A pilot's ear (2001)

Disclaimer: Let me just say that the last blog was a bit of a heavy one to get off my chest. It took a bit out of me. And it was even more difficult to write the next one. People responded to how it made them feel. And I appreciate that. But I hope it didn't create too much of an expectation. How do I follow that one up? Well, I can't. Don't expect every blog to be as heavy as that one. This blog is about my life. The good and the bad. Some heavy and some fun. Some life lessons and sometimes just stories. Sometimes relevant and sometimes just things that stuck with me. Just stories of things that happened to me and how I got here. So, let's get back to some more story telling.

A pilot's ear

'Good morning Mr C! Got your ticket ready for you'. I can still hear those words. Always the same words. It was the British Airways air hostess at Cape Town International. Always with a smiling face and a quick chat before I head off to the lounge and some coffee.

You see, I used to fly often. No really, I used to flew a lot. Two to four times a week from Cape Town to Joburg and back. For 5 odd years.

I lived in Stellenbosch, the most beautiful town in South Africa and just outside Cape Town. But I had to go up to Joburg to negotiate trade deals and trade and industry policies at NEDLAC (National Economic Development and Labour Council - ) - and that meant having to be at all the chamber, committee and ministerial meetings. As the lead negotiator at the Trade and Industry Chamber, I sat on 12 odd committees and had to be at the Ministerial meetings. All in all about 30 meetings a month. I get tired just thinking of it.

It could have been easier if they managed to arrange the meetings a bit better. It was the same bunch of people attending most of the meetings. Me, Mark Bennett and Herbert Mkhize from the trade unions, Raymond Parsons, Michael MacDonald, Roger Baxter and Andre Lambrechts from business, and Alistair Ruiters and Bahle Sibisi from government. Always the bunch of us stuck in a room together. Nine men writing history. The other 8 all lived within an hour from Joburg. I stayed 2 hours away - a 2 hour flight.

But I had my own way of getting them back. I refused to stay over in Joburg. Which meant that they had to fly me in from Cape Town for each meeting. And I refused to drive in Joburg. Have you driven in Joburg? It is crazy. And that doesn't include the hijacking either. It's like Nascar for dummies. So they had to send a car to pick me up. Okay, so I was just lazy. Didn't want to drive. Never liked it, so why go through all the stress of doing it in Joburg if I could get away with not doing it at all?

Living in Stellenbosch also made it more difficult to stay over in Joburg. Stellenbosch is the most beautiful town in South Africa, and Joburg the ugliest city. Stellenbosch is Stratford-Upon-Avon and Joburg is Birmingham. Stellenbosch is Carmel-by-the-Sea and Joburg is Philly. And I had a family in Stellenbosch. My wife and daughter meant everything to me - especially because of my relationship with the rest of my family. And I couldn't wait to be with my wife and daughter 24/7. But my decision also meant that I had to fly in for each meeting and they always wanted to start early to make sure they get both breakfast and lunch. Yes, food is at the heart of negotiations anywhere in Africa.

There was only one way to get there in time for the breakfast meeting - take the first flight out of Cape Town. Oh brother that was early - 6 am. That meant I had to get up at 4 to make it in time for my flight. And due to scheduling and traffic, I had to take the last flight out of Joburg - 9 pm. Landing at 11 pm. Home by 12. And up again at 4. See why I needed the breakfast? I never had dinner. Crazy schedule - but I loved every minute of it.

I always flew British Airways just to annoy everyone a bit more than needed. I didn't actually mind flying South African Airways, but I knew people got pissed off if I flew British Airways - I was a traitor for using the foreign airline. It always helped to get your opponent a bit hot under the collar before a round of negotiations. And it paid off - I mean air miles. Thanks to all the air miles, my wife, daughter and myself enjoyed a few free trips overseas. I had more air miles than anyone I knew - just over 700,000 air miles at one stage.

And I got to know the airline personnel pretty well. I did this same schedule for almost 5 years. Same flights every Tuesday and Thursday - and sometimes on a Monday and Wednesday. Always the same flights in the morning and evening. And I learned that being friendly meant that I never got hassled. Quite the opposite. They treated me like family. My ticket was ready by the time I got to the airport. I always got the same smile and call when I walked into the airport, 'Good morning Mr C. Got your ticket ready for you'. Never waited in a queue. It pissed everyone else off. Those waiting in the queue. Here I walked in and had my ticket ready and handed over with a smile and a wink. I just walked past those plebs in the queue, smiled at the air hostess, and thanked her. And, sometimes when there were no queues and I had enough time, I would hang out with them and talk a bit. About family, life and sport - whatever took our fancy.

From there it was straight to the lounge to have a coffee and chat to the guy working there. Nice guy. He always helped me get an upgrade. I flew business class each and every time - even though I booked in on economy. Man I was spoilt rotten by them.

And it continued once I got on the plane. They knew me and knew that all I wanted to do was get in my seat and sleep. I was like Pavlov's dog. I fell asleep the minute I feel the engines vibrate into action. And only woke up when we stopped on the other side. I didn't even wake up when we hit the tarmac. And the air hostesses always left me alone. Just a friendly smile and maybe a quick orange juice before they start the engines.

