After a restless, rehearsal-filled weekend of hating the world, I came to work on Monday to face a pile of paperwork and listen to the endless stream of unhappy callers. By 9am, I was on to the 40th caller and so very over it. Whilst humming along to one of Algoa’s finest tunes, “It’s just another manic Monday, wish it was Sunday…”, the phone rang for the 41st time. I picked it up reluctantly. It was not a query, however, this man was from the police, the Uitenhage Police.
Warrant Officer Smith*: Good morning, I am looking for Francis, Philippa Jayne?
Me: Yes sir, I mean, Officer.
Warrant Officer Smith: I think we have found your car.
Me: Oh my goodness.
Warrant Officer Smith: But it is in Uitenhage.
Me: Where?
Warrant Officer Smith: We found it in Motherwell. And we know who the thief is. He ran away.
Me: What does the car look like?
Warrant Officer Smith and his Uitenhage men had indeed found my car (later identified by the owner-on-paper, Jayne Turner) in Motherwell minus a petrol cap, cubby hole and a few other accessories. And he said that even though they had done a good job of “messing up” the ignition, I “could probably drive it again one day”.
Now this doesn’t sound much like excellent news but the fact is: SAPS members found my car in two and a half days. Mom was given the job of driving to Uitenhage to identify the Blue Bomber. She recognised her immediately despite the changed number plates and muddy interior. The costumes are long-gone though and the costume hire ladies are furious! Hopefully, I will be able to claim a little money from insurance and offer a token gesture.
Now will follow the lengthy process of insurance assessment and claims to have the car fixed. It should be an expensive experience. But I digress from my praise of the police. When I walked out of the office on Friday afternoon, I phoned my mother who phoned stepdad, Brian, who phoned the police. At 5:30pm, the Walmer Police had arrived at my home to take a statement. We all discussed the slim chance of ever finding the car whole. Surely, it had been stolen for its parts? The two Walmer officers referred me to Humewood Police Station because my claim would be processed more quickly.
I reported the theft at 10:30am on Saturday morning. By lunchtime, I had been texted a case number and confirmation that the theft had been circulated in police circles. That evening, an administrator phoned to check if I had received my case number and gave me some contact details of the Warrant Officer in charge of the investigation. On Monday, my car was found. And the thief has been caught. He is probably sitting in Uitenhage jail.
A pretty efficient process, if you ask me. I was lucky. And my belief in South African society had edged back up the ladder just a smidge.
*The Warrant Officer's name has been changed for obvious safety reasons.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Monday, 25 October 2010
Goodbye to my friend the Leopard
My little Opel Kadett was stolen on Friday somewhere between 07:50 and 16:30 outside my workplace. I walked out after work to find it gone.
Besides the obvious financial inconvenience (very limited insurance and R5,000 worth of hired costumes in the boot), it is the sentimental value of the car which is important and the most upsetting. My sense of security has been violated.
The Blue Bomber, or the Blue Leopard as it is more affectionately known, would be 21 next year, an awe-some feat for any car. They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they? I get stopped at traffic lights, petrol stations, shopping centre parking lots and cricket grounds by funny-looking creatures all offering to buy my little Opel: “How much you want, lady?”
I was driving home the other night around 9pm. Whilst waiting at a red traffic light in a not-so-nice part of town, someone starting hooting loudly and very close to me. I turned to the car next door, a 4x4 Isuzu monstrosity, to see a man gesturing wildly out of his window at what seemed to be my tyres. I simply couldn’t be sure. I ignored him. But the robot remained as red as ever.
Next, there was a tapping at my window. Now, I was scared. I looked to see the same jolly man shouting through my passenger window: “You have such a ‘kewl kar’ lady. Come on, how much you want?” I left tyre marks when I sped off with the green light, leaving the 4x4 and the scary man in my dust.
I know how cool and reliable my car is, dude. That is why I am still driving it!
I am reminded of the most recent Tracker advert. A little baby is rescued from the back from the back of a stolen car, thanks to Tracker of course and she, in turn, is afforded a lifetime of memories. I, too, have an entire timeline of good and bad times in the bomber imprinted in my mind.
