The Unbearable Dysfunctionality of Being (with apologies to Milan Kundera)

The coastal drive to Cape Point

Chapman's Peak Drive

Scarborough's mist and waves

Those of you who are friends with me on Facebook will have seen a multitude of sunshiny photos this week as D and I have played tourist in our own backyard. We’ve had a lovely time – good food, good wine, good weather - and looking at the photographs of the rich and gorgeous scenery that makes up the area where we live I’m struck yet again by the curious juxtaposition of life in South Africa.

On the one hand the most outstanding natural beauty, on the other, violence, aggression and a completely traumatized society. I’m not talking here about the usual crime, violence and corruption stuff – stuff that we South Africans seemingly take so for granted that we are sublimely desensitized to what would appall the rest of the world – unless you’re living in a war torn zone. What I’m talking about is the complete dysfunctionality of the average South African, a dysfunctionality that is characterized by aggression, greed and vulgarity. Of course, it is a generalization but how else is one to talk of generalities other than by way of generalizations.

Franschhoek - vines and lavender, mountains and big blue skies

I was struck a while ago when one of my critique partners pointed to the violence contained in my own writing and, on thinking about it, I realised how else could I write when surrounded by a proliferation of ongoing, daily aggression? Art reflects reality, always has done, always will, so I suppose it’s no small wonder that my own words and stories are infused with a sort of violence that some may find disturbing. Understand please, it’s not gratuitous violence or violence for the sake of violence that appears in my work – it is just a reflection of the world around me appearing in fictitious form. But it has made me realise that while I abhor violence and horror, it has, nevertheless, by dint of my location, become part of my writing. It’s a sobering – and disturbing – realization.

The blues and golds of the Overberg wheatlands

I often ponder the nature of balance and then try to consider the nature of balance in South Africa. But the balance seems totally unbalanced – the beauty and the beast – the land and the people. It struck me yesterday, while we were sitting in the shade of the oaks in a country village, how people have a phenomenal capacity to tarnish places.

A sleepy Greyton side street

The village which we were visiting is a beautiful place nestled between towering peaks. Once it was home to the Khoi people, the Hessequas and the Attequas, until the arrival of Dutch settlers who dispossessed the local tribes of their land and their herds. The land was given over to farming, and ultimately parts of it became a freehold agricultural village. Today the village is populated predominantly by weekending Capetonians. Watching them, this is what I wrote in my notebook:

“There are certain people who come to certain places and colonize. The places are usually picturesque, the people are usually wealthy. They arrive and take hold like poison ivy. They’ll take an unspoiled sleepy village and populate it with Volvo’s, Beemers and Benz’s. They’ll furnish their homes with antiques raided from the attics of locals (for which they’ll pay a paltry price and sell for a staggering profit.) They’ll open B&Bs, guest houses, art galleries, gift shops (that sell everything you never knew you needed or wanted) and restaurants that serve mediocre food. Their presence will encourage wannabes and the crass nouveau riche set. And were it not for the gentle breeze rustling through the trees and the infectious laughter of the real locals, you would never have any sense of the soul of the place at all.”

True, this happens everywhere, but here there is a sense of entitlement that seems to me to be uniquely South African and it’s that entitlement and the resentment coupled with it, that constantly leaves me muttering, “Nice place, shame about the people”.

Franschhoek's lavender field

And so, as I drove home yesterday, an incident played itself out which only served to confirm what I already know.

I came up the offramp of the freeway to the stop sign at the top of the bridge. Glass littered the road alongside an unoccupied Suzuki SUV with flashing hazard lights. In front of it was a large Toyota SUV. Both vehicles appeared to be pulled slightly to the side of the road and I assumed there’d been a collision. I pulled to the centre and raised my arms enquiringly at the driver of the Toyota. What was going on, could I go past, was he planning on moving? He gestured violently. I had no idea what he meant. Again, I raised my arms in enquiry. He gestured again, indicating I should “take a hike” and pulled away. I realised then that he was in fact towing the Suzuki. I found myself traveling behind him – with him going increasingly slowly – and also realised I was boxed in, with a white Honda right up my rear. The road on which we were traveling ran between the ocean and Cape Town’s biggest squatter settlement. People dashed across the road between the traffic, drunk driving was much in evidence as cars swerved around each other and people narrowly missed being hit. Feeling increasingly unsafe, I spotted a gap in the oncoming traffic and accelerated to overtake the Toyota. As I went past him, the driver, a thickset guy in his 30s, stuck his hand out the window and gave me the zap sign. Why? Probably because I’d had the “cheek” to question him at the intersection.