But I knew I was flying way too often when the air hostess woke me up on one of my many flights with an odd 'request'. I was bit bewildered. My internal clock told me I haven;t slept my usual 2 hours. she looked at me and said, 'sorry Mr C, we know that you like sleeping on the plane, but we know that it is your daughters birthday tomorrow. And we know you won't be flying tomorrow - you never do on family days. Could you maybe give this present to your daughter from all of us at British Airways, Cape Town International? and please wish her a happy birthday'. I was still half asleep and now flabbergasted. I gave her my best embarrassed smile and mumbled a thank you. They have never met my daughter - how did they know? Because I told some of them during our many chats. See, my daughter was born on a public holiday in South Africa - 1 May. Labour Day. And everyone thought it was odd as I also worked for the trade unions. So that was how they remembered. But still. Have you heard of an air hostess giving anyone a birthday present for their daughter. And they never met her before.

There was one last sign that I was flying to often. I started developing ear problems. I thought it was ear infection. And eventually it became too much. I just had to go to the doctor. And he made an appointment at an ear specialist. He didn't know who I am or what I do. I was just a guy with an ear problem. He looked at my ear. Stopped. Looked at my ear again - this time a little bit longer. He stopped, cleaned the tools and looked at me. 'Sir, are you a pilot?' he asked. 'Why?', I asked. His reply, 'because the only people with ears as stuffed up of yours are pilot ears. It's the continuous changing in air pressure and different conditions - dry air etc. And you only get these ears if you fly regularly, at least a few times a week. We call it pilot's ear.'

So that was it. Start staying over in Joburg or... I went home, went to the forest to pick up pine cones for the fireplace with my daughter, had dinner with my wife and daughter, tucked in my daughter, read her a story, got up and went to write my resignation letter.

My dad was an ass

My dad inspired me. Inspired me to not be like him. I am sure other people had worse dads. Hey, my old man never beat me up or anything like that. But he was a tough old bastard who wasn't always there for my family - even when he was present.

I remember as a little kid doing Greco-Roman wrestling. Don't laugh even if you can imagine me in that little 1930s bathing suit and weighing 44.1 pounds - the lightest weight division was 44-49 pounds! My grandad loved the idea that I wrestled. He loved wrestling - he was into professional wrestling. And don't dare say it wasn't real. He had ways to convince you even at the age of 80. He didn't need much to convince people of his views - at nearly 7 foot and 270 pounds. But he was my mom's dad and I was close to him. He came to every wrestling match he could attend. Or rather when my dad was willing to take him. He was poor and old and couldn't do it by himself and had to rely on my dad to bring him.

I made it through to the regional championships in my first year - I was six years old. I was too light by less than a pound, but they felt sorry for me (being the youngest there) and allowed me to go through and wrestle. And surprise, surprise, surprise - I won. And there was no one there to watch me. My dad had a game of cards he said he had to go to. So no one came. When the bus dropped me off I ran over to the house where he was playing cards - ready to show him the trophy I won. I ran in beaming and shouted, 'look dad!' He just looked at me and said, 'well done'. And then returned to play his hand.

I can remember the number of times he attended my events - sport or whatever. It was less than a handful of times. He always had something to do at the office or out in the field. See, he was high up in the prison service in Apartheid South Africa. In fact, he was head of political prisoners for many years at Pollsmoor where many of the political prisoners were held. And he was a bastard at work as well. People used to get paid to hand out lashings and other corporal punishment to prisoners. And he made more money doing this than from his weekly wages when he was young. And he was always right at work. No one dared to question him. It was his way or the highway.

And this was where our differences really came to light. His political views and mine. His approach and mine. He supported Apartheid South Africa and I supported the struggle against Apartheid. I was open to change and he fought change everyday. And it all exploded in the late 80s and early 90s when it became clear that Apartheid was going down faster than the Titanic. He couldn't stand the fact that his world was falling apart. And he couldn't stand it that he was wrong. And he couldn't stand it that I was on the side that was fighting his believes.

I hoped that it would all become a bit better - at least once Apartheidi fell. His world view was proven wrong and it was time to look ahead now. He was retired and well off. He had everything in place to just enjoy the rest of his life. But no. He had to continue to make it his job to wind me up whenever we saw each other. To always say something racist about the new government, my job, and especially my hero Nelson Mandela.

But I could handle that. I just switched off and concentrated on giving my mother all my attention. She suffered on her own when I moved out so it was only fair that I gave her all the attention when I visited - she didn't get it from him when at home. But then we had our first baby - a little girl called Emma. And things changed completely. I did not want her to be exposed to any racism and expecially not to my dad's racist comments. So I made a rule - no one was allowed to make any racist remarks when visiting my house. Respect my space and family and I will respect you. But he couldn't. He continued to make his remarks. And so we just stopped seeing him and banned him from our house.

I saw my mother once in a while, but I went to see him and my mother together as little as possible. I would rather meet her on her own at the movies or a restaurant. I just couldn't face him anymore. He was everything I didn't want to be. And just seeing him made me become more like him. Full of hatred and distaste. And I didn't want to be like that.

