Getting snarky about "that" mall...

There is, on occasion, nothing quite like a damned good snark. So bear with me while I continue Friday’s saga… C’mon, at least it makes a change from guinea fowl!

To cite Baino… the Goddess Vanilla has been wielding the Hammer of Thor. She has, to quote Terry Pratchett’s Nac Mac Feegles been doing some o’ the pursin’ o’ the lips, foldin’ o’ the arms, not to mention some tappin’ o’ the feets… And she has been looking for The Explanation. (This might make more sense if you’ve read Pratchett’s wonderful Wintersmith.)

I have managed, rather in the way of pulling teeth, to extract an apology from the Marketing Manager and the Centre Manager of the Blue Route Mall. The Operations Manager, however, who was the first person I spoke to (having erroneously being told by staff in the manager’s office that he was the centre manager…), was having nothing to do with any such thing that remotely resembled an apology. In fact, I rather got the feeling that if he ever ran into an apology in a dark alley at night, he’d shoot it. Then ask questions. He was adamant that when someone committed a crime it was okay and necessary to chase them through the mall and too bad if shoppers were harmed along the way. Charming.
“You don’t know what it’s like on the ground,” he assured me.
No, I don’t, nor do I care, because that ain’t my problem.
“The woman was a known criminal,” he told me, trying to defend his actions.
And this is my problem, how?
“She’d used a fraudulent card in a store,” he said.
And I should worry about this? When I can’t breathe, or sleep for coughing.
“She was carrying crystal meth.” As if this was supposed to make the guard’s actions justifiable.
“The security guard’s life was endangered,” he announced.
Well, with all due respect and I’m very sorry for the security guard, but just how is this my concern? I’m presuming when he took the job the guard realised it was a high risk position. Or had he been told he’d be helping little old ladies with their shopping trolleys? I suspect not.
“None of this is acceptable,” I snapped, “and I expect an apology!”
“Well I won’t apologise,” he said in the manner of all small boys who’ve just broken granny’s favourite vase. I suspect there might have been some stampin’ o’ the feets at that point – from him, not me. “Our actions were entirely justifiable.”
Uhuh? “And just think how justifiable they would have been if the perp had sprayed bullets instead of pepper?”
“Well, we’ve had a case of security guards being help up at gunpoint in the mall before,” he replied.
Oh charming, I’m sure. And this is supposed to make me feel better?
“Anyway,” he finally said, “I don’t see any point continuing this conversation because you’re clearly not willing to accept anything I say.”
Right on there, buster.

I had another chat with the manager of the store where the incident took place – really, really nice guy. He got onto the centre management and I got a call from the Marketing Manager – who in the way of most marketing managers actually understood the concept of customer relationship management, especially when the customer mentioned she was a freelance journalist…. She apologized and promised to talk to the Centre Manager. A few minutes later someone barked at me down the phone line… on the defensive – and the attack – reminded me rather a lot of SOF.... Really not a bright place to start. But I recognized the type, so barked back three times, snarled twice and said Centre Manager backed down to something only marginally resembling a cranky bulldog – as opposed to a slavvering pit bull or an irate guinea fowl… (she said mixing her metaphors with gay abandon).

The odd thing was, when pressed on the matter of “security protocol” he acknowledged that perpetrators should be dealt with off the premises. Hmm, what makes you think that the left hand and the right hand have never really crossed palms… Still, he offered an apology, assured me that a full investigation was underway but pointed out that incidents such as these “are part of the nature of the country we live in”, by way of wiping his hands of the whole business.

See, and here’s the thing, so long as South Africans wander around saying, “Oh well, this is just the way it is, crime happens”, crime will continue to happen. It’s complacency and acceptance like this that really pisses me off. Crime becomes the modus operandi. And then it does become my problem. I may as well just wander around with “Rob me, shoot me,” tattoed in bright colours on my forehead! Or I suppose I could just mace anyone who gives me a funny look…

Anyway, the letter to the press is written, I now just have to decide if I will achieve anything constructive by sending it.

