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May 16, 2008

At last! Run, baby, run!

Posted by Henk Campher under Africa, amputee, ban, belief, disabled, hope, inspire, life, news, Olympics, Oscar Pretorius, personal, Proudly South African, race, South Africa, sport | Tags: , , , , , , , , |
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Just heard the great news that Oscar Pistorius – the fastest man on no legs – will be able to run at the Olympics! The Court of Arbitration for Sport ruled that he is eligible to race against able-bodied athletes, overturning a ban imposed by the International Association of Athletics Federations. Here is the story I wrote about him a few months ago. He is one amazing guy. An inspiration to us all. And a proud South African. Run Oscar! Run!

Run , baby, run

Get ready for the big race. This is the finals baby. An Olympic medal awaits. This is his chance. This is the Olympics. This is his Olympics. He is a racing machine. He is ready. This is what he has been working for. This is what he has been training for day in and day out. Come sun or rain, he was there. Training and training and training. Eating his pasta when he wanted a burger. Nibbling a salad when his body wanted sweets. And then some more training. Training and running until his lungs burnt and his legs hurt.

No wait. At least the part of the legs that he does have will hurt. You see, he doesn’t have legs that goes all the way down. He was born with a few key bones missing. And they had to chop off his legs just below his knees. But just a few years ago he decided he wanted to run. And boy could he run. Run like the wind. He broke every record for those without legs. He became the man amongst big men. He was the superstar amongst heroes.

He ran on blades made just for him – the Blade Runner. And he ran so fast they called these blades “cheetah” blades. He was as fast as a cheetah on the hunt. And, well, the blades looked a bit like cheetah back legs. But now they are saying that his “cheetah” blades make him run like a cheater.

Let’s stop there for a minute. He is too fast running on his sticks? Are they are worried that he might be too fast for those with only two working legs? Are you serious? Have you actually seen this guy running? Here, have a look. Notice how he is about 10 meters behind the other guys when they start off? His “legs” hold him back because there is no thrust to push back. No calf mussles to help him jump at the start. Did you also notice that he has to swing his legs out a bit because he does not have the natural swing of the other guys with their luxury knees and legs? Doesn’t look that comfortable does it? Doesn’t look like he has the smooth running style of the “leggies”, does it?

But who are you going to believe? Your own eyes or science? Some mad German scientist (weird hair an all I assume) decided that our man Oscar Pistorius runs better than the “leggies”. That he has an advantage over them. The swing is the problem you see. According to the German punk professor our man has an advantage over “leggies” when he makes this swing as it gives him a bigger stride. And the problem is? The other athletes can swing their legs as well, can’t they? They know that it might save energy and give them a bigger stride. But they also know that it is as uncomfortable and unnatural as hell. And not the best way to achieve speed and rhythm. You can’t run like that if you want to be a world class athlete. (No, I wasn’t an athlete, but I have a friend who ran the Olympics and won a silver. That’s bragging if you didn’t catch it).

Or can you be a world class athlete without legs? Maybe, maybe not. We might never know. The Olympics held up their much loved values (like with China) and decided that this is not in line with the spirit of the Olympics. (But China is). Scared an umlungu from Africa might beat your steroid enhanced, human growth hormone injected druggies that call themselves athletes? Scared we might beat their sorry arses? Scared the “leggies” might be leggless by the time we are done with them? Yes, I am calling you chicken.

You will let guys who were caught cheating with drugs run, but you won’t let our boy run. Shame on you. You and your rules will let Dwain Chambers run, but the Brits had to bring in their own rules to stop him from running at the Olympics. Your history is littered with cheats who won in a blaze of glory only to go down in the fire years later because of drugs. Johnson and Gatlin and Jones – when do you want me to stop? You held them up as champs and the epitome of the “Olympic Dream”. A nightmare now, hey?

Let our boy run. He is the real deal. He is the Olympic Dream. He is the fastest man on no legs.

Oscar – run, baby, run.

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May 8, 2008

How the ANC betrayed and failed us

Posted by Henk Campher under accent, Africa, America, ANC, Apartheid, braai, Cape Town, culture, democracy, election, ethics, government, hope, leadership, life, Madiba, Mandela, Mbeki, politics, President, Proudly South African, race, racism, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , |
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Yes, South Africa is failing us. No wait. Not South Africa. The ANC. The ANC is failing us. Our government is failing us. Us – the people of South Africa. And it has nothing to do with Apartheid.