Then I got a call in the middle of the night. It was my sister crying her heart out. My mother just died. My sister was visiting my folks and she woke up from a loud bang. My mother just shot herself. Fucking guns. I hate them. Even when they are locked up in a safe - just like my dad did. I raced through to my parents house and from then on had to sort out everything. The funeral, identifying her body, police investigation, picking up her stuff at the shops, keeping everyone from cracking, speaking at her funeral. I hated it. I felt it was wrong - I was the youngest of four kids so why did I have to do it? I didn't want to do it, but I did. Because someone had to do it. My dad wasn't going to do much. He was to distraught. And thinking of himself and how he feels.

But now I had only one parent left. I tried to talk to him. Say that we only had each other left now. That we should be the family my mother would like us to be. That we should leave all our shit behind and look ahead. That we should just focus on each other and the good things we saw in our family. Be what we would like to be for each other. Stop the shit and look at the good. And he agreed. We cried a little and looked ahead.

But it didn't last. He went back to the woman he was with when he cheated on my mom. Not thinking for a minute that it was going to drive my sisters crazy. They believed that my mom shot herself because my dad cheated on her. Me? I just don't know. She never left a note and I want to remember the good years we had - not a few crazy minutes. But my sisters took it hard. Blamed themselves for not taking her away from him. And when he went back to this woman. Well, I had to choose and I chose my sisters.

I went to talk to him. I told him that this wasn't going to work if he brings her into the family. That he should do what he feels is right, but he should never bring her into contact with me, and especially not my sisters. And he ignored me. It exploded the day before we left South Africa.

He phoned my older sister to say that he was going to marry this woman. And my sister cracked. Again. And I had to take it up with him. No one else was going to do it. So I phoned him and told him to stop the crap. To please just think for a minute about my sisters. And think about his responsibility as a dad. I can't even remember what he said. I really can't. I have been trying to figure it out for years now. But I just can't remember. But whatever he said made me explode. I have never been that pissed off with anyone. I shouted at him and told him to leave me and my sisters alone. That we are done. No more chances. And that I will personally come to beat him to a pulp if he doesn't leave my sisters alone. If he can't look after them then I will. And I will come back to South Africa at a drop of a hat if he ever, ever messed with them. And then I threw down the phone.

That was 2002. I saw him once in 2004 for about 30 minutes at a family gathering. And made sure that he wasn't at the next one. And I spoke to him once in 2005. But it was civil. As if I was talking to an aunt many times removed. he meant nothing to me and I was just being polite to him. Trying to not actually engage with him. Not calling him dad or anything for that matter.

And then I spoke to him in 2007. Less than 24 hours before he died. They phoned me to say that he had only a few days left - if that. They were keeping him alive. He has been suffering from his terminal case of leukemia for a few years. And it has now caught up. There is nothing more to do. Everything was failing. And so was he. And they told me he was waiting for my call. He just wanted that before he died.

So I phoned him. He answered, but I could hardly hear his voice. He was going and so was his voice. I kept quiet for a little while. Thinking what to say. I knew he was waiting for this call. But what was I going to say? What do you say to someone that never inspired you? To someone who was never there? But I also knew that I was like him - stubborn like hell. And I knew I owed him everything. I am who I am because of who he wasn't. He inspired me to become who I am. The anti him.

I took a deep breath and whispered slowly, 'It's okay dad. It's okay. Just take it easy. Don't worry. It's okay. Just let it go. We're okay'. I could hear the barely audible whisper back, 'thank you'. I said good bye and told him I will phone him again the next day. But there was no next day. He took himself off the machines and medicine - just after I phoned. And he died a few hours later on the same day.

It's okay though. It's okay.

Trevor Manuel, Comrade Parsons and me (1997)

This was going to be my first big moment as NACTU negotiator. My first time out against the big boys. I had to represent the trade unions at a round of negotiations on the government budget. And they guy I was going to have to face from the government side? One of my favourites and a big hero I looked up to during the fight against Apartheid - Trevor Manuel, Minister of Finance.

Unfortunately, I was also going to face Raymond Parsons from business. Raymond has one of those personalities that drives me absolutely crazy. An English South African with just enough of an Oxford accent to annoy the hell out of me - and with the same patronizing Oxford attitude that hints at knowing better than any of us and pity us for not being as bright as him. He also stood for everything I despised at that stage - a rich white guy who headed the white South African Chamber of Commerce during the Apartheid years. And when Apartheid ended? All of a sudden he never supported it and always fought it - just behind closed doors. Doors so bloody well closed that no one knew about this fight - not even him. Needless to say, we did not get along. But at least I will have Trevor there to calm me down as he was bound to be on my side. Hey, the trade unions joined him, the UDF and the ANC in the streets during the fight against Apartheid.

But first I had to learn something about budgets. I was a political scientist, not an accountant. I didn't even do our budget at home - what do I know of the government budget plans? And I had two days.

