No, I haven't run out of stories. I just decided to merge my to blogs - An Accidental Activist and Angry African on the Loose. I'll continue telling my story there, but you will also be subjected to my (almost) daily rants. Hope to see you there.
Angry African on the Loose
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
I am Proudly South African (2001)
How do you get people to buy South African goods when they have this perception that something made elsewhere is so much better? This was the question behind the Nelson Mandela initiated Proudly South African campaign. And I was asked to get this off the ground. It wasn't as easy as you would expect.
Nelson Mandela got government, business, civil society and trade unions together back in 1998 to get them to agree to a joint effort to create jobs in South Africa. His Presidential Job Summit was a breakthrough. Getting everyone on the same page was key to moving us forward. It didn't come up with too many tangible things, but just getting everyone to share thoughts was a big step in the right direction. And they agreed to many things that should be at the forefront of this new partnership. One of the things they agreed to was a short little paragraph about initiating a Buy South African campaign. Doesn't sound like much does it? Should be easy to get off the ground right? But nothing happened until 2000.
The problem was that business hated it, government was indifferent and the trade unions were split. But I worked for one of the key supporters of this idea - Ebrahim Patel. Ebrahim was a genius. A hard man and difficult to please, but a genius. And I loved working with this guy no matter how difficult it was. But I'll leave him for another day.
Ebrahim was the reason why I joined COSATU and because of him I was made Convener of the Trade and Industry Chamber at NEDLAC. NEDLAC was where government, labour, civil society and business negotiated almost everything that had something to do with the economy and social development before it goes to parliament. And the Trade and Industry Chamber negotiated and developed anything from trade deals to competition policy. You name it we negotiated it and did it. NEDLAC is light years ahead of anything I have seen in any democracy in the world. Making people actually part of government policy decisions processes. Imagine that. By the people and for the people.
So it was only logical that this Buy South African idea eventually landed up in our laps. And it was my job to make this argument. Well, at least according to Ebrahim. So I made the arguments and threatened and threw my toys until they agreed. Not because they wanted this, but because they thought it would be best to humor me instead of facing a possible mass action (read protest) against them. But they had something up their sleeve as well.
They were pretty sure that this thing will never get off the ground. There were just too many people against it. And the new President, Thabo Mbeki, wasn't that eager for it either. It would be a legacy of Nelson Mandela and he was trying to get away from under the shadow of this great man. So they decided to set up a task team that would get this campaign off the ground. Knowing that it would never happen - not if they had anything to do with it. And who better to lead this task team then me. Yep, I pushed so hard that they thought the best way to get back at me is to set me up for failure. So I was the 'lucky' one who got selected to lead this campaign. Thanks Ebrahim.
They gave me total freedom to include anyone in the team that I wanted. They were sure that I would fill it up with unionist who would be supportive of the idea. But no. That wouldn't work. I needed those who were against the idea even closer than those who loved it. Keep your friends close and enemies even closer. So I selected key people from government and business who were totally apposed to the idea. I had to convince them if we wanted any chance of success.
They also gave me an almost unlimited budget to work with. And like anyone with too much money I hired a few consultants. Rupert Barnard and Kaiser in Cape Town were perfect. They didn't give a damn who liked it or not. Their aim was to make it work. And get paid a bucket load if they could pull it off. But the opposition pulled out their first trump card at our first meeting - WTO requirements.
As a member of the WTO, South Africa agreed that the government will not do anything that supports South African companies above foreign companies. All should be treated equally. But we needed the support of government because they had the money. And they could influence business. And we needed business to implement it if we wanted it to be viable.
So we came to standstill almost immediately. We couldn't move until we knew whether it would be allowed under WTO rules. We argued this way and that way. We did research and more research. And still we couldn't come to an agreement. Four months went past and we still didn't get any closer to an answer. And then it hit me. I picked up the phone, called the WTO and asked them if we could do this campaign under WTO rules. They said it would be fine and even put it writing for me. Needless to say, but the other guys were less impressed with my tactics. Or rather the answer that I got. But they had to go ahead with it - they were part of the team. Now we had government on our side - and their money as well. One down, one to go.
We blew money left right and centre to convince everyone that this is a good idea. We benchmarked similar campaigns in Australia, US, Canada and even Indonesia. Our problem was that none of the other countries included environmental and social standards to their campaigns. We wanted the products to not only be of good quality and be made in South Africa, but we also wanted it to be done in an environmentally and socially responsible way. Yes, we were way ahead of everyone else at the time. So we just made it up as we went along.
But consumers would be key to this all. They had to believe in the campaign and buy the products in the end. So we blew some more money on consumer studies to see what would drive consumers to support this campaign. And although we didn't know it at the time, this would be a breakthrough for the campaign. But not in a way we would have expected.
Those in business opposed to the idea found another obstacle they could throw our way. They couldn't agree on a name. Business wanted it to be called Made in South Africa. But the unions wanted it to be called Buy South African - the original name they agreed to in 1998. But business was adamant. They would not go for the Buy South African name as it was to prescriptive and they wanted it to say more about the product - that it was Made in South Africa. And the unions refused to budge. Stuck again.
We used this in our favor for a little while. Getting other key things passed like the budget, management structure and marketing plan. But we knew there would be no campaign if we couldn't get them to agree on the name. And time was running out.
And we struggled. Again going this way and that way. Trying to convince each side that they should just go with the other name. But no one was willing to budge. Then one night I was reading through some consumer research when it hit me. What were the number one reason people would support this campaign? Easy. Over 80% of people said they would do it because they were proud to be South Africans. We had a name - Proudly South African. They couldn't fight it. They would not be very proudly South African if they did. They caved in and we had a name. Business was on board.
The rest was easy. We removed one obstacle after the other. And more and more people came on board. And the name was a killer. A few more twists and turns and we had everyone on board. We were ready to rock and roll.
That was the most difficult time for me. We had to employ people to run this. My job was only to get it to the launch stage. It took 18 months of my life. It consumed everything. I had to out maneuver opponents and overcome obstacles every day. It drove me crazy, but I loved it. It was time to let go. My little baby has grown up and was ready to leave home. I was proud. I was Proudly South African.
Nelson Mandela got government, business, civil society and trade unions together back in 1998 to get them to agree to a joint effort to create jobs in South Africa. His Presidential Job Summit was a breakthrough. Getting everyone on the same page was key to moving us forward. It didn't come up with too many tangible things, but just getting everyone to share thoughts was a big step in the right direction. And they agreed to many things that should be at the forefront of this new partnership. One of the things they agreed to was a short little paragraph about initiating a Buy South African campaign. Doesn't sound like much does it? Should be easy to get off the ground right? But nothing happened until 2000.
The problem was that business hated it, government was indifferent and the trade unions were split. But I worked for one of the key supporters of this idea - Ebrahim Patel. Ebrahim was a genius. A hard man and difficult to please, but a genius. And I loved working with this guy no matter how difficult it was. But I'll leave him for another day.
Ebrahim was the reason why I joined COSATU and because of him I was made Convener of the Trade and Industry Chamber at NEDLAC. NEDLAC was where government, labour, civil society and business negotiated almost everything that had something to do with the economy and social development before it goes to parliament. And the Trade and Industry Chamber negotiated and developed anything from trade deals to competition policy. You name it we negotiated it and did it. NEDLAC is light years ahead of anything I have seen in any democracy in the world. Making people actually part of government policy decisions processes. Imagine that. By the people and for the people.
So it was only logical that this Buy South African idea eventually landed up in our laps. And it was my job to make this argument. Well, at least according to Ebrahim. So I made the arguments and threatened and threw my toys until they agreed. Not because they wanted this, but because they thought it would be best to humor me instead of facing a possible mass action (read protest) against them. But they had something up their sleeve as well.
They were pretty sure that this thing will never get off the ground. There were just too many people against it. And the new President, Thabo Mbeki, wasn't that eager for it either. It would be a legacy of Nelson Mandela and he was trying to get away from under the shadow of this great man. So they decided to set up a task team that would get this campaign off the ground. Knowing that it would never happen - not if they had anything to do with it. And who better to lead this task team then me. Yep, I pushed so hard that they thought the best way to get back at me is to set me up for failure. So I was the 'lucky' one who got selected to lead this campaign. Thanks Ebrahim.
They gave me total freedom to include anyone in the team that I wanted. They were sure that I would fill it up with unionist who would be supportive of the idea. But no. That wouldn't work. I needed those who were against the idea even closer than those who loved it. Keep your friends close and enemies even closer. So I selected key people from government and business who were totally apposed to the idea. I had to convince them if we wanted any chance of success.
They also gave me an almost unlimited budget to work with. And like anyone with too much money I hired a few consultants. Rupert Barnard and Kaiser in Cape Town were perfect. They didn't give a damn who liked it or not. Their aim was to make it work. And get paid a bucket load if they could pull it off. But the opposition pulled out their first trump card at our first meeting - WTO requirements.
As a member of the WTO, South Africa agreed that the government will not do anything that supports South African companies above foreign companies. All should be treated equally. But we needed the support of government because they had the money. And they could influence business. And we needed business to implement it if we wanted it to be viable.
So we came to standstill almost immediately. We couldn't move until we knew whether it would be allowed under WTO rules. We argued this way and that way. We did research and more research. And still we couldn't come to an agreement. Four months went past and we still didn't get any closer to an answer. And then it hit me. I picked up the phone, called the WTO and asked them if we could do this campaign under WTO rules. They said it would be fine and even put it writing for me. Needless to say, but the other guys were less impressed with my tactics. Or rather the answer that I got. But they had to go ahead with it - they were part of the team. Now we had government on our side - and their money as well. One down, one to go.
We blew money left right and centre to convince everyone that this is a good idea. We benchmarked similar campaigns in Australia, US, Canada and even Indonesia. Our problem was that none of the other countries included environmental and social standards to their campaigns. We wanted the products to not only be of good quality and be made in South Africa, but we also wanted it to be done in an environmentally and socially responsible way. Yes, we were way ahead of everyone else at the time. So we just made it up as we went along.
But consumers would be key to this all. They had to believe in the campaign and buy the products in the end. So we blew some more money on consumer studies to see what would drive consumers to support this campaign. And although we didn't know it at the time, this would be a breakthrough for the campaign. But not in a way we would have expected.
Those in business opposed to the idea found another obstacle they could throw our way. They couldn't agree on a name. Business wanted it to be called Made in South Africa. But the unions wanted it to be called Buy South African - the original name they agreed to in 1998. But business was adamant. They would not go for the Buy South African name as it was to prescriptive and they wanted it to say more about the product - that it was Made in South Africa. And the unions refused to budge. Stuck again.
We used this in our favor for a little while. Getting other key things passed like the budget, management structure and marketing plan. But we knew there would be no campaign if we couldn't get them to agree on the name. And time was running out.
And we struggled. Again going this way and that way. Trying to convince each side that they should just go with the other name. But no one was willing to budge. Then one night I was reading through some consumer research when it hit me. What were the number one reason people would support this campaign? Easy. Over 80% of people said they would do it because they were proud to be South Africans. We had a name - Proudly South African. They couldn't fight it. They would not be very proudly South African if they did. They caved in and we had a name. Business was on board.
The rest was easy. We removed one obstacle after the other. And more and more people came on board. And the name was a killer. A few more twists and turns and we had everyone on board. We were ready to rock and roll.
That was the most difficult time for me. We had to employ people to run this. My job was only to get it to the launch stage. It took 18 months of my life. It consumed everything. I had to out maneuver opponents and overcome obstacles every day. It drove me crazy, but I loved it. It was time to let go. My little baby has grown up and was ready to leave home. I was proud. I was Proudly South African.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
I started a revolution - well, sort of (1993)
Trotsky would have been proud. I started my own little revolution during my time at the University of Stellenbosch. Okay, most of it was unintentional and more like the Oasis song 'I started a revolution from my bed'. It all started when I became a tutorial lecturer in Political Science at the University of Stellenbosch.
I didn't want to be the standard lecturer. I wanted to teach and engage. So I made two simple rules that my students must follow. Firstly, they didn't have to come to class if they wanted a degree. I would just give them whatever mark they wanted if that was their intention. For those who wanted to study - be careful, I will challenge you and try and get you outside your comfort zone. The intention was to get them interested in learning and not focus on the end goal. The second rule was even easier to follow - it better be Liverpool I see if you wear any clothing that highlights some commitment to a sport or team. Anything else and you are out of there. And I am not joking, many students were thrown out of class for breaking this cardinal rule. Hey, even us revolutionaries needs to draw the line somewhere. Come on, Pope John Paul II was a Liverpool supporter as well - so I wasn't that much of a revolutionary.
Anyway, here I was at the Bastion of Apartheid, the University of Stellenbosch. Banished from most of the more popular anti-Apartheid movement meetings on campus because I questioned how committed they were - see The (student) spy amongst us for more detail. Just like old Trotsky, I was fighting my own fight. The problem was that I wasn't much of a Trot, I just had as many hang-ups when I was young.
I had my first taste at starting a revolution when I went on my yearly rant against the Student Representative Council. They were a pretty useless bunch. No power and no backbone. They were very much in line with the US system of voting - whoever is the prettiest and made the most populist promises will win - for a student this meant the one promising the biggest party will be gauranteed the popular vote. I used one of my classes to point out that voting should at least reflect some or other relevancy (this was before reality TV shows). And that the SRC was irrelevant. They pandered to the Nationalist government who controlled the University of Stellenbosch. They never spoke out against any of the injustices of the university rules or questioned the political alliances of the ruling mob at the university. One student piped up to say that her sister was on the SRC and worked really hard. My response was to say that I am sure she worked really hard. But that is different from working on something relevant. Planning the next big party did not translate into something relevant. And that I was sure that the Apartheid government worked really hard at oppressing people. But it didn't make them right. Hum, she didn't like this and decided to go for the 'I-want-a-degree' option and left my class. And I ranted on about what we needed was for students to take responsibility and show their unhappiness with the system. And in any way they felt was the most relevant - just as long as they show they didn't believe or support a political structure that had none of their interests at heart. It was a mistake to let them decide what the 'appropriate action' should be. A big mistake.
I meant for them to have a protest vote. Maybe a placard ot two. I actually expected them to do nothing. Go out for a few drinks after class and talk about the revolution like good Trots. And then go home and do nothing. Like good Trots. But no. They had other ideas. Unlike Trots they decided to do something together in unity. (Trots usually split into two groups when two gather). I didn't realize that the revolution started while I was in bed.
I took my normal route to the office and quickly realized that they went completely overboard. Every road sign and wall were sprayed in anti-SRC or anti-establishment slogans. Graffiti everywhere. Not a protester in sight, but their handywork were everywhere. Oh, yes. I was in trouble. People knew it was me behind this protest almost immediately. How? Well, the bloody students sprayed a path that started at the SRC offices and that ended at the entrance to my class. Like Hansel and Gretel leaving little breadcrumbs for everyone to follow. Right to my doorstep. I could feel a headache similar to the Trotsky ice-pick coming my way.
I got to class and my revolutionaries were waiting for me. All smiles and high fives. They were so chuffed with themselves. I sat down and stared at my desk. Where do I start? Do I give them the 'we'll fight them on the beaches speech'? Or do I just walk away and go have a drink? After a long pause I looked up and said, 'okay people, rule number three. What happens in the class, stay in the class'.
I didn't want to be the standard lecturer. I wanted to teach and engage. So I made two simple rules that my students must follow. Firstly, they didn't have to come to class if they wanted a degree. I would just give them whatever mark they wanted if that was their intention. For those who wanted to study - be careful, I will challenge you and try and get you outside your comfort zone. The intention was to get them interested in learning and not focus on the end goal. The second rule was even easier to follow - it better be Liverpool I see if you wear any clothing that highlights some commitment to a sport or team. Anything else and you are out of there. And I am not joking, many students were thrown out of class for breaking this cardinal rule. Hey, even us revolutionaries needs to draw the line somewhere. Come on, Pope John Paul II was a Liverpool supporter as well - so I wasn't that much of a revolutionary.
Anyway, here I was at the Bastion of Apartheid, the University of Stellenbosch. Banished from most of the more popular anti-Apartheid movement meetings on campus because I questioned how committed they were - see The (student) spy amongst us for more detail. Just like old Trotsky, I was fighting my own fight. The problem was that I wasn't much of a Trot, I just had as many hang-ups when I was young.
I had my first taste at starting a revolution when I went on my yearly rant against the Student Representative Council. They were a pretty useless bunch. No power and no backbone. They were very much in line with the US system of voting - whoever is the prettiest and made the most populist promises will win - for a student this meant the one promising the biggest party will be gauranteed the popular vote. I used one of my classes to point out that voting should at least reflect some or other relevancy (this was before reality TV shows). And that the SRC was irrelevant. They pandered to the Nationalist government who controlled the University of Stellenbosch. They never spoke out against any of the injustices of the university rules or questioned the political alliances of the ruling mob at the university. One student piped up to say that her sister was on the SRC and worked really hard. My response was to say that I am sure she worked really hard. But that is different from working on something relevant. Planning the next big party did not translate into something relevant. And that I was sure that the Apartheid government worked really hard at oppressing people. But it didn't make them right. Hum, she didn't like this and decided to go for the 'I-want-a-degree' option and left my class. And I ranted on about what we needed was for students to take responsibility and show their unhappiness with the system. And in any way they felt was the most relevant - just as long as they show they didn't believe or support a political structure that had none of their interests at heart. It was a mistake to let them decide what the 'appropriate action' should be. A big mistake.