When the car still belonged to Granny Pixie, I remember traveling in the backseat with the smelly dogs from Port Elizabeth to Port Alfred for holidays at the beach shack and being dropped off at tennis tournaments in the December holidays. Granny was always a sophisticated smoker and I remember her having the odd puff in the Blue Bomber. On rainy days, when the car leaks a little, one smells the faint odour of cigarettes and times gone by. Once, a lighter, left on the dashboard, exploded from the heat. My Aunt Pat thought we were being shot at and made my brother and I duck under the seats.
We have always had at least one bomber running in the Turner household. When I was just a wee babe, Brian had a little red backfire of a machine, Mom had a mustard-coloured Escort when we were in Swaziland (I have forgotten to ask how it got from Port Elizabeth to Swaziland and survived for a couple years after that) and then followed the Toyota Cresida, the best car we ever had. Fifteen years later, the Cresida was still our family car carrying around the rather large five children. In my first year at Rhodes, tri-varsity was being held in PE. The Cresida bomber was in the garage for repairs, and so Brian made use of the Blue Bomber to fetch four of my friends on his way through Grahamstown to join me and the festivities at NMMU.
When I obtained my driver’s license (some people are still shocked that this was allowed to happen), I was permitted to take the Bomber with me to Rhodes when I moved into a house share. This resulted in a little extra freedom; Lillies trips to the beach when I should have been studying for exams, trips to PE via Nanaga farm stall for tennis league and watching cricket at Manley Flats. I coached tennis at St Andrews during my Rhodes career. The boys used to fight over who could have a lift back to hostel in the ‘limousine’, which was soon re-named by them as the Blue Leopard, stealthy as she was quick.
In February of 2008, Dad and I made the trip to Stellenbosch in the Bomber. I was off to complete an Honours course. It was 35 degrees Celsius. The Bomber obviously has no aircon; we sweated the whole 12 hour trip. But the Bomber nearly died too. We thought she would definitely overheat. We stopped regularly for re-hydration breaks for all three of us. At Stellenbosch University, I added hundreds of fantastic Blue Leopard moments to my memory bank; early morning drives to Jonkershoek, picnics on the river, trips to Cape Town with my new flat mate and getting very stuck in the traffic after a free Celine Dion concert.
And over the last two years, the Bomber, in a new era, has been carrying my brother Tristan to school and to varsity, to Barneys and to tennis, to friends and to fun. Man, we were all hoping she would last another ten years. There is no way we can afford another car. But more than that, I will miss the Blue Leopard for all the wonderful memories. She has just always been there.
Really wish I’d had Tracker…
Besides the obvious financial inconvenience (very limited insurance and R5,000 worth of hired costumes in the boot), it is the sentimental value of the car which is important and the most upsetting. My sense of security has been violated.
The Blue Bomber, or the Blue Leopard as it is more affectionately known, would be 21 next year, an awe-some feat for any car. They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they? I get stopped at traffic lights, petrol stations, shopping centre parking lots and cricket grounds by funny-looking creatures all offering to buy my little Opel: “How much you want, lady?”
I was driving home the other night around 9pm. Whilst waiting at a red traffic light in a not-so-nice part of town, someone starting hooting loudly and very close to me. I turned to the car next door, a 4x4 Isuzu monstrosity, to see a man gesturing wildly out of his window at what seemed to be my tyres. I simply couldn’t be sure. I ignored him. But the robot remained as red as ever.
Next, there was a tapping at my window. Now, I was scared. I looked to see the same jolly man shouting through my passenger window: “You have such a ‘kewl kar’ lady. Come on, how much you want?” I left tyre marks when I sped off with the green light, leaving the 4x4 and the scary man in my dust.
I know how cool and reliable my car is, dude. That is why I am still driving it!
I am reminded of the most recent Tracker advert. A little baby is rescued from the back from the back of a stolen car, thanks to Tracker of course and she, in turn, is afforded a lifetime of memories. I, too, have an entire timeline of good and bad times in the bomber imprinted in my mind.
When the car still belonged to Granny Pixie, I remember traveling in the backseat with the smelly dogs from Port Elizabeth to Port Alfred for holidays at the beach shack and being dropped off at tennis tournaments in the December holidays. Granny was always a sophisticated smoker and I remember her having the odd puff in the Blue Bomber. On rainy days, when the car leaks a little, one smells the faint odour of cigarettes and times gone by. Once, a lighter, left on the dashboard, exploded from the heat. My Aunt Pat thought we were being shot at and made my brother and I duck under the seats.
