There’s nothing like an event such as the World Cup to rip open a country’s potential, breathe some life into it and see visible results. The tournament has come and gone. That could just be the post-World Cup depression. I attribute this, in part, to how well it went. It was almost flawless, save for a few hundred crimes, some peeved fans who couldn’t attend that now infamous Durban game and of course the never-ending ticket scam sagas. I shrugged off my cynicism for a change, replacing it with, shall we call it, momentary patriotism (which, in my defence, never extended to buying rearview window socks) and I backed South Africa’s ability to actually pull off the event. And in a rare show of unity and competence, the country did exactly that, against many odds. Well done, pat on the back, whoo hoo. But what it also proved was that with enough pressure, attention and, of course money, the powers-that-be are able to set egos aside, stop bickering, relegate party-politics and shift into gear to do something. How could they not? The world was expecting failure.
So why can’t the government keep this up with day-to-day service delivery? They’ve built a host of a multi-billion rand white elephant (you may know them as stadiums) and got public transport, such as Cape Town’s IRT system on the right track (although it could become an exercise in futility). Impressive indeed. But now I’m referring to working taps, flushing, fully-enclosed toilets, a few more homes and maybe even a school here- -and-there, can they fuel up delivery in these crucial areas? Sure, the spin doctors and their wizards-of-words will explain there are such programmes, initiatives, projects (or whatever the latest government catchphrase is of the moment) in place. So maybe the likes of the N2 gateway project is providing homes or the extended public works programme is seeing things like new roads being laid (where? I’m not to sure). But they’ve only been able to churn up a trickle of promised end-products over a number of years. And they’ve been plagued by needless controversies. Why can’t this delivery-on-steroids be transplanted into government’s chest, a functioning, heart, with peoples’ needs prioritized and not those of MPs and their lust for mansions, luxury cars, World Cup tickets and designer attire? I have some answers to this, but can’t find it in myself to verbalise or write them in a civil, non-violent way. Maybe we should just brace ourselves for the same lame government spin, excuses and futile debates on the snail-pace service delivery which all too many South Africans have become accustomed to from those in charge.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Damn the machine
It’s officially a stand off. I’m staring it in the ‘eyes’, man to… umm, machine, ready for battle. Then suddenly, the monitor shuts off. As easy as that the damned machine scuttles away into the techno-ether. I’d like to think it’s fearful of my humanly wrath (I’m reaching for a heavy object, ready to start reducing this damned device to a pile of chips, screws, glass and plastic). But it’s only hiding to further hone plot against me. I hate you computer, I hate your very existence in my life. You shut down when you please, no fair warning or explanation is given (one that a moron like me can understand at least). With a brief flash of a ’window’ explaining the data from my thing-majg can’t load onto my doo hicky and so the file can’t attach to a proxy-something-or-another and the whachamacallit is dysfunctional due to a virus, imported via the, blah, blah, etc, yawn, snore. That’s my lay person (some would say idiot) interpretation of this satanic machine and its legions of devilish binary brothers language.
I curse my PC and it’s minefield of a playground, the Internet, on a daily basis. The two are comfortable bed fellows or should I say, an axis of evil. But in this comfort comes an unseen malificence, brewed up in the bowels of their elaborate mechanisms. They were created for a myriad of reasons (both positive and negative). But with all their technological brilliance, they also bring with them scourges of every kind, designed to endlessly frustrated, befuddle and demean humankind. The PC whirs in anger at my indignance. Note to self: type quieter. So I’m a technophobe, there, I said it, so what?! It still doesn’t change the fact my PC still takes 10 minutes to start up (so much for the breakneck speed of technological progress).
Let’s start with the most basic of a computers accessories. Printing is not so much a headache as it is a tumour. No matter how many times technicians and IT ‘experts’ come into to ‘fix’ the printer, it develops its own brain, printing anything it wants in whatever font or size its deem necessary to upset my day.
To the machine’s playground – the Internet. Even just the name leaves humans in awe. The Internet comes with a few billion users (abusers?) who use this damned thing to sell, preach, lecture, guide, harass, monitor, stalk, teach abuse… like I said, malificence.
And they can detect the hatred and frustration. They sense it via some obtuse, sinister means, shared only among machines for the purposes of plotting some kind of revenge on the human race. Here I was thinking this relationship between humankind and technology was a one-sided affair, with us humanly thingies fully in charge. I fear this could be the start of a Terminator-like, Space Oddyssey: 2001-esque machine-takeover. I foresee a terrifying future for our unhealthy reliance on the Net (Technophobe’s log, star date 2043: I think my computer can understand this human tongue language of ours. The monitor just went off for no reason. Note to self: maybe use less coarse language in the presence of the damned… I mean, awesomely impressive machine).