I meant for them to have a protest vote. Maybe a placard ot two. I actually expected them to do nothing. Go out for a few drinks after class and talk about the revolution like good Trots. And then go home and do nothing. Like good Trots. But no. They had other ideas. Unlike Trots they decided to do something together in unity. (Trots usually split into two groups when two gather). I didn't realize that the revolution started while I was in bed.
I took my normal route to the office and quickly realized that they went completely overboard. Every road sign and wall were sprayed in anti-SRC or anti-establishment slogans. Graffiti everywhere. Not a protester in sight, but their handywork were everywhere. Oh, yes. I was in trouble. People knew it was me behind this protest almost immediately. How? Well, the bloody students sprayed a path that started at the SRC offices and that ended at the entrance to my class. Like Hansel and Gretel leaving little breadcrumbs for everyone to follow. Right to my doorstep. I could feel a headache similar to the Trotsky ice-pick coming my way.
I got to class and my revolutionaries were waiting for me. All smiles and high fives. They were so chuffed with themselves. I sat down and stared at my desk. Where do I start? Do I give them the 'we'll fight them on the beaches speech'? Or do I just walk away and go have a drink? After a long pause I looked up and said, 'okay people, rule number three. What happens in the class, stay in the class'.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
How to get a job at Oxfam - 5 easy steps
Erm... Hum, that's a lie. I tell you, joining Oxfam was one of the most stressful times in my life. No, let me rephrase that. Trying to get a job at Oxfam was the most stressful time of my life. Bloody hell, it was difficult. And took forever. Well, it all started back in 1999.
We started looking at Oxfam as a serious option shortly after I got back from the WTO Battle of Seattle. They were (and remains) pretty much the Exxon of non-profits - the biggest amongst giants, and polluting everything and everyone along the way. (Sorry, more detailed Oxfam bashing will come in future blogs).
All I had to do was send off my artificially enhanced resume and they'll throw jobs at me. It was going to be easy. Hey, who wouldn't want to hire me? We were so sure that by 2000 we would be sipping Gin and Tonic on our estate in Oxfordshire. I just had to find the right job to match my experience and skills.
Step 1: Find the job... somewhere... anywhere... just find the bloody thing.
But finding the job wasn't as easy as what we thought. Where the hell do we start? Hey, their website of course. Uh, no. It was still early days on the Internet. Oxfam tend to forget that for most people in Africa the Internet doesn't exist. And those few who had it was (is) still using bog standard landlines to connect. Trying to access the Oxfam website was like trying to read War and Peace - you knew it was possible, but it wasn't going to happen in a day. Nope. Just click on the Oxfam website and go out to play a game of footie outside. Follow this up with dinner and a trip to the bar and you might be fortunate enough to have opened the front page. Never mind the job search section. And we would have had a blackout by this stage in any case. Or the line would have been disconnected. Meaning that we have to start the process all over again. If you haven't been to the bar yet - start going, because you will need the drink to stay calm.
Oxfam, and almost every other bloody website in the world, forgets that the more complex and colourful your site, the more likely it would mean more time needed to upload. Not a problem if you have broadband (or DSL in those days), but a huge problem if you still used landlines. The site might look pretty, but my reactions weren't.
So off to the papers and magazines, right? That should be easy. But where do you start? Oxfam hardly published their jobs in our local paper Eikestadnuus. The Economist? Hardly - only the really senior positions that no African will be asked to fill. I needed something a little lower down the ranks. But I was in luck, The Guardian (Oxfam's favourite daily) had a deal with my weekly newspaper - The Mail & Guardian. And some of those Oxfam jobs actually slipped through cracks and made it into the newspaper. And then I hit another snag. Most of the jobs was already closed off for applications by the time it was advertised in the M&G. Back to square one - the damned web.
We eventually narrowed our searches down to about ten different places - a handful of newspapers (local and global) and a few (African) user friendly websites that posted the Oxfam jobs on their sites. Now we were ready to rock and roll. Oxfam here I come.
Step 2: Apply... and apply... and apply... don't stop for anything.
Which job should we apply for? There are so many. Do I want to be a researcher or a campaigner or a field worker or a policy adviser? And do I want to research or advise on debt or coffee or disasters or multilateral trade or what? And do I want to work for Oxfam International or Oxfam Great Britain or Novib (Oxfam Netherlands) or Oxfam Canada 1 or 2 (typical of the Canadians, they had to have two - a French one and an English one). I can't even decide which socks to wear or whether the socks should be matching or whether to wear socks at all, how am I going to pick one from this smörgåsbord of options? (Like the spelling? I checked it up on Wikipedia). This needed some serious thinking and consultations.
Well, after careful consideration by the Get-The-Damn-Job Committee, weeks of meticulous planning and re-planning by the Just-Make-A-Bloody-Decision Task Team, and independent advice by a group of even more independent consultants headed up by McKinsey & Company, we came up with a plan. We decided to take the shotgun approach.
This carefully worked out strategy is based on the principle of beggars can't be choosers. Instead of aiming at a specific target, this Einsteinish theory argues that either you are good enough for all the available jobs or that you might find one sucker at Oxfam that will be dazzled by your amazingly crafted resume. And who wouldn't see the stretched truths and value added pieces of fiction that litters your resume. The shotgun approach reasons that at least one of the pellets will hit a target. No one said that it needed to be the right target. Remember, Oxfam is the target and it doesn't matter which targeted Oxfam it hits. It just needs to hit something.
So we carefully crafted applications ranging from CEO of Oxfam to shop assistant in Mable Hall. Something had to give. Sorry Jack, a target will be hit.
Step 3: Aim low... remember where you come from.
It did became very apparent that I wasn't going to be employed as CEO. Or in any senior position that matched my South African position in any way. I am not trying to brag, but I got to a very senior position in South Africa in a very, very short period of time. So I initially expected the job at Oxfam to be on more or less the same level. But no. They weren't going to employ someone from Africa into a senior position. I mean really. What do we know of the world? The fact that we work and live in the places that they are meant to work for didn't matter to them. No. The colonialist blood ran thick. They employ their own people at the top and might throw a few of us in there to show their diversity. But they were pretty English and white at the top. And remains so.
But it didn't bug me too much. I was a Director in South Africa and I wouldn't employ any of them at a senior position in South Africa. So I guess it was just more than fair that they play the same game in their backyard. I just swallowed hard and went for a few positions below what I wanted. But this was about getting the opportunity to prove myself. Getting that break. And once I get it I will work my butt off to prove my worth to them. The revolution will start once I get in. The job I get was going to be a Trojan horse.
But, of course, I had a family to feed. It took some hard decisions and harder words from my wife, but she decided that it was something she wanted all of us to do. So tighten the belts a bit and stop thinking of the estate in Oxfordshire. Maybe the counsel estate will have to do.
So we focused a bit more on the lower end of the scale. And got cracking on those applications again. And enjoyed it while we could. Once we accepted the lower end job we wouldn't be able to enjoy the luxury of licking stamps. And we prepared for the move. I was sure that it was going to happen any day soon.
Step 4: Hang in there... this might take a while... just don't stop.
What is taking them so long? This is like watching a kettle boil or asking an Englishman for directions. It takes for bloody ever. Now remember, I started applying for Oxfam jobs back in 1999. I expected it to be all done and dusted within a few weeks. A few months at most if we include the visa applications. But really. Months went by without as much as a word from Oxfam.
I was sure that it had something to do with the telephone system. So we checked and double checked our connections. Checked if our emails are being delivered and Oxfam wasn't on a overly sensitive anti-spam system of our service provider. But not a peep from them. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Fuck all.
That's when I read the fine print. Apparently they don't send you a note to either confirm that they got your application or if you were unsuccessful. Obviously the last one couldn't be relevant to me. Why would they not want to hire me? It must be the postal system. I am sure our government got a sniff that I might be leaving and would do all in their power to stop the brain drain. That was the only logical explanation. And the few rejection letter that came my way was delicately planted by government agents working on keeping me in South Africa.
So I just kept on applying for more jobs at Oxfam. Sometimes ten at a time. Week in and week out. And I smiled every single time I got a rejection or no reply. I knew that every time they rejected me or ignored me I was getting closer and closer to that one job. This was just the law of averages. You have to go through so many disappointments before you could get to that one job that was just right. So I knew I was getting closer to the one. I forgot that I learnt in science that no matter how many times you test the law of gravity - the result will remain the same. (okay, just in case the geeks are trawling this blog - the law of gravity doesn't work 100% in quantum physics). But you get what I mean - repeated failure doesn't always get you closer to success. But I had to believe.
Step 5: Get the interview... not the job.
And then I got the call. All the way from Phil Twyford, Advocacy Director for Oxfam International. He wanted me to come up to Brussels for an interview for a position as lobbyist at the European Commission. Man was I exited. I prepared like hell. read everything that I could. Studied like I've never studied before. Flew over to Brussels and completely froze at my first interview. I was way over prepared and when they stuffed up my schedule I didn't react the way I should have - I panicked and just plainly had a bad interview. Okay, it wasn't that bad. But I did feel that I wasn't on top of my game. I was not focused enough. I wanted the job a little too much. But it was a lesson learnt. Don't go for the job. Go for the interview. That's why they invited you in the first place. So we were back at square on after almost 2 years of failed applications and one interview. Man did I feel shit and almost gave up. But we started sending off those new applications the next day.
This time we didn't have to wait too long though. Nope. The next one came a few months later. This time by another Phil. Phil Bloomer who was then the Head of Advocacy at Oxfam Great Britain. He wanted me to come and speak to them about the position at the WTO. This time it went like a dream. I nailed everything and then some. They loved me. I knew more about the WTO than all of them put together. And, as a previous WTO negotiator, I had a trunk full of contacts. But I still didn't get the job. They loved me but they needed someone to start immediately and although I knew more than anyone else, they just couldn't wait the few months that it was going to require to get me my visa. For some or other reason the WTO wasn't willing to postpone their Ministerial meeting for a few months either.
My last words to Phil was to say thanks for the opportunity, but, make no mistake, I will be working for you guys very soon. And it was just a few months later that I got another call from Phil. He wanted me to come over and talk to them about a job as Policy Adviser, Private Sector. And that was the one we were waiting for.
The law of averages worked. It's a numbers game. I had to apply for about 500 jobs to get 3 interviews to land one job. Did it get me down? Yes. Did I felt like giving up at times? Yes! Did I feel shit when I didn't get the job? Absolutely. Would I do it all over again? Without a doubt. It was as easy as pie.
We started looking at Oxfam as a serious option shortly after I got back from the WTO Battle of Seattle. They were (and remains) pretty much the Exxon of non-profits - the biggest amongst giants, and polluting everything and everyone along the way. (Sorry, more detailed Oxfam bashing will come in future blogs).
All I had to do was send off my artificially enhanced resume and they'll throw jobs at me. It was going to be easy. Hey, who wouldn't want to hire me? We were so sure that by 2000 we would be sipping Gin and Tonic on our estate in Oxfordshire. I just had to find the right job to match my experience and skills.
Step 1: Find the job... somewhere... anywhere... just find the bloody thing.
But finding the job wasn't as easy as what we thought. Where the hell do we start? Hey, their website of course. Uh, no. It was still early days on the Internet. Oxfam tend to forget that for most people in Africa the Internet doesn't exist. And those few who had it was (is) still using bog standard landlines to connect. Trying to access the Oxfam website was like trying to read War and Peace - you knew it was possible, but it wasn't going to happen in a day. Nope. Just click on the Oxfam website and go out to play a game of footie outside. Follow this up with dinner and a trip to the bar and you might be fortunate enough to have opened the front page. Never mind the job search section. And we would have had a blackout by this stage in any case. Or the line would have been disconnected. Meaning that we have to start the process all over again. If you haven't been to the bar yet - start going, because you will need the drink to stay calm.
Oxfam, and almost every other bloody website in the world, forgets that the more complex and colourful your site, the more likely it would mean more time needed to upload. Not a problem if you have broadband (or DSL in those days), but a huge problem if you still used landlines. The site might look pretty, but my reactions weren't.
So off to the papers and magazines, right? That should be easy. But where do you start? Oxfam hardly published their jobs in our local paper Eikestadnuus. The Economist? Hardly - only the really senior positions that no African will be asked to fill. I needed something a little lower down the ranks. But I was in luck, The Guardian (Oxfam's favourite daily) had a deal with my weekly newspaper - The Mail & Guardian. And some of those Oxfam jobs actually slipped through cracks and made it into the newspaper. And then I hit another snag. Most of the jobs was already closed off for applications by the time it was advertised in the M&G. Back to square one - the damned web.
We eventually narrowed our searches down to about ten different places - a handful of newspapers (local and global) and a few (African) user friendly websites that posted the Oxfam jobs on their sites. Now we were ready to rock and roll. Oxfam here I come.
Step 2: Apply... and apply... and apply... don't stop for anything.
Which job should we apply for? There are so many. Do I want to be a researcher or a campaigner or a field worker or a policy adviser? And do I want to research or advise on debt or coffee or disasters or multilateral trade or what? And do I want to work for Oxfam International or Oxfam Great Britain or Novib (Oxfam Netherlands) or Oxfam Canada 1 or 2 (typical of the Canadians, they had to have two - a French one and an English one). I can't even decide which socks to wear or whether the socks should be matching or whether to wear socks at all, how am I going to pick one from this smörgåsbord of options? (Like the spelling? I checked it up on Wikipedia). This needed some serious thinking and consultations.
Well, after careful consideration by the Get-The-Damn-Job Committee, weeks of meticulous planning and re-planning by the Just-Make-A-Bloody-Decision Task Team, and independent advice by a group of even more independent consultants headed up by McKinsey & Company, we came up with a plan. We decided to take the shotgun approach.
This carefully worked out strategy is based on the principle of beggars can't be choosers. Instead of aiming at a specific target, this Einsteinish theory argues that either you are good enough for all the available jobs or that you might find one sucker at Oxfam that will be dazzled by your amazingly crafted resume. And who wouldn't see the stretched truths and value added pieces of fiction that litters your resume. The shotgun approach reasons that at least one of the pellets will hit a target. No one said that it needed to be the right target. Remember, Oxfam is the target and it doesn't matter which targeted Oxfam it hits. It just needs to hit something.
So we carefully crafted applications ranging from CEO of Oxfam to shop assistant in Mable Hall. Something had to give. Sorry Jack, a target will be hit.
Step 3: Aim low... remember where you come from.
It did became very apparent that I wasn't going to be employed as CEO. Or in any senior position that matched my South African position in any way. I am not trying to brag, but I got to a very senior position in South Africa in a very, very short period of time. So I initially expected the job at Oxfam to be on more or less the same level. But no. They weren't going to employ someone from Africa into a senior position. I mean really. What do we know of the world? The fact that we work and live in the places that they are meant to work for didn't matter to them. No. The colonialist blood ran thick. They employ their own people at the top and might throw a few of us in there to show their diversity. But they were pretty English and white at the top. And remains so.
But it didn't bug me too much. I was a Director in South Africa and I wouldn't employ any of them at a senior position in South Africa. So I guess it was just more than fair that they play the same game in their backyard. I just swallowed hard and went for a few positions below what I wanted. But this was about getting the opportunity to prove myself. Getting that break. And once I get it I will work my butt off to prove my worth to them. The revolution will start once I get in. The job I get was going to be a Trojan horse.
But, of course, I had a family to feed. It took some hard decisions and harder words from my wife, but she decided that it was something she wanted all of us to do. So tighten the belts a bit and stop thinking of the estate in Oxfordshire. Maybe the counsel estate will have to do.
So we focused a bit more on the lower end of the scale. And got cracking on those applications again. And enjoyed it while we could. Once we accepted the lower end job we wouldn't be able to enjoy the luxury of licking stamps. And we prepared for the move. I was sure that it was going to happen any day soon.
Step 4: Hang in there... this might take a while... just don't stop.
What is taking them so long? This is like watching a kettle boil or asking an Englishman for directions. It takes for bloody ever. Now remember, I started applying for Oxfam jobs back in 1999. I expected it to be all done and dusted within a few weeks. A few months at most if we include the visa applications. But really. Months went by without as much as a word from Oxfam.
I was sure that it had something to do with the telephone system. So we checked and double checked our connections. Checked if our emails are being delivered and Oxfam wasn't on a overly sensitive anti-spam system of our service provider. But not a peep from them. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Fuck all.
That's when I read the fine print. Apparently they don't send you a note to either confirm that they got your application or if you were unsuccessful. Obviously the last one couldn't be relevant to me. Why would they not want to hire me? It must be the postal system. I am sure our government got a sniff that I might be leaving and would do all in their power to stop the brain drain. That was the only logical explanation. And the few rejection letter that came my way was delicately planted by government agents working on keeping me in South Africa.
So I just kept on applying for more jobs at Oxfam. Sometimes ten at a time. Week in and week out. And I smiled every single time I got a rejection or no reply. I knew that every time they rejected me or ignored me I was getting closer and closer to that one job. This was just the law of averages. You have to go through so many disappointments before you could get to that one job that was just right. So I knew I was getting closer to the one. I forgot that I learnt in science that no matter how many times you test the law of gravity - the result will remain the same. (okay, just in case the geeks are trawling this blog - the law of gravity doesn't work 100% in quantum physics). But you get what I mean - repeated failure doesn't always get you closer to success. But I had to believe.
Step 5: Get the interview... not the job.