Right, now I’m going to cease tappin’ my feet, stop pursin’ my lips - just in case someone thinks I want a kiss - and I’m going to return Thor’s Hammer. Then I’m going to wander outside to count the guineas and take some photos of flowers. Being a goddess is just so tough, I’m not sure I can keep it up.





And here he is - the real SOF, hot-footing it around the pool, seeing someone off, as usual, cranky, as ever...

Ba-kaaaaaaak!

More this, that and the other...

I fear my brain has turned to slush – which would probably explain the gloopy sound I hear each time I shake my head. But there are several good reasons for this –one of which I will advise you of on the weekend…

The problem is a slushy brain makes blogging tricky... oh woe, what to write about? Yes, I know, posting pictures is sooo much easier – and I will be posting more because easy works for me, but at the same time I feel I should offer you more than just pretty pictures, especially since the pretty pictures belie the reality.

Beautiful surroundings notwithstanding, last week, a woman who lives nearby was held up at gunpoint, pistol-whipped and robbed and left with a broken arm, broken fingers and ribs and deaf in one ear after the perpetrators fired shots right next to her head. Aside from stealing her jewelery, the perps also made off with her car. Although I don’t know her personally, I have stopped to say hello whilst out walking. And the irony is this: she was out walking – not alone - but with two other women and about six dogs including a pit bull terrier. It seems there is no end to the brazenness of criminals.

On that similar note, I learned from my mom that the case, following on her attack and robbery, has been closed for lack of evidence. And this less than two months after the incident. This is not the sort of thing that inspires any confidence in the police or the authorities’ ability to do anything about the rampant crime that plagues all of us in this benighted country.

Which brings me to another rant – as of yesterday we are faced with rolling power cuts which will last throughout winter – oh joy, what timing. I guess I will have to buy in a huge stash of fire wood and make sure the laptop is always charged. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the power supplier is looking to increase electricity tariffs by 53% - and this while they’re actually cutting power supplies and their executives are earning performance bonuses of millions… Go figure.

And talking of fires – bear with me, I’m on a stream of consciousness roll here – I’m going to set fire to my inbox if I get one more bloody email offering to improve the size of the penis I do not have. It would be one thing if I was actually male with the relevant dangly bits - but really! I don’t know but it seems that in recent weeks spam levels have risen to dramatic proportions – something akin to the promises made in emails that arrive headed: “Freak the girls out when they see how gigantic you have become.” Or “Every male has the inner potential to be 9 inches long - unleash that potential today.” I mean, pul-lease! When will they realise that, really, size does so not matter! Hmph!

And then I wanted to have witter about writing which goes something along the lines of if you think it’s easy, think again. But I think I’m going to save that for another day and will opt to end this post with the easy option – yet again - with more scenes from my visit to Cape Point Nature Reserve.

For a start, in case you haven't had enough of baboons...

Just call me Yoda... A baby Chacma baboon

You lookin' at me...?

Not yet, not yet - wait for my signal...

A windsurfer's paradise - good too for surfing and kite surfing.

Waves of glass

A solitary Bontebok - one of the medium sized antelope found in South Africa

A posing cormorant



And this one is for all spammers out there - "Stop being a baboon's arse!"

Crime comes home

I seem to have made a slight error of judgement. I have been concentrating so much on the beauty, in trying to find some balance to the insanity that surrounds me, that I have forgotten the other side of reality.

Today my 82 year old mother and her housekeeper were held up at gunpoint in their driveway by two thugs. My mother’s jewelry was ripped off her, the housekeeper was thrown to the ground and stood on, on two separate occasions. They stole my mother’s car keys and the gadget that opens her automated gate. They stole two mobile phones. They threatened to kill my mother and her housekeeper. Thank god that my mother and her housekeeper weren’t seriously harmed, but they are traumatized beyond measure and most likely will have to deal with what so many South Africans live with on a daily basis - Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. We pretty much all live with it, all the time, but for those who've been attacked, it is that much worse, because one's worst fears become reality - and under brutal circumstances.

