The Opinion Pieces are an eclectic bunch on current affairs & history often with a human interest aspect. The Movie/DVDs reviews are mainly on documentaries with a smattering of movie reviews.
In less exalted circles I might be deemed to be fortunate to drive a BMW but, for the most part, for me a car is merely a mode of transport. It might be classy, it might be comfortable and it might have few peers but when a BMW needs servicing or repairs, one rues purchasing it. In the annuals of motoring, the past month could justifiably be termed my mense horribilis [Latin for horrible month]. First it was my BMW and then Alesha’s Ford Figo. Notwithstanding those “challenges”, it was a tow truck driver who almost ruined the rest of my year to make it an annus horribilis.[Latin for horrible year]
Main picture: My BMW in less than pristine condition
The harbour in Port Elizabeth has always been intimately connected with the City. When the 1820 Settlers arrived, they found wide expansive, almost virgin beaches devoid of human habitation except for the occasional Khoi San nomads. Fort Frederick had recently been constructed and some troops were manning it. Apart from that it was desolate and unoccupied.
Essentially the harbour’s history can be trifurcated as follows:
the North Jetty – 1837
the Charl Malan quay in 1933
The modern era
Main picture: An early view of the harbour from the Donkin
This is another episode in his Vignettes of Youth series whereby he recalls the quirks and oddities of life in Port Elizabeth during the 1960s and 1970’s when life was far simpler but discipline was more stringent. No doubt psychologists reading these sketches will be aghast and wonder aloud why our generation was not more ill-adjusted due to the trauma inflicted upon us by parents who did not appreciate the wonders of slothfulness, indolence and the permissive society.
Indignities such as having to walk to school by ourselves from age 6 were formative experiences. Having my first caning by the headmaster at age 8, was a sobering experience even if I was mis-identified as the culprit in a boxing fight. No summons was issued against the Head Master of the Hurbet Hurd Primary School – Mr Emmerick – “Bucket” to us – or to the Cape Education Department. Instead one wore such “traumatic scars” as a badge of honour, as having crossed one hurdle. Moreover spending a morning on the beath without adult supervision or being tethered to one’s parents by a cellphone, were socially appropriate. One’s parents would never have been admonished for their lack of parenting skills and reported to the Welfare Department.
Undoubtedly it was a tough life, but we survived. And were probably more well adjusted for the experience.
Warning to the Readers: If you’re vegetarian, vegan, gluten intolerant, starch intolerant or just generally intolerant, don’t read on.
My parents grew up in an era when you ate whatever was put in front of you no matter how repulsive. Like all kids, at a certain stage I became pernickety about my supper and, again like all kids, it concerned vegetables.
Main picture: Decades later, I came across this advert for MNET. That was me. He even looks like me. All that was missing was the radio
Mom wasn’t a great cook but she could do a mean roast leg of lamb which was our Friday night special. We kids got turns every week to chew off all the lovely bits that were left on the bone – yummy. There were lots of fights about that. The roast potatoes were the best I’ve ever eaten. I’ve tried to emulate them, but I’ve never got it right.
Perhaps the secret was in the dripping. There was always the white enamel bowl in the oven which was regularly topped up with any new fat renderings from various meats that Mom fried and the fat from each roast was poured back into the bowl. It would be topped up every now and again with a fresh block of dripping. After an indeterminate amount of time it would eventually be thrown away and a new pristine lot was started. When times were tight, that dripping served as our butter. (Note for the younger reader: Yellow margarine was banned in SA until 1972 but white margarine was allowed for cakes and the really poor.)
Unfortunately economic strictures meant that the leg of lamb was eventually replaced with a roast chicken which was a sad day. The roast potatoes, however, were still delicious.
At some stage I picked up an aversion to vegetables. A more modern and gentler child-centered psychological approach would have allowed me latitude to explore the culinary world at my pace. Unfortunately, Dad was made of sterner stuff and insisted that I finish my food, no matter what. More unfortunately, I was made of sterner stuff too and the result was a gigantic contest of wills on nights when particularly cauliflower and cabbage were served.
I must digress a bit. We always ate in the kitchen while the dining room was like Granny Dix’s sitting room in that it was reserved for the visitors that we never got. The table was shoved against the wall, splitting the stove from the sink area. Dad sat at the head of the table and Cheryl and Mom sat on one side. Dean and I sat on a bench on the sink side. For whatever reason, I was placed next to Dad and could thus be held under close observation. If I whinged too much, he could klap me without getting up. Dad’s transistor radio took pride of place with him at the head. We were the most well informed kids on the block and always knew what the weather would be like the next day:
“From Plettenberg Bay to Algoa Bay, there is no gale warning, I repeat, there is no gale warning.” would regale us most nights.