Let’s get this straight – their failure has nothing to do with Apartheid. Apartheid was a despicable oppressive system. There was nothing good about it. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Zero. Okay, maybe for the white South Africans it was a holiday camp. But for the majority of South Africans it was an oppressive system who gave them no rights – a concentration camp. No political rights outside of a failed red-herring joke of a homelands system. Ha! 13% of the land for 80% of the population. No right to ownership. You want land? Go and eat dirt. In your homeland. No right to economic wealth. The best jobs were reserved for whites. Ever wondered how all the top jobs were occupied by white faces? Now you know. Reserved parking only. South Africa was covered by one single sign that we saw on the benches and doors and busses every single day under Apartheid – Whites Only.

Oh I can go on and on about how bad Apartheid was. But I won’t. You should know that. If you don’t – go read the TRC document or any decent and recent history book. Or pull the bigot stickers off your eyes. If you liked Apartheid stop reading now. You won’t like the rest of this piece either. But neither will the ANC.

Make no mistake, we can blame Apartheid for many of the problems we experience in South Africa today. The legacy of Apartheid lives on. And the chickens are still coming home to roost. Only problem is that these bloody chickens don’t know the farm is under new ownership. But here – have a few of these on the side.

The education system in South Africa sucks. No surprise there. Under Apartheid the per capita expenditure for white schoolkids were 5 times more than for black kids. Oh, and the ratio between white teacher and white kids were about half of the ratio for black schools. Yes, they had separate schools, separate authorities and a separate curriculum. No surprise there. And due to the lack of adequate financing and training, teachers in black schools were generally less qualified than white teachers who had some of the best universities in the world. So what the hell did you expect to happen when Apartheid ended? That everyone will all of a sudden get the same education as traditionally white schools? A system change was needed and that takes time. Make the per capita expenditure the same, but you still had to rebuild the infrastructure of the traditional black schools and retrain many of the teachers – white and black – to get up to speed to a non-racial curriculum. And merge all the different education departments in South Africa and those in the homelands. No easy task hey? Imagine the largest corporate merger in the world – and instead of two make it about ten or more companies merging into one. So stop bitching. The education system is much better than under Apartheid for the majority of South Africans.

How about policing? Yeah! Under Apartheid the primary function of the South African Police Service (SAPS) was the suppression of political dissent. Stopping criminal activity, beyond that which directly threatened the white minority, was a much lower priority, and there were almost no tradition or expertise in criminal investigation in South Africa. Between 80 and 90 percent of criminal convictions were gained on the basis of confessions, obtained by what was called the “choke and talk” technique of police intimidation. Oh yes, and in 1994 they had to consolidate eleven Apartheid-era policing agencies into one. So, reform was needed while at the same time show the public it can actually reduce crime as well. Or, as a senior SAPS officer once said, ”Police reform is like rebuilding a ship while it is in full sail during a hurricane”. No problem, hey Sherlock?

Okay, let’s see where to go next – last one. Healthcare. On the one hand we had a system that provided first-world healthcare to a small minority – provided by a well-resourced tertiary system. I mean really, we had the first heart transplant done in South Africa. On a white South African. Because only they had access to this level of healthcare. The rest? Let’s just say that they had very little health to care about in the first place. There were no basic or essential services provided in any structured way. So come 1994 – what did you expect? To continue to live the life of luxury while the majority remain dying from bad water and weather?

Wait – let’s do just a last few. Basic services like water, housing and electricity. Except for a few toilets build in the middle of nowhere, the Apartheid government did jack shit for black South Africans. Don’t tell me about the single line of electricity that ran into a selected township under Apartheid. One swallow doesn’t make a summer. It’s like saying that anyone can now sit on the bench in the park – but only whites are allowed in the park. Or that anyone can now swim in the sea – but only whites are allowed on the beaches. Sorry to disappoint you. The Apartheid system sucked. And nothing good came of it for the majority of South Africans. And we still live with the failure of that system. The sins of our fathers…