And then I got the call. All the way from Phil Twyford, Advocacy Director for Oxfam International. He wanted me to come up to Brussels for an interview for a position as lobbyist at the European Commission. Man was I exited. I prepared like hell. read everything that I could. Studied like I've never studied before. Flew over to Brussels and completely froze at my first interview. I was way over prepared and when they stuffed up my schedule I didn't react the way I should have - I panicked and just plainly had a bad interview. Okay, it wasn't that bad. But I did feel that I wasn't on top of my game. I was not focused enough. I wanted the job a little too much. But it was a lesson learnt. Don't go for the job. Go for the interview. That's why they invited you in the first place. So we were back at square on after almost 2 years of failed applications and one interview. Man did I feel shit and almost gave up. But we started sending off those new applications the next day.
This time we didn't have to wait too long though. Nope. The next one came a few months later. This time by another Phil. Phil Bloomer who was then the Head of Advocacy at Oxfam Great Britain. He wanted me to come and speak to them about the position at the WTO. This time it went like a dream. I nailed everything and then some. They loved me. I knew more about the WTO than all of them put together. And, as a previous WTO negotiator, I had a trunk full of contacts. But I still didn't get the job. They loved me but they needed someone to start immediately and although I knew more than anyone else, they just couldn't wait the few months that it was going to require to get me my visa. For some or other reason the WTO wasn't willing to postpone their Ministerial meeting for a few months either.
My last words to Phil was to say thanks for the opportunity, but, make no mistake, I will be working for you guys very soon. And it was just a few months later that I got another call from Phil. He wanted me to come over and talk to them about a job as Policy Adviser, Private Sector. And that was the one we were waiting for.
The law of averages worked. It's a numbers game. I had to apply for about 500 jobs to get 3 interviews to land one job. Did it get me down? Yes. Did I felt like giving up at times? Yes! Did I feel shit when I didn't get the job? Absolutely. Would I do it all over again? Without a doubt. It was as easy as pie.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Rant & Rave: We Eat Meat - Get Used To It
Being green or protecting wildlife means almost nothing outside US and Europe. There are bigger issues facing people in places like Burundi, Guyana, Yemen and North Korea. They continue to struggle to survive each day. The cheapest bidder always wins when you live off less than $1 a day. And you don't know if there will be a tomorrow if you live in South Africa or Botswana - HIV, TB or malaria can strike at any time. And who cares about the rainforest if you could be killed by a landmine or sniper in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Or care about sustainable farming when you have no food in Zimbabwe. Or about the poor wild animals if you are a refugee in Tanzania trying to make it through another day.
People are starting to bitch about the wildlife in east Africa being threatened by refugees. The influx of people, a half a million in Tanzania alone, has had an enormous impact on wildlife. And these refugees are hunting any animal with a bit of meat on to eat or trade. One of the reasons is that the aid agencies don't provide any meat for refugees. No, it is all beans and cereal for them - with a bit of vitamin fortified foods thrown in.
Come on people, this is Africa. We need our meat. We think chicken is a salad. How can you for one minute think we can survive on beans and cereal? We're not British you know. I don't know any African vegetarians. I am sure there might be a few. But they don't hang around the fire often. We need meat like you need to breathe. Without that we just aren't human or even feel half alive. Please leave your morals at the door if you want to criticise us - we have enough on you to let this one slip by.
A very good friend of mine, French unfortunately, once tried to convince me that the world can feed everyone if we only turned cattle farming into farming of plants - sorry wheat and stuff. All nice when you have your red wine and baguette, but where do you think the cheese come from? And many of us in Africa judge wealth by the ownership of cattle. Too much of a culture shock for us to stop breeding and eating cattle. It's so foreign to us - it's like me asking you to stop earning money and just work for a nice fresh Cesar salad - with a bit of Ranch dressing, if you're lucky. All very nice, but you won't be doing that soon would you?
No, we want our meat and you better get used to it. And we don't want the stuff you call meat in the West. We don't want the hormone and steroid injected animals thank you. No, we want our meat to be fresh - living outside and as wild as possible please. You eat your manufactured mush and we will eat our meat. And we will kill it ourselves and not have this 'I don't want to see it' baby attitude. Own it people (thanks Dr Phil). If you want to eat it - see it.
The aid agencies says that they can't afford to give people meat. Apparently it is not cost effective and the refugees will get everything they need from the beans and cereal. Well, if you don't pay up then you must shut up. We can't help it that you can't afford the meat. We need it to be who we are. Without it we just can't be African. And don't judge us. You can't be you without your guilt and a superiority complex (yes, you are and have one even if you 'work for the poor' - we've seen the photos). And you can't live without your precious air. Even if it is slightly polluted. You are who you are and we are who we are.
Which brings me to my last point. We do not believe in saving the environment and wildlife just for saving it. It only has meaning and 'currency' if it means something to us. We'll look after it and protect it if it is valuable enough for us. We have always looked after our environment and kept the balance with nature, when we've had the luxury of living a normal life. (But it has been a bit more difficult to maintain since you colonized us). But when we have to decide between us and death or a meaningless life? We choose us. And that includes doing what we have always done. Eating meat. Live with it.
People are starting to bitch about the wildlife in east Africa being threatened by refugees. The influx of people, a half a million in Tanzania alone, has had an enormous impact on wildlife. And these refugees are hunting any animal with a bit of meat on to eat or trade. One of the reasons is that the aid agencies don't provide any meat for refugees. No, it is all beans and cereal for them - with a bit of vitamin fortified foods thrown in.
Come on people, this is Africa. We need our meat. We think chicken is a salad. How can you for one minute think we can survive on beans and cereal? We're not British you know. I don't know any African vegetarians. I am sure there might be a few. But they don't hang around the fire often. We need meat like you need to breathe. Without that we just aren't human or even feel half alive. Please leave your morals at the door if you want to criticise us - we have enough on you to let this one slip by.
A very good friend of mine, French unfortunately, once tried to convince me that the world can feed everyone if we only turned cattle farming into farming of plants - sorry wheat and stuff. All nice when you have your red wine and baguette, but where do you think the cheese come from? And many of us in Africa judge wealth by the ownership of cattle. Too much of a culture shock for us to stop breeding and eating cattle. It's so foreign to us - it's like me asking you to stop earning money and just work for a nice fresh Cesar salad - with a bit of Ranch dressing, if you're lucky. All very nice, but you won't be doing that soon would you?
No, we want our meat and you better get used to it. And we don't want the stuff you call meat in the West. We don't want the hormone and steroid injected animals thank you. No, we want our meat to be fresh - living outside and as wild as possible please. You eat your manufactured mush and we will eat our meat. And we will kill it ourselves and not have this 'I don't want to see it' baby attitude. Own it people (thanks Dr Phil). If you want to eat it - see it.
The aid agencies says that they can't afford to give people meat. Apparently it is not cost effective and the refugees will get everything they need from the beans and cereal. Well, if you don't pay up then you must shut up. We can't help it that you can't afford the meat. We need it to be who we are. Without it we just can't be African. And don't judge us. You can't be you without your guilt and a superiority complex (yes, you are and have one even if you 'work for the poor' - we've seen the photos). And you can't live without your precious air. Even if it is slightly polluted. You are who you are and we are who we are.
Which brings me to my last point. We do not believe in saving the environment and wildlife just for saving it. It only has meaning and 'currency' if it means something to us. We'll look after it and protect it if it is valuable enough for us. We have always looked after our environment and kept the balance with nature, when we've had the luxury of living a normal life. (But it has been a bit more difficult to maintain since you colonized us). But when we have to decide between us and death or a meaningless life? We choose us. And that includes doing what we have always done. Eating meat. Live with it.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
The Battle of Seattle and me (1999)
I was as exited as hell. Minister Alec Erwin, Minister of Trade and Industry, asked me to be part of the Ministerial Team to go to the WTO round in Seattle. Not only was it an incredible honour to represent my country, but this was going to be my first trip to the US. USA here we come.
It was a long, long flight to Seattle. It's a 14 hour flight to Miami and another 7 hours to Seattle. And a few hours hanging around Miami waiting for our connecting flight. It took me just more than 24 hours to get from Cape Town to Seattle. Remember, those were my smoking days.
No luck in having a smoke in Miami. Welcome to the US - where smoking was already banned. I was held up by security for a while. I guess my diplomatic passport didn't do the job. Yep, got one of those, but only for the duration of Seattle WTO round. No time for a smoke. I was slowly dying by this time.
Actually it wasn't that bad. I am like Pavlov's Dog when it comes to flying. I fall asleep the second I feel the engines starting. So I slept pretty much for 20 hours plus. I was wide awake by the time we got to Seattle in the middle of the night. Time to hit the bar then.
Dennis George, from another trade union federation, and myself decided to go for a few beers and see if that would get us ready for bed. The theory was that we will either get tired or pass out if we drank enough. So we sat in an almost empty bar and had a few bad beers - my first Bud was my last Bud. The only other people in the bar was the barman, one fat middle aged with a walking stick and a beautiful girl in her 20s. They weren't together.
The girl got up to leave and started walking in our direction to get out - we sat close to the exit. Dennis looked at her and as she came closer - well more of a stare than a look. You need to know Dennis... She almost passed us when Dennis mumbled a hello. She stopped and turned towards us - and looked at us for a few seconds. And then she asked if she could join us.
That was odd. Neither Dennis or myself are much to look at. Our beauty is more internal... Dennis bought her a drink and I just looked at her trying to figure out why she wanted to join us. So I asked, 'what do you do for a living?' She was a 'private exotic dancer', she said. I was trying to figure it out - and then it hit me. 'So, what does a private exotic dancer do?' 'Anything you would like me to do. In private.' Confirmed - she was a prostitute.
With that out the way it made it easier to talk. I wasn't going to pay. I would have to leave if she wasn't a prostitute. I am happily married and have no interest in other women. But with her being a prostitute it meant that she wouldn't want to sleep with me in any case - I wasn't going to pay! No interest from either party. We could just sit and chat. And I told her so.
We had a nice chat. She came from somewhere I can't recall. Somewhere in California I think - San Something. She came to Seattle to 'work' the WTO delegates and already had a few 'hits'. I asked her how much she charged - $400 per hour. Bloody hell! Three strikes and I am out - love my wife, won't pay and can't afford anyway. But Dennis had other ideas.
Dennis started talking about the possibility of them coming to a financial agreement that suited both of them. He was trying to negotiate a 'living' price - like any a good trade union negotiator should. But she got down to $250 and wouldn't move from their. Still way off the $50 Dennis was willing to pay. South African trade unionist were cheap - we didn't get paid that much. But Dennis was arguing that he wouldn't take more than 15 minutes at most and that made it $200 per hour. I think he was pushing with the 15 minutes claim - that was just subtle bragging.
I started losing interest in their discussion and concentrated on my beer and the guy in the bar. He was having this incredible chat with the barman about his shares. And the barman was talking about his shares. The middle aged guy was a fisherman (with a walking stick?). Two average guys talking about their investments. So different from South Africa where only the rich can even think about investments - never mind actually investing. Welcome to the US where they talk about their investments and not about surviving another day.
The middle aged guy got up and started walking towards us to leave. He was about to exit when he turned around and looked at the prostitute and tilted his cap and said, 'evening mam. Send my regards to your family' and then walked on. She didn't hear him. I asked her if she knew the guy that walked past and she said that she doesn't know him from a bar of soap. 'Well, I think you just missed a customer as he was talking to you and said something about your family'. She jumped up in a flash and ran after him with all the composure she could muster. They spoke for a few second and then got into the lift and disappeared. She didn't even say goodbye. Dennis was shell shocked. 'Hey Dennis, you'll thank me in the morning when you look at your wallet'. And with that I went off to bed. Alone. To sleep.
The next day was boring. We sat around and discussed tactics for the following day when negotiations was due to start. I was to focus on the African group of countries. The African countries negotiated a common position before we came over and it was my job to ensure we stick with this deal. With that done - time to explore the city and have a few beers.
Hit the jackpot at the first bar. I saw a group of people with steelworkers t-shirt drinking together. Well, I was a trade unionist and decided to join them for the evening. Had a ball. Shared trade union stories - they were all on permanent protest against a company that fired them a few years back. I didn't tell them I was a WTO delegate as it became clear that they were in town to protest at the WTO meeting. It also became clear that they expected a huge protest the next day. People from all over will be in the streets - treehuggers, activists, trade unionist, anarchist all joining together for the first time to protest against something you could all agree on - their hatred of the WTO. It was late in the evening when we parted - and they gave me a steward's badge for the protests planned the next day. I was now both a delegate at the WTO meeting and a steward and marshall at the protest against the WTO meeting!
President Clinton was going to have an official welcome on day one - and I was asked to represent South Africa with Minister Erwin and Kevin Wakeford from business. Needless to say, they expected me to dress the part - suit and all. But no, thanks to my steelwork friends, I knew that the protest was going to huge and dressed like a protester instead - khaki trousers, boots, suede jacket, cap and backpack. Easy to turn into something more presentable if I tucked in my shirt and took off the cap.
Of course Alec Erwin was less impressed with my choice of attire. We all got together in his, much fancier, hotel room before we left. I walked into his room and he stared at my clothes for a while before saying, 'Mr H, I know you like a more casual approach to clothing, but you do know that we are going to the official opening to represent our country. And we are going to meet President Clinton'. I smiled at him and said, 'we'll have to see who makes it into the building first'. He had a perplexed look on his face but just shrugged and said, 'lets go'.
Alec and Kevin had suits on - and their WTO delegate umbrella and id cards (hanging around their necks). That was the standard WTO delegate dress for the day. Needless to say, they stood out like a sore thumb in the streets where everyone was wearing protester clothing. We turned the corner to the building where the WTO meeting was to be held and just saw a sea of protesters. It seemed as if all 50,000 protesters turned our way and, seeing the suits and umbrellas advertising their WTO status, they all shouted 'delegates!' And then they surrounded our little group of three. Shouting and screaming insults - and making sure we don't get any further.
Okay, they didn't surround our group of three. They actually surrounded the group of two - Alec and Kevin. You see, I looked like a protester with my clothes, backpack and lack of WTO umbrella and id card (tucked away in my backpack and pocket). Alec and Kevin couldn't move. They were surrounded. I looked at Alec and Kevin, winked and moved into the crowd. See ya later, suckers!
Everywhere I walked there were little groups of delegates surrounded by protesters. None of the delegates were allowed to move and no one could get close to the WTO building. But I was free to walk amongst the protesters. Especially with my steward badge and all.
It was a see of faces and dresses. Turtles, dolphins and even a few cows. It was something to see. Everyone standing for anything joined together for one day of protesting against a common enemy - the WTO. And the teamsters did their bit as well. Surrounding the place with trucks and buses. Making it impossible for anyone to get in or out. Man, it was beautiful and looked for a minute like the dawn of something new and powerful - people's power.
I walked around to see if there was a way in. But the teamsters did their work pretty well. The trucks and buses blocked every angle. And they had people manning every opening to ensure no one got in. But I had to get in. That was my job.
I got to the building where Clinton was going to open the meeting. A few buses between me and the building. And a few protesters on top of the buses. And then the riot police waiting on the other side. Only one way in - over the buses we go.
I got on top of a bus and looked around. Good choice. No one else on this one. Just two cops on the other side waiting. But that shouldn't be a problem. I have a WTO id card. I jumped down the other side and the cops came running towards me - their riot gear shaking and weapons aimed and ready. I shouted at them that I am a delegate. They stopped about 2 meter away from me and told me to get back 'sir'. What? I repeated that I am a delegate - just let me get my id card. But they told me to get back. Their orders were to not let anyone in. What? Not even delegates! These guys were taking orders way too seriously. The first order of the day was to not allow anyone get through, but they forgot to tell them that they should allow the delegates through! (Tip for their superiors. Speak slowly, clearly and in single syllables. And remember. these guys don't interpret orders. They just execute it - to the t).
They were getting agro and I knew that the best move would be to go back the way I came - over the bus. By now a few protesters have started to take notice of me on cop side of the buses. And they started to shout encouragement! Booing the cops. They still didn't know that I was a WTO delegate. I moved back to the bus and a few protesters extended their hands to help me back up. 'Great stuff', 'yea, take them on', and 'way to go brother' greeted me as I got back into the crowd. I was a hero amongst the protesters for a little while...
But I had to get in. That was my job. I started moving towards the front of the main WTO building. But a human chain blocked my way in everywhere. I played the game - walking around as a marshall and steward telling people to strengthen the lines. All the while looking for a way in.
Things were starting to look bad though. The crowd was losing control. The anarchists started burning tires, throwing bricks and stones at windows, and climbing on top of building shouting and taunting the cops. I have been at enough protests marches in South Africa to know that this was only heading one way - a clash.
I got close to the front of the main protest facing the riot police. I was about 3 people away from the front when people started to sit down. Bad move. I have learned from experience that you don't sit down in front of cops when they want you to move. And then came the teargas. It was like being home in South Africa back in the 80s all over again - protesting, riot police, teargas and stones versus rubber bullets.
The guy in front of me got hit by a teargas canister and it went off in his face. He started wailing and puking almost immediately. I grabbed my handkerchief, wet it with my water bottle and covered my face (a lesson learnt from many protests in South Africa - be prepared). It burned, but it was easier to breathe this way. And then I grabbed the guy that got hit by the teargas and started pulling him towards the side - towards the WTO building.