On bad nights when the plate was full of unidentifiable bits it would be purgatory. Supper for me could last over an hour in a contest of wills between Dad and me. I normally lost but at least I got to listen to a lot of radio.
A small silver lining was that Mickey slept on a bunch of smelly blankets under the bench. Unfortunately, his food tastes were similar to mine and would not touch Mom’s cabbage. However, if Dad got up for a while, I would hastily transfer food to the folds of his blankets. Mom tried to help by giving me less of my hated veggies, but she couldn’t make it too obvious.
Mickey the dog given to us when the Sayers emigrated to New Zealand. Mickey was Blaine’s unwitting partner in crime
I forget how many years this situation continued but it got so bad that I would start asking Mom from mid-afternoon what we would be having for supper. If it was to be macaroni, the afternoon would be blissful innocence and fun (quite often these concepts are polar opposites in boys). If not, I would rearrange Mickey’s blankets to make useful little disposal pockets. I suppose I should be grateful that God hadn’t invented Broccoli by the 60’s otherwise I would never have made it through my childhood. I would still be sitting at that table with Mickey long gone.
By the age of 20 I outgrew my food prejudices by leaving home and I could proudly proclaim that I did in fact eat a wide range of veges as long as they were first processed by an animal.
Tookels in 1958. He used to love going fishing with my father. Once he almost drowned during a tussle with an octopus. This episode did not deter Tookels from doing his own fishing in pools at Schoenmakerskop
Decades later, I came across this advert for MNET. That was me. He even looks like me. All that was missing was the radio. [See Main Picture]
In his heyday, I recall Bruce Fordyce declaring in his non-dilettantish almost boyish way that once the cosmos appeared, winter was nigh and it was time to peak for Comrades. His fragile figure belied his steely determination, his steadfast conviction and his obsessive focus on the minutia of winning the Comrades. Moreover with his urbane charm, he bewitched the South African public and seduced a nation with his self-deprecatory charm.
On the other hand, for me it was not the sudden emergence of this herbaceous perennial plant which made an impression but rather it was the annual RAC 10km run a week before Comrades. Almost like a cathartic release, it signalled the end of the Comrades taper but more importantly, a heightened awareness of the daunting task shortly at hand.
Main picture: Instead of the usual field of 3000 runners, it was a field in the hundreds which pitched courtesy of the inclement weather Continue reading
In many ways, the Demyansk Pocket [German: Festung Demjansk or Kessel von Demjansk] was the forerunner of what was to occur later in 1942 except that in the latter instance, the outcome was tragic. Hitler, the Commander of the German Wehrmacht, had drawn the wrong conclusions from this action. The consequences of Stalingrad were immense: the elimination of Germany’s strategic initiative in the war forever.
Main picture: Like Napoeon’s forces before them, the Germans during the winter of 1941/1942 literally freeze to death in inappropriate clothing.
Nowadays our children shun these jobs mainly because their parents supply them with too much pocket money. Forty to fifty years ago if one wanted something special like a watch, one would have to work for it – not in some make work scheme at home but a proper job. We all had those types of jobs. In this blog I will relate the jobs that my brother and I had.
Main pcture: Blaine worked in the Port Elizabeth harbour as a Tally Clerk before he went to Varsity. Continue reading
An aphorism that I strenuously advocate is that animals should be free. That is why I am averse to zoos and even caged birds. Like humans, all animals have certain rights and one of those is freedom. Amongst others is that they must be able to feel real grass under their feet and not to be confined in the animal equivalent of “solitary confinement.”
Main picture: Rusty, the dog, that was chained to a fence for over 10 years
After many false alarms regarding Mugabe’s ultimate demise, could the next year finally witness the final dissolution of the Mugabe’s Regime? It goes without saying that one of the factors could be biology – Mugabe’s superannuation – but ignoring that possibility it is most likely the economic dimension that deposes him. What are the numbers behind this bold prediction?
Main picture: Burchell’s zebra in Hwange National Park, Zimbabwe. Photo by Ariadne van Zandbergen
After last week’s Opinion Piece on the folly of using obnoxious racial terms especially in South Africa, one would have expected such outbursts to only be the preserve of the callow youth, the mentally retarded or the morally challenged – to use a non-PC term. After an honours student was exposed for using the K-word, I expected a period of quietitude on the racist rant front for a while. I did not bargain with human nature, except that the culprit this time is somebody who is not a bottom feeder in society but rather an exalted high court judge, Mrs Mabel Jansen.
Almost forty years ago – 39 to exact – I worked for Price Waterhouse in Rhodesia as it was then known. The objective was to complete my articles while at the same time avoiding military service – the interminable “camps” – in South Africa. What this interlude provided me with was an insight into Rhodesia that has provided context for much of what has occurred since independence in February 1980. Is the end game in sight?
Main picture: The recently announced “Bond Notes” will ultimately become as worthless as the billion Zim dollar note
