Yugo Stores Lives Again

There’s a funny little shop in Linden called Yugo Stores, branded with the Coke sign you expect to find in a berg village. Here you can find the smallest possible packets of sugar, puncture repair kits, bulked packed blue and white mugs for funerals and yellow kettles that you can plant bergrosies in.

It is not a beautiful building, and the people that walk in and out do not have sunglasses perched on their heads. Here, you can buy a loose xxx mint or creme soda in a bottle (not the organic kind). They also sell small packets of koeksoda which I still think is the best name for a chemical that eradicates cystitis.

Recently a large red white and blue auction sign was erected over the shop. Oh my god, it’s going to become a franchised restaurant. This is wrong, being opposite the best biltong in town, according to some or other neighbourhood survey. I am surprised Biltong Man has not dropped dead yet he is so biltongly large as he strides behind the counter of cholesterol encrusted salamis and forces handfuls of tastes on anyone gazing up at his signed collection of rugby team photos. He is next to a pawn shop, a hardware shop and a shop that sells large floral dresses. I can imagine him in one.
Anyway, Mr Yugo – I don’t know his name but he has a large hairy mole on the left side of his jaw that wobbles when he speaks – told me a few months ago he was doing blerry everything to keep the business in the family after the Recent Sad Death. Details of which I don’t know. Jasmine always insists I speak Afrikaans to him for some reason while I’m buying her a R20 plastic toy that costs R120 in Cresta.

There is also a block of flats cobbled on to the building. I looked at one once. Vast. Parque floors peeling up like lichen. Why didn’t I take it? Too big I thought at the time.

Well, I’m pleased to say the auction sign is down, and Mr Mole is happily still offering rainbows of lighters as he hopes that he will be there for at least the next 10 years.

Beanlet and the uniform

Today Beanlet and I had an exciting wake up – she has lost another tooth! Remember that? The shrieking – the inner sense that it is a milestone – the waiting for the tooth fairy?

 

It is such a gift being with this little girl while she grows. We went from tooth, to chilling, to playing Solitaire on the computer. Then we went and bought her new Big Girl School Uniform – a sweet red and white checked dress. She will be in grade one next year. Oh my God, Grade one! I remember grade one and the nuns at St Ursula’s. My little green dress. Ha ha, and the spiritualist church next door that auntie Petro visited to talk to who knows… and the prison down the road… and the flat where my friends and I bunked in later years. That’s Krugersdorp for you.

I’m pleased that educative styles have moved on and that teachers are more understanding and compassionate. She is a well put together girl, knows what she wants, knows how to care, knows how to love. Is still working on simply listening and being still. Please God may she not doubt herself when around people who don’t know this yet. We had lunch, she made some new friends, we came home and ran through the sprinkler (me naked).  Now we’re watching Win Dixie which has a Dave Matthews cameo – nice.

Highveld Rain

The rain in Johannesburg is exquisite. We live through months of ashen sinus-ridden dryness for this and it is worth every minute.  A quick wind blows and you can smell all the scent of flowers and grass whooshing past your nose. It is intoxicating. Then big fat plops of rain fall on you – it’s like a beautiful gift to your mind and body as it splashes on your face and releases its peaceful scent. Your cheeks or your arm are momentarily cooled.  And then of course, you run for cover.

The chair project

Have you ever noticed the chairs that security guards sit on?

They are our “first line of defence”, in charge of public places.

Their job is to scare people off, ward off an attack, guard the palace.

But when they rest their feet, they do so on chairs with stuffing oozing out, or three-legged chairs stabilised with an old paint tin.

I want to take pictures of these people on their chairs and tell a short story of their life and how they found the chair and how they feel about it.

Through this I hope to tell the observer who is interested a small story of humanity and survival. Who knows, one day I might even buy the camera to do it with.

Back of the bakkie people

This is something we see every day in South Africa. This is with love to the “construction workers” who help build our cities and towns.

Back of the bakkie people

Huddled

Warm bodies

Remembering the comfort of

snatched sleep

Toes curl onto the bakkie floor

trying not to fall of at the brakes

Thinking of half past four

 

Head down

hands in pockets

A wave for a child

An encouraging, bright word, for a child

Walking through gravel

Stones spitting out

rising sun creating silhouttes

Eight rand taxi fare saved

 

Blowing out puffs

of morning steam

Hands in armpits

So this

Is our Jozi dream

 

The waiting men

Waiting for tea

Waiting for lunch

Waiting for that good life

to come your way

 

Back to the shack

The shared room

The newspaper curtain

The row of spotless takkies drying in the last heat of the day

Not a nameless casualty today

No paramedic calling me buddy

Buddy? Can you breathe?