Well, two days later I was ready. As ready as I was going to be. Did I know anything about the budget? No. But I knew just enough to be dangerous. I knew that the government was going to cut the tax on certain goods that they qualified as everyday goods. But I knew the goods was actually luxury goods for the majority of South Africans - video machines, video cameras etc. And that it was going to cost them 200 million Rand. For the same amount, they could cut the tax on paraffin and have a huge impact on poverty. The poor spent over 30% of their income on paraffin. And they will save around 15% or more - if the government agreed to cut the tax on paraffin. And business actually supported us on this. As is typical in all negotiations, we had to give to get, but we gave enough for them to agree to support us on the paraffin issue. So all the social partners of government agreed on the tax cut on paraffin - trade unions, business and NGO's (they almost always supported our position). So it was a surprise that government decided not to cut the tax on paraffin, but rather on these 'everyday goods'. Let's rock 'n roll.

As always, I got to the meeting early. I got a cup of coffee and got my notepad, pens, cigarettes and ashtray ready. Oldest negotiating trick in the book - back when you could still smoke when and where you wanted. Light a cigarette the minute you start losing your train of thought or see the other side coming out on top. Especially because neither Trevor or Raymond smoked in public anyway.

I waited for about 10 minutes. I just lit a smoke and in walked Raymond. We didn't know each other that well at that stage. In fact, due to a mutual dislike, we never got to know each other that well at all. We exchanged a few pleasantries and I continued to smoke. Waiting for Trevor.

Trevor and his right hand (wo)man, Maria Ramos, walked in about 20 minutes later. Now remember, this was my first every negotiations and I was about to face one of my heroes. I was shitting myself with excitement. Trevor looked straight past me and leaned over to Raymond with a big smile and said, 'nice to see you again Comrade Parsons'. What the hell? Comrade Parsons? Did Trevor just call this guy Comrade? I was shocked into silence - not that I said anything at this stage in any case, but I was stunned.

He turned to me and mumbled a hello. No handshake - never mind being called Comrade. I just sat there staring into space. Then it hit me. He knew this was my first time. He was going to try everything to intimidate me and bully me into submission. He is here to win an argument - every battle and the war by the time we walk out of here. What the hell do I do now? This guy has negotiated against the Apartheid regime to convince them to hand over power to the people. I am fresh in a new job and was still at university a few years back.

Trevor and Raymond started talking about the budget and took a few friendly jabs at each other. Friendly banter. No serious negotiations. Raymond was obviously playing the good cop and did not need anything from these negotiations. He was here to make Trevor feel good about business. But that was not the trade union style. I was going to sink or swim.

'Excuse me', I said uncertainly. Neither of them even looked at me. Trevor continued to share his thoughts on his budget with Raymond. Raymond just smiled his irritating little smile and nodded his head in agreement. A little bit louder, 'Excuse me'. No recognition that I even existed - nothing, nada.

Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.

'Excuse me, Minister Manuel, can I ask you a question'. This time it was loud enough for them to stop talking and look at me. They couldn't ignore me this time. Trevor looked up from his notes and stared at me from under his glasses. No 'yes' or any recognition that I hold some interest. My mouth was halfway open to say something when Trevor interrupted me and said, 'you do know I am not here to negotiate with you'. What was that? He is pushing the boundaries here and almost being openly hostile. I didn't even know how to start responding to this.

Sink or swim, Henk. Sink or swim.

He turned back to his notes and started talking about the budget again. All the time looking up at Raymond every few seconds. Acknowledging Raymond, but not me. It didn't help that I sat to his right and Raymond straight ahead of him - but Trevor picked his spot last. And I could see why. Damn this guy is good.

I swallowed - maybe loud enough for other to hear. This was my time. I had one chance and nothing more. I had to make my move now. I lit a smoke, took a deep drag and looked at the burning end. I never once looked at Trevor or Raymond, but I could sense that they were looking at me. Or at least glancing - I could hear Trevor's voice being a little bit clearer each time he glanced at me. I put the burning cigarette down in the ashtray and slowly started packing my stuff into my bag. Not looking up at them or acknowledging them at all. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. This was my play.

I took a sip of my cold coffee and took another drag of my cigarette - I hope they couldn't see my hands shaking slightly. And then I slowly got up and picked up my bag. Stubbed the cigarette out and then looked up and smiled. I nodded my head at Trevor and mouthed a goodbye to Raymond - acting as if I didn't want to interrupt their discussion - even though they stopped talking at this stage and was looking at me. I took my jacket and started making my way to the door.

Trevor looked at me and said, 'where are you going?' I stopped and looked at him - and then I gave him the friendliest smile I could manage at that stage and said, almost apologetically, 'I am sorry Minister Manuel. I didn't mean to interrupt your discussion. Please do carry on'. And then I turned back as if I was about to leave again.

Again Trevor asked, 'but where are you going?' - this time a bit louder to show me that he wants an explanation. I stopped and said, while slowly turning to face him, 'well Minister Manuel, you said that you are not here to negotiate with me. So I am leaving. The trade unions didn't send me here, all the way from Cape Town, to listen to your discussion with Raymond. I am sure it will be interesting, but I can read the minutes of the meeting if I wanted to know what you two are discussing. I am going back to the trade unions to tell them that you didn't come to NEDLAC to negotiate with me. We were clearly under the wrong impression, thinking that we were meant to be equal partners and negotiate the budget - and for that I am truly sorry'. And with that I turned around and walked out the room.