The end of Apartheid wasn’t just a change from one government to another. That would have been easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. No sweat. No problem. ‘n Boer maak mos ‘n plan. Geen probleem broe. Daasie kakkie want daasie kossie. It was a revolution. It made the fall of the wall in Berlin look like a walk in the park. And we had no money compared to them. The fall of the USSR – no problem. Here? Each and every law had to be rewritten (yes – we wrote more laws between 1994 and 2000 than any other country in the world). We had to merge ten to 15 departments into one for each group under Apartheid. We had to retrain people to serve and not kill. We had to reallocate budgets when South Africa was already an emerging market with extremely limited funds – comparable to Argentina and Egypt and India. Not the US or UK – that was the life of the whites in South Africa. We had to change from a limited healthcare system to one that provides primary healthcare to all South Africans. We had to change an economic system from inward looking to export-oriented. And all of that isn’t even half of it. We still had to get rid of institutional racism and go through the rebirth of a nation (thanks TRC - you got us closer). So don’t think it was a change in government. It wasn’t. It was changing from Nazi Germany (without any money or a world plan to finance rebuilding) to a free society overnight. Like that – “Snap!”. Now you see Apartheid – “Snap!” – now you don’t. Gone. Welcome to freedom – now let me turn your world upside down.

But still. I blame the ANC for failing us. Because they are. They are failing us. I don’t give a damn about how tough a job they had and have. I know the legacy of Apartheid. I know that it hasn’t been easy. I know what shit they inherited from the Apartheid regime. I don’t blame them for not building enough houses. I don’t blame them for not creating enough jobs. I don’t blame them for the violence and crime. I don’t blame them for the kids failing school. I don’t blame them for not building the clinics fast enough. Because all of those things are better than under Apartheid for most South Africans. But I do blame them for failing South Africa. And failing us – the people of South Africa.

I blame them for creating a false hope. I blame them for promising us a better government than what they have become. They are not a bad government. They are just a government. Making bad choices. And making good choices. A mix bag of some good stuff and some bad stuff. Like other governments.

The arms deal and corruption? Nothing special. Bloody hell, they actually dealt with it better than others. Finding Tony guilty and sending him to jail! The Chief Whip of the ruling party! Can you imagine the UK or US doing that? Here Dick and Halliburton was so closely linked but no one blinks an eye – never mind investigate. Or Blackwater and their backhanders. And the UK? The UK government refuses to investigate the bribery that took place in the arms deal with the Saudis. Why? Because it will “threaten national security”. So, sorry people, the ANC is no worse than other governments. They all fail foreign policy. You think Mbeki and Zimbabwe is bad? Have you heard anything from the US on the Saudis who have one of the worse human rights record in the world? No, sorry people, the ANC is no worse than other governments. They are just like them. And that is why they are failing us.

We believed naively that the end of Apartheid meant the start of a super-government. That our government is above other governments. More just than any other. They are better then the best. The most human of all humans. The fairest of them all. They lied to us – without saying a word. They made us believe in a world that is better than any other.  We somehow believed that we are the chosen people. And our government who gave us our freedom will somehow give us the freedom of our souls.

And when we had Mandela we actually entrenched that belief. A South Africa where miracles happen when Madiba snaps his fingers. Our “Special One”. The one who brings hope, love and peace to all. We love him. We truly love him like no President or leader is loved. And that is right. Because he is like no other. He is our Madiba. But still they failed us.

They failed us because they made us believe that we are somehow better than others. That somehow they will be better than others. They failed us by being just another bloody typical government. Like all others. That is their failure. For being too normal. And we were the suckers for falling for it in the first place.

Sorry South Africa – welcome to the world. You are now just as normal as the rest of the world. With a government that sometimes fail and sometimes succeed. Nothing special. Not what the ANC promised us. But still – just a government like all governments. And just a country like all countries. We are not special. We are just people. Just a country. Just South Africa. Like anyone else. Just normal. Normal. Normal at last.

Free at last…

___________________

Note: We still have biltong, Simba chips, Stoney, boerewors, Liqui-Fruit, mopani worms, afval, Marina braaisalt, Marmite, putu, bobotie, sosaties, Top Deck, Cream Soda, Castle, koe(k)sisters, beskuit, vetkoek, pannekoek and Peck’s to name a few – okay, drop the afval and mopani worms. And I haven’t even started on the Rugby World Cup or Kaizer Chiefs (I am an Ajax CT supporter but acknowledge power). If we lose that we are stuffed. Then we won’t be able to even brag about the bloody food or sport anymore. And then we have nothing but a cute accent, good looking people, Table Mountain and crap music. Hey wait. Apart from the music the left-overs aren’t that bad either. I’ll just blame the music on Apartheid or the ANC. You pick boeremusiek or kwaito – blame it on the boogie… man.

