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?
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