We have always had at least one bomber running in the Turner household. When I was just a wee babe, Brian had a little red backfire of a machine, Mom had a mustard-coloured Escort when we were in Swaziland (I have forgotten to ask how it got from Port Elizabeth to Swaziland and survived for a couple years after that) and then followed the Toyota Cresida, the best car we ever had. Fifteen years later, the Cresida was still our family car carrying around the rather large five children. In my first year at Rhodes, tri-varsity was being held in PE. The Cresida bomber was in the garage for repairs, and so Brian made use of the Blue Bomber to fetch four of my friends on his way through Grahamstown to join me and the festivities at NMMU.
When I obtained my driver’s license (some people are still shocked that this was allowed to happen), I was permitted to take the Bomber with me to Rhodes when I moved into a house share. This resulted in a little extra freedom; Lillies trips to the beach when I should have been studying for exams, trips to PE via Nanaga farm stall for tennis league and watching cricket at Manley Flats. I coached tennis at St Andrews during my Rhodes career. The boys used to fight over who could have a lift back to hostel in the ‘limousine’, which was soon re-named by them as the Blue Leopard, stealthy as she was quick.
In February of 2008, Dad and I made the trip to Stellenbosch in the Bomber. I was off to complete an Honours course. It was 35 degrees Celsius. The Bomber obviously has no aircon; we sweated the whole 12 hour trip. But the Bomber nearly died too. We thought she would definitely overheat. We stopped regularly for re-hydration breaks for all three of us. At Stellenbosch University, I added hundreds of fantastic Blue Leopard moments to my memory bank; early morning drives to Jonkershoek, picnics on the river, trips to Cape Town with my new flat mate and getting very stuck in the traffic after a free Celine Dion concert.
And over the last two years, the Bomber, in a new era, has been carrying my brother Tristan to school and to varsity, to Barneys and to tennis, to friends and to fun. Man, we were all hoping she would last another ten years. There is no way we can afford another car. But more than that, I will miss the Blue Leopard for all the wonderful memories. She has just always been there.
Really wish I’d had Tracker…
Thursday, 15 July 2010
A bientot Angleterre - 3 July 2010
I am at my last caring job, back where it all began, in Swanley, Kent. It seems fitting that my caring experience started and ended here. I remember arriving in January; cold, petrified and bewildered. And rightfully so, it was awful. I have now returned feeling those same emotions because I knew what was in store for me, 18 days of hellish moments and unhappy people. I am lucky though that my outlook has shifted somewhat. That was my first caring job and I was worried that all my bookings would be that bad. This is my last caring job (for, hopefully, a very long time) and I know it cannot get any worse.
The weather is surprisingly good. Once again, the Wimbledon Championships haven't needed to use their 2 billion pound roof because of rain (touch wood) and people, generally, are in a happier mood. I have exactly 27 days left in England. Not much time when one subtracts my working days. I did not think I would be sad about leaving, but I am. I realise this is the "end of an era", my gap year has come to an end. It is now time to grow up, to hit the real world, to leave the raucousness of young life behind me. Well, maybe not quite yet. We shall have to see. Most of all, now that I have tasted a bit of travel, I am so hungry for more. I am hoping to get to Ireland to visit family friends from Durban days in Cork and then head over to Dublin for a day of sightseeing and Guinness drinking with an old Rhodes friend (feel like I have to go to Dublin and sample the true Guinness after my one-week stint with the Guinness family at Biddesden House in Andover in April; 36 wooden floors to polish, etc). And then my travels will be over.
I watched Ghana play an amazing World Cup match last night, and I like the rest of the world except, I think, the Uruguan nation, was desperately urging them on. The commentators on ITV 1 here in Britain didn't even pretend to be neutral, everyone was dreaming of an African win. It would have been amazing...but then Idiot Extraordinaire Suarez had to devastate us all. He should be suspended and heavily fined for putting an end to what could have been a dreamlike finish. I hope he had plenty of security last night.
It has been such an up and down year. I look forward to being in the same place for a couple of months and seeing some familiar faces on a daily basis. Most of all, I long to feel South African again, and even though I have missed the World Cup, there seems to much positivity over there. I hope it will continue for some time to come.