We have always joked that my mother’s home is like Fort Knox, it is so well secured – but even all the security couldn’t have prevented this crime. For this is the nature of crime in South Africa – if the thugs want something, they will get it. In this instance they will sell my mother’s jewelry for a fraction of it’s true value and buy Crystal Meth - methamphetamine, or, as it is called here, Tik. They will get high and hyped and then they will attack someone else, and again, the proceeds of the robbery will be used to buy yet more Tik. Drug abuse is one of the most common causes of crime in this city and in South Africa per se - and there seems to be no end in sight - particularly when government seems intent upon not acting.

Last week my mother’s neighbours were held up at gunpoint in their driveway. There were 36 incidents of crime in my neighbourhood in January - including 17 house break-ins.

The headlines in today’s newspaper read, “Survivor describes horror attack after mountain run” and refers to an incident that took place last week when a young mother of two was brutally attacked and nearly raped whilst training for a marathon. There was also an article which warned home-owners to be especially vigilant in their driveways since these have become the most common places for attacks to take place - exactly as happened to my mom.

What makes all of this so worse is that criminals are almost "protected". Homeowners may not shoot an intruder unless the intruder first shoots them. To shoot an intruder means going to jail - as though you, the victim, are the criminal.

I spent the entire afternoon sorting out new security arrangements for my mom, getting her car key immobilized, organizing an armed guard to be on duty for the entire weekend, day and night, sorting out insurers, arranging for electric fencing to be put right around her perimeter, dealing with the police – who, I must say, were absolutely amazing. And then I came home to find someone had ripped off and stolen the trellises that support the creeper on my external perimeter wall – making it now much easier to jump over said wall – which is what they did at my mom’s place – despite the fact that the wall is six foot high and has spikes on top.

I may like to show you the beauty of the place where I live - for it is truly beautiful - but that beauty walks hand in hand with the most atrocious violence and ugliness - and that taints everything around us, indeed, makes a mockery of all that is wonderful. It is hard, in situations such as these, to keep a balanced perspective. One tries, but then one wonders if one is just kidding oneself. Bear in mind, it's not just crime and violence that are issues here - but there are a range of other things, as I allued to in my post of 2 February.

Although I went for a walk today and took some stunning shots of the beauty around me - I am not going to post them here - not today. If you want to see them, please follow the link to my flickr account in the sidebar.

I wish you peace and safety. For those of you who live without the horror that we live with every day - please don't take what you have for granted.

Welcome to my Africa

Rwanda... Darfur... Congo... Zimbabwe... South Africa... the city where I live... my neighbourhood...
Insanity prevails. Violence ravages. Respect is a little heard of thing. Life may be taken for one pound or less. I'm sick of pretending. Hoping, wishing that everything will be okay, is okay. It's not. It's broken. Maybe we can blame colonialism. But ultimately, whatever our pasts, it's up to us in the here and now to put things right. And we're not. There are those who are intent on consistently preying upon others. Those who like the terror that threat and violence brings.

Tell me... Have you ever had to think about how to kill someone? Really? Have you ever wondered whether you'd even be able to do it? Probably not. It's not what nice, normal people living in relatively sane societies have to do, is it? Tonight I've had to think about how to kill someone. It makes me feel as though I am tormented by a thousand devils. Makes me hysterical. Only I can't afford to be hysterical. I have to be sane enough, rational enough to protect myself, save my life - and that may mean taking the life of another. Welcome to my Africa.