But this contraption’s never-ending trouble-making is surpassed by the innumerable techno-cliques of criminals, geeks and salespeople, to name but a few, who employ this unholy alliance to further their misguided agendas.
If you not trying avoid falling victim to a Nigerian called Walter, who promises to let you in on a multi-trillion dollar deal he’s about to clinch, granted you pay one beeelllliiiooon dollars into his bank account (usually offshore, mostly Swiss and never above board).
Salespeople are themselves corporate criminals, only, they have a better (only marginally so) grasp of the English language”. Click here and your penis will instantly inflate to, not twice, not thrice, but four times its normal size” screams one advertisement as it pops up out of the binary ether. It then never goes away (the ad, that is. If you were dumb enough to buy the penis enlargement machine made in Kazakhstan, then you deserve the pain which accompanies dubious lenis enlargement).
E-mail, while necessary in this day and age if you wish to avoid hermit-dom and wish stay in reluctant contact with the world and your mother is a minefield. Opening your e-mail is like defusing an I.E.D. The scamsters, sales rapists and pointless company newsletters pounce on you begging, demanding, ordering, and convincing their way to your stomach, where the gurgling of intolerance simmers. One of the best examples of time-wasting and tempter-testing are those “Pass this e-mail on and you’ll get 7 wishes” messages. Ummmm, am I 7? Do they think I’m mentally-challenged and so will believe in wishes, unicorns and non-melting ice cream? Spam is the devils work, a construct from the hell.
Look, don’t get me wrong. I have my moments of admiration for computers and their I.T. entourage. A click of a rodent (get it? A mouse. Hahahahaha) Voila! A universe of information pops up. That’s just one of many examples of it’s brilliance (usually offered up by the multi-billion dollar I.T. industry in the way of infinite marketing).It’s a necessary good, which often transmogrifies itself into evil (especially to techno-morons such as myself). I hate to love the Internet and computers. I love to hate those who have so embraced cyber-world. Of all the functions these amazing inventions of our time have to offer, it’s the delete button on my keyboard I adore the most and the hammer I keep next to my PC’s hard drive – a not-so-subtle warning of it’s fate and who really controls it.
I curse my PC and it’s minefield of a playground, the Internet, on a daily basis. The two are comfortable bed fellows or should I say, an axis of evil. But in this comfort comes an unseen malificence, brewed up in the bowels of their elaborate mechanisms. They were created for a myriad of reasons (both positive and negative). But with all their technological brilliance, they also bring with them scourges of every kind, designed to endlessly frustrated, befuddle and demean humankind. The PC whirs in anger at my indignance. Note to self: type quieter. So I’m a technophobe, there, I said it, so what?! It still doesn’t change the fact my PC still takes 10 minutes to start up (so much for the breakneck speed of technological progress).
Let’s start with the most basic of a computers accessories. Printing is not so much a headache as it is a tumour. No matter how many times technicians and IT ‘experts’ come into to ‘fix’ the printer, it develops its own brain, printing anything it wants in whatever font or size its deem necessary to upset my day.
To the machine’s playground – the Internet. Even just the name leaves humans in awe. The Internet comes with a few billion users (abusers?) who use this damned thing to sell, preach, lecture, guide, harass, monitor, stalk, teach abuse… like I said, malificence.
And they can detect the hatred and frustration. They sense it via some obtuse, sinister means, shared only among machines for the purposes of plotting some kind of revenge on the human race. Here I was thinking this relationship between humankind and technology was a one-sided affair, with us humanly thingies fully in charge. I fear this could be the start of a Terminator-like, Space Oddyssey: 2001-esque machine-takeover. I foresee a terrifying future for our unhealthy reliance on the Net (Technophobe’s log, star date 2043: I think my computer can understand this human tongue language of ours. The monitor just went off for no reason. Note to self: maybe use less coarse language in the presence of the damned… I mean, awesomely impressive machine).
But this contraption’s never-ending trouble-making is surpassed by the innumerable techno-cliques of criminals, geeks and salespeople, to name but a few, who employ this unholy alliance to further their misguided agendas.
If you not trying avoid falling victim to a Nigerian called Walter, who promises to let you in on a multi-trillion dollar deal he’s about to clinch, granted you pay one beeelllliiiooon dollars into his bank account (usually offshore, mostly Swiss and never above board).