What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?

Faceless and nameless

In Jozi

Halloween in South Africa

South Africans have loads of festivals, many of them related to political events but Halloween has usually been taken with a pinch of commercial cynicism. Lots of plastic, no real understanding of what it is, other than the obligatory episode on some tv programme.

Yesterday was the first time I did Halloween with a child in a neighbourhood who organised themselves into arranging enormous bowls of sweets, costumes, posters, candles outside their houses. This is something that would have started with tentative emails about improving security and then evolved into other “normal” neighbourhood activities.

First, it was off to Caryl’s house where she supplied witches brew with eyeballs (red colddrink with berries), then off to Orange Grove to Abbi and Chris, Jazzy’s friend AJ’s house.

Chris did a recce of the area in his car and we set off on foot with 15 children dressed up in costumes ranging from two month old Anthony to teenagers with lots of Tigger-like six-year-olds in between.

The sweet residents of Hope Street had arranged candles in their driveways, and stuck posters on their gates welcoming people. These posters had been emailed out to all on the community block watch with a use it don’t use it attitude and we met some really beautiful generous people who stood at their gates stuffing shrieking children’s bags with sweets. It was really a lovely sight and a warm fuzzy evening – by the time we started meandering home, there must have been about 200 kids plus assorted adults wandering the streets screaming for sweets – it was a wondrous thing.

PR101:Managing a race crisis in South Africa

There’s a furore in South Africa at the moment over the playing of a CD containing racist lyrics about Nelson Mandela.

According to police, who arrested a company CEO, it was played at the staff party of Sun International. The lyrics, adapated from South Africa’s national anthem called Mandela the “k” word, considered one of the most offensive expressions in this country.

It played for around 15 seconds and was whipped out of the CD player and the CEO of the security company contracted to the resort, whose stand the music came from, was arrested. He was charged with crimen injuria, although he said he had nothing to do with the matter. Another employee of the company was subsequently suspended and yet another, who the company said put the CD on a table to be played, was fired.

In the aftermath, the security company issued press statements saying it was upset by the incident, did not tolerate racism, apologised to Mandela and promised to co-operate with police.

In South Africa, incidents like this pop up from time to time and they cause outrage.

And, companies or people associated with the incident have to do a lot of explaining and self searching and firing. So, while the security company’s publicity machine dealt with the matter, the resort, who hosted the staff party, feel astounded that they are associated with it.

Telephonic queries and emails for response or reaction to the criticism are met with a sense of exasperation and a feeling that it has nothing to do with the resort and the security company is a separate entity, so they are deciding what sort of statement to issue. I’m being polite about the actual words of one brittle staffer at the consultancy.

Of course, the company is separate, but the resort’s name is linked to the event. So, this is what I would do if I was the PR company handling the matter:

- issue a statement expressing shock, horror, outrage, promising that seven kinds of hell will befall any contractor or their employees for that kind of behaviour.

- promise to send employees to transformation awareness classes

- suspend the security contract while the matter is dealt with

- Offer counselling to staffers who may be upset by what they heard and need assurance that this is not acceptable to the company

- Send stern letter to individual staffers, regardless of whether they work for contractors or concessionaires, reminding them of what is and is not acceptable on the company premises.

And to the man who made and put the CD on to the table to be played – get therapy, you are so screwed up.

Timing

Why does the information, insight and understanding that you need to know for a particular situation often come too late?

Why does life do that? I understand that we learn by our mistakes, but why is it not possible to learn this same lesson without the mistake?

Why is that circumstances you try to change seem immovable and then when they do change it is too late? Why can the changes that you are willing and planning not happen when you need them most? Would they not be of more value if they took place when or before you needed them, not later.

Would it not avoid a lot of pain and frustration and confusion? If we are supposed to have faith in a higher power or the forces of the universe, how do we hold on to it when it can’t get its timing right? Why do we have have to lose so much that is precious then watch the things that could have prevented this loss, that we have been working towards, suddenly fall into place?

Simple pleasures

One of the simple pleasures in life is watching a small child dance in the rain. We spend so much time in the car talking about life and jostling for space for each other in between school and work that it is a wondrous thing to watch your child dance in the rain, big gap where front teeth are growing, glowing with love and joy.

This is the child that brings me flowers in the same way that I bring her food. I am so blessed. So blessed, as Munetsi our new IT guy says whenever I ask him how he is.