Six hours ago I was driving home. Minding my own business when I noticed a delivery van had driven up behind me and was edging closer and closer. I took a good look in my rear view mirror. Two guys. Watching me. Okay, I thought, they don't look too friendly. But they probably just want to get past me. I couldn't change lanes - the other lane was backing up with slower traffic. So I accelerated a little. They acclerated. I put my foot down and took off. I've learned to trust my intuition and it was screaming at me. "You're being followed." No. I don't want to be followed. I'm being paranoid. "No, you're not." I know that voice. I made the mistake of not listening to it once before. I zipped in between two trucks in the slow lane, nearing my offramp. The van pulled into the same lane. I pulled onto the offramp. They pulled onto the offramp. I headed right to turn into the arterial road. They headed right. Came up right behind me. Watching. It was the watching you see. It was intense, predatory. Blank masks of faces. Staring. Eyes boring through me. Why me? What had I done? Had I somehow offended them? What did they want? My pulse started to race. You're being paranoid, I told myself again. "No, you're not. They're following you." But why, why would they follow me?
I took a small gap between two oncoming cars and shot across the intersection and bolted up the road. They couldn't make the gap. They had to wait. Then there they were, 500 meters behind me. Two cars between them and me. They veered across the road, back, across into the pedestrian lane. Watching. Keeping an eye on me, making sure they didn't lose me. I didn't dare pull off into my road. Keep going. Drive somewhere public. You'll know then if they're following you. I got caught in traffic at the traffic circle. They moved closer. I sped away. They followed - the quarry well in sight. At the next traffic circle I turned left, pulled into the parking lot of the small local shopping centre. I ducked into an empty parking bay. Watched. There they were. They'd turned into the parking lot too. They were looking. They spotted me. Drove over... slowly - edging closer, stalking the prey. Watching. They drove up behind me, inching forward, paused behind my car, peered into my vehicle - at me, edged on again, creeping forward. The beast waits to pounce. I locked my doors, sat, waited... I couldn't see them, the huge SUV next to me blocked any view. But I knew they were there. I could sense them, feel them... Rank scent on the breeze. The van appeared behind me. Stopped. Waited. I waited, my heart beating in my ears. What did they want? Why me? What was going to happen next? A guy appeared at my window. Round face, wraparound shades. Thickset, stocky.
"I want to talk to you."
"What to you want?" I sounded aggressive, take no shit, take no prisoners. Don't fuck with me.
"I want to buy your car."
"It's not for sale."
He watched me, smiled - a narrow soulless gash across his face. He nodded. Was it knowingly? He moved away. Got back into the van. I couldn't have left if I'd tried. He was blocking my exit. I waited. He edged forward. Nothing for it. I got out of the car. Walked to the supermarket. Lurked behind the flower stand. Watched. They drove level with the supermarket. Stopped. Waited. Watched me. Looked back, watched my car. One took out a mobile phone. The other scribbled something on a piece of paper.
I need to get their registration! The thought flashed into my mind. Determined, I stalked towards them. They saw me coming - took off. Swept out of the parking lot. Gone.

But see, here's the thing. Here you trust no one. Everyone knows a man who knows a man. They might have my registration. They might be able to get my home address. They might come back. I don't know.
I drove home the long way round. I didn't know where they might be waiting, if they might be waiting.
Tears trickled down my cheeks. I was too afraid to be angry. I felt so disempowered. So threatened. I'm tired of the stress. Sick of the fear. This is no way to live. This is rank insanity. This is how we all live. For some it is so much worse. Traumatic stress disorder is a part of our lives. Welcome to my Africa.
This is not my home. This is some strange and violent war zone where terror lurks around every corner, in broad daylight, at night. I am not African.
The burglar alarm is armed. The doors are locked, the security doors bolted, the windows shut, the burglar bars in tact. My can of mace stands ready. My pepperball gun is armed. I know I have to aim at the base of the nose. This will blast the nasal membranes which will shatter and drive up into the brain... Welcome to my Africa.
It is time to say goodbye.

(Image used in this post... courtesy of the internet.)

This is not the dream...