And this is the thing, this is the kind of aggression, unnecessary and unpleasant, that so characterizes South African society. Of course, it didn’t end there. The white Honda, driven by a hip young guy, also overtook the Toyota and charged up behind me, where he once again proceeded to sit on my tail. If I accelerated, so did he. If I slowed down, he slowed down. He had plenty of opportunity to overtake me, but he didn’t. It is more “fun”, it’s to be presumed, to threaten people because you can, because it makes you feel good and powerful, because, it seems, you don’t know how else to be.

The Drakenstein mountain

False Bay and the Atlantic Ocean

This, amidst the beauty of the mountains, the oceans and the vineyards is just how it is. South Africa is a land characterized by greed and violence, its people - irrespective of race, creed or gender - are scarred by a long history of social and psychological trauma. And it’s not getting better. As the sun scatters diamonds on the Atlantic Ocean and glints off the granite face of the mountains, as the vines rustle in the south-easterly breeze so increasingly the pot boils and churns and no one, it seems, is willing to douse the flames.

Mountain fires burn above Greyton

It's a sludgy kind of rainbow

I’m not sure what happened to the dream of the Rainbow Nation but I think it’s probably safe to say both dream and rainbow have vanished. The past few weeks have been “interesting” to say the least. The xenophobic violence that reared its ugly head killing about 62 people, injuring some 670 and displacing more than 100 000 people has left many of us perplexed. D and I have had long discussions as to what may lie behind the inexplicable display of violence that has been experienced. Could it be sociological? Yes. Could it be theological? Yes. Is it the result of socio-economic policies? Yes. Is it the result of high expectations fuelled by lack of delivery? Yes. Is it the result of political lethargy? Yes. Is the result of a lack of education? Yes. It is all these things but it is also more – and it is the more that is almost too frightening to put into words. It is a barbarism and brutality that smacks primarily of Hitler’s Germany but also of Pol Pot’s Cambodia and Milosevic’s Serbia. It speaks of a baseness in the human psyche – the shadow self, the untamed beast.

Take this story and make sense of it if you can.

A Somali shop owner lived in one of the Cape Town townships/shantytowns for over seven years. He lent his predominantly Xhosa neighbours money, did their shopping when they’ve were unable to, gave their children sweets. He was a part of their community and his prices were better than the supermarkets. Yet there he stood in his shop two weeks ago when his neighbour walked into the shop and started toyi-toyi-ing. He said to her “Sisi [sister], you must sing when you dance,” not realising that her dance was a Judas kiss which brought all his other neighbours into the shop. His neighbours looted the shop, burnt it down and chased him from his home and neighbourhood screaming “Hamba amakwerekwere, hamba!” (Go, foreigner, go!)

There is no logic in this action. This man had done nothing to them. In fact, he had helped them, yet this was how they repaid him – by turning on him and destroying everything he had.

It’s not an isolated incident. In recent weeks events like this have unfolded across South Africa.