Salespeople are themselves corporate criminals, only, they have a better (only marginally so) grasp of the English language”. Click here and your penis will instantly inflate to, not twice, not thrice, but four times its normal size” screams one advertisement as it pops up out of the binary ether. It then never goes away (the ad, that is. If you were dumb enough to buy the penis enlargement machine made in Kazakhstan, then you deserve the pain which accompanies dubious lenis enlargement).
E-mail, while necessary in this day and age if you wish to avoid hermit-dom and wish stay in reluctant contact with the world and your mother is a minefield. Opening your e-mail is like defusing an I.E.D. The scamsters, sales rapists and pointless company newsletters pounce on you begging, demanding, ordering, and convincing their way to your stomach, where the gurgling of intolerance simmers. One of the best examples of time-wasting and tempter-testing are those “Pass this e-mail on and you’ll get 7 wishes” messages. Ummmm, am I 7? Do they think I’m mentally-challenged and so will believe in wishes, unicorns and non-melting ice cream? Spam is the devils work, a construct from the hell.
Look, don’t get me wrong. I have my moments of admiration for computers and their I.T. entourage. A click of a rodent (get it? A mouse. Hahahahaha) Voila! A universe of information pops up. That’s just one of many examples of it’s brilliance (usually offered up by the multi-billion dollar I.T. industry in the way of infinite marketing).It’s a necessary good, which often transmogrifies itself into evil (especially to techno-morons such as myself). I hate to love the Internet and computers. I love to hate those who have so embraced cyber-world. Of all the functions these amazing inventions of our time have to offer, it’s the delete button on my keyboard I adore the most and the hammer I keep next to my PC’s hard drive – a not-so-subtle warning of it’s fate and who really controls it.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Blow it out of your a**
If one had to ask me, for whatever reason, what smells I associate with Cape Town and Johannesburg, a brief moment of pondering would lead to the conclusion: cigarette smoke!
Walking down the Mother city’s streets has become a hazy gauntlet of noxious cigarette smog. This coupled with the cacophonous hacking coughs of these chronic indulgers of cancer gathered outside buildings makes a simple stroll a hazard of sorts. Sure, those of the non-smoking persuasion, such as me, have the shopping malls, hospitals, aeroplanes, morgues, our ‘antiseptic’ fortresses away from the eye-stinging ciggie smoke. Why then do smokers have the environment, the rest of the world to indulge their habits? You’ll note, I didn’t mention restaurants among these newly created ‘Smoke-free zones’ Hahahahahaha, what a joke? Too often a dinner out will be interrupted by that all too ubiquitous smell. And setting up so-called ‘Smoking Areas’, does that really help? Does smoke not know how to creep and contort its way through any crack so it can hone in on your eyes and nostrils and clothes? I often stare at these ‘cages’ they euphemistically label ‘smoking sections’ (more like wannabe cancer wards) and wonder just how pleasant can it be sitting amid an atmosphere of smoke, sipping wine, having a meal? I suppose seasoned smokers are accustomed to it, but surely the penny (or cigarette butt) has to drop at some time, where they realise ‘Yuck, I smell offensive. My teeth are yellow, my fingers pong. Heck, even my underwear stinks (of smoke that is)’. But personal hygiene aside, for me, it’s more the virtually omnipotent intrusiveness of the smell and the arrogance of most smokers. Sitting in my car the other day at a red traffic light a man in a Mercedes behind me, lazily smoked his cigarette. Like a heat seeking missile, the smoke sought me out in my car as if it could detect I was one of those – an anti-smoker. Before I knew it, Mercedes man was inadvertently sharing his habit with me. He’d smoked just half of it before flicking it onto the road (at more than R20 a box, I would have thought he’d at least smoke it to the end. It’s like burning cash). Don’t Mercedes vehicles come equipped with ashtrays? Why couldn’t this guy just stub it out into the apposite instrument – the ASHTRAY? Stompies are now a regular sight on beaches across the country. Like little landmines, they surround you. They’re by no means dangerous, but most certainly offensive. Yet another billboard advertising the arrogance of nicotine lovers. All too often I find I have to negotiate a wall of smoke while walking, smoke which comes from another person’s possibly disease-infested mouth. How would they like stopped, turned my head to them and coughed furiously over them? If they were normal functioning humans they’d scowl and curse, much like what I do when they exhale their fumes and promptly flick their butt wherever they want to.
