in the case of Cape Town's public transport landscape, there is space for more bus services, like MyCiti? the outcry over the services expansion can't surely be just over money.
Of course the cliched argument is made that the City of Cape Town's doesn't have the required operating licences to expand Myciti to Woodstock et al. Cue the rolling of the eyes and gag reflex. Behind the cliche is a myopic, avaricious agenda, especially where the taxi industry is concerned. It's a short-sighted, backward, infantile reflex, which, if left unchecked as it is, will only keep us in the dark ages of coffin-taxis and monopolistic bus companies. The public is basically being denied the chance to choose how it wants to get from A to B.
For the time being I'll have to settle with daydreaming about a time when I can choose to leave my car parked; when I can choose the bus service I want to use based on tried and tested criteria: reliability, safety and economy. I fear I must continue to fantasise about a reliable public transport service in my suburb, free of the trappings of anti-competitiveness and childish justifications, as backwardness is allowed to thrive.

To Resolve or not to Resolve

By now (the 2nd of January) those misguided enough (about 51 million of us) to have entered into those annoying annual contracts, where we resolve to better ourselves come a  new year, have more than likely already deviated from these grandiose 'plans of action'. The temptation of our old habits prove to be too strong, whereour self-discipline is upstaged and exposed as paper-thin. I too made resolutions (mentally, so as to not to set myself up for public derision upon failure). At 12:59pm on the 31st of December I slurred through my lofty list of new year's resolutions (okay, maybe not a list, but I made a mental tally of about 4 resolutions. I can now only remember 2). Amid an onslaught pf hugging, kissing, back-slapping and handshaking I recall committing myself to not being so cynical. With a booze-induced goofball smile on my mug I declared, quietly to myself, that I will try to steel myself against the attack of cynicism brought on by life's many imperfections. My smile turned to a hawkish fortitude where my inner workings momentarily kicked into gear in concert with this near impossible resolution. I was hellbent on seeing the good in things (or at the very least the nice-ish aspects of our existence). You know, smell the flowers, randomly greet strangers in the street, don't snarl at babies - pedestrian changes in my attitude towards life. My second resolution: To live a healthier lifestyle. ( I hear you laughing).
With my new found positive state of mind, I again declared internally to work on building a six pack, to take up jogging and to eat more greens. Note: This purposeful stance was arrived at with a beer lodged in my one hand, a glass of cheap sparkling wine in the other, my well fed boep peaking out from under my shirt. Oh, irony who impudent strumpet! My healthier lifestyle could wait until the sun rises. That ball of fire and hydrogen rose far too soon; not just for me, but for the millions who also resolved, in a haze of over-indulgence, to become awesome, amazing, richer and thinner in 2013. By the evening of New Years day, a bottle of red wine stood empty on my kitchen table, my running shoes remained hidden in the wardrobe (where they've been more months) and Steers burgers beckoned. With this fantastic failure to launch, I forced the guilty to one side and consoled myself with a chorus of pop psychology 'mantras': 'You're only human, tomorrow is another day. Just try harder.' The nausea swirled into my soul. I am indeed only human, as are my fellow humans, among the elite of the ANC and government. My guilt searched for  twisted logic to justify my failed resolutions. Instead my lingering cynicism dragged my substance-addled mind back to familiar territory. I focused my disappointment on, well, other disappointing things (disappointment, like misery, loves company) in a sad attempt to lift my mood. And so my mind limped onto thoughts of doom and gloom: the ANC.
Did the too resolve to better this year this year? I think so. Most party members may've still been drunk from the 'successes' of the Mangaung elective conference as the end of the year arrived. Many probably waddle-danced there way into a new year, ecstatic and elated at Jacob Zuma's victory. With their spirits high, many comrades may've settled on improving themselves in 2013. Could some have resolved to stop stealing from tax payers? Many may just have decided to actually get off their well lined backsides anf to start doining something that doesn't involved enriching themselves.
The policy resolutions from the conference could in many ways be interpreted as New Year resolutions of sorts, declarations of intent, where the ruling party wants to take the country, not just in 2013, but beyond that. Surely Msholozi, fresh from his re-election, made his own personal leadership resolutions. Denied the ability to read minds, I can only broadly speculate what these are.
On marriage, the President may just have decided firmly over a glass of his favourite tipple to whoo another bride with promises of easy business connections, an allowance compliments of tax payers and even her own spot in the sunshine that is the Nkandla compound/home/residence/base/kraal/estate. Would his resolutions include anything in the way of bettering his body and mind? Perhaps he wants to sharpen his intellect by actually reading something of substance. He could even keep his reading preferences close to home. There are books abound based on former comrades. Frank Chikane penned a book in 2012. There's one on the rise and fall of Jackie Selebi Zuma could thumb through for a laugh and a scowl. Hell, maybe he dares to pick up a copy of Zuma Exposed. As my high school English teacher would say, "A book, no matter its content, helps the mind, no matter it's content.' If Zuma could maybe pick up even a newspaper (not the New Age) in 2013 he could perhaps enter the reality the rest of the country endures daily. In 2012 when the country burned amid strikes, the Marikana tragedy, a declining economy; it seemed the president spent far too much time inside, dealing with party politics.
Will JZ resolve to develop a sense of humour this year? To me it seems to have llargely escaped him in 2012. The last half of the year was far from funny. But cast your mind to a painting infamously centered on Zuma's crown jewels, which hogged headlines earlier in the year. I guffawed at Brett Murray's 'The Spear' each time I saw it. JZ probably didn't. But he should've. Have you see how big it is (not the actual painting, the other, other 'it')?! He also seemed to lack the ability to laugh when the Nkandla saga reared its head. In Parliament he lamented how his family has become a laughing stock because of the multi-million rand upgrade to his Nkandla home. He should've been laughing himself at how easy it was for government to blow more than R200 million on building bunkers and helipads right before the country's eyes.
Zuma clearly also forgot his humour where Julius Malema was concerned. The little tyrant tried his best to keep his ego on the right side of the ANC in 2012. But Zuma, po-faced and menacing, meant business and sent his protegee packing.
But the president is only human (atleast, I think so), prone to making mistakes and unwittingly abandoning any new year's resolutions, before they've even begun. If there was a glimmer of changing himself in 2013, he too must've dropped the ball... on the 2nd day of a new year.