Make no mistake. I didn't do it to help the guy. I saw him as my ticket to get into the WTO building. I dragged him to the human chain and shouted at them that I needed to get him to a medic - and flashed them my steward badge. They opened up and the medics were just a few meters away. I threw the guy at the medics and shouted at them to help him.
I sat down, washed my face with the bottled water and then took out my delegate id card. The cops were moving towards me - ready to either arrest me or kick me back into the protesting crowd. I got up and flashed them my delegate card and shouted, 'will you now please let me in?' They stepped back, pointed to the entrance of the building and shouted 'go!'. I grabbed my backpack and walked over to the doors wiping the teargas tears from my face.
I got into the building and headed for the escalator to go upstairs to the meeting area. It was one hell of a long escalator. I looked up as I got on the escalator and just saw cameras flashing and rolling. Damn. The press. They have been starved of people to interview all day. No one made it in and here I was - a prey to pounce on. Someone to interview at last.
But I wasn't meant to speak to the press. I had no training. What do I do? Push past them or say a few words? I quickly decided that I will speak to them. It has been about 3 hours or more since the South African team last saw me disappear into the crowd of protesters. I was sure that they were all back at the hotel room by now. Watching CNN to see hat was happening. I will talk to the press to let them know I am okay. I am alive and well. And that I made it in. So I straigtened my clothes and neatened my hair. Bring on the cameras baby!
I hit the top and froze. There were cameras and microphones everywhere. People shouting questions left, right and centre. I couldn't register. Then I heard a question coming through my cloudy mind, 'sir, what's like out there?' And I said the first thing that came to my mind, 'well, the first thing that went through my mind when I smelled the teargas was home-sweet-home'. And it went out live for the world to see.
And the press loved me for that. I gave them a soundbite and that was what they wanted. I was their favourite for the rest of the day. I don't know if it was because of my quote or whether I was one of only a handful of people they could interview. But I enjoyed the media attention and had my 15 minutes of fame - stretched to a few hours because of a lack of competition!
So I spend most of the day and evening talking to the press and drinking coffee. Nothing to do. The police had to clear the streets before I could leave the building again. But I did get a great t-shirt. Man the Americans are fast. I got a t-shirt that said 'my trade minister went to the WTO and all I got was this lousy trade deal'. Still got it.
I eventually went to the hotel at 2 am. The cops escorted me all the way there. Two cop cars in front and one at the back. Me in the limo in the middle. So different from the day of protesting. But by now the streets were empty. Not a soul except for the cops.
I got to the hotel and headed up to Alec's room. I wasn't sure whether he would still be awake, but had to check in to make sure. Just to show him I am back. I could hear the tv inside and opened the door. He was still up with most of the team hanging around. He looked at me and shook his head saying, 'home sweet home Mr H?'
Okay, so it wasn't the best thing to say with the world watching. But who made it to the meeting and who didn't?
___________
(Note: a few other things on my Seattle experience.
Day 2 was even more unbelievable. There were absolutely no one in the streets. You could hear the riot police marching through the streets in typical military style. Their beat echoed off the buildings. Like police patrolling the streets in a police state. A sign of the future world to come?
I was walking the empty streets by myself for a little while - just to take in a bit of Seattle. And I saw my first sex shop. It had Barbie and Ken in S&M clothing in the window. I was dumbstruck and stared at it not knowing what to think. It was so foreign. Barbie has never been the same since. A sign of the future South Africa to come?
And of course, all of this happened while my wife and daughter was at home. We told my daughter that I was going to Seattle. She was almost three and didn't get what I was doing there, but she got the fact that I was in Seattle. My wife was cooking when she heard my daughter call from the TV room, 'look mom, Seattle'. My wife came into the room and saw the absolute chaos happening in Seattle. She knew that I would be one of the people in the rioting crowd. I always want to be in the middle of it - not participate, but try and get a sense of it all. Just take it in and observe people and their behaviour. And she did what she always does - she started worrying. She didn't go to sleep until I phoned from the hotel many, many hours later. A sign of our future together when I travel?)
I always thought that my home-sweet-home comment was just relevant to that moment in Seattle. But it only hit home how true it was when I moved to the US many years later. It still felt like home-sweet-home. Both the good and the bad
It was a long, long flight to Seattle. It's a 14 hour flight to Miami and another 7 hours to Seattle. And a few hours hanging around Miami waiting for our connecting flight. It took me just more than 24 hours to get from Cape Town to Seattle. Remember, those were my smoking days.
No luck in having a smoke in Miami. Welcome to the US - where smoking was already banned. I was held up by security for a while. I guess my diplomatic passport didn't do the job. Yep, got one of those, but only for the duration of Seattle WTO round. No time for a smoke. I was slowly dying by this time.
Actually it wasn't that bad. I am like Pavlov's Dog when it comes to flying. I fall asleep the second I feel the engines starting. So I slept pretty much for 20 hours plus. I was wide awake by the time we got to Seattle in the middle of the night. Time to hit the bar then.
Dennis George, from another trade union federation, and myself decided to go for a few beers and see if that would get us ready for bed. The theory was that we will either get tired or pass out if we drank enough. So we sat in an almost empty bar and had a few bad beers - my first Bud was my last Bud. The only other people in the bar was the barman, one fat middle aged with a walking stick and a beautiful girl in her 20s. They weren't together.
The girl got up to leave and started walking in our direction to get out - we sat close to the exit. Dennis looked at her and as she came closer - well more of a stare than a look. You need to know Dennis... She almost passed us when Dennis mumbled a hello. She stopped and turned towards us - and looked at us for a few seconds. And then she asked if she could join us.
That was odd. Neither Dennis or myself are much to look at. Our beauty is more internal... Dennis bought her a drink and I just looked at her trying to figure out why she wanted to join us. So I asked, 'what do you do for a living?' She was a 'private exotic dancer', she said. I was trying to figure it out - and then it hit me. 'So, what does a private exotic dancer do?' 'Anything you would like me to do. In private.' Confirmed - she was a prostitute.
With that out the way it made it easier to talk. I wasn't going to pay. I would have to leave if she wasn't a prostitute. I am happily married and have no interest in other women. But with her being a prostitute it meant that she wouldn't want to sleep with me in any case - I wasn't going to pay! No interest from either party. We could just sit and chat. And I told her so.
We had a nice chat. She came from somewhere I can't recall. Somewhere in California I think - San Something. She came to Seattle to 'work' the WTO delegates and already had a few 'hits'. I asked her how much she charged - $400 per hour. Bloody hell! Three strikes and I am out - love my wife, won't pay and can't afford anyway. But Dennis had other ideas.
Dennis started talking about the possibility of them coming to a financial agreement that suited both of them. He was trying to negotiate a 'living' price - like any a good trade union negotiator should. But she got down to $250 and wouldn't move from their. Still way off the $50 Dennis was willing to pay. South African trade unionist were cheap - we didn't get paid that much. But Dennis was arguing that he wouldn't take more than 15 minutes at most and that made it $200 per hour. I think he was pushing with the 15 minutes claim - that was just subtle bragging.
I started losing interest in their discussion and concentrated on my beer and the guy in the bar. He was having this incredible chat with the barman about his shares. And the barman was talking about his shares. The middle aged guy was a fisherman (with a walking stick?). Two average guys talking about their investments. So different from South Africa where only the rich can even think about investments - never mind actually investing. Welcome to the US where they talk about their investments and not about surviving another day.
The middle aged guy got up and started walking towards us to leave. He was about to exit when he turned around and looked at the prostitute and tilted his cap and said, 'evening mam. Send my regards to your family' and then walked on. She didn't hear him. I asked her if she knew the guy that walked past and she said that she doesn't know him from a bar of soap. 'Well, I think you just missed a customer as he was talking to you and said something about your family'. She jumped up in a flash and ran after him with all the composure she could muster. They spoke for a few second and then got into the lift and disappeared. She didn't even say goodbye. Dennis was shell shocked. 'Hey Dennis, you'll thank me in the morning when you look at your wallet'. And with that I went off to bed. Alone. To sleep.
The next day was boring. We sat around and discussed tactics for the following day when negotiations was due to start. I was to focus on the African group of countries. The African countries negotiated a common position before we came over and it was my job to ensure we stick with this deal. With that done - time to explore the city and have a few beers.
Hit the jackpot at the first bar. I saw a group of people with steelworkers t-shirt drinking together. Well, I was a trade unionist and decided to join them for the evening. Had a ball. Shared trade union stories - they were all on permanent protest against a company that fired them a few years back. I didn't tell them I was a WTO delegate as it became clear that they were in town to protest at the WTO meeting. It also became clear that they expected a huge protest the next day. People from all over will be in the streets - treehuggers, activists, trade unionist, anarchist all joining together for the first time to protest against something you could all agree on - their hatred of the WTO. It was late in the evening when we parted - and they gave me a steward's badge for the protests planned the next day. I was now both a delegate at the WTO meeting and a steward and marshall at the protest against the WTO meeting!
President Clinton was going to have an official welcome on day one - and I was asked to represent South Africa with Minister Erwin and Kevin Wakeford from business. Needless to say, they expected me to dress the part - suit and all. But no, thanks to my steelwork friends, I knew that the protest was going to huge and dressed like a protester instead - khaki trousers, boots, suede jacket, cap and backpack. Easy to turn into something more presentable if I tucked in my shirt and took off the cap.
Of course Alec Erwin was less impressed with my choice of attire. We all got together in his, much fancier, hotel room before we left. I walked into his room and he stared at my clothes for a while before saying, 'Mr H, I know you like a more casual approach to clothing, but you do know that we are going to the official opening to represent our country. And we are going to meet President Clinton'. I smiled at him and said, 'we'll have to see who makes it into the building first'. He had a perplexed look on his face but just shrugged and said, 'lets go'.
Alec and Kevin had suits on - and their WTO delegate umbrella and id cards (hanging around their necks). That was the standard WTO delegate dress for the day. Needless to say, they stood out like a sore thumb in the streets where everyone was wearing protester clothing. We turned the corner to the building where the WTO meeting was to be held and just saw a sea of protesters. It seemed as if all 50,000 protesters turned our way and, seeing the suits and umbrellas advertising their WTO status, they all shouted 'delegates!' And then they surrounded our little group of three. Shouting and screaming insults - and making sure we don't get any further.
Okay, they didn't surround our group of three. They actually surrounded the group of two - Alec and Kevin. You see, I looked like a protester with my clothes, backpack and lack of WTO umbrella and id card (tucked away in my backpack and pocket). Alec and Kevin couldn't move. They were surrounded. I looked at Alec and Kevin, winked and moved into the crowd. See ya later, suckers!
Everywhere I walked there were little groups of delegates surrounded by protesters. None of the delegates were allowed to move and no one could get close to the WTO building. But I was free to walk amongst the protesters. Especially with my steward badge and all.
It was a see of faces and dresses. Turtles, dolphins and even a few cows. It was something to see. Everyone standing for anything joined together for one day of protesting against a common enemy - the WTO. And the teamsters did their bit as well. Surrounding the place with trucks and buses. Making it impossible for anyone to get in or out. Man, it was beautiful and looked for a minute like the dawn of something new and powerful - people's power.
I walked around to see if there was a way in. But the teamsters did their work pretty well. The trucks and buses blocked every angle. And they had people manning every opening to ensure no one got in. But I had to get in. That was my job.
I got to the building where Clinton was going to open the meeting. A few buses between me and the building. And a few protesters on top of the buses. And then the riot police waiting on the other side. Only one way in - over the buses we go.
I got on top of a bus and looked around. Good choice. No one else on this one. Just two cops on the other side waiting. But that shouldn't be a problem. I have a WTO id card. I jumped down the other side and the cops came running towards me - their riot gear shaking and weapons aimed and ready. I shouted at them that I am a delegate. They stopped about 2 meter away from me and told me to get back 'sir'. What? I repeated that I am a delegate - just let me get my id card. But they told me to get back. Their orders were to not let anyone in. What? Not even delegates! These guys were taking orders way too seriously. The first order of the day was to not allow anyone get through, but they forgot to tell them that they should allow the delegates through! (Tip for their superiors. Speak slowly, clearly and in single syllables. And remember. these guys don't interpret orders. They just execute it - to the t).
They were getting agro and I knew that the best move would be to go back the way I came - over the bus. By now a few protesters have started to take notice of me on cop side of the buses. And they started to shout encouragement! Booing the cops. They still didn't know that I was a WTO delegate. I moved back to the bus and a few protesters extended their hands to help me back up. 'Great stuff', 'yea, take them on', and 'way to go brother' greeted me as I got back into the crowd. I was a hero amongst the protesters for a little while...
But I had to get in. That was my job. I started moving towards the front of the main WTO building. But a human chain blocked my way in everywhere. I played the game - walking around as a marshall and steward telling people to strengthen the lines. All the while looking for a way in.
Things were starting to look bad though. The crowd was losing control. The anarchists started burning tires, throwing bricks and stones at windows, and climbing on top of building shouting and taunting the cops. I have been at enough protests marches in South Africa to know that this was only heading one way - a clash.
I got close to the front of the main protest facing the riot police. I was about 3 people away from the front when people started to sit down. Bad move. I have learned from experience that you don't sit down in front of cops when they want you to move. And then came the teargas. It was like being home in South Africa back in the 80s all over again - protesting, riot police, teargas and stones versus rubber bullets.
The guy in front of me got hit by a teargas canister and it went off in his face. He started wailing and puking almost immediately. I grabbed my handkerchief, wet it with my water bottle and covered my face (a lesson learnt from many protests in South Africa - be prepared). It burned, but it was easier to breathe this way. And then I grabbed the guy that got hit by the teargas and started pulling him towards the side - towards the WTO building.
Make no mistake. I didn't do it to help the guy. I saw him as my ticket to get into the WTO building. I dragged him to the human chain and shouted at them that I needed to get him to a medic - and flashed them my steward badge. They opened up and the medics were just a few meters away. I threw the guy at the medics and shouted at them to help him.
I sat down, washed my face with the bottled water and then took out my delegate id card. The cops were moving towards me - ready to either arrest me or kick me back into the protesting crowd. I got up and flashed them my delegate card and shouted, 'will you now please let me in?' They stepped back, pointed to the entrance of the building and shouted 'go!'. I grabbed my backpack and walked over to the doors wiping the teargas tears from my face.
I got into the building and headed for the escalator to go upstairs to the meeting area. It was one hell of a long escalator. I looked up as I got on the escalator and just saw cameras flashing and rolling. Damn. The press. They have been starved of people to interview all day. No one made it in and here I was - a prey to pounce on. Someone to interview at last.
But I wasn't meant to speak to the press. I had no training. What do I do? Push past them or say a few words? I quickly decided that I will speak to them. It has been about 3 hours or more since the South African team last saw me disappear into the crowd of protesters. I was sure that they were all back at the hotel room by now. Watching CNN to see hat was happening. I will talk to the press to let them know I am okay. I am alive and well. And that I made it in. So I straigtened my clothes and neatened my hair. Bring on the cameras baby!
I hit the top and froze. There were cameras and microphones everywhere. People shouting questions left, right and centre. I couldn't register. Then I heard a question coming through my cloudy mind, 'sir, what's like out there?' And I said the first thing that came to my mind, 'well, the first thing that went through my mind when I smelled the teargas was home-sweet-home'. And it went out live for the world to see.
And the press loved me for that. I gave them a soundbite and that was what they wanted. I was their favourite for the rest of the day. I don't know if it was because of my quote or whether I was one of only a handful of people they could interview. But I enjoyed the media attention and had my 15 minutes of fame - stretched to a few hours because of a lack of competition!
So I spend most of the day and evening talking to the press and drinking coffee. Nothing to do. The police had to clear the streets before I could leave the building again. But I did get a great t-shirt. Man the Americans are fast. I got a t-shirt that said 'my trade minister went to the WTO and all I got was this lousy trade deal'. Still got it.
I eventually went to the hotel at 2 am. The cops escorted me all the way there. Two cop cars in front and one at the back. Me in the limo in the middle. So different from the day of protesting. But by now the streets were empty. Not a soul except for the cops.
I got to the hotel and headed up to Alec's room. I wasn't sure whether he would still be awake, but had to check in to make sure. Just to show him I am back. I could hear the tv inside and opened the door. He was still up with most of the team hanging around. He looked at me and shook his head saying, 'home sweet home Mr H?'
Okay, so it wasn't the best thing to say with the world watching. But who made it to the meeting and who didn't?
___________
(Note: a few other things on my Seattle experience.
Day 2 was even more unbelievable. There were absolutely no one in the streets. You could hear the riot police marching through the streets in typical military style. Their beat echoed off the buildings. Like police patrolling the streets in a police state. A sign of the future world to come?
I was walking the empty streets by myself for a little while - just to take in a bit of Seattle. And I saw my first sex shop. It had Barbie and Ken in S&M clothing in the window. I was dumbstruck and stared at it not knowing what to think. It was so foreign. Barbie has never been the same since. A sign of the future South Africa to come?
And of course, all of this happened while my wife and daughter was at home. We told my daughter that I was going to Seattle. She was almost three and didn't get what I was doing there, but she got the fact that I was in Seattle. My wife was cooking when she heard my daughter call from the TV room, 'look mom, Seattle'. My wife came into the room and saw the absolute chaos happening in Seattle. She knew that I would be one of the people in the rioting crowd. I always want to be in the middle of it - not participate, but try and get a sense of it all. Just take it in and observe people and their behaviour. And she did what she always does - she started worrying. She didn't go to sleep until I phoned from the hotel many, many hours later. A sign of our future together when I travel?)