Night descends in swathes of velvet. Darkness wraps inky arms around trees and houses, and creeps into nooks and crannies. Silence falls.
I am alone. He is away. I should be safe. I am tucked away behind six foot walls and gates. The garden is studded with invisible beams to foil the unwary intruder. The security gates which guard all the doors are locked. The doors are bolted, the windows are shut their burglar bars protecting them. The LEDs on the security system gleam with eyes that are ever-vigilant. Yes, I should be safe.
I switch off the lights and am cocooned by a sea of black. I like the night. I feel safe in the dark – unseeing and unseen. Stillness washes over me and I sleep.
My subconscious awakens, taps into the collective unconscious. It weaves dreams of trouble and torment. My sleep becomes restless. I toss and turn. My shoulders tighten, ride up to my ears. My gut, the emotional heart of me, gurgles in trepidation. My body breaks out into the clammy sweat of a cold night.
I awaken, ears alert. Outside all is quiet. Something thuds in the roof. I jerk. I run through the security checklist in my mind, remind myself that my neighbours – near and far – patrol the streets every hour of the night. I sense my angels around me, protecting me – as they have always done.
I fall into an uneasy sleep and again my subconscious encounters the collective unconscious. We are all one. We are all afraid. It is how we live. Muggings, rapes, murders, armed robberies, beatings, knifings, road rage, drug and alcohol abuse, child abuse, animal abuse, corruption, deceit… This is a society that bubbles with aggression, violence and fear. It touches everyone in some way.

Dawn rises and the first robin starts to sing, his warble of pure honey flooding the beginning of a new day. The rose-tipped fingers of daybreak stretch into the blue of heaven and the touch the granite face of the mountain with kisses of pink radiance. The guinea fowl with their strident calls advance along the road. Outside my window a squirrel chatters.
I awake – stiff, aching and unsettled. I stretch and do what we all do – our only way of coping – I bury my head in the sand – try to pretend things are not what they seem. Try to believe everything is different. My subconscious together with the collective unconscious prays that maybe one day it will be.


This is not the dream for which the great Madiba fought. This is not the liberation for which thousands of freedom fighters struggled. As I listened to our great elder statesman, the father of a nation, Neslon Rolihlahla Mandela, speaking in London at the unveiling of his statue in Parliament Square, I wondered where it had all gone so horribly wrong. This is not the dream…

(Images used in this post... courtesy of Google image searches.)

Angelic Encounters

It should be safe to take a walk. But not here. Not anymore. Not for a while…
I remember…

The greenbelt at the end of my road lies on the edge of the motorway linking the suburbs with the city. On one side of the motorway is a dairy farm with a small lake and an old Cape Dutch homestead. On the other side is a river, horse paddocks and the edge of pine plantations which go on to rise halfway up the mountain. The view from the hill looks out over rolling vineyards and towards the towering granite face of the side of Table Mountain. It’s beautiful. A picture of God’s grandeur and verdancy.
My two elderly Golden Retrievers and I liked to walk there.
We walked slowly, SJ with his arthritic bones couldn’t go very fast. B, the older dog, still thought he was three… We reached the top of the hill, paused to admire the view and sniff the scents. It was three in the afternoon. There were no other walkers. Not a good thing. It is wise to be wary when taking a stroll. It is not a time for reflection or meditation. This is South Africa…
I looked around - my eyes followed the path along the riverbank. Two men – about five hundred metres away from me. Black guys. This is not a statement of race. It is one of pragmatism. Most instances of crime are black on black and black on white. They looked up - saw me standing on the hill top. I watched them. They gazed back.
Turn around and go home now. The voice in my ear could not have been any clearer.
But the boys need a walk.
Not here. Not now.
Look, just because they’re black guys doesn’t mean they’re trouble. I don’t want to be another paranoid whitey.
You’re not being paranoid and your race is irrelevant.
I tell you what, I’ll go along a little way and if it doesn’t look good I’ll turn around.
No. Turn around now.
But…
I know you don’t want this to be race issue. But this about your safety. And you aren’t safe. Go back now. Put distance between yourself and them.
I was torn. I knew the voice was right. But I was so conscious of my paranoid whitey label. This is South Africa…
Contrary to every inner prompting I walked on.
As I descended the hill, one guy started to pee. Perhaps it was a call of nature. Perhaps it was a form of territorial behaviour. Perhaps it’s meant to cock a snook at the whitey. This is South Africa… He kept his eyes on me as he peed. Facing me. Defiant. His friend watched me too.
Shit.
Finished, he turned to his friend. The friend nodded, they shook hands and the friend started to run. Towards me. At me. Gaining pace. I should have known. This is South Africa…
“SJ,” I said, “we need to go home. I need you to run, baby, please. Try.” Fear snaked along the leads.
SJ look up at me. He understood.
We turned.
Don’t look back.
Up the hill. B bounding at my side, me dragging SJ. He couldn’t do it. I knew he couldn’t. He tried - so hard.
The guy was gaining on us. SJ was stumbling. My heart pounded. Fear throbbed in my ears.
I should have listened.
SJ tripped, fell onto the path.
The guy was close - maybe a hundred and fifty meters away.
I couldn’t leave my dog. Wouldn’t. I would take my chances.
I dropped to me knees. I stroked SJ’s head. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”
He gazed up at me, despair in his eyes.
The guy raced towards us… and stopped – as though he’d hit a wall.
A look of puzzlement flickered across his face.
He stared at me.
“He’s old,” I murmured, “old man, sore legs.”
He tried to take a step towards us – faltered... His eyes widened. He seemed held - kept back.
He glanced around. His friend was no where to be seen. He looked at us again, confusion flooding his eyes. He muttered something - and took off – dashing towards the freeway.