Walking down the Mother city’s streets has become a hazy gauntlet of noxious cigarette smog. This coupled with the cacophonous hacking coughs of these chronic indulgers of cancer gathered outside buildings makes a simple stroll a hazard of sorts. Sure, those of the non-smoking persuasion, such as me, have the shopping malls, hospitals, aeroplanes, morgues, our ‘antiseptic’ fortresses away from the eye-stinging ciggie smoke. Why then do smokers have the environment, the rest of the world to indulge their habits? You’ll note, I didn’t mention restaurants among these newly created ‘Smoke-free zones’ Hahahahahaha, what a joke? Too often a dinner out will be interrupted by that all too ubiquitous smell. And setting up so-called ‘Smoking Areas’, does that really help? Does smoke not know how to creep and contort its way through any crack so it can hone in on your eyes and nostrils and clothes? I often stare at these ‘cages’ they euphemistically label ‘smoking sections’ (more like wannabe cancer wards) and wonder just how pleasant can it be sitting amid an atmosphere of smoke, sipping wine, having a meal? I suppose seasoned smokers are accustomed to it, but surely the penny (or cigarette butt) has to drop at some time, where they realise ‘Yuck, I smell offensive. My teeth are yellow, my fingers pong. Heck, even my underwear stinks (of smoke that is)’. But personal hygiene aside, for me, it’s more the virtually omnipotent intrusiveness of the smell and the arrogance of most smokers. Sitting in my car the other day at a red traffic light a man in a Mercedes behind me, lazily smoked his cigarette. Like a heat seeking missile, the smoke sought me out in my car as if it could detect I was one of those – an anti-smoker. Before I knew it, Mercedes man was inadvertently sharing his habit with me. He’d smoked just half of it before flicking it onto the road (at more than R20 a box, I would have thought he’d at least smoke it to the end. It’s like burning cash). Don’t Mercedes vehicles come equipped with ashtrays? Why couldn’t this guy just stub it out into the apposite instrument – the ASHTRAY? Stompies are now a regular sight on beaches across the country. Like little landmines, they surround you. They’re by no means dangerous, but most certainly offensive. Yet another billboard advertising the arrogance of nicotine lovers. All too often I find I have to negotiate a wall of smoke while walking, smoke which comes from another person’s possibly disease-infested mouth. How would they like stopped, turned my head to them and coughed furiously over them? If they were normal functioning humans they’d scowl and curse, much like what I do when they exhale their fumes and promptly flick their butt wherever they want to.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Post-traumatic World Cup Disorder
As Spanish mid-fielder Andres Iniesta slotted a goal into the back of the net at the Football World Cup final it effectively signalled the end of the tournament, much to the relief of many an alienated wife, girlfriend or rugby fan and to the chagrin of tens of millions of football fans and men desperate to escape mundane conversations with significant others on what colour bathroom tiles they should get for the house. The void grows virtually by the minute as the madness that was the Football World Cup abates towards South America (where it's now Brazil's turn to cough up billions to pay for FIFA Fuhrer Sepp Blatter's new expatriat empire). I stare at the TV expecting a build-up debate among soccer experts, the singing of national anthems, visuals of maddened, over-zealous fans, there faces painted, their flags draped over their pot bellies. But now there's nothing. Only remnants of what was. Empty stadia, mountains of wasted paraphanalia and super hangovers. The void grows as does our boredom and post-World Cup despair. What now? What are we meant to do? Work? Come on, that's just silly! Must we now revert back our reality? I choose to stew in this depression (which has nothing to do with South Africa being knocked of the tournament before, well, before the team could even prove anything of note). I choose to drink more (screw Cosmo's "10 great diets for after the World Cup"). I choose excess and prolonged derangement. I crave the public viewing areas, the throngs of people intoxicated on football jingoism and overpriced Budweiser (can that piss really be called beer?). I need the fervour and even, dare I say it, miss the drone of a trillion vuvuzelas. Yes, you heard right, I miss that satanic, ear-drilling instrument of mass (sanity) destruction. Okay, maybe I won't miss it for too long, but I do sorely long for the vibe, the atmosphere, the chaos, the enraged reactions from anti-vuvuzela-ites, which accompanied that damned trumpet. This was our reality for a month. I'll also miss the random acts of drinking. When else will we be able to use the excuse "It's the World Cup, come on man, I had to have a drink before church". When stumbling back into the office or into a beetroot-faced gilrfriend, from an alcohol binge, the World Cup was the staple excuse. That was the World Cup! Emphasis on the word 'was'. It's a thing of the past and, as my therapirst tells me on a weekly basis at an inflated fee, we just have to move on. But where do we go from here? To the pub, of course, the haven of sports replays, the platform of plebeian sports academia, where we can postulate, pontificate and imbibe until the feeling of despair, loss and boredom passes - much like Budweiser through our suffering livers.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Night the Vuvuzela Died
As I dragged my beer-burdened body to bed after having witnessed an historical and grossly ignominious defeat of Bafana Bafana, I somehow still managed to ponder the deeper things of life - How will I ever be able to work off my slowly-developing beer boep? Hahahahaha, no seriously, apart from being forlorn over excess and over-indulgence it dawned on me that this is it, it's now over. Well, it's over for those of us pure bred South Africans,recently inducted into soccer fervour and an alien, perfunctory sense of patriotism. If you fit into this category, like I do,your World Cup is over.