Juggling

I’m only a journalist because I’m always late. Arriving during assembly at school, once too often, and trying to sneak past the prefects I spotted a queue outside the deputy principal’s office. They were waiting to go for a medical check so that they could apply to become teachers. So, in the interests of not having to have The Conversation with Mr Hall, I joined the queue, feigning enthusiasm for teaching, and found myself on a bus to the Krugersdorp Health Department to have my ears and toes examined and, importantly, I had a very good reason for being late for school.

Sitting next to me on the bus was Jackie Wilson (her real name) who asked what I would do if I didn’t get into teaching and she said she would apply for journalism. It was a ping moment in which everything made sense. Journalism. Thank you Jackie Wilson wherever you are.

I got accepted for teaching, probably because I spoke vlot Afrikaans during the subsequent interview once my toe hygiene had passed the test. The Afrikaans was more a survival tool in an Afrikaans neighbourhood than a product of an apartheid education, but I got offered a bursary too. You study for four years, you work for us for four years, and then you are free to go and have babies or whatever. That was the deal then.

I turned down the bursary, got turned down when I applied to study law at Wits (thank God) and found myself on a train to Durban to study journalism.

It was the best gift that a perpetually late person could wish for.

Anyway, I am late in other aspects of my life. I am late in filing leave applications and stand doe eyed in front of the news editor, hoping to God that he will say yes. I do write things in my diary, but am usually too late in consulting the diary for it to have any benefit.

So, I rush.  And because I am usually late and rushing, things that tend to creep up on one unexpectedly, things that require the time budgeted for the unexpected, the time that “real women” allow for, make my days very interesting.

Take today. I went to bed early last night, psyched for a day at the Constitutional Court which requires Concentration and Focus. But, Miss J, missing her daddy who is being a rock star at the moment (he complains that he does not have time to drink beer or take drugs), can’t sleep. So I watch Thumbelina and the twitterberries or whatever they are called, which send both of us off to a gentle sleep. For a few hours. She’s awake at 3am, upset etc and even Oreos and a cosy blanket don’t help.

I get her to sleep, now I’m wide awake. I fart around the kitchen for a bit, doing the stuff I should have done the night before instead of watching Thumbelina. Pack the dishwasher, that sort of thing. I read a bit (the third agreeement – be your best) and contemplate staying awake until dawn.

I have this fantasy that I will wake up at 5am, do some yoga, drink green tea, nip the flowers off the herbs, shower, do my hair, dress, and have breakfast in the warming oven when everyone wakes up. And one day I will do it. I swear.

Of course I fall asleep again and then I switch the alarm off because I’m tired. So, we rush.

To save time I don’t shower. Not only do I feel grimy, but I haven’t had my Shower Think. Which I need. I don’t even change shirts three times as usual and we’re in the bakkie, borrowed while my car is in the panel beaters, with a kitchen towel full of avocado pear on toast to eat on our laps in the car. There were complaints about the sparcity of salt and pepper. We played eye spy, the bakkie only stalled once, we got through the bottlenecks and the construction on the blind corner quite fine.

Miss J now insists on walking to class from the gate by herself. She goes up the disabled ramp and slips in her sparkly shoes. Sorries all round from the security guards, she resumes her trek. She’s at the big steps near her class, I might get to work on time. She takes one step at a time. On each step she turns around and waves and blows me a kiss. I dare not move. This is a precious time. In 10 years she will lock herself in her room and hate me and her hormones.

She’s halfway up the steps. I no longer stand a chance of being on time for work. I wave and shout go into the class. I turn around. The people at the old age home over the road hold their breakfast knives and forks in frozen fascination, like one of the scenes Hiro Nakamoto does in Heroes.

She gets to the top and disappears. I run to the bakkie. Nchee chee chee chee, the engine finally turns. I fly to work, pushing through traffic, trying to decide whether I’m having a panic attack or a heart attack.

Greet security guard at gate and at office door. Sliding into work not possible due to glass window next to news editor’s desk. She’s not as lighthearted about the tardiness as usual. Sit down to follow up story of ANC defectors to Cope defecting back to ANC. Will the spokeswoman be in good mood or bad when asked for comment that only one out of a promised 2000 re-defected. She pretends she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Been called all morning etc, and hasn’t seen story. Relay info that they sent it to us for our diary, plus an advisory to make sure we didn’t miss it. Oh. Will get back to you. Still hasn’t.