I was as nervous as hell while I did all this - but it never showed in my voice. He walked straight into my quickly hatched plan. It was a huge gamble, but I knew I had to show him that I am not here to be pushed around. Not by him or anyone else. This will set the tone for future negotiations and everyone will push me around if I caved in at my first one.

Once the door closed behind me - I just stood there for a few minutes taking a few deep breaths and lighting another smoke. After a few minutes I started walking over to the receptionist to ask her to get me a taxi. The door behind me opened and I heard Maria Ramos call my name. I turned around and walked to meet her halfway. She explained that the Minister would like me to come back inside. And, she said, while lowering her voice and quickly looking left and right to see if anyone else could hear, he would listen to my questions. 'But will he answer them?', I asked. She gave me a quick smile, but was obviously not impressed by my attempt at humor. 'He'll answer', she said, 'but will you come back in?' I nodded and followed her back in - this was way better than I could ever have hoped for. I didn't expect him to back down. I just didn't want to come away looking like a complete loser and/or idiot.

I sat down and made myself comfortable - coffee, smokes and notepad. Trevor looked at me and said, 'you had a question'. I looked up at him and said the line I prepared in my head many times in the last two days, 'Minister Manuel, you decided to not zero rate paraffin, but decided to zero rate what you call everyday goods instead. Tell me, Minister Manuel, when last were you in a township? Because the last time I checked most people didn't even have electricity - never mind the money or need for 'everyday' products such as video machines or video cameras. But paraffin, now that is a completely different story...'

An African adventure - thanks to Air Cameroon (2002)

I had the most amazing, and unbelievable, airline adventure in 2002 - all thanks to Air Cameroon. I couldn't make this up even if I tried. And it all started when I got a call from a few African NGO colleagues asking whether I would attend the UN Africa Regional Conference on the World Summit on the Information Society (WSIS) in Bamako, Mali (what a stupid, boring line to include in this story. But hey, read on - it gets better. I promise). The request to go to Bamako came from the African Caucus - an informal alliance of African NGO's workers. We linked up at the prep meetings for the UN Conference on Financing for Development (UN FfD) - and was formally represented at the Monterrey Conference. It was not only an honor, but I was excited about my first trip to Mali - and it wasn't going to be in Timbuktu (you knew that was in Mali, right?) But first I had some travel plans to arrange.

I phoned around and everyone else was going to fly Air France - via Jo'burg to Paris to Bamako. That sounded odd. Why fly all the way to Europe to get to Mali? My travel agent also recommended this, but I insisted on her finding a more direct way there. The alternative she came up with? Air Cameroon. Hey, that sounded excellent - I am in Africa and should fly with an African airline. I booked my place and was ready to go.

I flew from Cape Town to Jo'burg to catch my connecting flight to Douala (Cameroon), and from there onwards to Bamako. Two stops and I am there. I was going to have fun with the other guys who flew Air France. They were going to leave after me so I will be there in time to have some cold beers ready by the time they got to the hotel.

I landed in Jo'burg and checked in for my flight to Douala - I got a nice window seat. Thought it was odd that the flight only left at 2 am, but that was fine. The last flight before this was at about 11 and the next one out at 6, but it gave me some time to first buy a few things (biltong, for one) for the flight. I did my shopping and grabbed something to eat. Everything shut down at about 11 and I hung around and walked from one area to the next. Also found it odd that I saw hardly anyone else hanging around. And then I looked at the boarding notice - my flight now only leaves at 5 am. Oh man, I had to hang out at a dead airport for another few hours. And nothing is open. So I ate my biltong, drank a few cokes from the vending machine, and smoked as if I was about to give up the next day (that took a few more years).

At last my flight was ready to board. One would have thought that we would get a good gate - especially with no other flights taking off at that time of the night/morning. But no, we got a gate stuck somewhere in a corner. After another slight delay we got onto the bus taking us to the plane - I was surprised to see no one being slightly pissed off about the delay in the flight. But that is the African way - we take things in our stride. No reason to lose your temper over something you can't control - war, corruption or delayed planes, it makes no difference to us having to live our lives anyway.

I was ready to sit down in my comfortable seat and catch up on some sleep. I was to scared to sleep at the airport - what if I missed my flight? Air Cameroon doesn't fly until he next day again. But, as I was about to take my seat, the air hostess came over to say that I can't sit in this/my seat. They had to keep that section open to balance the plane! 'But I had this seat allocated on my ticket! Where do I go now?', I responded. 'You can sit anywhere you like, sir. We don't hold people to their seat allocations', she said. Okay...

I got a seat and settled in for some sleep. I am like Pavlov's dog when it comes to planes and sleep - I fall asleep the minute I feel the vibrations of the engine. I woke up as we hit the tarmac. Douala, at last. But oddly enough no one else got ready to leave. I got up, got my stuff and started to go to the exit. But Ms air hostess stopped me with a 'where do you think you're going, sir?' 'Douala, of course'. The response - 'we're not in Douala, we're in Kinshasa'. What the hell? After a few exchanges of views and news, I was informed that they had people who wanted to get on the plane in Kinshasa and a few people that wanted to get off in Kinshasa. And this is just part of their service to their clients - we stop where you want us to stop. A bit like most African taxi's - the Toyota Hiace type.