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April 27, 2008

Celebrating Freedom Day: Remembering 1994

Posted by Henk Campher under Apartheid, democracy, election, life, politics, Proudly South African, South Africa, voting | Tags: , , , , , , , |
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Today we celebrate our freedom in South Africa. The freedom we achieved officialy in 1994. On 27 April 1994. Oh, what a day that was. The day of our freedom. Our 4th of July. Our Bastille Day. Free! Free at last! And to celebrate that day I am reposting and old blog of mine. A reflection of my experience of that beautiful day. My little contribution to our history. My memories of the birth of my country. It was an honour. And it was something to behold. And what a day it was. Oh, what a day it was.

A vote at last! (1994)

Four long years. That’s how long we had to wait before we got our first election in 1994. Okay, we had to wait forever during the struggle against Apartheid, but we had four long years of negotiations from when Nelson Mandela was released until we got our date – 27 April 1994. But now the date was set. And I just had to be part of that. So I registered myself as a volunteer to work on election day. And what a day it turned out to be.

I could feel that their was something special in the air. Something that I will never see again or experience again. I got up ready to be part of history. I rushed to put on some decent clothes and unmatched socks (that was my image back then!) I am a voting officer – please step back from that voting booth and put your X when I can see them. The power! I even had a special badge to say what I was – Voting Officer. My first badge. Plastic – but still a badge.

First I had to go for a session with the two guys in charge. Yes, two guys. The Apartheid National Party didn’t trust the ANC and the ANC didn’t trust the NP. So we had one from each side co-managing each voting station. I was stationed at Stellenbosch central – the town hall. The biggest turnout of our town for the day was going to be there. And we had a bureaucrat from the Nats leading their side and a cool guy from the ANC leading from the other side. (Okay – you don’t get extra points for knowing who I voted for). And these two guys was going to tell us what we can do and what we can’t do – and the role of each person.

But what a sight when I turned the corner that leads to the town hall. People waiting in lines for as far as the eye can see. There was still a few hours before we opened the doors and the people was already waiting to vote. The hair on my neck stood up. History. You could smell it. You could taste it. And now you can see it.

What struck me was how quiet people were. No partying. No shouting and hardly any laughing. Just a silence as people stood in the queue waiting for the doors to open so that they could go and vote. People just staring at that door. A little wave when people recognized each other. But it was deadly silent most of the time. I expected people to celebrate. Come on – we are in Africa. We make a noise and party when the kid drools for the first time. Only later did I realize why. People still couldn’t believe that it was happening. And they did not want to do anything until they saw those doors open. After so many years of hardship they still could not believe that the Apartheid regime won’t try and pull a fast one. I managed a few smiles and got a few back-slaps – and off I went to get this baby started.

Oh man. That guy from the Nats was the pits. Telling us the obvious things and being as wet and square as Spongebob Squarepants. Really, it was like pulling teeth. We just wanted to get on with it. At least the guy from the ANC got us all worked up and rallied us by reminding us what this day was all about. And that we had a big responsibility in helping people today. Today we make history. And then the representatives from all the political parties came in. The serious ones had their suits on – the Nats and the Democratic Party. The ANC had their more relaxed African shirts on. And the rest just came with whatever they could find in the closet. And they were a bunch of oddballs!

We had the Right Party (slightly leftie politics), the Green Party (the vegans), the Minority Party (basically one guy), the Merit Party (old head-boys), the Federal Party (wanted their own land), the KISS party (Keep It Straight and Simple), the Soccer Party (almost got my vote) and a bunch with names no one could pronounce. Hey, we figured that if everyone could vote then everyone should be able to register as a party as well. Maybe not one of our better ideas. But they were all there – ready to join in the fun. Except for the KISS Party who took things way to seriously – especially with a name like that. No hugs and no kisses.

My first job was to help the people outside. Especially the older people. I was allowed to move them up the line and help them vote. It was a nice one – I got to mingle with the crowd outside. There was no trouble – except for a few political parties who broke the “no canvassing within 500 meters” rule. They just drove past and honked and waved flags. Not really canvassing – just having fun on the day.