Off to Concourt. 10am start. Write nice meaty story on early argument: should the president be held responsible if a member of the cabinet doesn’t do his/her job? Revolves around South African farmer’s failed attempts at getting diplomatic protection when property he owned in Zimbabwe was siezed. Interesting case. Where does the buck stop? File story through Yahoo. Concourt’s usually crappy 3g reception working but office doesn’t have story, according to quick phone call check on way to car at court tea break. Run back to laptop in court, blagging way through security, and refile the story. Run back to car. Sneaking out to do this, office doesn’t know. Please God don’t let Thabo Mbeki arrive at court while I’m gone, thank you. Nchee chee chee, hurtle through outskirsts of Hillbrow, down Jan Smuts, to Miss J’s school to collect her at 11am because it’s mid term break. Late. Miss J is playing with friend Blessing. The only two kids who haven’t been picked up yet. K couldn’t do it as it’s a crucial practice day. Have quick conversation with sulky class helper who Miss J is having run ins with. Watch Miss J do three fabulous things on the jungle gym. Hurtle home to drop Miss J off with housekeeper.

Housekeeper nowhere to be seen. House keys on sink. Reach arm through burglar guards, get keys, open door expecting to find housekeeper collapsed or something. Housekeeper’s cottage wide open, no sign of her. Phone her. She’s in Randburg shopping. She decided to take early lunch and didn’t expect us home so soon. We’re both sneaking around behind the boss’s back but she got caught. Consider taking Miss J back to Concourt, but just know that she won’t be able to resist asking a hundred thousand questions sotto voce. We play ball in the garden instead and have more avocado pear sandwhiches. I pay Gift the whistling gardener and he offers to buy my radio in the garage and we agree on when he will take his annual leave.

Housekeeper arrives just before 1pm. Points out that the back door was pulled closed, so even though the keys were there, it’s actually ok. I rush back to Concourt. Give a robot beggar an apple. Run through security, just in time to hear them say judgment reserved. Oh Fuck. I missed the state’s argument. I am so fucked.  But at least Thabo Mbeki didn’t come. Ask the other reporters what I missed. Nothing much they say, guardedly. Pack up laptop, run downstairs to catch lawyers before they leave.

Erm… in a nutshell, can you pls explain what your argument was? Sweet sweet Piet. Last time I saw him, he won a judgment on extradition and was all smiles outside, trying to juggle a cigarette and ligher with his big lawyer’s case and his lawyer’s robes while giving soundbites.

Here, have my notes. But please excuse the spelling, my secretary can’t spell, he says. Thank you thank you God. Was that instant karma for the apple? Sarel from SABC wants to know where I was, I say domestic drama, he shrugs his shoulders. Race back to the office. Read Piet’s notes, Google the sections of law he based his argument on, read his heads of argument on Concourt website. Look through my notes from morning session, write my wrap. Get a byline. Eish. Noboby will read it given advocate Barbie’s return to court. Re-read election insults feature issued while I was away to make sure I didn’t miss any mistakes.

Stick up poster for Jim Neversink concert on smokeroom window. Should have done it Wednesday. Phone Mom to ask if she will babysit Miss J on Friday night for JN concert. Confirm Friday off with boss as previous time owed so that I can fetch my car from the panel beaters.

Leave office. Pouring rain. No windscreen wipers. Stall at busy intersection. People hooting. No handbrake. Can’t see anything. Car rolling forward while I’m doing Nchee chee chee. Stop at shops for free range chicken which came in earlier so Miss J won’t have boobs at the age of eight. K on phone to say I must come for dinner with Richard Lloyd who has just arrived from New York to produce their album. Can’t do it. Got Onnie issues and don’t want to leave J since she’s feeling insecure. Drive home. Onnica chatting incessently to make sure I have no space to kak on her for the lunch time episode. I kak on her anyway. We all sneak off, but take the house keys with you next time I say.

She tells me there’s a dead rat in the house. She lifted the couch, but can’t seem to locate it. Kittens bring rats in when I only give then dry food for supper. Neighbour has an owl box and has requested that nobody in the area put rat poison down so owl and kittens having lots of fun. Rats and mice not. Poke around the lounge a bit and decide to deal with it tomorrow.

J and I have chops and vegetables for supper. I bath her. She tells me Gift bought her an icecream and Onnie let her cross the road by herself. She sings me a song about ants marching that Mrs Girly taught her. I read her TWO stories (considered a treat) and sing Three Little Birds until she sleeps.

I drink wine. It’s Lent and I was going to give up. Sorry God, but thank you. For giving me some ball playing playing time with Jasmine. For giving me Piet’s notes. For not getting me killed at the intersection.  For keeping Thabo Mbeki away from the court. For not getting me fired.