I always thought that my home-sweet-home comment was just relevant to that moment in Seattle. But it only hit home how true it was when I moved to the US many years later. It still felt like home-sweet-home. Both the good and the bad
Friday, January 18, 2008
Lusaka - September, 11 (2001)
The damn electricity keeps on shutting off in Lusaka. This country exports electricity to South Africa. But they can't even keep their own grid up. And that is a problem for a charity who operates only on the Internet - we depend on electricity to keep us up and running.
I was in Lusaka to work with the charity OneWorld.net. OneWorld.net provides an internet platform to get the activist news out to the world. It has offices and feeds from around the globe. And their African office is in Lusaka, Zambia. And it is not always easy to stay up and running or get the stories out.
One of the more amazing partners is of a guy from the Democratic Republic of Congo who used to get out stories of what was happening while the civil war was going on. The government, or whoever controlled the area at the time, shut down all communications. But he knew it was important to get all the stories out to the world. Each night he would slip over the border and go to a neighbouring village to hook up and post the latest story. He took his life in his own hands as the border was a no-go area. They would kill him on the spot if they ever found him. But he managed to do it each and every day. Never got caught, but had a few close calls. And he never got paid a cent for doing any of it. He was just committed to justice and his people.
So we all got together in Lusaka to discuss and plan on how we get these stories out and support all the people in the field who post these stories. But it wasn't easy. The electricity shut down at least 3-5 times a day. And the phones went down when the electricity went down. No connection to the outside world during those 'dark' times. And we had to post, post, post whenever we had the lucky break of having electricity.
I got a call from my wife at mid-afternoon. The line was bad. Mobile phones hardly worked and landlines were patchy. She said something about New York and an attack by terrorist. But the line was really bad and I couldn't make out everything she was saying. I looked at the others and told them what she said. They just shrugged and carried on what they were doing. My wife sounded odd, but I took that as just her having an off day. I said goodbye and turned to the other asking what they thought of that. We all thought it must be some other attack on a building in NY and nothing much to do with us. Most likely a minor story of a radical right-wing American trying to blow up a government building again. And so we carried on doing what we were doing.
We stopped working early evening and planned to get together later for a few beers and something to eat - in that order. I went to the guesthouse I stayed to clean up. I got to my room and flicked on the TV without looking at it. It was news and nothing new ever happens in our little world today. Nothing that I had to worry about in any case. I got a cold beer and sat outside on the stoep (veranda) and had a few cigarettes while sipping away on my beer. Just sitting and enjoying the beauty of early evening. And amazing African sunset and people's voices everywhere. The highlight of my day when I was at my happiest to be in Africa. You could feel the life and vibrancy of Africa at that time of the day. People coming from work and getting together for a few beers. Loud voices as they talk about soccer and all the good things in life. Coming back from their daily commutes and laughing about how good life can be. People didn't watch much TV until much later - if at all.
I went back in to wash my face and hands to get ready for the night out. I walked back into the room and looked at the TV. It seemed as if it was another one of the imported American movies with things blowing up and destruction everywhere. I thought I had it on CNN...
So I switch the channel over to CNN. And it stayed on the channel it was on before. I stared at the TV trying to make sense of it. What was CNN showing? And slowly it started hitting home. The information was coming through slowly. Everything was happening in slow motion. Things were coming at me, but at a pace I still couldn't handle. The pieces of information just hit me one after the other. Like a boxer being hit one shot after the other. I was punch drunk. It was information overload. Too much information. It couldn't register to make sense. I shook my head to try and clear it up. Bu it still didn't make any sense. I was lost in another world. This wasn't my world. I closed my eyes and slowly opened it again. Hoping to wake up. But it wasn't a dream. It was something else. It was as if my life was changing before my eyes. And I couldn't control or even comprehend what it was. What is this? What is this? Then everything sped up and hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat down on the edge of the bed and just stared at the tv. And just kept on staring. And staring. What the fuck is going on in our world?
I was in Lusaka to work with the charity OneWorld.net. OneWorld.net provides an internet platform to get the activist news out to the world. It has offices and feeds from around the globe. And their African office is in Lusaka, Zambia. And it is not always easy to stay up and running or get the stories out.
One of the more amazing partners is of a guy from the Democratic Republic of Congo who used to get out stories of what was happening while the civil war was going on. The government, or whoever controlled the area at the time, shut down all communications. But he knew it was important to get all the stories out to the world. Each night he would slip over the border and go to a neighbouring village to hook up and post the latest story. He took his life in his own hands as the border was a no-go area. They would kill him on the spot if they ever found him. But he managed to do it each and every day. Never got caught, but had a few close calls. And he never got paid a cent for doing any of it. He was just committed to justice and his people.
So we all got together in Lusaka to discuss and plan on how we get these stories out and support all the people in the field who post these stories. But it wasn't easy. The electricity shut down at least 3-5 times a day. And the phones went down when the electricity went down. No connection to the outside world during those 'dark' times. And we had to post, post, post whenever we had the lucky break of having electricity.
I got a call from my wife at mid-afternoon. The line was bad. Mobile phones hardly worked and landlines were patchy. She said something about New York and an attack by terrorist. But the line was really bad and I couldn't make out everything she was saying. I looked at the others and told them what she said. They just shrugged and carried on what they were doing. My wife sounded odd, but I took that as just her having an off day. I said goodbye and turned to the other asking what they thought of that. We all thought it must be some other attack on a building in NY and nothing much to do with us. Most likely a minor story of a radical right-wing American trying to blow up a government building again. And so we carried on doing what we were doing.
We stopped working early evening and planned to get together later for a few beers and something to eat - in that order. I went to the guesthouse I stayed to clean up. I got to my room and flicked on the TV without looking at it. It was news and nothing new ever happens in our little world today. Nothing that I had to worry about in any case. I got a cold beer and sat outside on the stoep (veranda) and had a few cigarettes while sipping away on my beer. Just sitting and enjoying the beauty of early evening. And amazing African sunset and people's voices everywhere. The highlight of my day when I was at my happiest to be in Africa. You could feel the life and vibrancy of Africa at that time of the day. People coming from work and getting together for a few beers. Loud voices as they talk about soccer and all the good things in life. Coming back from their daily commutes and laughing about how good life can be. People didn't watch much TV until much later - if at all.
I went back in to wash my face and hands to get ready for the night out. I walked back into the room and looked at the TV. It seemed as if it was another one of the imported American movies with things blowing up and destruction everywhere. I thought I had it on CNN...
So I switch the channel over to CNN. And it stayed on the channel it was on before. I stared at the TV trying to make sense of it. What was CNN showing? And slowly it started hitting home. The information was coming through slowly. Everything was happening in slow motion. Things were coming at me, but at a pace I still couldn't handle. The pieces of information just hit me one after the other. Like a boxer being hit one shot after the other. I was punch drunk. It was information overload. Too much information. It couldn't register to make sense. I shook my head to try and clear it up. Bu it still didn't make any sense. I was lost in another world. This wasn't my world. I closed my eyes and slowly opened it again. Hoping to wake up. But it wasn't a dream. It was something else. It was as if my life was changing before my eyes. And I couldn't control or even comprehend what it was. What is this? What is this? Then everything sped up and hit me like a ton of bricks. I sat down on the edge of the bed and just stared at the tv. And just kept on staring. And staring. What the fuck is going on in our world?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
A pilot's ear (2001)
Disclaimer: Let me just say that the last blog was a bit of a heavy one to get off my chest. It took a bit out of me. And it was even more difficult to write the next one. People responded to how it made them feel. And I appreciate that. But I hope it didn't create too much of an expectation. How do I follow that one up? Well, I can't. Don't expect every blog to be as heavy as that one. This blog is about my life. The good and the bad. Some heavy and some fun. Some life lessons and sometimes just stories. Sometimes relevant and sometimes just things that stuck with me. Just stories of things that happened to me and how I got here. So, let's get back to some more story telling.
A pilot's ear
'Good morning Mr C! Got your ticket ready for you'. I can still hear those words. Always the same words. It was the British Airways air hostess at Cape Town International. Always with a smiling face and a quick chat before I head off to the lounge and some coffee.
You see, I used to fly often. No really, I used to flew a lot. Two to four times a week from Cape Town to Joburg and back. For 5 odd years.
I lived in Stellenbosch, the most beautiful town in South Africa and just outside Cape Town. But I had to go up to Joburg to negotiate trade deals and trade and industry policies at NEDLAC (National Economic Development and Labour Council - ) - and that meant having to be at all the chamber, committee and ministerial meetings. As the lead negotiator at the Trade and Industry Chamber, I sat on 12 odd committees and had to be at the Ministerial meetings. All in all about 30 meetings a month. I get tired just thinking of it.
It could have been easier if they managed to arrange the meetings a bit better. It was the same bunch of people attending most of the meetings. Me, Mark Bennett and Herbert Mkhize from the trade unions, Raymond Parsons, Michael MacDonald, Roger Baxter and Andre Lambrechts from business, and Alistair Ruiters and Bahle Sibisi from government. Always the bunch of us stuck in a room together. Nine men writing history. The other 8 all lived within an hour from Joburg. I stayed 2 hours away - a 2 hour flight.
But I had my own way of getting them back. I refused to stay over in Joburg. Which meant that they had to fly me in from Cape Town for each meeting. And I refused to drive in Joburg. Have you driven in Joburg? It is crazy. And that doesn't include the hijacking either. It's like Nascar for dummies. So they had to send a car to pick me up. Okay, so I was just lazy. Didn't want to drive. Never liked it, so why go through all the stress of doing it in Joburg if I could get away with not doing it at all?
Living in Stellenbosch also made it more difficult to stay over in Joburg. Stellenbosch is the most beautiful town in South Africa, and Joburg the ugliest city. Stellenbosch is Stratford-Upon-Avon and Joburg is Birmingham. Stellenbosch is Carmel-by-the-Sea and Joburg is Philly. And I had a family in Stellenbosch. My wife and daughter meant everything to me - especially because of my relationship with the rest of my family. And I couldn't wait to be with my wife and daughter 24/7. But my decision also meant that I had to fly in for each meeting and they always wanted to start early to make sure they get both breakfast and lunch. Yes, food is at the heart of negotiations anywhere in Africa.
There was only one way to get there in time for the breakfast meeting - take the first flight out of Cape Town. Oh brother that was early - 6 am. That meant I had to get up at 4 to make it in time for my flight. And due to scheduling and traffic, I had to take the last flight out of Joburg - 9 pm. Landing at 11 pm. Home by 12. And up again at 4. See why I needed the breakfast? I never had dinner. Crazy schedule - but I loved every minute of it.
I always flew British Airways just to annoy everyone a bit more than needed. I didn't actually mind flying South African Airways, but I knew people got pissed off if I flew British Airways - I was a traitor for using the foreign airline. It always helped to get your opponent a bit hot under the collar before a round of negotiations. And it paid off - I mean air miles. Thanks to all the air miles, my wife, daughter and myself enjoyed a few free trips overseas. I had more air miles than anyone I knew - just over 700,000 air miles at one stage.
And I got to know the airline personnel pretty well. I did this same schedule for almost 5 years. Same flights every Tuesday and Thursday - and sometimes on a Monday and Wednesday. Always the same flights in the morning and evening. And I learned that being friendly meant that I never got hassled. Quite the opposite. They treated me like family. My ticket was ready by the time I got to the airport. I always got the same smile and call when I walked into the airport, 'Good morning Mr C. Got your ticket ready for you'. Never waited in a queue. It pissed everyone else off. Those waiting in the queue. Here I walked in and had my ticket ready and handed over with a smile and a wink. I just walked past those plebs in the queue, smiled at the air hostess, and thanked her. And, sometimes when there were no queues and I had enough time, I would hang out with them and talk a bit. About family, life and sport - whatever took our fancy.
From there it was straight to the lounge to have a coffee and chat to the guy working there. Nice guy. He always helped me get an upgrade. I flew business class each and every time - even though I booked in on economy. Man I was spoilt rotten by them.
And it continued once I got on the plane. They knew me and knew that all I wanted to do was get in my seat and sleep. I was like Pavlov's dog. I fell asleep the minute I feel the engines vibrate into action. And only woke up when we stopped on the other side. I didn't even wake up when we hit the tarmac. And the air hostesses always left me alone. Just a friendly smile and maybe a quick orange juice before they start the engines.
But I knew I was flying way too often when the air hostess woke me up on one of my many flights with an odd 'request'. I was bit bewildered. My internal clock told me I haven;t slept my usual 2 hours. she looked at me and said, 'sorry Mr C, we know that you like sleeping on the plane, but we know that it is your daughters birthday tomorrow. And we know you won't be flying tomorrow - you never do on family days. Could you maybe give this present to your daughter from all of us at British Airways, Cape Town International? and please wish her a happy birthday'. I was still half asleep and now flabbergasted. I gave her my best embarrassed smile and mumbled a thank you. They have never met my daughter - how did they know? Because I told some of them during our many chats. See, my daughter was born on a public holiday in South Africa - 1 May. Labour Day. And everyone thought it was odd as I also worked for the trade unions. So that was how they remembered. But still. Have you heard of an air hostess giving anyone a birthday present for their daughter. And they never met her before.
There was one last sign that I was flying to often. I started developing ear problems. I thought it was ear infection. And eventually it became too much. I just had to go to the doctor. And he made an appointment at an ear specialist. He didn't know who I am or what I do. I was just a guy with an ear problem. He looked at my ear. Stopped. Looked at my ear again - this time a little bit longer. He stopped, cleaned the tools and looked at me. 'Sir, are you a pilot?' he asked. 'Why?', I asked. His reply, 'because the only people with ears as stuffed up of yours are pilot ears. It's the continuous changing in air pressure and different conditions - dry air etc. And you only get these ears if you fly regularly, at least a few times a week. We call it pilot's ear.'
So that was it. Start staying over in Joburg or... I went home, went to the forest to pick up pine cones for the fireplace with my daughter, had dinner with my wife and daughter, tucked in my daughter, read her a story, got up and went to write my resignation letter.
A pilot's ear
'Good morning Mr C! Got your ticket ready for you'. I can still hear those words. Always the same words. It was the British Airways air hostess at Cape Town International. Always with a smiling face and a quick chat before I head off to the lounge and some coffee.
You see, I used to fly often. No really, I used to flew a lot. Two to four times a week from Cape Town to Joburg and back. For 5 odd years.
I lived in Stellenbosch, the most beautiful town in South Africa and just outside Cape Town. But I had to go up to Joburg to negotiate trade deals and trade and industry policies at NEDLAC (National Economic Development and Labour Council - ) - and that meant having to be at all the chamber, committee and ministerial meetings. As the lead negotiator at the Trade and Industry Chamber, I sat on 12 odd committees and had to be at the Ministerial meetings. All in all about 30 meetings a month. I get tired just thinking of it.
It could have been easier if they managed to arrange the meetings a bit better. It was the same bunch of people attending most of the meetings. Me, Mark Bennett and Herbert Mkhize from the trade unions, Raymond Parsons, Michael MacDonald, Roger Baxter and Andre Lambrechts from business, and Alistair Ruiters and Bahle Sibisi from government. Always the bunch of us stuck in a room together. Nine men writing history. The other 8 all lived within an hour from Joburg. I stayed 2 hours away - a 2 hour flight.
But I had my own way of getting them back. I refused to stay over in Joburg. Which meant that they had to fly me in from Cape Town for each meeting. And I refused to drive in Joburg. Have you driven in Joburg? It is crazy. And that doesn't include the hijacking either. It's like Nascar for dummies. So they had to send a car to pick me up. Okay, so I was just lazy. Didn't want to drive. Never liked it, so why go through all the stress of doing it in Joburg if I could get away with not doing it at all?
Living in Stellenbosch also made it more difficult to stay over in Joburg. Stellenbosch is the most beautiful town in South Africa, and Joburg the ugliest city. Stellenbosch is Stratford-Upon-Avon and Joburg is Birmingham. Stellenbosch is Carmel-by-the-Sea and Joburg is Philly. And I had a family in Stellenbosch. My wife and daughter meant everything to me - especially because of my relationship with the rest of my family. And I couldn't wait to be with my wife and daughter 24/7. But my decision also meant that I had to fly in for each meeting and they always wanted to start early to make sure they get both breakfast and lunch. Yes, food is at the heart of negotiations anywhere in Africa.
There was only one way to get there in time for the breakfast meeting - take the first flight out of Cape Town. Oh brother that was early - 6 am. That meant I had to get up at 4 to make it in time for my flight. And due to scheduling and traffic, I had to take the last flight out of Joburg - 9 pm. Landing at 11 pm. Home by 12. And up again at 4. See why I needed the breakfast? I never had dinner. Crazy schedule - but I loved every minute of it.
I always flew British Airways just to annoy everyone a bit more than needed. I didn't actually mind flying South African Airways, but I knew people got pissed off if I flew British Airways - I was a traitor for using the foreign airline. It always helped to get your opponent a bit hot under the collar before a round of negotiations. And it paid off - I mean air miles. Thanks to all the air miles, my wife, daughter and myself enjoyed a few free trips overseas. I had more air miles than anyone I knew - just over 700,000 air miles at one stage.