Fra
Things I will miss about England:
The five days of glorious weather after a forever of Winter;
The postal system;
Perhaps the public transport (ok, definitely the public transport);
Easy access to Europe (if you're not on a South African passport or already have a Schengen Visa);
The great British friends I have made;
And the South Africans I would probably never have met and have grown to love;
144 Florence Road and the memories;
Wimbledon Broadway;
Walkabout (never thought I'd say this! Damn!);
Walking past the All England Club (the home of the Wimbledon Championships);
Being just a number (in other words, whoever you want to be at any given time);
The West End, so close but yet so far;
Covent Garden;
Pre-packaged everything;
Argos;
Savannahs and Snoggys;
Waterstones;
Hyde Park;
the walking everywhere you go;
The pubs (one on every corner). Always a pub...
The weather is surprisingly good. Once again, the Wimbledon Championships haven't needed to use their 2 billion pound roof because of rain (touch wood) and people, generally, are in a happier mood. I have exactly 27 days left in England. Not much time when one subtracts my working days. I did not think I would be sad about leaving, but I am. I realise this is the "end of an era", my gap year has come to an end. It is now time to grow up, to hit the real world, to leave the raucousness of young life behind me. Well, maybe not quite yet. We shall have to see. Most of all, now that I have tasted a bit of travel, I am so hungry for more. I am hoping to get to Ireland to visit family friends from Durban days in Cork and then head over to Dublin for a day of sightseeing and Guinness drinking with an old Rhodes friend (feel like I have to go to Dublin and sample the true Guinness after my one-week stint with the Guinness family at Biddesden House in Andover in April; 36 wooden floors to polish, etc). And then my travels will be over.
I watched Ghana play an amazing World Cup match last night, and I like the rest of the world except, I think, the Uruguan nation, was desperately urging them on. The commentators on ITV 1 here in Britain didn't even pretend to be neutral, everyone was dreaming of an African win. It would have been amazing...but then Idiot Extraordinaire Suarez had to devastate us all. He should be suspended and heavily fined for putting an end to what could have been a dreamlike finish. I hope he had plenty of security last night.
It has been such an up and down year. I look forward to being in the same place for a couple of months and seeing some familiar faces on a daily basis. Most of all, I long to feel South African again, and even though I have missed the World Cup, there seems to much positivity over there. I hope it will continue for some time to come.
Fra
Things I will miss about England:
The five days of glorious weather after a forever of Winter;
The postal system;
Perhaps the public transport (ok, definitely the public transport);
Easy access to Europe (if you're not on a South African passport or already have a Schengen Visa);
The great British friends I have made;
And the South Africans I would probably never have met and have grown to love;
144 Florence Road and the memories;
Wimbledon Broadway;
Walkabout (never thought I'd say this! Damn!);
Walking past the All England Club (the home of the Wimbledon Championships);
Being just a number (in other words, whoever you want to be at any given time);
The West End, so close but yet so far;
Covent Garden;
Pre-packaged everything;
Argos;
Savannahs and Snoggys;
Waterstones;
Hyde Park;
the walking everywhere you go;
The pubs (one on every corner). Always a pub...
Thursday, 1 July 2010
My Whirlwind trip of Europe - 2 to 31 May
Hallo, Gutentag, Ciao, Bonjourno, Salut!
Greetings to all of you from a little place called Copthorne. No, wait...greetings from a very busy road in the middle of nowhere near a little place called Copthorne near a town called Crawley wherein lies a garage, one little shop, an ATM and a pub, of course. Always a pub. Once again, I find myself in the land of little reception, no internet and a grumpy elderly woman.
BUT, I am willing to do much more housework and cooking of three-course meals and smelly dog walking after my May month. I took off 28 days from caring and went off by myself on the trip of a lifetime. I made a whole bunch of new friends in the 18 days of my Contiki tour, had many a good 'jol' and saw some spellbinding, dreamlike, movie-making, life-changing places. I could not be more grateful for the experience truly.