I have no doubt that my boys and I were protected by an angel. I have never stopped saying thank you. There are greater things in this universe than the criminality of some South Africans…


The telling of this story was prompted by a recent report that a woman narrowly escaped rape whilst walking on the greenbelt...

01h54...

Scuffle... clatter... The sounds reach me - muffled - in the darkness.
Scratch... clang... I drag myself from the realms of sleep.
Crash!
I force my eyes open, compel my ears to hearing.
Clatter... scuffle... scrape...
I sit bolt upright... reality sinks in. Heart pounds. Ears are alert. I stare into the night.
The sounds are coming from behind me.
Mind races... The possibilities... A cat... a rat... or... An intruder - setting up a ladder.
The sounds move up the wall...
The neighbours - they had a break in just a few weeks ago... roof tiles were lifted for access...
Thump-thump-thump. My heart is in my throat - constricting my breathing.
Scrape...
Oh my god!
The noises are above me - in the roof. Every fibre of my being is tensed.
I reach for the pepper spray. The rungu is beside me... but that's all the weaponry I have.
I sit, not breathing... utterly still... listening... waiting...
Should I hit the panic button - summon the security company's armed response?
Maybe it's nothing... Let it be nothing. Please - let it be nothing.
I am frozen. Unable to move.
Twang!
I jump!
Scrape... shuffle...
Thump-thump-thump...
Scitter...
Scitter?
I look up.
Scitter.
Fucking rats!

To understand the full impact of this story you need to appreciate the nature of the society in which I live. It is riddled with violent crime. No, I don't live in an inner city gangland - there it is even worse. I'm talking about lush, neatly neatly manicured suburbia...

A few weeks ago three of my neighbours were burgled - robberies are always armed. The week before the family down the road was robbed at gunpoint and a woman narrowly avoided rape while out for her morning jog. Another man was less fortunate. Surprised by armed gangsters while watching TV, he was shot - fatally - in front of his family.

And this is just the suburbs.

In shantytowns and impoverished communities where crystal meth and alcohol abuse is rife, it's worse - beyond your comprehension - beyond mine. Children go missing every day. Murder, rape and violence are so common, incidents only get reported if the victim is well known. Theft is the new form of retail therapy. Car hijackings are commonplace - day and night. I haven't driven at night for six years. And no, public transport is not an option - not if you can afford a car - and not unless you particularly want a warrant for robbery, rape... death. Vigilantism is increasing, neighbourhood watches, armed security services are the norm. We live behind high walls with automated gates, security gates, burglar bars, alarms systems. We live in a constant state of stress - I don't think we even begin to imagine the cost to our psyches... And no, this is not paranoia.

You have no idea how relieved I was that my intruders were only rats or mice or some other four-legged critter...

(Image duly nicked off the internet, thanks to the creator of this evil rat!)