Angela’s husband has experienced much the same. For two years he has lived amongst his neighbours, renting a room from a local woman. As a qualified welder running his own business, he has created burglar bars, sliding gates and security gates for the people he lives amongst. Yet, on top of never wanting to pay him (after all, why should they pay a foreigner), two weeks ago they looted the workshop where he worked and stole most of his equipment. He now has to either start from scratch or find employment with a company. The irony is, these same locals are now asking when he'll come back and do more burglar bars for him. As he says, he doesn't want to go back, it's not safe and will never be. Foreigners, he says, are natural targets from local criminal elements - and others, simply because they're foreign

As events have unfolded, foreigners across South Africa have been necklaced and burnt to death, they’ve been attacked and victimized, they’ve had their belongings stolen or burnt. Many fled with just the clothes on their back. Locals have shown a complete lack of human compassion, understanding - and basic humanity. A negative energy which has touched everyone has pervaded the country like an unexpected, rampant cancer. Of course, one might say it was not that unexpected. And it wasn’t – it’s been waiting to happen – it started happening five years ago (and that’s without mentioning South Africa’s long history of ethnic violence). But the government in its “wisdom” has, as ever, failed to act - and continues to do too little, too late.

It would, of course, be gloriously easy to say, as so many do, “Oh, this is the legacy of apartheid.” To that, I say, "Rubbish! Wake up and smell the roses." Yes, of course, apartheid was a deeply dehumanizing system, no one denies that, of course it has left scars. But we are fourteen years on and huge efforts have been made to heal the rifts. Yet today, racism is more alive and well in South Africa than it has ever been. It is conceivably far worse than ever.

Angela’s husband and I were chatting this morning.

“You know what they say in the townships,” he said, “why they want this Zuma as president? Because they say he is going to chase away the whites. They don’t want whites in South Africa, they want only themselves, they hate everyone else. They look to Zimbabwe and they say, yes, that Mugabe, he has the right idea, he chased away the whites. They’re mad, these people, crazy. They’re ignorant. They don’t know what the reality will be. They will have nothing. South Africa will end up like Zimbabwe – and unlike Zimbabweans, these South Africans they don’t want to work, they don’t know how to work. They want everything, but it must be given to them for nothing.”

My own experience of many South Africans bears this out. The resentment and hatred continues to brood and brew. It is targeted at minority ethnic groups, irrespective of colour or creed. Alongside it the culture of entitlement and non-payment continues to grow.

“You know,” said Angela’s husband, “they were attacking everyone they saw when we left. It didn’t matter that you were black, if you were blacker than them, they attacked you. Even their own people. It was only when people could prove they spoke their language that they stopped beating them, but everyone else – local people and foreigners – who didn’t speak their language, they attacked, even the old ladies, the grandmothers.”

(Do take into account that South Africa has 11 official languages and eight non official languages...)

There is a strong sense among those I speak to that this violence is but the beginning. That it will, in time, spread from attacks on foreigners to attacks on the Indian, “coloured” (mixed race), white and other smaller ethnic populations.

The ANC government has had fourteen years to make a difference – and it has failed miserably. President Thabo Mbeki continues to argue that there is no crisis in Zimbabwe. I suspect he still believes that AIDS is the white man’s hex on the black man and that it can be cured by the African potato and a goodly dose of garlic. He has presided over an education system which is in tatters, health services which have failed miserably, and borders that are as porous as sieves. The fact that it took him two weeks to act and another two and a half weeks to speak out against the xenophobia, also speaks volumes, as does his refusal to invite the UN to lend assistance to the thousands of refugees housed in tented camps in the middle of a wet and cold winter. One can only assume that along with Bob from up North, he’s done a deal with the devil (or maybe the Chinese). Of course, as to his successor, Jacob Zuma, currently facing charges of fraud and corruption (which he and his cronies are doing their level best to quash), I think it would be safe to say, he’ll go with the highest bidder. As it is, his message changes from day to day depending on what any given audience wishes to hear.

Those who think the writing isn’t on the wall for the “Rainbow Nation” are surely living in a fool’s paradise whilst imitating the good old ostrich.

The shredding and shame of the Rainbow Nation

As xenophobic violence rips its way across South Africa, displacing thousands of foreign migrants and political refugees, I find myself at a loss for words when subject to the cruelty, hatred and brutality of South Africans towards their neighbours. The tragic irony is that Zimbabweans, Malawians and Mozambicans all welcomed South African political refugees in the bad old days of apartheid, gave them hospitality and aided them in their struggle against the white minority government. But memories are short and the pressing poverty (and inherent violence) of South African society far outweighs issues of humanity.