After the 18 days of sleep deprivation, constant rain (it rained every day), illness (Contiki cough) and pure delirium, I made my way to Gatwick airport in a huge flurry only for my flight to be delayed for an hour. I was off to Geneva to visit Mom's life-long friend and former tennis partner, Lucille Rijs, and her family at their lovely home on the French/Swiss border. I have been trying to make this trip for some time but getting a visa was a nightmare and then volcanic eruptions and various non-refundable cancelled tickets meant I was only able to squeeze the trip in just after my Contiki tour. The Rijs' are based in Chens-sur-Leman, France but Jan works in Geneva, Switzerland.
It is amazing how easily we moved from one country to the other. The Rijs' really spoilt me; I caught up on much-needed sleep, saw some beautiful places, had a weird but wonderful night out with Lara, Jean and Chantelle in Geneva and even spoke some good French. Well, 'good' may be taking it a step too far...but at least I spoke. The lake is quite spectacular, especially when the weather is good. The weather was very kind to me after the 18 days of rain as the sun shone all six days of my stay. Lucille even dragged me off to the tennis courts...twice. I played poorly but thoroughly enjoyed it and I am looking forward to hitting the courts on my return to SA in just under two months time.
On the 27th May, I made my last pitstop (with cousin Garyth Turner) to Erlangen, Germnay, to Franconian territory and the site of 'Berg', a local beer festival. And what a surprise, a different London airport, another delay. And we ended up missing our connecting flight in Munich. Fortunately, we could hop on a train to Nuremberg where Robs Clarkson picked us up. Nicknamed 'Berg' because the two-week festival happens on a little mountain, the event is VERY local and a well-kept secret. Garyth and I must have been one of three tourists there (all in all). We stayed with Clarksons, cousins of our cousins (make sense?) in the little village of Dechsendorf, only a short busride from the Berg. Let me remind you that I am now at Day 25 of 28 and the body is feeling it somewhat. Garyth has been dutifully working and behaving in London but the look on his face as we arrive at the festival is one of fear and knowing of what is to come. We had a glorious time with Robs, Andrew and the family (and the locals). Again, no sleep or rest from the party. We did not understand anyone, no one understodd us but we left with many a friend and the beer was SUPERB!
We watched the Super 14 on the Saturday and what a day for South African rugby and for the nation herself. We walked around in our SA rugby jerseys, blowing a vuvuzela and singing the National Anthem. Everyone thought we were nuts, we thought we were the coolest people on earth, if not the proudest. I nearly killed Andrew during the evening though as he would not stop blowing the vuvuzela but he woke up with a swollen upper lip the next day and paid his price.
A year of crappy jobs, weather, crashed computers, ol' grumps and washing one million soiled sheets by hand has been heavily outweighed by life experience, new friendship, unforgettable memories and self belief.
I am so sad that I will miss the World Cup. I watched England arrive in Rustenburg to an unforgettable welcome. I saw Piers Morgan's World Cup special about what it has done for the country, how the singer Nelson Mandela had chosen for the opening ceremony died from meningitis only weeks before realising his dream, I read Desomond Tutu's articles in the international newspapers. Pride, patriotism and pure contentment overwhelms me when I see what can happen, what good there is in the world along with the evil and sadness. So, viva South Africa, viva! May it be the best, most unique World Cup ever.
Greetings to all of you from a little place called Copthorne. No, wait...greetings from a very busy road in the middle of nowhere near a little place called Copthorne near a town called Crawley wherein lies a garage, one little shop, an ATM and a pub, of course. Always a pub. Once again, I find myself in the land of little reception, no internet and a grumpy elderly woman.
BUT, I am willing to do much more housework and cooking of three-course meals and smelly dog walking after my May month. I took off 28 days from caring and went off by myself on the trip of a lifetime. I made a whole bunch of new friends in the 18 days of my Contiki tour, had many a good 'jol' and saw some spellbinding, dreamlike, movie-making, life-changing places. I could not be more grateful for the experience truly.
After the 18 days of sleep deprivation, constant rain (it rained every day), illness (Contiki cough) and pure delirium, I made my way to Gatwick airport in a huge flurry only for my flight to be delayed for an hour. I was off to Geneva to visit Mom's life-long friend and former tennis partner, Lucille Rijs, and her family at their lovely home on the French/Swiss border. I have been trying to make this trip for some time but getting a visa was a nightmare and then volcanic eruptions and various non-refundable cancelled tickets meant I was only able to squeeze the trip in just after my Contiki tour. The Rijs' are based in Chens-sur-Leman, France but Jan works in Geneva, Switzerland.