Now I was starting to get worried. What about my connecting flight from Douala? I called the air host (by now I was too scared of the air hostess) and asked if there is a way to let Douala know that we are going to be late - we already got delayed in Jo'burg. He looked at me and smiled, 'no problem, sir. We use the same plane'. Air Cameroon only had 3 working planes at that stage...

Many hours later we arrived at Douala. It looked unbelievably modern from about 10,000 feet. Extracting gates and all. Way ahead of Cape Town and Jo'burg back then. But the closer we got the clearer the detail. None of the extracting gates worked. Half stood rusting away and the other half just sat there with their missing wheels and windows. And the tarmac didn't look that smooth either.

But we landed safely and got out quickly. Man, it was hot. I have never been in more humid and hot conditions in my life. Couldn't wait to get into the airport to the cool crisp air conditioning. Hum, this didn't work either. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero worked. But at least our flight got delayed. Again. But they gave us some crap coffee and bread to keep us quiet. As if I was going to argue with a guy standing a few meters away - in full army gear and an AK47 in his hands. Nope, I was as happy as a clam to keep my mouth shut and go with the flow.

We did eventually board our plane, and I got a seat - any seat - and settled in for the last trip to Bamako. And again I fell asleep. And again I woke up as we hit the tarmac. And again I got up to leave. And again the air hostess stopped me (the same one from earlier). And again I was told that we are not in the city that was indicated on my ticket. No this time they stopped in Abuja as part of their commitment to client needs. And then we stopped in Abidjan. And then we stopped in Dakar. And then we stopped in Bamako - many, many hours later than indicated on my itinerary.

The meeting in Bamako (and Bamako itself) is for another day. But the return flight was more or less the same as getting there. Same detours, same air hostess and same seating arrangements. Except for two things.

As always, I went to the airline a day before I was to leave Bamako - just to confirm my flight. As expected, they weren't open as indicated in the hotel brochure. I hung around for a few hours until they opened. I confirmed my flight leaves at 8 am. They said no. I confirmed that it was to be tomorrow. They said no. Apparently, the flight will leave sometime the day after tomorrow - but not sure what time. Still trying to fill the plane. I gave up. I didn't even bother to ask what I should do. I just turned around and started walking. The person behind the counter shouted for me to call them early on the day of departure. I just nodded my head, waved my hand, lit another smoke, and kept on walking.

We did eventually depart - and got to Douala after our detours. The air hostess told us that the plane will leave again at 7 (it was now 5 am). I laughed and jokingly asked whether that was 7 am or 7 pm. She looked at me and with a serious face said she will check. Of course it was 7 pm...

I had to call South African Airways in Jo'burg to say that I will miss my flight, but this was before I had a mobile phone that could work anywhere. And no phones at the departure gates either. And I had to pay $10 just to get out to the public side. Like hell I was going to do this. I got out my UN Conference badge and swung it around with the blank side showing. Found my way through some back corridors and found a door leading to the outside. But there was some seriously armed security guards hanging out there. I just kept on walking as if I belonged and with a 'bonjour' here and a nod there I got through to the other side. No luck in finding a phone either - there weren't any working phones. But Africa saved me again - as always. Someone overheard me asking for a phone and came over and offered me their mobile phone. I made my call and offered to pay - but he refused. He even bought me a beer. Very, very typical of my experiences in Africa. Someone somewhere always comes along to help me out or just share a beer - here I got both at the same time.

I was offered more crap coffee and bread - back in the departure lounge. But by now I was dying of the heat and humidity. I found my way up to the roof with a few beers and two friends. That lasted all of 10 minutes before armed security came to remove us. Apparently we weren't allowed up there. Off I went in search for an air conditioned office. I couldn't find anything. But I did find an air conditioned computer room. And I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon until we left. Yes, I was asked to leave a few times, but I didn't understand any language they spoke at that stage - neither French or English. Nada, nothing, zilch, zero.

I got home and after a few years started sleeping without waking up screaming and sweating. And managed to laugh about it after years of serious counseling.

And those guys who left on Air France? They left after me, but got to Bamako a day before me. But I had it lucky. A few of them was booked on Air Cape Verde for their return flight. Guess what. There was no Air Cape Verde.

Umlungu - becoming a white bastard (1997)

It took me a while to gain the support of everyone at NACTU - being the first white guy ever to work for NACTU wasn't as easy as what you might think. Back in the 80s NACTU specifically decided not to join COSATU because of the white leadership within the trade union movement that dominated COSATU unions. They decided to go on their own and keep NACTU a black only trade union federation - black consciousness needed this approach early on. So not everyone was celebrating when I was asked to head up NACTU's negotiations at NEDLAC. But the fact that I was white soon became a secondary issue - and actually counted in our favour.