I slouched off to bed after the Uruguay/Bafana game (which shall be referred to from here on in as 'that game') and even amid my fatigue (brought on by booze and despondency) I noticed distinct silence which pervaded the streets of Cape Town (or at least my street). The vuvuzela had died. It had been slaughtered, chopped up into pieces and was now stewing in a crucible of national despair along with our country's pride and freedom. In the dying minutes of that game, it was agonising and embarrassing to see the stands at Loftus Versfeld slowly empty as disgusted former-Bafana supporters evacuated the stadium, fleeing to hide and lick the wounds on their misguided, desperate national pride.
Questions like: Was it a fair game? Who the fuck does that referee think he is? Will grow into stentorian groans and replace the bleating vuvuzela from here on in. Sure there'll be the odd bleat, but will it be from a South African-owned vuvuzela? Yes and no. As a country we know how to get up off the ground, dust ourselves off and to move on. We've been doing it for much of the country's history. The fact we had our arses and pride handed to us by a soccer team from a country barely the size of the Free State will make the wounds sting a little more. But we have little choice but to get over it and to drink more, eat more, have more sex, do more drugs, anything to numb the pain and the hatred for this small little South American nation and an even smaller Swiss referee. The vuvuzela will still sound off liberally throughout the World Cup, but it will have a desperate tone added to it. A tone which will only be able to slightly raise our spirits. It will become an instrument of drunken whimsy, employed by fans who've had one too many and think blowing a vuvu off is still fun. It can also now be used as an instrument of torture. Imagine a vuvuzela enema being performed on that red-card happy Swiss referee. Zealous Bafana fans can use it as a knobknierrie, wielding it with rage. I'm opting for the latter alternate use of our national musical instrument. At least with violence we see definitive results
I slouched off to bed after the Uruguay/Bafana game (which shall be referred to from here on in as 'that game') and even amid my fatigue (brought on by booze and despondency) I noticed distinct silence which pervaded the streets of Cape Town (or at least my street). The vuvuzela had died. It had been slaughtered, chopped up into pieces and was now stewing in a crucible of national despair along with our country's pride and freedom. In the dying minutes of that game, it was agonising and embarrassing to see the stands at Loftus Versfeld slowly empty as disgusted former-Bafana supporters evacuated the stadium, fleeing to hide and lick the wounds on their misguided, desperate national pride.
Questions like: Was it a fair game? Who the fuck does that referee think he is? Will grow into stentorian groans and replace the bleating vuvuzela from here on in. Sure there'll be the odd bleat, but will it be from a South African-owned vuvuzela? Yes and no. As a country we know how to get up off the ground, dust ourselves off and to move on. We've been doing it for much of the country's history. The fact we had our arses and pride handed to us by a soccer team from a country barely the size of the Free State will make the wounds sting a little more. But we have little choice but to get over it and to drink more, eat more, have more sex, do more drugs, anything to numb the pain and the hatred for this small little South American nation and an even smaller Swiss referee. The vuvuzela will still sound off liberally throughout the World Cup, but it will have a desperate tone added to it. A tone which will only be able to slightly raise our spirits. It will become an instrument of drunken whimsy, employed by fans who've had one too many and think blowing a vuvu off is still fun. It can also now be used as an instrument of torture. Imagine a vuvuzela enema being performed on that red-card happy Swiss referee. Zealous Bafana fans can use it as a knobknierrie, wielding it with rage. I'm opting for the latter alternate use of our national musical instrument. At least with violence we see definitive results
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The New Colonialism
Where did our country go? Just a few days ago it was ours, as in a country which belonged ostensibly and at least in theory to South Africans (and those of our brethren lucky enough to have procured illegal I.D. documents).
I've been out of the country for 10 days, which in World Cup time and dog years is like a decade, so excuse me if I seem a little shell-shocked by this new nation of ours or as I like to call it 'The United Nations of FIFA'.
