Give us your votes and we'll give you... very little

The press releases and media invites are now coming through thick and fast. My inbox is clogged with turgid invites to the opening of some or other facility, the introduction of some obliquely-named initiative or sod-turning ceremony for... well.. anything. Election fever is well and truly with us. But with the malaise that this feverish season brings with it also comes a very obvious question: Why all of a sudden are we seeing things happening? By this I mean, service delivery. Surely the 5 years between general elections should see regular, consistent delivery of houses, electricity, water and sanitation by all spheres of government. So, why suddenly when votes are needed does it seem service delivery is intensified? I've lost count of the number of housing initiatives which have apparently been rolled out over the past few weeks. I can't keep track of the invites being dispatched daily of events where everything from PCs to solar energy panels are being liberally handed out. The cynic in me still asks: Are these real services being implemented or is it all just window-dressing? I can't help but wonder if they are nothing more but flimsy, superficial gestures aimed at fooling the masses into believing the powers that be, whoever they are, are actually fulfilling their mandates without the maddening allure of elections and the desperate rush to clinch the hearts and minds of voters.
Don't bother asking the politicians at these events why suddenly things are appearing. Expect the usual piffle and rhetoric; awkward attempts at explaining why delivery is being expedited when it seems almost non-existent between polls.
There's no escaping the ugly truth that comes with the result of non-delivery. Just turn on the TV and radio, open a newspaper, log onto a news web site; the stories of violent protests are all the indication you need that all is certainly not well.
Around election time you'll notice reporters rightfully focusing heavily on community stories. In other words, instead of just covering mind-numbing electioneering events and the skulduggery which usually characterizes politics, journalists will also give the regular people the chance to tell their stories. It's a perfect opportunity for the regular nobodies of society - the shack dwellers, the unemployed, the ratepayers, the average citizens - to voice their grievances (and every so often even their praises) over the everyday issues of life. "Where are they when we really need them?" is usually the stand out question you'll hear in sound bytes and TV news inserts from communities who feel marginalized, except when politicians need their votes. "They only help us when they need our votes!" is another lament which becomes more uncomfortably acute over elections.
Once the dust has settled after the May 7 polls, I'll again cynically expect the politicians to return to what so many of them do best - very little. Their "hard work" of electioneering will be done. The ballots will have been counted, victory speeches will have been delivered, the damage control from bruising losses will have been done. And sadly reality will also return - the reality of poverty, joblessness and corruption. Sluggish to non-existent service delivery will again probably become the norm. Hyena politicians will continue cannibalizing the meagre resources of the country and the voices of so many of the already disenfranchised will again fall on deaf ears... that is until the next elections.

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,