It is amazing how easily we moved from one country to the other. The Rijs' really spoilt me; I caught up on much-needed sleep, saw some beautiful places, had a weird but wonderful night out with Lara, Jean and Chantelle in Geneva and even spoke some good French. Well, 'good' may be taking it a step too far...but at least I spoke. The lake is quite spectacular, especially when the weather is good. The weather was very kind to me after the 18 days of rain as the sun shone all six days of my stay. Lucille even dragged me off to the tennis courts...twice. I played poorly but thoroughly enjoyed it and I am looking forward to hitting the courts on my return to SA in just under two months time.
On the 27th May, I made my last pitstop (with cousin Garyth Turner) to Erlangen, Germnay, to Franconian territory and the site of 'Berg', a local beer festival. And what a surprise, a different London airport, another delay. And we ended up missing our connecting flight in Munich. Fortunately, we could hop on a train to Nuremberg where Robs Clarkson picked us up. Nicknamed 'Berg' because the two-week festival happens on a little mountain, the event is VERY local and a well-kept secret. Garyth and I must have been one of three tourists there (all in all). We stayed with Clarksons, cousins of our cousins (make sense?) in the little village of Dechsendorf, only a short busride from the Berg. Let me remind you that I am now at Day 25 of 28 and the body is feeling it somewhat. Garyth has been dutifully working and behaving in London but the look on his face as we arrive at the festival is one of fear and knowing of what is to come. We had a glorious time with Robs, Andrew and the family (and the locals). Again, no sleep or rest from the party. We did not understand anyone, no one understodd us but we left with many a friend and the beer was SUPERB!
We watched the Super 14 on the Saturday and what a day for South African rugby and for the nation herself. We walked around in our SA rugby jerseys, blowing a vuvuzela and singing the National Anthem. Everyone thought we were nuts, we thought we were the coolest people on earth, if not the proudest. I nearly killed Andrew during the evening though as he would not stop blowing the vuvuzela but he woke up with a swollen upper lip the next day and paid his price.
A year of crappy jobs, weather, crashed computers, ol' grumps and washing one million soiled sheets by hand has been heavily outweighed by life experience, new friendship, unforgettable memories and self belief.
I am so sad that I will miss the World Cup. I watched England arrive in Rustenburg to an unforgettable welcome. I saw Piers Morgan's World Cup special about what it has done for the country, how the singer Nelson Mandela had chosen for the opening ceremony died from meningitis only weeks before realising his dream, I read Desomond Tutu's articles in the international newspapers. Pride, patriotism and pure contentment overwhelms me when I see what can happen, what good there is in the world along with the evil and sadness. So, viva South Africa, viva! May it be the best, most unique World Cup ever.
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Focus on politics, not polygamy
I was proud when I saw my President talking to Queen Elizabeth and when I saw my President and his wife standing with Gordon and Sarah Brown outside 10 Downing Street. I thought, now, this is how it should be. Look how far we have come. Usually, I am the first to place Mr Jacob Zuma in a box. I have written letters of criticism about him to newspapers, concerning his corruption and rape charges. I tried to dissuade people from voting for him.
Since moving to the United Kingdom, however, I have become increasingly upset by the constant negative television coverage and newspaper reporting of South Africa; some articles written by journalists who have never been to the country and have made no effort to understand the variety of cultures or troubled history.
At the time of Jacob Zuma’s arrival in England, the media focussed on President Zuma’s polygamous lifestyle, with one journalist even shouting “Would you recommend polygamy to Mr Brown?” to Zuma outside No. 10.
Now, I find myself coming to the defence of Mr Zuma. Janet Street-Porter, editor of The Independent on Sunday (7 March 2010), sums it up pretty well, “When it comes to polygamy, Mr Zuma may be a Zulu, but he’s not an acceptable caste to the British media folk”. Polygamy, especially if it involves a black leader, is an issue which seems to bring out the worst in the British and “middle-class liberals suddenly go into meltdown and become narrow minded moralists”, says Street-Porter. Why is King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia or the Prime Minister of the United Arab Emirates acceptable to the British media? Both of these leaders have several wives and children.