From Cape Town International Airport, an obvious rallying point for bug-eyed foreigners (most of whom have fallen prey to myths of marauding machete-wielding heathens awaiting them in the shadows of the tournaments, poised and ready to strike all in the name of dollars, pounds and euros, all the way along the N2 into the Mother City's belly you are never allowed to forget about this precariously daunting sporting event.
Let me go back to the point-of-origin for me as I was welcomed back into this beautiful nightmare, which is now just days away. I was pleasantly shocked by the smile on an immigration officials face at passport control at the airport. 'Welcome back' the official mumbled through a forced grin (Why is he smiling? Does he know something I don't?!). This was after I was made to stare at a camera which checked my body for disease and pestilence. But at least the woman manning the camera managed a slight smile, to at least assure us we won't die then and there if a piggish type flu is detected.
Then came the barrage of marketing. The advertising around the World Cup oscillates between the garish and mundane ('Welcome to the beauty of Africa' puked one ad) to the smarter choice in marketing (I'm still trying to decide if a giant, downright terrifying vuvuzela, precariously set up on Cape Town's infamous 'unfinished highway' counts as innovative advertising)the gauntlet of capitalism asserting its supreme dominance over the tournament is overwhelming, over-the-top and pricey, but in some ways, perhaps nevessary.
The city's CBD is foreign to me. There are traffic lights where there shouldn't have been. Road markings and signs which I still can't decipher. New bridges have mushroomed, along with billboards, vendors stands and Christmas lights festooned across the city. Then there is this new found patriotism, which I believe will be short lived if your are actually contemplating supporting Bafana Bafana. Flags flutter from vehicles like flies around soon-to be carcasses. And those rear view mirror covers, what the fuck, man?! Apparently they go for a hundred rand a pop! Vuvuzelas are our nations call to arms these days and challenge the good old-fashioned human cheers and singing which once marked soccer games in this country. Vvvvvrrrrrrrrroooopppppp, they belch. And this is not just at a soccer game, I'm talking about 7am on any given morning these days, they bark at you around every corner. It's not uncommon to have some of my work colleagues blow one of those Satanic instruments off in the office. I can't understand why, but they do. I call it muscial Tourettes syndrome. As I snatched one away from a colleague the other day I threatened him with an auditory enema if he ever blew it in my presence again. He slumped off, sulking and mumbling something about getting into the spirit.
I went out for dinner the other night and the range of accents flitting through our streets is discernible. 'Hulloh, good sir. Vould you know hauw to get to ze stadium?' asked a German tourist, resplendent in his white socks and sandals. They are the ones clutching maps and aimlessly wandering the streets, usually in the opposite direction to where they actually want to go. I've come across a few Brazilians as well. They are easy to spot. Just look out for the women who wear very little in the way of clothes. Their hair styles are follicular explosions and they smoke as if it the Nicotine World Cup. I overheard an English couple examining a menu the other night. 'Look love, they have Coca-Cola', the prawn-coloured Brit exclaimed. I was rather confused by this. Did he think there would be no soft drinks in South Africa? Do we only have sorghum beer and witblits to offer? We can only wish.
Fellow South Africans (or at least those as weary, suspicious, fearful and nervous of this World Cup as I am), our nation is no longer just ours. We will be probably be treated as second rate citizens (unless you can pay your way through the next month with dollars, pounds and euros) for the next month. get used to it. Our homes will be colonised, our pubs, bars, restaurants will be foreign battle grounds where we must assert our misguided superiority in consuming booze, singing ridiculous songs and eating ourselves into comas. There can be no giving in to these foreigners. Speak to them in our 10 foreign languages when and if they ask for directions. Fill their heads with urban myths of wild creatures freely roaming our suburban streets. tell them the World Cup has been moved to Australia at the last minute. Fuck with their minds a bit. Why the hell not?
But I implore those of you who will be caught up in this madness to take a moment at least once during this tournament to reflect on yourself, no one else, just you. As you stand there with your Makarapa balanced on your head, donning a Bafana jersey, every inch of your your face painted, your vuvuela at your side and a flag propped into something or other - please ask yourself: Do I look like a twit? Is this really me? Then consider taking a shower a washing away all the insanity.
I've been out of the country for 10 days, which in World Cup time and dog years is like a decade, so excuse me if I seem a little shell-shocked by this new nation of ours or as I like to call it 'The United Nations of FIFA'.