And bear in mind that it is not only foreigners being attacked but local people too - Vendas, Pedis, Shangaans, have all been told to leave Johannesburg and go back to their own provinces (counties/states). The violence is also spreading to Durban and Cape Town.

There is a view that says a politically motivated third force is behind the wave of violence. This may or may not be true.

But the reality is, the truth, whatever it is, is deeply complex and Thabo Mbeki, in his usual and ineffective way, has called for yet another "investigation". As if that will solve the problem. The Times, in particular, has torn into Mbeki's policies, or lack thereof, as being a direct cause of the violence.

I leave you with this and suggest you look at the related links in the article too. Also go here. Or follow the various links from here.

Hello Xenophobia, my old friend, you raise your ugly head again...

I was pondering what to write about today when Angela arrived.
“Did you see the news last night?” she asked me.
I hadn’t.
“They’re killing Zimbabweans and Malawians – beating them – three people have died.”
“Who?” I asked, “who’s killing them – where?”
“Zulus – in Alexandra.”
Alexandra is a shanty town in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg. An estimated 350 000 people live in “Alex”. They occupy 8500 formal houses, 34 000 shacks, 3 hostel complexes, 2 500 flats and numerous old factories and buildings. In the past few days xenophobic violence has flared across the community as local people have lashed out foreigners – Malawians, Zimbabweans, Congolese, Rwandans… Claiming the foreigners take their jobs and their homes. The foreigners, terrified for their lives, have fled to police stations where they are barely getting any food. Some, in fact, have had no food for a few days.
“They say that we must go back to Zimbabwe,” said Angela, “But we can’t, Mugabe is killing us there. Everyday he is killing people. I’m frightened. What if the Xhosas here start doing the same thing here in the Cape. Where will we go? We can’t go back. And if we stay here, South African black people will kill us. I’m worried.”
Worried is an understatement.
“What about Mozambique?” I asked.
“Yes, they are good people in Mozambique, but there are no jobs. You just sell things in the market. I don’t know what we will do.”
And so we face another grim reality of Angela’s daily existence. And that reality is xenophobia - rampant xenophobia which spills and spreads like an oil slick from the north to the south of South Africa. And the interesting thing is this: While, by and large, most white South Africans have accepted the nearly 5 million refugees from various parts of Africa, most black South Africans have not. They view these foreigners as troublemakers who “steal” their homes and their jobs. Ironically, the refugees have aided the South African economy hugely, doing whatever jobs come their way – while many locals would prefer to see largesse simply handed to them on a plate. So, yes, local people may be right in saying the foreigners are stealing their jobs – but only because they can – because many locals are simply not willing to work in the same way. It’s a tragic sort of irony.
“I pray every day to God,” said Angela, “I pray that he will make them not hate us and hurt us. I don’t understand it,” she said, “We are all Africans together.”
And therein lies the greatest irony. Not only are we all Africans together on this benighted continent, but we are all humans together, not just in Africa but in the whole world. And look at us, look at how we bicker and fight. I often wonder what an ET looking at this planet must think.
The simple reality is this, one man feels he is threatened and he attacks the man who lives next door. You see it the world over. You just have to look at the rise of nationalism across Europe. You hear the same arguments in the UK – “these foreigners are taking our jobs, we must have tougher immigration control”. And so it goes. It's a strange phenomenon for a global "village" isn't it, the villagers hating and fighting with one another.
But while most of us sit in our safe houses, with food on the tables, in Zimbabwe – and countless other places - people are starving and living in fear of their lives.
And as the global economic crisis plays itself out the people who are worst hit are the poorest. Local people are rising up at this moment against refugees because food prices have soared as a result of purported global food shortages – but you just have to look at the considerable food waste in the West to really question the reality of that position.
“I can’t go back to Zim,” Angela said as she pushed the iron back and forth over a shirt, “We will die. I know we will die. If Mugabe doesn’t kill us, we will starve to death. But I am frightened to stay here. I don’t know what we will do.”
And I have no answers. I don’t know what to say to her. All I can do is pass on the phenomenal goodwill that so many of you sent her via this blog last week. And when I do so, her eyes soften and she says, “Thank you, thank you, there are good people in the world.”