And I got to know the airline personnel pretty well. I did this same schedule for almost 5 years. Same flights every Tuesday and Thursday - and sometimes on a Monday and Wednesday. Always the same flights in the morning and evening. And I learned that being friendly meant that I never got hassled. Quite the opposite. They treated me like family. My ticket was ready by the time I got to the airport. I always got the same smile and call when I walked into the airport, 'Good morning Mr C. Got your ticket ready for you'. Never waited in a queue. It pissed everyone else off. Those waiting in the queue. Here I walked in and had my ticket ready and handed over with a smile and a wink. I just walked past those plebs in the queue, smiled at the air hostess, and thanked her. And, sometimes when there were no queues and I had enough time, I would hang out with them and talk a bit. About family, life and sport - whatever took our fancy.
From there it was straight to the lounge to have a coffee and chat to the guy working there. Nice guy. He always helped me get an upgrade. I flew business class each and every time - even though I booked in on economy. Man I was spoilt rotten by them.
And it continued once I got on the plane. They knew me and knew that all I wanted to do was get in my seat and sleep. I was like Pavlov's dog. I fell asleep the minute I feel the engines vibrate into action. And only woke up when we stopped on the other side. I didn't even wake up when we hit the tarmac. And the air hostesses always left me alone. Just a friendly smile and maybe a quick orange juice before they start the engines.
But I knew I was flying way too often when the air hostess woke me up on one of my many flights with an odd 'request'. I was bit bewildered. My internal clock told me I haven;t slept my usual 2 hours. she looked at me and said, 'sorry Mr C, we know that you like sleeping on the plane, but we know that it is your daughters birthday tomorrow. And we know you won't be flying tomorrow - you never do on family days. Could you maybe give this present to your daughter from all of us at British Airways, Cape Town International? and please wish her a happy birthday'. I was still half asleep and now flabbergasted. I gave her my best embarrassed smile and mumbled a thank you. They have never met my daughter - how did they know? Because I told some of them during our many chats. See, my daughter was born on a public holiday in South Africa - 1 May. Labour Day. And everyone thought it was odd as I also worked for the trade unions. So that was how they remembered. But still. Have you heard of an air hostess giving anyone a birthday present for their daughter. And they never met her before.
There was one last sign that I was flying to often. I started developing ear problems. I thought it was ear infection. And eventually it became too much. I just had to go to the doctor. And he made an appointment at an ear specialist. He didn't know who I am or what I do. I was just a guy with an ear problem. He looked at my ear. Stopped. Looked at my ear again - this time a little bit longer. He stopped, cleaned the tools and looked at me. 'Sir, are you a pilot?' he asked. 'Why?', I asked. His reply, 'because the only people with ears as stuffed up of yours are pilot ears. It's the continuous changing in air pressure and different conditions - dry air etc. And you only get these ears if you fly regularly, at least a few times a week. We call it pilot's ear.'
So that was it. Start staying over in Joburg or... I went home, went to the forest to pick up pine cones for the fireplace with my daughter, had dinner with my wife and daughter, tucked in my daughter, read her a story, got up and went to write my resignation letter.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
My dad was an ass
My dad inspired me. Inspired me to not be like him. I am sure other people had worse dads. Hey, my old man never beat me up or anything like that. But he was a tough old bastard who wasn't always there for my family - even when he was present.
I remember as a little kid doing Greco-Roman wrestling. Don't laugh even if you can imagine me in that little 1930s bathing suit and weighing 44.1 pounds - the lightest weight division was 44-49 pounds! My grandad loved the idea that I wrestled. He loved wrestling - he was into professional wrestling. And don't dare say it wasn't real. He had ways to convince you even at the age of 80. He didn't need much to convince people of his views - at nearly 7 foot and 270 pounds. But he was my mom's dad and I was close to him. He came to every wrestling match he could attend. Or rather when my dad was willing to take him. He was poor and old and couldn't do it by himself and had to rely on my dad to bring him.
I made it through to the regional championships in my first year - I was six years old. I was too light by less than a pound, but they felt sorry for me (being the youngest there) and allowed me to go through and wrestle. And surprise, surprise, surprise - I won. And there was no one there to watch me. My dad had a game of cards he said he had to go to. So no one came. When the bus dropped me off I ran over to the house where he was playing cards - ready to show him the trophy I won. I ran in beaming and shouted, 'look dad!' He just looked at me and said, 'well done'. And then returned to play his hand.
I can remember the number of times he attended my events - sport or whatever. It was less than a handful of times. He always had something to do at the office or out in the field. See, he was high up in the prison service in Apartheid South Africa. In fact, he was head of political prisoners for many years at Pollsmoor where many of the political prisoners were held. And he was a bastard at work as well. People used to get paid to hand out lashings and other corporal punishment to prisoners. And he made more money doing this than from his weekly wages when he was young. And he was always right at work. No one dared to question him. It was his way or the highway.
And this was where our differences really came to light. His political views and mine. His approach and mine. He supported Apartheid South Africa and I supported the struggle against Apartheid. I was open to change and he fought change everyday. And it all exploded in the late 80s and early 90s when it became clear that Apartheid was going down faster than the Titanic. He couldn't stand the fact that his world was falling apart. And he couldn't stand it that he was wrong. And he couldn't stand it that I was on the side that was fighting his believes.
I hoped that it would all become a bit better - at least once Apartheidi fell. His world view was proven wrong and it was time to look ahead now. He was retired and well off. He had everything in place to just enjoy the rest of his life. But no. He had to continue to make it his job to wind me up whenever we saw each other. To always say something racist about the new government, my job, and especially my hero Nelson Mandela.
But I could handle that. I just switched off and concentrated on giving my mother all my attention. She suffered on her own when I moved out so it was only fair that I gave her all the attention when I visited - she didn't get it from him when at home. But then we had our first baby - a little girl called Emma. And things changed completely. I did not want her to be exposed to any racism and expecially not to my dad's racist comments. So I made a rule - no one was allowed to make any racist remarks when visiting my house. Respect my space and family and I will respect you. But he couldn't. He continued to make his remarks. And so we just stopped seeing him and banned him from our house.
I saw my mother once in a while, but I went to see him and my mother together as little as possible. I would rather meet her on her own at the movies or a restaurant. I just couldn't face him anymore. He was everything I didn't want to be. And just seeing him made me become more like him. Full of hatred and distaste. And I didn't want to be like that.
Then I got a call in the middle of the night. It was my sister crying her heart out. My mother just died. My sister was visiting my folks and she woke up from a loud bang. My mother just shot herself. Fucking guns. I hate them. Even when they are locked up in a safe - just like my dad did. I raced through to my parents house and from then on had to sort out everything. The funeral, identifying her body, police investigation, picking up her stuff at the shops, keeping everyone from cracking, speaking at her funeral. I hated it. I felt it was wrong - I was the youngest of four kids so why did I have to do it? I didn't want to do it, but I did. Because someone had to do it. My dad wasn't going to do much. He was to distraught. And thinking of himself and how he feels.
But now I had only one parent left. I tried to talk to him. Say that we only had each other left now. That we should be the family my mother would like us to be. That we should leave all our shit behind and look ahead. That we should just focus on each other and the good things we saw in our family. Be what we would like to be for each other. Stop the shit and look at the good. And he agreed. We cried a little and looked ahead.
But it didn't last. He went back to the woman he was with when he cheated on my mom. Not thinking for a minute that it was going to drive my sisters crazy. They believed that my mom shot herself because my dad cheated on her. Me? I just don't know. She never left a note and I want to remember the good years we had - not a few crazy minutes. But my sisters took it hard. Blamed themselves for not taking her away from him. And when he went back to this woman. Well, I had to choose and I chose my sisters.
I went to talk to him. I told him that this wasn't going to work if he brings her into the family. That he should do what he feels is right, but he should never bring her into contact with me, and especially not my sisters. And he ignored me. It exploded the day before we left South Africa.
He phoned my older sister to say that he was going to marry this woman. And my sister cracked. Again. And I had to take it up with him. No one else was going to do it. So I phoned him and told him to stop the crap. To please just think for a minute about my sisters. And think about his responsibility as a dad. I can't even remember what he said. I really can't. I have been trying to figure it out for years now. But I just can't remember. But whatever he said made me explode. I have never been that pissed off with anyone. I shouted at him and told him to leave me and my sisters alone. That we are done. No more chances. And that I will personally come to beat him to a pulp if he doesn't leave my sisters alone. If he can't look after them then I will. And I will come back to South Africa at a drop of a hat if he ever, ever messed with them. And then I threw down the phone.
That was 2002. I saw him once in 2004 for about 30 minutes at a family gathering. And made sure that he wasn't at the next one. And I spoke to him once in 2005. But it was civil. As if I was talking to an aunt many times removed. he meant nothing to me and I was just being polite to him. Trying to not actually engage with him. Not calling him dad or anything for that matter.
And then I spoke to him in 2007. Less than 24 hours before he died. They phoned me to say that he had only a few days left - if that. They were keeping him alive. He has been suffering from his terminal case of leukemia for a few years. And it has now caught up. There is nothing more to do. Everything was failing. And so was he. And they told me he was waiting for my call. He just wanted that before he died.
So I phoned him. He answered, but I could hardly hear his voice. He was going and so was his voice. I kept quiet for a little while. Thinking what to say. I knew he was waiting for this call. But what was I going to say? What do you say to someone that never inspired you? To someone who was never there? But I also knew that I was like him - stubborn like hell. And I knew I owed him everything. I am who I am because of who he wasn't. He inspired me to become who I am. The anti him.
I took a deep breath and whispered slowly, 'It's okay dad. It's okay. Just take it easy. Don't worry. It's okay. Just let it go. We're okay'. I could hear the barely audible whisper back, 'thank you'. I said good bye and told him I will phone him again the next day. But there was no next day. He took himself off the machines and medicine - just after I phoned. And he died a few hours later on the same day.
It's okay though. It's okay.
I remember as a little kid doing Greco-Roman wrestling. Don't laugh even if you can imagine me in that little 1930s bathing suit and weighing 44.1 pounds - the lightest weight division was 44-49 pounds! My grandad loved the idea that I wrestled. He loved wrestling - he was into professional wrestling. And don't dare say it wasn't real. He had ways to convince you even at the age of 80. He didn't need much to convince people of his views - at nearly 7 foot and 270 pounds. But he was my mom's dad and I was close to him. He came to every wrestling match he could attend. Or rather when my dad was willing to take him. He was poor and old and couldn't do it by himself and had to rely on my dad to bring him.
I made it through to the regional championships in my first year - I was six years old. I was too light by less than a pound, but they felt sorry for me (being the youngest there) and allowed me to go through and wrestle. And surprise, surprise, surprise - I won. And there was no one there to watch me. My dad had a game of cards he said he had to go to. So no one came. When the bus dropped me off I ran over to the house where he was playing cards - ready to show him the trophy I won. I ran in beaming and shouted, 'look dad!' He just looked at me and said, 'well done'. And then returned to play his hand.
I can remember the number of times he attended my events - sport or whatever. It was less than a handful of times. He always had something to do at the office or out in the field. See, he was high up in the prison service in Apartheid South Africa. In fact, he was head of political prisoners for many years at Pollsmoor where many of the political prisoners were held. And he was a bastard at work as well. People used to get paid to hand out lashings and other corporal punishment to prisoners. And he made more money doing this than from his weekly wages when he was young. And he was always right at work. No one dared to question him. It was his way or the highway.
And this was where our differences really came to light. His political views and mine. His approach and mine. He supported Apartheid South Africa and I supported the struggle against Apartheid. I was open to change and he fought change everyday. And it all exploded in the late 80s and early 90s when it became clear that Apartheid was going down faster than the Titanic. He couldn't stand the fact that his world was falling apart. And he couldn't stand it that he was wrong. And he couldn't stand it that I was on the side that was fighting his believes.
I hoped that it would all become a bit better - at least once Apartheidi fell. His world view was proven wrong and it was time to look ahead now. He was retired and well off. He had everything in place to just enjoy the rest of his life. But no. He had to continue to make it his job to wind me up whenever we saw each other. To always say something racist about the new government, my job, and especially my hero Nelson Mandela.
But I could handle that. I just switched off and concentrated on giving my mother all my attention. She suffered on her own when I moved out so it was only fair that I gave her all the attention when I visited - she didn't get it from him when at home. But then we had our first baby - a little girl called Emma. And things changed completely. I did not want her to be exposed to any racism and expecially not to my dad's racist comments. So I made a rule - no one was allowed to make any racist remarks when visiting my house. Respect my space and family and I will respect you. But he couldn't. He continued to make his remarks. And so we just stopped seeing him and banned him from our house.
I saw my mother once in a while, but I went to see him and my mother together as little as possible. I would rather meet her on her own at the movies or a restaurant. I just couldn't face him anymore. He was everything I didn't want to be. And just seeing him made me become more like him. Full of hatred and distaste. And I didn't want to be like that.
Then I got a call in the middle of the night. It was my sister crying her heart out. My mother just died. My sister was visiting my folks and she woke up from a loud bang. My mother just shot herself. Fucking guns. I hate them. Even when they are locked up in a safe - just like my dad did. I raced through to my parents house and from then on had to sort out everything. The funeral, identifying her body, police investigation, picking up her stuff at the shops, keeping everyone from cracking, speaking at her funeral. I hated it. I felt it was wrong - I was the youngest of four kids so why did I have to do it? I didn't want to do it, but I did. Because someone had to do it. My dad wasn't going to do much. He was to distraught. And thinking of himself and how he feels.
But now I had only one parent left. I tried to talk to him. Say that we only had each other left now. That we should be the family my mother would like us to be. That we should leave all our shit behind and look ahead. That we should just focus on each other and the good things we saw in our family. Be what we would like to be for each other. Stop the shit and look at the good. And he agreed. We cried a little and looked ahead.
But it didn't last. He went back to the woman he was with when he cheated on my mom. Not thinking for a minute that it was going to drive my sisters crazy. They believed that my mom shot herself because my dad cheated on her. Me? I just don't know. She never left a note and I want to remember the good years we had - not a few crazy minutes. But my sisters took it hard. Blamed themselves for not taking her away from him. And when he went back to this woman. Well, I had to choose and I chose my sisters.
I went to talk to him. I told him that this wasn't going to work if he brings her into the family. That he should do what he feels is right, but he should never bring her into contact with me, and especially not my sisters. And he ignored me. It exploded the day before we left South Africa.
He phoned my older sister to say that he was going to marry this woman. And my sister cracked. Again. And I had to take it up with him. No one else was going to do it. So I phoned him and told him to stop the crap. To please just think for a minute about my sisters. And think about his responsibility as a dad. I can't even remember what he said. I really can't. I have been trying to figure it out for years now. But I just can't remember. But whatever he said made me explode. I have never been that pissed off with anyone. I shouted at him and told him to leave me and my sisters alone. That we are done. No more chances. And that I will personally come to beat him to a pulp if he doesn't leave my sisters alone. If he can't look after them then I will. And I will come back to South Africa at a drop of a hat if he ever, ever messed with them. And then I threw down the phone.
That was 2002. I saw him once in 2004 for about 30 minutes at a family gathering. And made sure that he wasn't at the next one. And I spoke to him once in 2005. But it was civil. As if I was talking to an aunt many times removed. he meant nothing to me and I was just being polite to him. Trying to not actually engage with him. Not calling him dad or anything for that matter.
And then I spoke to him in 2007. Less than 24 hours before he died. They phoned me to say that he had only a few days left - if that. They were keeping him alive. He has been suffering from his terminal case of leukemia for a few years. And it has now caught up. There is nothing more to do. Everything was failing. And so was he. And they told me he was waiting for my call. He just wanted that before he died.
So I phoned him. He answered, but I could hardly hear his voice. He was going and so was his voice. I kept quiet for a little while. Thinking what to say. I knew he was waiting for this call. But what was I going to say? What do you say to someone that never inspired you? To someone who was never there? But I also knew that I was like him - stubborn like hell. And I knew I owed him everything. I am who I am because of who he wasn't. He inspired me to become who I am. The anti him.
I took a deep breath and whispered slowly, 'It's okay dad. It's okay. Just take it easy. Don't worry. It's okay. Just let it go. We're okay'. I could hear the barely audible whisper back, 'thank you'. I said good bye and told him I will phone him again the next day. But there was no next day. He took himself off the machines and medicine - just after I phoned. And he died a few hours later on the same day.
It's okay though. It's okay.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Trevor Manuel, Comrade Parsons and me (1997)
This was going to be my first big moment as NACTU negotiator. My first time out against the big boys. I had to represent the trade unions at a round of negotiations on the government budget. And they guy I was going to have to face from the government side? One of my favourites and a big hero I looked up to during the fight against Apartheid - Trevor Manuel, Minister of Finance.
Unfortunately, I was also going to face Raymond Parsons from business. Raymond has one of those personalities that drives me absolutely crazy. An English South African with just enough of an Oxford accent to annoy the hell out of me - and with the same patronizing Oxford attitude that hints at knowing better than any of us and pity us for not being as bright as him. He also stood for everything I despised at that stage - a rich white guy who headed the white South African Chamber of Commerce during the Apartheid years. And when Apartheid ended? All of a sudden he never supported it and always fought it - just behind closed doors. Doors so bloody well closed that no one knew about this fight - not even him. Needless to say, we did not get along. But at least I will have Trevor there to calm me down as he was bound to be on my side. Hey, the trade unions joined him, the UDF and the ANC in the streets during the fight against Apartheid.
But first I had to learn something about budgets. I was a political scientist, not an accountant. I didn't even do our budget at home - what do I know of the government budget plans? And I had two days.