The majority of business and government people around the table were white - and from older stock. They believed that I had something in common with them at every level, including politics and social interests - just because we shared a skin colour and language. We used this often and effectively. Most negotiations took place during coffee or smoke breaks. And it was easy for me to become part of the group of white guys talking rugby, braaivleis (barbecue) and... well, positions at the negotiating table. They shared information with me that they wouldn't do with any of my black colleagues. And I took this information back to strengthen our position and develop new tactics - we won more often than not.

This helped me develop a deeper trust within the union movement. How people viewed me changed from being an outsider to being a trusted Comrade. I even got my own nickname - umlungu. Umlungu is an offensive name for a white person. I was literally called white bastard. The reason? Well, in the eye of the white guys I became a white bastard for joining NACTU and not joining their side. And it was an endearing way for NACTU to say that I was their 'white bastard'. I was on their side and got them info from the real umlungus.

Of course this didn't work well when in public. Being called umlungu in the streets of Jo'burg didn't always go down well. Imagine walking downtown in a rough area and where over 90% of the people are be black, and then someone shouting 'hey, you white bastard!' Needless to say, we had a few close calls where we had to explain to people what we meant - and that there was no reason to help beat up the white bastard.

It also had a bit of a novelty factor. People wanted to see the umlungu that works for NACTU. And the news travelled far. I was asked to do a short introductory speech to a group of trade unionist in the UK - they were donors so we jumped when they asked us to jump! I spotted a guy sitting at the back staring at me and smiling - I could also spot from a mile away that he was from South Africa. I went to speak to him afterwards and he told me he was on a training trip from COSATU. It was odd, we weren't from the same federation - so why was he here? He smiled as I asked him and replied - 'I just wanted to see who this Comrade umlungu was that joined NACTU'. We had a good laugh and shared a few beers.

The nickname stayed, but the colour of my skin became less and less of an issue. To such an extend that no one even noticed it anymore - not even myself. It came back every now and again when someone would be shocked to find out who I worked for - but we got to handle that in our own way. I'll never forget the first time it happened.

I was having a beer with a good NACTU friend of mine when she noticed two guys from COSATU sitting next to her. She knew them. She leaned over and started chatting to them and asked if they wanted to join us. The standard introductions followed, and when they asked me what I did for a living I responded, without thinking, that I worked for NACTU. You should have seen their faces - clearly shocked that I was white. And without thinking they both responded immediately with 'but you're white!' The response from my friend was priceless - without blinking she immediately reacted by swinging around to me and saying, 'what, he's white? An umlungu?' Her face was one of mock shock - and then she burst out laughing and couldn't stop laughing. You should have seen their faces. Bewildered doesn't even start to explain.

I never felt so proud of being a white bastard.

Rant & Rave: Don't Bitch About Bush, You've Got Zuma

I am extremely proud of being South African. What we have managed to do over the last 15 odd years have been unbelievable. From the most despicable Apartheid regime to a stable democracy and sound economic growth. From the bottom of the world pecking order, to the leading global voice on justice. A leading light in a world at war. We have shown the world how everyone can live in peace and harmony - and celebrate differences instead of letting it divide us. The region I come from has shown the world how Muslim, Christian, Hindu and Jew can all live together, celebrate our differences and enrich our lives in this melting pot we call home - instead of trying to wipe each other out.

Yes, like all other countries we have challenges. Crime, poverty and HIV/Aids being the biggest. At the heart is poverty - or at least the lack of shared wealth. Too much is still in the hands of a small (mostly white) minority. We have the systems in place to address this - affirmative action specifically aimed at benefiting the previously disadvantaged. These policies have been integrated into our procurement system in innovative ways, as well as in the workplace. At the same time the government has brought electricity, running water and housing to millions of people. We are very much a work in progress. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless. Change doesn't happen overnight.

And we have won the rugby world cup - twice!

We have shown how democracy can be a powerful way to bring real benefits to all people in South Africa. Since 1994 we have experienced mostly all the good and great things of having a democracy.

And then there was Zuma.

Zuma has just been elected as the leader of the ANC - the political party I supported and voted for in South Africa. He is now in a perfect position to become the next President of South Africa. The 'Comrades' at the Congress celebrated his win as proof that democracy works and that anyone can be elected as a leader in a free and fair election.

Zuma is an idiot. I have met him a few times and he is not the brightest spark. He has the charisma of a damp dishcloth. And the morals of a rat. He didn't deny sleeping with the young girl that was not only HIV positive, but also a family friend. Whether there was consent or not is irrelevant. You would expect more from someone who is supposed to be a leader we look up to - who should be a shining light for us to follow. And the fact that he took a shower afterwards to 'ensure' he doesn't 'catch' HIV speaks to his intellect. And I am not even going to go into the corruption charges. How the hell can the ANC Women's League justify supporting this guy during the election? And we all saw Zuma speak at the COSATU Congress - how could you even think for a minute he would be a leader for the workers or the people?

I know that people don't like Mbeki, but you don't drink cyanide just because you don't like Coke. Pick something else that won't kill you. Okay, cyanide will kill you quicker than Zuma, but the outcome will be the same - Zuma will drag everything that Madiba and all our great leaders have worked for through the mud. We will be the laughing stock of the world. Mbeki is a statesman respected across the world for not bending to popular demand, but sticking to what is just and right. Well, most of the time - he is fallible (read his HIV/Aids policies). Mbeki is a giant compared to Zuma.