For more on the Alexandra violence and the plight of African foreigners in South Africa, you can take a look here here, here and here

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.

The pain we see

These eyes, they stare at me and haunt me...

I am constantly struck by the pain in the world – and how it permeates every aspect of humankind. And then I wonder at that word – human + kind – earthly beings amongst whom there is never really enough kindness… Whenever I drive down to the local mall, there are always people begging at the traffic lights. Usually they stand there with a piece of cardboard on which is scribbled, “No Job. 4 Kids to Feed. Please help. God Bless”. Often their faces are contorted by an excess of alcohol and meths. And their eyes…to look into their eyes is so see the numbness that has surpassed oceans and eons of pain and trauma. Once when I stopped a child came to my window – I usually avoid eye contact, there is just so much pain I can bear to look at – but this time I looked. In the eyes of a child the pain still shows – the anger, the fear, the terror are still revealed though you see from the edges how the numbness, the self-preservatory armor of anaesthesia, creeps in. So young and yet already subjected to so much abuse.

We are a strange species. We injure each other so much – and to what end? I live, as you know, in a society that has endured the most violent of injurious behaviour – and which still continues to perpetuate that violence and injury – but in different ways. But it is not just here, it is not just this point in time. Consider, as a case in point, what’s currently happening in Burma. Consider the actions of Vlad Ţepeş against Ottoman expansionism. Violence and pain seem, so tragically, an almost fundamental part of our natures. Who’d have thought to look at it like that, that it would be like that? Especially when we would so much prefer to focus on our noble and gentler natures.

But you see, here’s the thing that is constantly made obvious to me. Many of us carry – to a greater or lesser extent - some kind of pain and trauma. Inevitably it stems from our childhood. Inevitably it was linked to our parents’ or some other’s pain. It finds its roots in pain that has gone on to become accepted childrearing practice - what Alice Miller calls the poisonous pedagogy. It goes on to shape societies and systems of governance. Seldom if ever did we bring the pain upon ourselves – yet we almost always pass it on. So there it is and there we sit with it. What becomes pivotal is how we deal with our pain – if we deal with it - if we are able to deal with it. Either we handle it and heal ourselves from it – and it strikes me that those who do are in the minority – for it takes resources, support, love, courage and fortitude to mine the depths of that which injured us and move on. Or, we pass it on. We may do so by turning it inward or we may vent our spleen on those around us – whether we know them or not. We try to make our issues their issues, we fail to deal with the things that make us ache and instead, like hand grenades, we detonate outwards, spreading and scattering our pain and our fear - through one means or another. And isn’t this perhaps the root of our problems - our and society's failure or inability to take responsibility for personal traumas, issues, baggage - the stuff that we all carry to some extent or another? Of course some might say, “But I didn’t ask for this to happen to me, it’s not my fault, not my responsibility.” Actually, whether you “asked” for it or not, it’s yours and utlimately only you can take the responsiblity - with support and love and care - to deal with it. No one else can. We start with ourselves, with a single step. Perhaps that is indeed the challenge of being human – to acknowledge, call up and accept our pain - personal and collective, to deal with it and our needs and fears, to move beyond and so to stop the rot of the constant spreading of personal trauma and fear. I accept it is not always easy, that circumstances can work against us but perhaps it is a case of to each his/her own level of challenge. I don't know. All I do know is I wish we'd stop hurting others because we are hurt - it makes for far too much of a Catch-22 situation which goes on and on and on...

This is a huge, complex and multiple topic - which probably deserves an entire blog, not just one short blog post - and I accept that I'm brushing the surface and that, as always, there are many ways of looking at any one thing.

I'm not sure if the single image above qualifies for Phoctober over at Moon Topples or not - the general instructions are, well, general... but take a look and see what's happening anyway.

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!)