Sally Bercow, the Speaker’s wife, made comments she may have thought humorous but were distasteful, if not hugely ignorant, “President and Mrs Zuma are here later...pretty sure it’s the same Mrs Zuma I met last night...if it’s not the same Mrs Zuma, I’ll feel as if I am being disloyal to the one I met”.
Zuma should not be judged on his polygamous lifestyle by ignorant people in this country or the media looking for an catchy headline. Leave the subject of his many wives and children to his own people and fellow countrymen. Do judge him on his stance on Zimbabwe, his action (or lack of) on policy in South Africa, his view of the AIDS catastrophe.
As much as it is absolutely necessary for newly independent countries to be judged by the same standards as other democratic states, it is also relevant to remember that the majority of South Africa’s people were oppressed for nearly two centuries. Sixteen years on from the first democratic election, it needs to be emphasised that South Africa and other developing African countries are still struggling with the colonial legacy; rearranging culture, language and belief around a “Western” lifestyle and values, dealing with the financial gap between the elite and the poor, intense poverty, AIDS, and racial tension. Zuma admits that ultimately, “Africa’s future rests in the hands of Africans” (The Economist, The World in 2010).
Let the media celebrate the positives as well as the negatives of President Zuma’s visit. Seventeen years ago, a visit to the United Kingdom by the President of South Africa would not have happened. Her people were at war with an apartheid government. In 2009, a majority of voters kept the ANC in power and chose Jacob Zuma as their leader. As was written in The Times editorial, “South Africa is easily the most sophisticated and powerful country in the continent” (5 March 2010). There is no doubt that Zuma has much to prove to the international community. But for goodness sake, focus on his politics, not his polygamy.
Since moving to the United Kingdom, however, I have become increasingly upset by the constant negative television coverage and newspaper reporting of South Africa; some articles written by journalists who have never been to the country and have made no effort to understand the variety of cultures or troubled history.
At the time of Jacob Zuma’s arrival in England, the media focussed on President Zuma’s polygamous lifestyle, with one journalist even shouting “Would you recommend polygamy to Mr Brown?” to Zuma outside No. 10.
Now, I find myself coming to the defence of Mr Zuma. Janet Street-Porter, editor of The Independent on Sunday (7 March 2010), sums it up pretty well, “When it comes to polygamy, Mr Zuma may be a Zulu, but he’s not an acceptable caste to the British media folk”. Polygamy, especially if it involves a black leader, is an issue which seems to bring out the worst in the British and “middle-class liberals suddenly go into meltdown and become narrow minded moralists”, says Street-Porter. Why is King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia or the Prime Minister of the United Arab Emirates acceptable to the British media? Both of these leaders have several wives and children.
Sally Bercow, the Speaker’s wife, made comments she may have thought humorous but were distasteful, if not hugely ignorant, “President and Mrs Zuma are here later...pretty sure it’s the same Mrs Zuma I met last night...if it’s not the same Mrs Zuma, I’ll feel as if I am being disloyal to the one I met”.
Zuma should not be judged on his polygamous lifestyle by ignorant people in this country or the media looking for an catchy headline. Leave the subject of his many wives and children to his own people and fellow countrymen. Do judge him on his stance on Zimbabwe, his action (or lack of) on policy in South Africa, his view of the AIDS catastrophe.
As much as it is absolutely necessary for newly independent countries to be judged by the same standards as other democratic states, it is also relevant to remember that the majority of South Africa’s people were oppressed for nearly two centuries. Sixteen years on from the first democratic election, it needs to be emphasised that South Africa and other developing African countries are still struggling with the colonial legacy; rearranging culture, language and belief around a “Western” lifestyle and values, dealing with the financial gap between the elite and the poor, intense poverty, AIDS, and racial tension. Zuma admits that ultimately, “Africa’s future rests in the hands of Africans” (The Economist, The World in 2010).