And people had fun by now. Almost everyone got their identity books in the months leading up to the election. And I mean everyone. I’ll never forget one of the first guys who came outside after he voted. He was what we called a bergie- a homeless guy. I guess he was way up in the lines because he slept outside the town-hall. He came out beaming with his two front teeth missing. And as he got to the top of the steps he looked at the crowd, threw his arms in the air and shouted “my vote is my secret – I voted DP (Democratic Party)” (For those who know Afrikaans – he was a Capie and shouted “My stem is my geheim. Ek vote die DP”). The crowd packed up laughing. It summed up the day perfectly – everyone having their say and starting to having fun.

There is a story why his words were particularly funny at the time. We had a long running campaign about people voting for whoever they wanted to vote for – and that their vote would be in secret. The slogan was – Your Vote, Your Secret. It was everywhere because people thought that with the fingerprints and everything that the Apartheid government will come and get them – that they will know who voted for who and get them if they voted ANC. The ads obviously worked. And he remembered this, just not all the detail.

The queue never got any shorter during the day. People just kept on coming – 1,000+ people standing in line at any time during the day and all waiting to vote. Waiting patiently. It was hot, even though it was autumn. I was handing out water when I saw him. An old, old man standing in the queue – almost right at the back. He must have been close to a hundred. He was frail and leaning against his walking stick. You could see he came from a tough background – a farmworker most likely. I went up to him and took him by his hand and told him I’ll take him to the voting booth. He smiled and off we went – walking slowly.

We talked a bit while we took our slow walk to the voting hall. Not politics of course – I wasn’t allowed to talk politics because I was an “independent” voting officer. It became apparent that he couldn’t read or write. But he wanted to vote – that was his right. And it was likely not only his first time of voting, but his last one. I promised I would help him – that was my job. I took him to the booth and asked him to look at the pictures and tell me who he wanted to vote for – any faces or parties he recognized? He looked carefully and then shook his head. No, his man wasn’t there. He said it as if he knew who his “man” was. I asked him if he could tell me who his man was as I might be able to tell him what party his man belonged to. He looked at me and said, “I want to vote for Jannie Smuts”. I felt like hugging the guy. Smuts died in 1950. And Smuts was a racist who tried everything to stop this old man from getting his right to vote.

But we sorted that out – I called all the parties together and got them to argue it out. The old man voted in the end. For the National Party – the party who denied him his right to vote for all those Apartheid years. And the party who defeated Smuts in the general election back in 1948. I don’t know how Smuts would have felt about that one.

The rest of the day went off smoothly. I helped people to vote and spoke to people in the queue. It was all fun and games by now. Friendly bantering and sharing of good times. It felt as if this was the most natural thing we could do – voting. Of course it should be, but this was a special day.

I eventually went to vote myself. I stood in that booth for a few minutes – like almost every other voter that day. This was my turn and our time. I knew who I was going to vote for. With Biko dead for so many years already the Africanist still had a leadership vacuum. Even with Hani assassinated I knew that there was only one man and one party for me. I made my cross next to the ANC and had a lump in my throat. I was shaking slightly. Done. It is done. A vote at last. Take us where you want Madiba.

That night I turned into an accountant. Okay, not that exciting. I turned into a Counting Officer. Off we went to get locked up in a huge hall and start counting those votes. And we counted and we counted. And the parties looked on to make sure that we didn’t miss anything. No idea why the Kiss Party and the other small ones hung around – we couldn’t exclude their votes even if we wanted to. No one voted for them. Come on – the Right Party got less than 1,000 votes across the whole of South Africa. And then they started moaning and bitching – the smaller parties – and we had to count all over again. And it went on and on. Till early in the morning. All they gave us was crap coffee and even worse hamburgers. But it was worth it. Because eventually it was all done. Votes counted and our work done. Our first election was officialy over – done and dusted.

I have been busy at the elections for almost 24 hours by now. First helping the voters and then counting their votes. I was knackered. I just wanted to sleep. But as I hit the bed it hit me. I was part of history. I was part of the greatest day in our country’s life. Each person that voted that day did it with passion – for the right and the wrong reasons. But each of us – all of us – had our day to vote at last. And each one of those votes was done for a reason. People did it because this was the most important election of their lives. There will never be another. I was there when we became a nation. No. I was passing the bricks as we build that nation on 27 April 1994. Smuts would not have been proud.