Well, two days later I was ready. As ready as I was going to be. Did I know anything about the budget? No. But I knew just enough to be dangerous. I knew that the government was going to cut the tax on certain goods that they qualified as everyday goods. But I knew the goods was actually luxury goods for the majority of South Africans - video machines, video cameras etc. And that it was going to cost them 200 million Rand. For the same amount, they could cut the tax on paraffin and have a huge impact on poverty. The poor spent over 30% of their income on paraffin. And they will save around 15% or more - if the government agreed to cut the tax on paraffin. And business actually supported us on this. As is typical in all negotiations, we had to give to get, but we gave enough for them to agree to support us on the paraffin issue. So all the social partners of government agreed on the tax cut on paraffin - trade unions, business and NGO's (they almost always supported our position). So it was a surprise that government decided not to cut the tax on paraffin, but rather on these 'everyday goods'. Let's rock 'n roll.
As always, I got to the meeting early. I got a cup of coffee and got my notepad, pens, cigarettes and ashtray ready. Oldest negotiating trick in the book - back when you could still smoke when and where you wanted. Light a cigarette the minute you start losing your train of thought or see the other side coming out on top. Especially because neither Trevor or Raymond smoked in public anyway.
I waited for about 10 minutes. I just lit a smoke and in walked Raymond. We didn't know each other that well at that stage. In fact, due to a mutual dislike, we never got to know each other that well at all. We exchanged a few pleasantries and I continued to smoke. Waiting for Trevor.
Trevor and his right hand (wo)man, Maria Ramos, walked in about 20 minutes later. Now remember, this was my first every negotiations and I was about to face one of my heroes. I was shitting myself with excitement. Trevor looked straight past me and leaned over to Raymond with a big smile and said, 'nice to see you again Comrade Parsons'. What the hell? Comrade Parsons? Did Trevor just call this guy Comrade? I was shocked into silence - not that I said anything at this stage in any case, but I was stunned.
He turned to me and mumbled a hello. No handshake - never mind being called Comrade. I just sat there staring into space. Then it hit me. He knew this was my first time. He was going to try everything to intimidate me and bully me into submission. He is here to win an argument - every battle and the war by the time we walk out of here. What the hell do I do now? This guy has negotiated against the Apartheid regime to convince them to hand over power to the people. I am fresh in a new job and was still at university a few years back.
Trevor and Raymond started talking about the budget and took a few friendly jabs at each other. Friendly banter. No serious negotiations. Raymond was obviously playing the good cop and did not need anything from these negotiations. He was here to make Trevor feel good about business. But that was not the trade union style. I was going to sink or swim.
'Excuse me', I said uncertainly. Neither of them even looked at me. Trevor continued to share his thoughts on his budget with Raymond. Raymond just smiled his irritating little smile and nodded his head in agreement. A little bit louder, 'Excuse me'. No recognition that I even existed - nothing, nada.
Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.
'Excuse me, Minister Manuel, can I ask you a question'. This time it was loud enough for them to stop talking and look at me. They couldn't ignore me this time. Trevor looked up from his notes and stared at me from under his glasses. No 'yes' or any recognition that I hold some interest. My mouth was halfway open to say something when Trevor interrupted me and said, 'you do know I am not here to negotiate with you'. What was that? He is pushing the boundaries here and almost being openly hostile. I didn't even know how to start responding to this.
Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.
He turned back to his notes and started talking about the budget again. All the time looking up at Raymond every few seconds. Acknowledging Raymond, but not me. It didn't help that I sat to his right and Raymond straight ahead of him - but Trevor picked his spot last. And I could see why. Damn this guy is good.
I swallowed - maybe loud enough for other to hear. This was my time. I had one chance and nothing more. I had to make my move now. I lit a smoke, took a deep drag and looked at the burning end. I never once looked at Trevor or Raymond, but I could sense that they were looking at me. Or at least glancing - I could hear Trevor's voice being a little bit clearer each time he glanced at me. I put the burning cigarette down in the ashtray and slowly started packing my stuff into my bag. Not looking up at them or acknowledging them at all. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. This was my play.
I took a sip of my cold coffee and took another drag of my cigarette - I hope they couldn't see my hands shaking slightly. And then I slowly got up and picked up my bag. Stubbed the cigarette out and then looked up and smiled. I nodded my head at Trevor and mouthed a goodbye to Raymond - acting as if I didn't want to interrupt their discussion - even though they stopped talking at this stage and was looking at me. I took my jacket and started making my way to the door.
Trevor looked at me and said, 'where are you going?' I stopped and looked at him - and then I gave him the friendliest smile I could manage at that stage and said, almost apologetically, 'I am sorry Minister Manuel. I didn't mean to interrupt your discussion. Please do carry on'. And then I turned back as if I was about to leave again.
Again Trevor asked, 'but where are you going?' - this time a bit louder to show me that he wants an explanation. I stopped and said, while slowly turning to face him, 'well Minister Manuel, you said that you are not here to negotiate with me. So I am leaving. The trade unions didn't send me here, all the way from Cape Town, to listen to your discussion with Raymond. I am sure it will be interesting, but I can read the minutes of the meeting if I wanted to know what you two are discussing. I am going back to the trade unions to tell them that you didn't come to NEDLAC to negotiate with me. We were clearly under the wrong impression, thinking that we were meant to be equal partners and negotiate the budget - and for that I am truly sorry'. And with that I turned around and walked out the room.
I was as nervous as hell while I did all this - but it never showed in my voice. He walked straight into my quickly hatched plan. It was a huge gamble, but I knew I had to show him that I am not here to be pushed around. Not by him or anyone else. This will set the tone for future negotiations and everyone will push me around if I caved in at my first one.
Once the door closed behind me - I just stood there for a few minutes taking a few deep breaths and lighting another smoke. After a few minutes I started walking over to the receptionist to ask her to get me a taxi. The door behind me opened and I heard Maria Ramos call my name. I turned around and walked to meet her halfway. She explained that the Minister would like me to come back inside. And, she said, while lowering her voice and quickly looking left and right to see if anyone else could hear, he would listen to my questions. 'But will he answer them?', I asked. She gave me a quick smile, but was obviously not impressed by my attempt at humor. 'He'll answer', she said, 'but will you come back in?' I nodded and followed her back in - this was way better than I could ever have hoped for. I didn't expect him to back down. I just didn't want to come away looking like a complete loser and/or idiot.
I sat down and made myself comfortable - coffee, smokes and notepad. Trevor looked at me and said, 'you had a question'. I looked up at him and said the line I prepared in my head many times in the last two days, 'Minister Manuel, you decided to not zero rate paraffin, but decided to zero rate what you call everyday goods instead. Tell me, Minister Manuel, when last were you in a township? Because the last time I checked most people didn't even have electricity - never mind the money or need for 'everyday' products such as video machines or video cameras. But paraffin, now that is a completely different story...'
Unfortunately, I was also going to face Raymond Parsons from business. Raymond has one of those personalities that drives me absolutely crazy. An English South African with just enough of an Oxford accent to annoy the hell out of me - and with the same patronizing Oxford attitude that hints at knowing better than any of us and pity us for not being as bright as him. He also stood for everything I despised at that stage - a rich white guy who headed the white South African Chamber of Commerce during the Apartheid years. And when Apartheid ended? All of a sudden he never supported it and always fought it - just behind closed doors. Doors so bloody well closed that no one knew about this fight - not even him. Needless to say, we did not get along. But at least I will have Trevor there to calm me down as he was bound to be on my side. Hey, the trade unions joined him, the UDF and the ANC in the streets during the fight against Apartheid.
But first I had to learn something about budgets. I was a political scientist, not an accountant. I didn't even do our budget at home - what do I know of the government budget plans? And I had two days.
Well, two days later I was ready. As ready as I was going to be. Did I know anything about the budget? No. But I knew just enough to be dangerous. I knew that the government was going to cut the tax on certain goods that they qualified as everyday goods. But I knew the goods was actually luxury goods for the majority of South Africans - video machines, video cameras etc. And that it was going to cost them 200 million Rand. For the same amount, they could cut the tax on paraffin and have a huge impact on poverty. The poor spent over 30% of their income on paraffin. And they will save around 15% or more - if the government agreed to cut the tax on paraffin. And business actually supported us on this. As is typical in all negotiations, we had to give to get, but we gave enough for them to agree to support us on the paraffin issue. So all the social partners of government agreed on the tax cut on paraffin - trade unions, business and NGO's (they almost always supported our position). So it was a surprise that government decided not to cut the tax on paraffin, but rather on these 'everyday goods'. Let's rock 'n roll.
As always, I got to the meeting early. I got a cup of coffee and got my notepad, pens, cigarettes and ashtray ready. Oldest negotiating trick in the book - back when you could still smoke when and where you wanted. Light a cigarette the minute you start losing your train of thought or see the other side coming out on top. Especially because neither Trevor or Raymond smoked in public anyway.
I waited for about 10 minutes. I just lit a smoke and in walked Raymond. We didn't know each other that well at that stage. In fact, due to a mutual dislike, we never got to know each other that well at all. We exchanged a few pleasantries and I continued to smoke. Waiting for Trevor.
Trevor and his right hand (wo)man, Maria Ramos, walked in about 20 minutes later. Now remember, this was my first every negotiations and I was about to face one of my heroes. I was shitting myself with excitement. Trevor looked straight past me and leaned over to Raymond with a big smile and said, 'nice to see you again Comrade Parsons'. What the hell? Comrade Parsons? Did Trevor just call this guy Comrade? I was shocked into silence - not that I said anything at this stage in any case, but I was stunned.
He turned to me and mumbled a hello. No handshake - never mind being called Comrade. I just sat there staring into space. Then it hit me. He knew this was my first time. He was going to try everything to intimidate me and bully me into submission. He is here to win an argument - every battle and the war by the time we walk out of here. What the hell do I do now? This guy has negotiated against the Apartheid regime to convince them to hand over power to the people. I am fresh in a new job and was still at university a few years back.
Trevor and Raymond started talking about the budget and took a few friendly jabs at each other. Friendly banter. No serious negotiations. Raymond was obviously playing the good cop and did not need anything from these negotiations. He was here to make Trevor feel good about business. But that was not the trade union style. I was going to sink or swim.
'Excuse me', I said uncertainly. Neither of them even looked at me. Trevor continued to share his thoughts on his budget with Raymond. Raymond just smiled his irritating little smile and nodded his head in agreement. A little bit louder, 'Excuse me'. No recognition that I even existed - nothing, nada.
Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.
'Excuse me, Minister Manuel, can I ask you a question'. This time it was loud enough for them to stop talking and look at me. They couldn't ignore me this time. Trevor looked up from his notes and stared at me from under his glasses. No 'yes' or any recognition that I hold some interest. My mouth was halfway open to say something when Trevor interrupted me and said, 'you do know I am not here to negotiate with you'. What was that? He is pushing the boundaries here and almost being openly hostile. I didn't even know how to start responding to this.
Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.
He turned back to his notes and started talking about the budget again. All the time looking up at Raymond every few seconds. Acknowledging Raymond, but not me. It didn't help that I sat to his right and Raymond straight ahead of him - but Trevor picked his spot last. And I could see why. Damn this guy is good.
I swallowed - maybe loud enough for other to hear. This was my time. I had one chance and nothing more. I had to make my move now. I lit a smoke, took a deep drag and looked at the burning end. I never once looked at Trevor or Raymond, but I could sense that they were looking at me. Or at least glancing - I could hear Trevor's voice being a little bit clearer each time he glanced at me. I put the burning cigarette down in the ashtray and slowly started packing my stuff into my bag. Not looking up at them or acknowledging them at all. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. This was my play.
I took a sip of my cold coffee and took another drag of my cigarette - I hope they couldn't see my hands shaking slightly. And then I slowly got up and picked up my bag. Stubbed the cigarette out and then looked up and smiled. I nodded my head at Trevor and mouthed a goodbye to Raymond - acting as if I didn't want to interrupt their discussion - even though they stopped talking at this stage and was looking at me. I took my jacket and started making my way to the door.
Trevor looked at me and said, 'where are you going?' I stopped and looked at him - and then I gave him the friendliest smile I could manage at that stage and said, almost apologetically, 'I am sorry Minister Manuel. I didn't mean to interrupt your discussion. Please do carry on'. And then I turned back as if I was about to leave again.
Again Trevor asked, 'but where are you going?' - this time a bit louder to show me that he wants an explanation. I stopped and said, while slowly turning to face him, 'well Minister Manuel, you said that you are not here to negotiate with me. So I am leaving. The trade unions didn't send me here, all the way from Cape Town, to listen to your discussion with Raymond. I am sure it will be interesting, but I can read the minutes of the meeting if I wanted to know what you two are discussing. I am going back to the trade unions to tell them that you didn't come to NEDLAC to negotiate with me. We were clearly under the wrong impression, thinking that we were meant to be equal partners and negotiate the budget - and for that I am truly sorry'. And with that I turned around and walked out the room.
I was as nervous as hell while I did all this - but it never showed in my voice. He walked straight into my quickly hatched plan. It was a huge gamble, but I knew I had to show him that I am not here to be pushed around. Not by him or anyone else. This will set the tone for future negotiations and everyone will push me around if I caved in at my first one.
Once the door closed behind me - I just stood there for a few minutes taking a few deep breaths and lighting another smoke. After a few minutes I started walking over to the receptionist to ask her to get me a taxi. The door behind me opened and I heard Maria Ramos call my name. I turned around and walked to meet her halfway. She explained that the Minister would like me to come back inside. And, she said, while lowering her voice and quickly looking left and right to see if anyone else could hear, he would listen to my questions. 'But will he answer them?', I asked. She gave me a quick smile, but was obviously not impressed by my attempt at humor. 'He'll answer', she said, 'but will you come back in?' I nodded and followed her back in - this was way better than I could ever have hoped for. I didn't expect him to back down. I just didn't want to come away looking like a complete loser and/or idiot.
I sat down and made myself comfortable - coffee, smokes and notepad. Trevor looked at me and said, 'you had a question'. I looked up at him and said the line I prepared in my head many times in the last two days, 'Minister Manuel, you decided to not zero rate paraffin, but decided to zero rate what you call everyday goods instead. Tell me, Minister Manuel, when last were you in a township? Because the last time I checked most people didn't even have electricity - never mind the money or need for 'everyday' products such as video machines or video cameras. But paraffin, now that is a completely different story...'
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
An African adventure - thanks to Air Cameroon (2002)
I had the most amazing, and unbelievable, airline adventure in 2002 - all thanks to Air Cameroon. I couldn't make this up even if I tried. And it all started when I got a call from a few African NGO colleagues asking whether I would attend the UN Africa Regional Conference on the World Summit on the Information Society (WSIS) in Bamako, Mali (what a stupid, boring line to include in this story. But hey, read on - it gets better. I promise). The request to go to Bamako came from the African Caucus - an informal alliance of African NGO's workers. We linked up at the prep meetings for the UN Conference on Financing for Development (UN FfD) - and was formally represented at the Monterrey Conference. It was not only an honor, but I was excited about my first trip to Mali - and it wasn't going to be in Timbuktu (you knew that was in Mali, right?) But first I had some travel plans to arrange.
I phoned around and everyone else was going to fly Air France - via Jo'burg to Paris to Bamako. That sounded odd. Why fly all the way to Europe to get to Mali? My travel agent also recommended this, but I insisted on her finding a more direct way there. The alternative she came up with? Air Cameroon. Hey, that sounded excellent - I am in Africa and should fly with an African airline. I booked my place and was ready to go.
I flew from Cape Town to Jo'burg to catch my connecting flight to Douala (Cameroon), and from there onwards to Bamako. Two stops and I am there. I was going to have fun with the other guys who flew Air France. They were going to leave after me so I will be there in time to have some cold beers ready by the time they got to the hotel.
I landed in Jo'burg and checked in for my flight to Douala - I got a nice window seat. Thought it was odd that the flight only left at 2 am, but that was fine. The last flight before this was at about 11 and the next one out at 6, but it gave me some time to first buy a few things (biltong, for one) for the flight. I did my shopping and grabbed something to eat. Everything shut down at about 11 and I hung around and walked from one area to the next. Also found it odd that I saw hardly anyone else hanging around. And then I looked at the boarding notice - my flight now only leaves at 5 am. Oh man, I had to hang out at a dead airport for another few hours. And nothing is open. So I ate my biltong, drank a few cokes from the vending machine, and smoked as if I was about to give up the next day (that took a few more years).
At last my flight was ready to board. One would have thought that we would get a good gate - especially with no other flights taking off at that time of the night/morning. But no, we got a gate stuck somewhere in a corner. After another slight delay we got onto the bus taking us to the plane - I was surprised to see no one being slightly pissed off about the delay in the flight. But that is the African way - we take things in our stride. No reason to lose your temper over something you can't control - war, corruption or delayed planes, it makes no difference to us having to live our lives anyway.
I was ready to sit down in my comfortable seat and catch up on some sleep. I was to scared to sleep at the airport - what if I missed my flight? Air Cameroon doesn't fly until he next day again. But, as I was about to take my seat, the air hostess came over to say that I can't sit in this/my seat. They had to keep that section open to balance the plane! 'But I had this seat allocated on my ticket! Where do I go now?', I responded. 'You can sit anywhere you like, sir. We don't hold people to their seat allocations', she said. Okay...