Let the media celebrate the positives as well as the negatives of President Zuma’s visit. Seventeen years ago, a visit to the United Kingdom by the President of South Africa would not have happened. Her people were at war with an apartheid government. In 2009, a majority of voters kept the ANC in power and chose Jacob Zuma as their leader. As was written in The Times editorial, “South Africa is easily the most sophisticated and powerful country in the continent” (5 March 2010). There is no doubt that Zuma has much to prove to the international community. But for goodness sake, focus on his politics, not his polygamy.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Farewell to my Canterbury existence
My time in Canterbury is coming to an end. I shall look upon my Cathedral City adventure with a warm heart and a giggle; forgetting the awkward moments, arguments, sore knees and visa troubles. Instead, I'll look back in fondness at two and a half months of new situations, learning and life experience in a beautiful city in Kent, the south-east of England...
I will miss waking up to a perfect view of the Cathedral in the morning, and drawing the curtains to the gloriously-lit building at night; walking out of the garden through the private gate into the cloisters and bumping into several tourists looking confused, "She's not the Archdeacon!", all shops and the little library in walking distance; the cobbly streets (especially Pound Lane: the knee-wounding scene) and corner cafes; the tradition and astounding history.
I will long for Maureen's happy voice on a Monday morning and her "hey hos" when she has had a bad day, her caring nature; Andrea's "see you just nows" and short conversations on my way up and down the stairs; Peggy's silly comments about my Oxford accent (couldn't be more far from the truth) and interesting stories from a time gone by; deep meaningful political chatter with Sheila and Derek and the cats at 9pm.
I will have to get used to not hearing the bells calling for the morning service at 7:45 and for evensong at 17:15; not seeing Carl, Colin and Ray for a chat and a gossip on my way out to town; no soup every day for lunch, no Ocado orders and hopefully no more failed cake-baking. I may feel a little lost for a while, having been part of something for so long.
I have learnt a great deal in my weeks at 29 The Precincts, from gluing legs onto a horse to the ins and outs of the National Health System; that crumpets and poached eggs go perfectly together; have been driven through Fordwich, apparently the smallest town in England; have a much-improved knowledge of both World Wars; and have had the honour of sitting in the second row at the Easter Day service at Canterbury Cathedral.
Now, new routines will have to be learnt, new relationships begun, new roads and routes memorised. At the same time, the world awaits with more of life to be experienced. Eleanor Roosevelt expressed long ago what I and many others feel today, "I could not, at any age, be content to take my place by the fireside and simply look on. Life is meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life". I will live...
I will miss waking up to a perfect view of the Cathedral in the morning, and drawing the curtains to the gloriously-lit building at night; walking out of the garden through the private gate into the cloisters and bumping into several tourists looking confused, "She's not the Archdeacon!", all shops and the little library in walking distance; the cobbly streets (especially Pound Lane: the knee-wounding scene) and corner cafes; the tradition and astounding history.
I will long for Maureen's happy voice on a Monday morning and her "hey hos" when she has had a bad day, her caring nature; Andrea's "see you just nows" and short conversations on my way up and down the stairs; Peggy's silly comments about my Oxford accent (couldn't be more far from the truth) and interesting stories from a time gone by; deep meaningful political chatter with Sheila and Derek and the cats at 9pm.
I will have to get used to not hearing the bells calling for the morning service at 7:45 and for evensong at 17:15; not seeing Carl, Colin and Ray for a chat and a gossip on my way out to town; no soup every day for lunch, no Ocado orders and hopefully no more failed cake-baking. I may feel a little lost for a while, having been part of something for so long.
I have learnt a great deal in my weeks at 29 The Precincts, from gluing legs onto a horse to the ins and outs of the National Health System; that crumpets and poached eggs go perfectly together; have been driven through Fordwich, apparently the smallest town in England; have a much-improved knowledge of both World Wars; and have had the honour of sitting in the second row at the Easter Day service at Canterbury Cathedral.
Now, new routines will have to be learnt, new relationships begun, new roads and routes memorised. At the same time, the world awaits with more of life to be experienced. Eleanor Roosevelt expressed long ago what I and many others feel today, "I could not, at any age, be content to take my place by the fireside and simply look on. Life is meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life". I will live...
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Stop to think...
There are several times in life when I stops to think; when a warm but uncomfortable feeling resonates in my heart, when I have watched a film that has hit home, or read a book that opens up another compartment in my brain, or I fall upon a precious moment shared between two people quite by mistake, or I let myself dream about what could be. At these times when I stop to think; I am sad because I know who I could be, sad because I wish I had done differently, sad to know what will never be.
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