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April 20, 2008

I am a traitor…™

Posted by Henk Campher under Africa, America, barbecue, braai, culture, family, jokes, life, meat, men, Proudly South African, riots, South Africa | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , |
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I am a traitor. A traitor to my country. To my countrymen. To South Africa. To my beloved South Africa. And to every South African out there in my home country. I hang my head in shame.

It started off innocently. Like all sins. Like all traitors. I did it once. It was easy. I did it in South Africa. When no one was looking. I actually felt good about it the first time. My wife didn’t notice. My daughter was to young. They trusted me. But I just wanted to give them everything they wanted. I did it for them. And I did it again. And again. And again.

Some of my friends started noticing. They looked at me with new eyes. They knew I was wrong. That I am going to a dark place. And that it can never be forgiven. But they were my friends. And friends stand together. Stand together even in the difficult and impossible times. In those dark days when you know you should say something. But you don’t. Because the shame would be too much. So I moved away from South Africa. Because of this dark past of mine. I just couldn’t look my friends and countrymen in the eyes anymore. Because I know they knew. And those who didn’t will find out sooner or later. And they wouldn’t react the same way as my friends did. No. For them it would be too much. For them I would be nobody. Nothing. They would disown me. I could lose my citizenship for this. And that could well be the least horrid thing that could happen to me. I know of people who disappeared and never showed up again. For South Africans it is the sin of all sins. Treason…

And now. Now I have gone down the deep end. I stayed away from it in England. I did the little things. You know. Just to stay afloat. Just to take the easy road. But never the big sin. I thought I was at least strong enough not to cave in to that. No one will forgive that. No friend will look the other way. Not this. Not this. I am ashamed. Because… Because…

 I bought a gas barbecue…

Yes. Yes. I did. I bought the Perfect Flame Three Burner Gas Grill. And she is powerful – 42,000 BTU’s. A full 640 square inches cooking area. Push and turn ignition. Can you believe that? Push and turn ignition. Porcelain heat tent AND porcelain cast-iron cooking surface. And here is the big one… 28 burger capacity! This baby sings. Whooo-oo!

You might think this is funny. But it isn’t. Not for any South African man reading this. I can just see them reading this. Shaking their heads, winching as if hit by a sucker-punch and saying either “Eish“, “Donner“, or “Jislaaik boet. That’s no joke man“. For them I am not a man anymore. Not a true man. I have gone soft. But more than that. I have denied my heritage. My blood. My South African roots. The fire. The braai.

We don’t call it a barbeque. No. We call it a braai. But a barbecue isn’t a braai. No way dude. There are very strict rules that apply to a braai. Break any of these rules and you might just as well start running. Away from South Africa. And as far as possible and as fast as possible. Because the braai police (Fierce Braai Inspectors – FBI) will come and hunt you don’t. And they won’t stop until you denounce your citizenship. Oh, they have their ways and means to get you to do that. It involves fire…

These are serious things we are talking about. South African men and the braai. You can talk about politics. But the Democrats and Republicans are like two lovers on a first date compared to South Africans and messing with their braai. And you can talk about sport. But the Yankees and Red Sox? Puh-lease. Kids stuff. Mess with the braai and you mess with the most primitive parts of the South African soul.

We can argue politics in South Africa. It doesn’t matter. As long as we can sit around the fire and have our braai together. We can support Chiefs or Pirates, Province or Bulls, argue about rugby or cricket or soccer being the best - but we are united around a braai. But there are rules. And if you break those rules… You are an ex-South African. You are so outta there. Faster than you can say “light me”.

I won’t go into the culture or rules of a braai. That needs a blog on it’s own. It makes chess look like Tic Tac Toe. I’ll just give you a quick insight to the BOERIE Hardware Section – the first two rules. (BOERIE stands for Braai Official Executive Rules In English – not to be confused with the Boerie which is a South African braai sausage).

Rule 1: Get wood

Always, but always braai with wood. And I mean always. No really. Always.

The biggest braai debate in South Africa is not whether to use wood or not. That is a given. The biggest argument is about what wood to use. Rooikrans or Wingerdstompies? Two different types of wood. One from a specific tree and the other from the vineyards. I won’t even go into what I used when I was still straight. But, you see, gas is out completely. My original sin was to use charcoal. And that is bordering on treason. It can tear families apart. We even call it donkey.. hum… droppings… (Donkiedrolle.) Charcoal… That was my first step into the dark side of the braai.