From Cape Town International Airport, an obvious rallying point for bug-eyed foreigners (most of whom have fallen prey to myths of marauding machete-wielding heathens awaiting them in the shadows of the tournaments, poised and ready to strike all in the name of dollars, pounds and euros, all the way along the N2 into the Mother City's belly you are never allowed to forget about this precariously daunting sporting event.
Let me go back to the point-of-origin for me as I was welcomed back into this beautiful nightmare, which is now just days away. I was pleasantly shocked by the smile on an immigration officials face at passport control at the airport. 'Welcome back' the official mumbled through a forced grin (Why is he smiling? Does he know something I don't?!). This was after I was made to stare at a camera which checked my body for disease and pestilence. But at least the woman manning the camera managed a slight smile, to at least assure us we won't die then and there if a piggish type flu is detected.
Then came the barrage of marketing. The advertising around the World Cup oscillates between the garish and mundane ('Welcome to the beauty of Africa' puked one ad) to the smarter choice in marketing (I'm still trying to decide if a giant, downright terrifying vuvuzela, precariously set up on Cape Town's infamous 'unfinished highway' counts as innovative advertising)the gauntlet of capitalism asserting its supreme dominance over the tournament is overwhelming, over-the-top and pricey, but in some ways, perhaps nevessary.
The city's CBD is foreign to me. There are traffic lights where there shouldn't have been. Road markings and signs which I still can't decipher. New bridges have mushroomed, along with billboards, vendors stands and Christmas lights festooned across the city. Then there is this new found patriotism, which I believe will be short lived if your are actually contemplating supporting Bafana Bafana. Flags flutter from vehicles like flies around soon-to be carcasses. And those rear view mirror covers, what the fuck, man?! Apparently they go for a hundred rand a pop! Vuvuzelas are our nations call to arms these days and challenge the good old-fashioned human cheers and singing which once marked soccer games in this country. Vvvvvrrrrrrrrroooopppppp, they belch. And this is not just at a soccer game, I'm talking about 7am on any given morning these days, they bark at you around every corner. It's not uncommon to have some of my work colleagues blow one of those Satanic instruments off in the office. I can't understand why, but they do. I call it muscial Tourettes syndrome. As I snatched one away from a colleague the other day I threatened him with an auditory enema if he ever blew it in my presence again. He slumped off, sulking and mumbling something about getting into the spirit.
I went out for dinner the other night and the range of accents flitting through our streets is discernible. 'Hulloh, good sir. Vould you know hauw to get to ze stadium?' asked a German tourist, resplendent in his white socks and sandals. They are the ones clutching maps and aimlessly wandering the streets, usually in the opposite direction to where they actually want to go. I've come across a few Brazilians as well. They are easy to spot. Just look out for the women who wear very little in the way of clothes. Their hair styles are follicular explosions and they smoke as if it the Nicotine World Cup. I overheard an English couple examining a menu the other night. 'Look love, they have Coca-Cola', the prawn-coloured Brit exclaimed. I was rather confused by this. Did he think there would be no soft drinks in South Africa? Do we only have sorghum beer and witblits to offer? We can only wish.
Fellow South Africans (or at least those as weary, suspicious, fearful and nervous of this World Cup as I am), our nation is no longer just ours. We will be probably be treated as second rate citizens (unless you can pay your way through the next month with dollars, pounds and euros) for the next month. get used to it. Our homes will be colonised, our pubs, bars, restaurants will be foreign battle grounds where we must assert our misguided superiority in consuming booze, singing ridiculous songs and eating ourselves into comas. There can be no giving in to these foreigners. Speak to them in our 10 foreign languages when and if they ask for directions. Fill their heads with urban myths of wild creatures freely roaming our suburban streets. tell them the World Cup has been moved to Australia at the last minute. Fuck with their minds a bit. Why the hell not?