I got a seat and settled in for some sleep. I am like Pavlov's dog when it comes to planes and sleep - I fall asleep the minute I feel the vibrations of the engine. I woke up as we hit the tarmac. Douala, at last. But oddly enough no one else got ready to leave. I got up, got my stuff and started to go to the exit. But Ms air hostess stopped me with a 'where do you think you're going, sir?' 'Douala, of course'. The response - 'we're not in Douala, we're in Kinshasa'. What the hell? After a few exchanges of views and news, I was informed that they had people who wanted to get on the plane in Kinshasa and a few people that wanted to get off in Kinshasa. And this is just part of their service to their clients - we stop where you want us to stop. A bit like most African taxi's - the Toyota Hiace type.
Now I was starting to get worried. What about my connecting flight from Douala? I called the air host (by now I was too scared of the air hostess) and asked if there is a way to let Douala know that we are going to be late - we already got delayed in Jo'burg. He looked at me and smiled, 'no problem, sir. We use the same plane'. Air Cameroon only had 3 working planes at that stage...
Many hours later we arrived at Douala. It looked unbelievably modern from about 10,000 feet. Extracting gates and all. Way ahead of Cape Town and Jo'burg back then. But the closer we got the clearer the detail. None of the extracting gates worked. Half stood rusting away and the other half just sat there with their missing wheels and windows. And the tarmac didn't look that smooth either.
But we landed safely and got out quickly. Man, it was hot. I have never been in more humid and hot conditions in my life. Couldn't wait to get into the airport to the cool crisp air conditioning. Hum, this didn't work either. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero worked. But at least our flight got delayed. Again. But they gave us some crap coffee and bread to keep us quiet. As if I was going to argue with a guy standing a few meters away - in full army gear and an AK47 in his hands. Nope, I was as happy as a clam to keep my mouth shut and go with the flow.
We did eventually board our plane, and I got a seat - any seat - and settled in for the last trip to Bamako. And again I fell asleep. And again I woke up as we hit the tarmac. And again I got up to leave. And again the air hostess stopped me (the same one from earlier). And again I was told that we are not in the city that was indicated on my ticket. No this time they stopped in Abuja as part of their commitment to client needs. And then we stopped in Abidjan. And then we stopped in Dakar. And then we stopped in Bamako - many, many hours later than indicated on my itinerary.
The meeting in Bamako (and Bamako itself) is for another day. But the return flight was more or less the same as getting there. Same detours, same air hostess and same seating arrangements. Except for two things.
As always, I went to the airline a day before I was to leave Bamako - just to confirm my flight. As expected, they weren't open as indicated in the hotel brochure. I hung around for a few hours until they opened. I confirmed my flight leaves at 8 am. They said no. I confirmed that it was to be tomorrow. They said no. Apparently, the flight will leave sometime the day after tomorrow - but not sure what time. Still trying to fill the plane. I gave up. I didn't even bother to ask what I should do. I just turned around and started walking. The person behind the counter shouted for me to call them early on the day of departure. I just nodded my head, waved my hand, lit another smoke, and kept on walking.
We did eventually depart - and got to Douala after our detours. The air hostess told us that the plane will leave again at 7 (it was now 5 am). I laughed and jokingly asked whether that was 7 am or 7 pm. She looked at me and with a serious face said she will check. Of course it was 7 pm...
I had to call South African Airways in Jo'burg to say that I will miss my flight, but this was before I had a mobile phone that could work anywhere. And no phones at the departure gates either. And I had to pay $10 just to get out to the public side. Like hell I was going to do this. I got out my UN Conference badge and swung it around with the blank side showing. Found my way through some back corridors and found a door leading to the outside. But there was some seriously armed security guards hanging out there. I just kept on walking as if I belonged and with a 'bonjour' here and a nod there I got through to the other side. No luck in finding a phone either - there weren't any working phones. But Africa saved me again - as always. Someone overheard me asking for a phone and came over and offered me their mobile phone. I made my call and offered to pay - but he refused. He even bought me a beer. Very, very typical of my experiences in Africa. Someone somewhere always comes along to help me out or just share a beer - here I got both at the same time.
I was offered more crap coffee and bread - back in the departure lounge. But by now I was dying of the heat and humidity. I found my way up to the roof with a few beers and two friends. That lasted all of 10 minutes before armed security came to remove us. Apparently we weren't allowed up there. Off I went in search for an air conditioned office. I couldn't find anything. But I did find an air conditioned computer room. And I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon until we left. Yes, I was asked to leave a few times, but I didn't understand any language they spoke at that stage - neither French or English. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero.
I got home and after a few years started sleeping without waking up screaming and sweating. And managed to laugh about it after years of serious counseling.
And those guys who left on Air France? They left after me, but got to Bamako a day before me. But I had it lucky. A few of them was booked on Air Cape Verde for their return flight. Guess what. There was no Air Cape Verde.
I phoned around and everyone else was going to fly Air France - via Jo'burg to Paris to Bamako. That sounded odd. Why fly all the way to Europe to get to Mali? My travel agent also recommended this, but I insisted on her finding a more direct way there. The alternative she came up with? Air Cameroon. Hey, that sounded excellent - I am in Africa and should fly with an African airline. I booked my place and was ready to go.
I flew from Cape Town to Jo'burg to catch my connecting flight to Douala (Cameroon), and from there onwards to Bamako. Two stops and I am there. I was going to have fun with the other guys who flew Air France. They were going to leave after me so I will be there in time to have some cold beers ready by the time they got to the hotel.
I landed in Jo'burg and checked in for my flight to Douala - I got a nice window seat. Thought it was odd that the flight only left at 2 am, but that was fine. The last flight before this was at about 11 and the next one out at 6, but it gave me some time to first buy a few things (biltong, for one) for the flight. I did my shopping and grabbed something to eat. Everything shut down at about 11 and I hung around and walked from one area to the next. Also found it odd that I saw hardly anyone else hanging around. And then I looked at the boarding notice - my flight now only leaves at 5 am. Oh man, I had to hang out at a dead airport for another few hours. And nothing is open. So I ate my biltong, drank a few cokes from the vending machine, and smoked as if I was about to give up the next day (that took a few more years).
At last my flight was ready to board. One would have thought that we would get a good gate - especially with no other flights taking off at that time of the night/morning. But no, we got a gate stuck somewhere in a corner. After another slight delay we got onto the bus taking us to the plane - I was surprised to see no one being slightly pissed off about the delay in the flight. But that is the African way - we take things in our stride. No reason to lose your temper over something you can't control - war, corruption or delayed planes, it makes no difference to us having to live our lives anyway.
I was ready to sit down in my comfortable seat and catch up on some sleep. I was to scared to sleep at the airport - what if I missed my flight? Air Cameroon doesn't fly until he next day again. But, as I was about to take my seat, the air hostess came over to say that I can't sit in this/my seat. They had to keep that section open to balance the plane! 'But I had this seat allocated on my ticket! Where do I go now?', I responded. 'You can sit anywhere you like, sir. We don't hold people to their seat allocations', she said. Okay...
I got a seat and settled in for some sleep. I am like Pavlov's dog when it comes to planes and sleep - I fall asleep the minute I feel the vibrations of the engine. I woke up as we hit the tarmac. Douala, at last. But oddly enough no one else got ready to leave. I got up, got my stuff and started to go to the exit. But Ms air hostess stopped me with a 'where do you think you're going, sir?' 'Douala, of course'. The response - 'we're not in Douala, we're in Kinshasa'. What the hell? After a few exchanges of views and news, I was informed that they had people who wanted to get on the plane in Kinshasa and a few people that wanted to get off in Kinshasa. And this is just part of their service to their clients - we stop where you want us to stop. A bit like most African taxi's - the Toyota Hiace type.
Now I was starting to get worried. What about my connecting flight from Douala? I called the air host (by now I was too scared of the air hostess) and asked if there is a way to let Douala know that we are going to be late - we already got delayed in Jo'burg. He looked at me and smiled, 'no problem, sir. We use the same plane'. Air Cameroon only had 3 working planes at that stage...
Many hours later we arrived at Douala. It looked unbelievably modern from about 10,000 feet. Extracting gates and all. Way ahead of Cape Town and Jo'burg back then. But the closer we got the clearer the detail. None of the extracting gates worked. Half stood rusting away and the other half just sat there with their missing wheels and windows. And the tarmac didn't look that smooth either.
But we landed safely and got out quickly. Man, it was hot. I have never been in more humid and hot conditions in my life. Couldn't wait to get into the airport to the cool crisp air conditioning. Hum, this didn't work either. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero worked. But at least our flight got delayed. Again. But they gave us some crap coffee and bread to keep us quiet. As if I was going to argue with a guy standing a few meters away - in full army gear and an AK47 in his hands. Nope, I was as happy as a clam to keep my mouth shut and go with the flow.
We did eventually board our plane, and I got a seat - any seat - and settled in for the last trip to Bamako. And again I fell asleep. And again I woke up as we hit the tarmac. And again I got up to leave. And again the air hostess stopped me (the same one from earlier). And again I was told that we are not in the city that was indicated on my ticket. No this time they stopped in Abuja as part of their commitment to client needs. And then we stopped in Abidjan. And then we stopped in Dakar. And then we stopped in Bamako - many, many hours later than indicated on my itinerary.
The meeting in Bamako (and Bamako itself) is for another day. But the return flight was more or less the same as getting there. Same detours, same air hostess and same seating arrangements. Except for two things.
As always, I went to the airline a day before I was to leave Bamako - just to confirm my flight. As expected, they weren't open as indicated in the hotel brochure. I hung around for a few hours until they opened. I confirmed my flight leaves at 8 am. They said no. I confirmed that it was to be tomorrow. They said no. Apparently, the flight will leave sometime the day after tomorrow - but not sure what time. Still trying to fill the plane. I gave up. I didn't even bother to ask what I should do. I just turned around and started walking. The person behind the counter shouted for me to call them early on the day of departure. I just nodded my head, waved my hand, lit another smoke, and kept on walking.
We did eventually depart - and got to Douala after our detours. The air hostess told us that the plane will leave again at 7 (it was now 5 am). I laughed and jokingly asked whether that was 7 am or 7 pm. She looked at me and with a serious face said she will check. Of course it was 7 pm...
I had to call South African Airways in Jo'burg to say that I will miss my flight, but this was before I had a mobile phone that could work anywhere. And no phones at the departure gates either. And I had to pay $10 just to get out to the public side. Like hell I was going to do this. I got out my UN Conference badge and swung it around with the blank side showing. Found my way through some back corridors and found a door leading to the outside. But there was some seriously armed security guards hanging out there. I just kept on walking as if I belonged and with a 'bonjour' here and a nod there I got through to the other side. No luck in finding a phone either - there weren't any working phones. But Africa saved me again - as always. Someone overheard me asking for a phone and came over and offered me their mobile phone. I made my call and offered to pay - but he refused. He even bought me a beer. Very, very typical of my experiences in Africa. Someone somewhere always comes along to help me out or just share a beer - here I got both at the same time.
I was offered more crap coffee and bread - back in the departure lounge. But by now I was dying of the heat and humidity. I found my way up to the roof with a few beers and two friends. That lasted all of 10 minutes before armed security came to remove us. Apparently we weren't allowed up there. Off I went in search for an air conditioned office. I couldn't find anything. But I did find an air conditioned computer room. And I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon until we left. Yes, I was asked to leave a few times, but I didn't understand any language they spoke at that stage - neither French or English. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero.
I got home and after a few years started sleeping without waking up screaming and sweating. And managed to laugh about it after years of serious counseling.
And those guys who left on Air France? They left after me, but got to Bamako a day before me. But I had it lucky. A few of them was booked on Air Cape Verde for their return flight. Guess what. There was no Air Cape Verde.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Umlungu - becoming a white bastard (1997)
It took me a while to gain the support of everyone at NACTU - being the first white guy ever to work for NACTU wasn't as easy as what you might think. Back in the 80s NACTU specifically decided not to join COSATU because of the white leadership within the trade union movement that dominated COSATU unions. They decided to go on their own and keep NACTU a black only trade union federation - black consciousness needed this approach early on. So not everyone was celebrating when I was asked to head up NACTU's negotiations at NEDLAC. But the fact that I was white soon became a secondary issue - and actually counted in our favour.
The majority of business and government people around the table were white - and from older stock. They believed that I had something in common with them at every level, including politics and social interests - just because we shared a skin colour and language. We used this often and effectively. Most negotiations took place during coffee or smoke breaks. And it was easy for me to become part of the group of white guys talking rugby, braaivleis (barbecue) and... well, positions at the negotiating table. They shared information with me that they wouldn't do with any of my black colleagues. And I took this information back to strengthen our position and develop new tactics - we won more often than not.
This helped me develop a deeper trust within the union movement. How people viewed me changed from being an outsider to being a trusted Comrade. I even got my own nickname - umlungu. Umlungu is an offensive name for a white person. I was literally called white bastard. The reason? Well, in the eye of the white guys I became a white bastard for joining NACTU and not joining their side. And it was an endearing way for NACTU to say that I was their 'white bastard'. I was on their side and got them info from the real umlungus.
Of course this didn't work well when in public. Being called umlungu in the streets of Jo'burg didn't always go down well. Imagine walking downtown in a rough area and where over 90% of the people are be black, and then someone shouting 'hey, you white bastard!' Needless to say, we had a few close calls where we had to explain to people what we meant - and that there was no reason to help beat up the white bastard.
It also had a bit of a novelty factor. People wanted to see the umlungu that works for NACTU. And the news travelled far. I was asked to do a short introductory speech to a group of trade unionist in the UK - they were donors so we jumped when they asked us to jump! I spotted a guy sitting at the back staring at me and smiling - I could also spot from a mile away that he was from South Africa. I went to speak to him afterwards and he told me he was on a training trip from COSATU. It was odd, we weren't from the same federation - so why was he here? He smiled as I asked him and replied - 'I just wanted to see who this Comrade umlungu was that joined NACTU'. We had a good laugh and shared a few beers.
The nickname stayed, but the colour of my skin became less and less of an issue. To such an extend that no one even noticed it anymore - not even myself. It came back every now and again when someone would be shocked to find out who I worked for - but we got to handle that in our own way. I'll never forget the first time it happened.
I was having a beer with a good NACTU friend of mine when she noticed two guys from COSATU sitting next to her. She knew them. She leaned over and started chatting to them and asked if they wanted to join us. The standard introductions followed, and when they asked me what I did for a living I responded, without thinking, that I worked for NACTU. You should have seen their faces - clearly shocked that I was white. And without thinking they both responded immediately with 'but you're white!' The response from my friend was priceless - without blinking she immediately reacted by swinging around to me and saying, 'what, he's white? An umlungu?' Her face was one of mock shock - and then she burst out laughing and couldn't stop laughing. You should have seen their faces. Bewildered doesn't even start to explain.
I never felt so proud of being a white bastard.
The majority of business and government people around the table were white - and from older stock. They believed that I had something in common with them at every level, including politics and social interests - just because we shared a skin colour and language. We used this often and effectively. Most negotiations took place during coffee or smoke breaks. And it was easy for me to become part of the group of white guys talking rugby, braaivleis (barbecue) and... well, positions at the negotiating table. They shared information with me that they wouldn't do with any of my black colleagues. And I took this information back to strengthen our position and develop new tactics - we won more often than not.
This helped me develop a deeper trust within the union movement. How people viewed me changed from being an outsider to being a trusted Comrade. I even got my own nickname - umlungu. Umlungu is an offensive name for a white person. I was literally called white bastard. The reason? Well, in the eye of the white guys I became a white bastard for joining NACTU and not joining their side. And it was an endearing way for NACTU to say that I was their 'white bastard'. I was on their side and got them info from the real umlungus.
Of course this didn't work well when in public. Being called umlungu in the streets of Jo'burg didn't always go down well. Imagine walking downtown in a rough area and where over 90% of the people are be black, and then someone shouting 'hey, you white bastard!' Needless to say, we had a few close calls where we had to explain to people what we meant - and that there was no reason to help beat up the white bastard.
It also had a bit of a novelty factor. People wanted to see the umlungu that works for NACTU. And the news travelled far. I was asked to do a short introductory speech to a group of trade unionist in the UK - they were donors so we jumped when they asked us to jump! I spotted a guy sitting at the back staring at me and smiling - I could also spot from a mile away that he was from South Africa. I went to speak to him afterwards and he told me he was on a training trip from COSATU. It was odd, we weren't from the same federation - so why was he here? He smiled as I asked him and replied - 'I just wanted to see who this Comrade umlungu was that joined NACTU'. We had a good laugh and shared a few beers.
The nickname stayed, but the colour of my skin became less and less of an issue. To such an extend that no one even noticed it anymore - not even myself. It came back every now and again when someone would be shocked to find out who I worked for - but we got to handle that in our own way. I'll never forget the first time it happened.
I was having a beer with a good NACTU friend of mine when she noticed two guys from COSATU sitting next to her. She knew them. She leaned over and started chatting to them and asked if they wanted to join us. The standard introductions followed, and when they asked me what I did for a living I responded, without thinking, that I worked for NACTU. You should have seen their faces - clearly shocked that I was white. And without thinking they both responded immediately with 'but you're white!' The response from my friend was priceless - without blinking she immediately reacted by swinging around to me and saying, 'what, he's white? An umlungu?' Her face was one of mock shock - and then she burst out laughing and couldn't stop laughing. You should have seen their faces. Bewildered doesn't even start to explain.
I never felt so proud of being a white bastard.
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