Rule 2: Bricks and mortar

You can’t just use anything to braai in either. No sirree. You need to have an area that is build with the same stuff you build your house with – bricks and mortar. Designs vary. Some have a small little squad braai a few inches off the ground. Others have a whole room developed just around this braai with with multiple braai areas and storage sections. There is one exception to this rule (or First Amendment) – the oil drum rule. You are allowed to braai in an empty oil drum cut in half. You can modify this, but it must always be clearly defined and recognized as an oil drum. I mean really. Even a Weber is seen as going over the edge. I used a Weber AND charcoal back in South Africa. That wasn’t edgy. That was just plain stupid. Denying my people. Denying who I was. People frowned. So you can imagine what my gas griller will do to South Africans – especially South African men.

There are other BOERIE Hardware Rules, but these are the first two. And the foundation of any braai. It’s like free speech and gun ownership in the USA. Without those two there can be no America. Without wood and a bricks and mortar braai you can not call it a braai. And without a braai you can’t call yourself South African. You’re just a guy burning some meat. And if you were born in South Africa? You’re a burned guy and a piece of meat.

So you see. I am a traitor. The people in South Africa is ashamed of me. They will deny knowing me. They will call me names. They will tell their children and the children of their children what happens to people when they leave the hallowed shores of South Africa. The softening of African men. The shame it brings to families. The weakening of the bloodline. The acts of a traitor…

I am sorry my fellow South Africans. I am truly sorry. I beg you for forgiveness. I am but a weak man. Who gave in to temptation. A man who knows to little. A pathetic excuse of a man.

And don’t forget lazy. The gas griller is just so much easier. No firelighters needed – or as we call it blitz. Just push and turn baby. And bam! I got fire. No smokey eyes. No flicking matches. No burned fingers. No wet wood. No spark flying. No waiting for the wood to turn to coal and ash. No ash blowing in the wind. No burned meat. Or ash tasting meat. No bricks cracking and popping in the heat. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Just push and turn baby. Just push and turn.

Note: Can someone tell the guys at Lowe’s to please tell South Africans that the gas tank (liquid propane tank) they buy with the gas grill is actually empty? It took me an hour of connecting and disconnecting, pushing and turning, checking and wiggling, before I realized that the tank they gave me was empty. I went to Home Depot to get a full one… And yes, we ate hours later. It would have been faster just using wood I guess.

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April 7, 2008

The Frisco blues

Posted by Henk Campher under accent, Africa, Cape Town, culture, diversity, family, inspire, language, life, love, Proudly South African, race, South Africa, travel | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |
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I am on the road for a few days. In San Francisco and beyond. It is a beautiful city. Everyone always told me that it reminds them of my hometown – Cape Town. I don’t see it. Superficially yes. The layout of the city with hills everywhere and the sea all around. And the people. The wild and open people of San Francisco. Just like Cape Town. We’re wild and open. And pretty stubborn in our belief that Cape Town is God’s gift to the world. Once you get there you will never want to move away. It gets to you in a way now other place will. Well, that’s what us Kaapies believe in any case. And too many people who went there on holiday stayed – because the city got to them. Got into their blood and into their soul. And it’s when I am on the road like this with only my thoughts and no rock (my wife and daughters) to keep me anchored that I miss my people. My people from the Cape.

There is something there that is just difficult to comprehend – it’s almost untouchable. There is something in Cape Town that makes us different. And it starts with the city itself. We have our mountain – Table Mountain. The most beautiful mountain in the world. Flat like a table. And sometimes the gods smile on us and leaves a little cloud hanging over her like a tablecloth.

As the story goes Van Hunks, a pirate in the early 18th century, retired from his eventful life at sea to live on the slopes of Devil’s Peak – next to Table Mountain. He spent his days sitting on the mountain, smoking his pipe. One day a stranger approached him, and a smoking contest ensued which lasted for days. The smoke clouds built up and a strong wind blew them down towards the town. When Van Hunks finally won the contest, the stranger revealed himself to be the Devil (hence Devil’s Peak), and the two disappeared in a puff of smoke. Legend says that the cloud of smoke they left became Table Mountain’s tablecloth – the famous white cloud that spills over the mountain when the south-easter blows in summer.