But I implore those of you who will be caught up in this madness to take a moment at least once during this tournament to reflect on yourself, no one else, just you. As you stand there with your Makarapa balanced on your head, donning a Bafana jersey, every inch of your your face painted, your vuvuela at your side and a flag propped into something or other - please ask yourself: Do I look like a twit? Is this really me? Then consider taking a shower a washing away all the insanity.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Road Rage
Try to navigate virtually any major highway in South Africa at the moment, I dare you. Don't worry about your mode of transport. Try it in a an SUV, mini-bus taxi, take a donkey cart, skateboard or a bicycle and head off down the tar into what has become an abyss of roadworks across the country. A Noddy badge awaits you if you manage to complete this journey or chaos with your mind and mode of transport still intact and in working order. Having almost taken out the 18Th construction worker leaning on his spade (that's LEANING not DIGGING or doing ANYTHING that could constitute work) on what has become a perfidious, sometimes terrifying journey down the ever-perplexing N1 in Cape Town I'm reminded once again of the bullshit we are fed on a daily basis from politicians and their comrades in the private sector. Traffic cones jump out of nowhere, startling already braindead Cape Town drivers into ill-managed advanced driving tactics. Construction bakkies recently upgraded to some degree of importance with the simple, strategic placement of a flash blue light on their rooves trundle down the freeway in their own little, blocked off lane, as if teasing us pleb motorists abut their exclusive road lane. The din of earth movers and jackhammers cut the orchestra of traffic jam cacophony, scaring us out of road rage, which would normally be directed at VW Beetle owners and taxi drivers, and planting our anger into tantalising thoughts of maleficence. Our roads are no longer ours. They have been privatised, sold off to multi-nationals, who cream themselves at the sight of a pothole and any chance at "implementing" yet another multi-katrillion rand project aimed at "bettering the lives of our motorists and creating jobs" or some corporate bullshit rhetoric lazily designed in an attempt to justify lying or at best concealing the truth.
It's transport discrimination, I tell you, slavery of our travelling abilities and enslavement of our patience! I demand Desmond Tutu to be on my team as I wage my (imaginary) war on these pricks and their bulldozing kak. I want an audience with the Dalai Lama where I can seek some spiritual peace and find it in my chi not to engage on mob justice targetting construction workers. One construction company suit told a radio talk show host recently construction on what appears to be a separate highway to the moon on the N1 will be completed by the end of May, "In
time for the World Cup" he quickly added. Stifling my laughter and holding back the puke, I wondered if the suit in question was talking about the same project (maybe he'd mixed it up with a separate project on Planet Blah). Having digested this piffle, I cast my mind back to the mental images I'd committed to my ailing brain of a highway, pocked with workers all picking their noses and practicing their art of staring into the sky. No evidence of urgency was to found there or on the faces of foreman, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the company of their mates (no doubt suits in disguise "checking up" on the "progress"I recalled the huge gaps, no wait, canyons in one rather ambitious addition to the road. We are talking about entire sections of a highway which had not even been built. Oh sure the foundations are there, wires and cables ac sending from concrete pillars into nowhere, just ascending, not holding up, reinforcing or really adding to the general finality of it all. For all intents and purposes, the road was just a concept, a wannabe transport infrastructure leading to nothing but further delays, road closures and pathetic explanations as to why deadlines weren't met. It's been 7-years of this constant, desperate race to meet what appear to be ever-shifting deadlines and esoteric, possibly impossible promises. Sure, it may be great and beautiful when completed. But when will this really be? And if you even think of answering, "By the end of the month" or "In time for the World cup", I'll find you, I'll hunt you down and subject you to 7-years of poetry reading from second year English students.
It's transport discrimination, I tell you, slavery of our travelling abilities and enslavement of our patience! I demand Desmond Tutu to be on my team as I wage my (imaginary) war on these pricks and their bulldozing kak. I want an audience with the Dalai Lama where I can seek some spiritual peace and find it in my chi not to engage on mob justice targetting construction workers. One construction company suit told a radio talk show host recently construction on what appears to be a separate highway to the moon on the N1 will be completed by the end of May, "In
time for the World Cup" he quickly added. Stifling my laughter and holding back the puke, I wondered if the suit in question was talking about the same project (maybe he'd mixed it up with a separate project on Planet Blah). Having digested this piffle, I cast my mind back to the mental images I'd committed to my ailing brain of a highway, pocked with workers all picking their noses and practicing their art of staring into the sky. No evidence of urgency was to found there or on the faces of foreman, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the company of their mates (no doubt suits in disguise "checking up" on the "progress"I recalled the huge gaps, no wait, canyons in one rather ambitious addition to the road. We are talking about entire sections of a highway which had not even been built. Oh sure the foundations are there, wires and cables ac sending from concrete pillars into nowhere, just ascending, not holding up, reinforcing or really adding to the general finality of it all. For all intents and purposes, the road was just a concept, a wannabe transport infrastructure leading to nothing but further delays, road closures and pathetic explanations as to why deadlines weren't met. It's been 7-years of this constant, desperate race to meet what appear to be ever-shifting deadlines and esoteric, possibly impossible promises. Sure, it may be great and beautiful when completed. But when will this really be? And if you even think of answering, "By the end of the month" or "In time for the World cup", I'll find you, I'll hunt you down and subject you to 7-years of poetry reading from second year English students.
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