That’s our little mountain. With a tablecloth. She is our anchor. We can never get lost, because she is always there to show us the way. You can’t miss her. I was born with no sense of direction. Why? Because you don’t need one in Cape Town. You just look at the mountain and she’ll show you the way. She’s your home and we play in the backyard – never losing sight of our home. I get lost in every city I visit because of her. I walk or drive and after taking one turn I am lost. Because there is no mountain to point me in the right direction. Ask me directions anywhere outside Cape Town and I would strongly advise you to take the opposite direction I am pointing you to. Our mountain is our beacon. Without her we are lost. Without her we are not Kaapies. Just people roaming the streets in cities far away from our soul.

And then we have the sea. We wake up to the smell of the sea every day. Sweet, crisp and full of life. The smell of Cape Town. The smell of home. The sea gives us the food for our bodies and the food for our souls. We play with her and we feed from her. The little fishing boats go out every day from fishing villages like Kalk Bay, Fish Hoek and Simon’s Town. They go out. And most of the time they come back. Filled with the gifts of the sea. And you can go down to the harbor and haggle over the price of the latest catch. Oh, and if you are lucky they might have a Snoek. Our little Cape Town secret. The best fish of the sea is reserved for us down there at the bottom of Africa. But the taste of Snoek… Nothing like Snoek. I am not even going to try to explain it to you. But if you ever land up in Cape Town please ask your host for some Snoek. On an open fire. Cut open and split. And let the debate begin about what is the best way to braai your Snoek. I like it with a little bit of lemon juice squeezed by hand from a freshly cut lemon. And just a little smear of apricot jam. Yes. The sea. She gives us our food. And she feeds our souls.

But she also drives us away. We look at her and stare over the horizon and wonder what lies on the other side. Who are those people who come with their ships and never return? Who are those people who never live a life in Cape Town? She feeds us with the soul of Van Hunks. The pirate. We sit in the shadow of our mountain and wonder what lies on the other side. And we go and explore the world, but she never truly lets us go. She teases us with freedom. Knowing we can never be free from her. Like a true love we can never take our soul away from her. That always stays behind. In the shadow of the mountain and the smell of the sea. We might go somewhere else, but we never truly leave her.

But most of all – you should meet my people. Those bleddie Kaapies. They have laughter in their souls and life in their eyes. Naughty as hell 100% of the time. Always ready with a joke. Always ready for a friend. And the two goes hand in hand. They want to be your friend. And they want to hear you laugh and see you smile. Naai man, moetie fightie. You should hear them. The poetry that comes from those Kaapie mouths are just something to behold. I can hear it even though I am listening to my iPod right now. A sucke to make you wakke! (A rhyme saying “an ice-lolly to keep you awake” - doesn’t work in English.) See – I can’t write it, but I can hear it.

They are not perfect people. Oh no, they are not. But they are my people. All of them. No matter how much we try and say we are different. We always knew. We always knew that we are one. The blood that runs through our veins are from the sea and the color of our skins are given by the mountain – sometimes shady and sometimes sunny. My people.

They are an irritating bunch. Those Kaapies. They won’t leave you alone. They want to be with you. If you are alone in a bar. Not for long. They will come and sit with you. And talk with you. And poke fun at you. And ruffle your hair. And joke and laugh. And share a beer or a dance. And invite you to their homes. And share their last meals with you. And share their lives with you. And in the morning. In the morning they will phone you and ask you what are your plans for the day. Because if you don’t have any… Then they have plans for you. Yes. They are an irritating bunch those Kaapies. Irritating if you want to be alone and sad. Because they won’t let you be alone or sad. No. You are there to be happy – and they will make damn sure you are. And happiness is a bunch of Kaapies hanging out and having a laugh in the shadow of our mountain and on the beaches at the sea.

I close my eyes and I can hear their voices. There are the flower sellers making up songs – “Two Rend a bunch“. Here are two people play fighting – “Djy, ek slat djou met a pap slang ne“. Another one over there bragging about the fish he caught – “Ek se vi djou. Hy was ne su lank soos Kobus Wiese“. Yes. My people. They make music with those voices and those words. I can hear them in my soul. Those bleddie Kaapies. They don’t leave me alone. They are me. And I am them. They are in my blood. And in my heart. They are my people and I miss them and love them.

Tonight, my friends. I have the Frisco blues.

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