What really gets to me is the fact that these same 'Comrades' will be the ones bitching and moaning about Bush and other world leaders , but especially Bush. As they used to say at union meeting - 'Comrade, you are out of order'. You lost your right to criticize the democratically elected leaders from other countries when you elected Zuma as your leader. Bush might be an idiot with policies we don't like or agree with, but he was democratically elected (twice) by his people - just like Zuma. So, stop your bitching about Bush or Brown - or even Mugabe - you got Zuma. YOU voted him in. YOU are responsible. YOU will be the laughing stock of the world. YOU just lost your right to bitch.

The birth of a Comrade (1996)

My meeting with Cunningham for the LRS (Labour Research Services) job went unbelievably well. We hit it off straight away. He was one sharp cookie - and piercing eyes that could see through anything. He asked me questions from every angle. It was like watching Ali hitting his victim from every angle. One-two, one-two. And I had to open up very quickly and admit that I knew nothing of NACTU or what the job entailed. Hell, I didn't even know if he was a General Secretary or Secretary General. But that I had the commitment and passion to be part of the changing South Africa. I wanted this job more than anything. I wanted to be part of the best story ever to be told in the history of South Africa. The story of the rebirth of our country.

Well, he bought that hook, line and sinker. It was true, but I did pull out all my poetic skills to convince him that I was the right one for the job.

We sat around talking about the job and the kind of support they needed for a while. We had some crap coffee and a few cigarettes. He was an easy guy to be around and had great stories to tell. But I knew that he wasn't telling me everything of his past and you could see in his eyes that he have been to places some people should never go to - I later learnt that he was a responsible for APLA Intelligence during the liberation struggle. APLA - the Azanian People's Liberation Army - was the military wing of the Pan Africanist Congress in South Africa. APLA was one of the most vicious military wings in South Africa - especially between 1990 and 1994 when the ANC was already unbanned and everyone of note was negotiating for a new South Africa at CODESA. They killed 4 people at a golf club in 1992, 5 people at a hotel in 1993, 11 people in a church in 1993, and 4 people at a tavern I used to go to as a student in 1993. And he headed up their military intelligence.

We got up - wanted me to meet a few other people. First up was Mahlomola 'Shloksh' Skhosana - the Deputy General Secretary. He was fast asleep behind his desk. He sat straight up with his eyes closed. Cunningham just walked in and started talking - as if Mahlomola wasn't asleep at all. Slowly he woke up and wiped his eyes, and started talking as if he was never asleep at all. Odd, but I got used to this later on - he can fall asleep anywhere and still know what is going on around him. What a nice guy though - one of the biggest and warmest smiles you can find anywhere. And not a bad bone in his body.

Two other guys walked in while we were talking to Mahlomola - Joseph Maqekeni and Manene Samela. You could see straight away that Joseph was one of the original good guys. Workers loved him because he was like a father - and that's why he was elected President of NACTU. Always friendly and always listening - and happy to play a secondary role to strong, dominant power players like Cunningham.

Manene was another story. He was huge - from worker stock. In fact, the treatment his mother received from her employers was a major inspiration for his involvement in the trade union movement - fired after 23 years with no pension, just because she got old. And she only saw her kids once a year when she went home for the holidays. Manene had a look in his eyes that made it clear that he was not one to be crossed - ever. He was the General Secretary of the South African Chemical Workers Union (SACWU) - the largest NACTU trade union member. And SACWU was involved in a long running turf war with CEPPWAWU - their main competitor from the largest trade union federation in South Africa - the Congress of South African Trade Unions (COSATU). And it was an ugly battle - huge unions fighting for their members worker by worker - shop floor by shop floor.

At this stage Cunningham hasn't introduced me to anyone yet -not even to Mahlomola. He just started talking to Mahlemola about the LRS and Gordon Young when Joseph and Manene walked in.

No one paid much attention to me - especially when Joseph and Manene walked in. They were now talking trade union talk - another clash with CEPPWAWU and Manene was clearly upset and ready for a fight. About 5 minutes into their chat Joseph looked at me with a slightly perplexed look on his face as if he only realized I am in the room now, but for the life of him couldn't see why I would be there at all. I stood out amongst the men in the room - a young strange white guy not talking at all. Cunningham saw Joseph looking at me and turned around and said - 'Sorry Comrades, this is Comrade H - he is going to work for us on NEDLAC. He'll be our lead representative.'

Just like that. As if it meant nothing - just a matter-of-fact statement from him. And a life changing moment for me. I was shocked - I got the job! No real interview. No long list of questions. No checking of my referees. No multitude of people to interview me. Just a few words from Cunningham and I had it.

I think the surprise and utter ecstasy showed in my face as everyone looked at me and smiled. Joseph looked at me, gave me a big smile, slapped me on the back and said, 'Welcome Comrade H'. Then he turned to Manene and started talking about the turf war again.

And now I was a Comrade. A real Comrade, named by real Comrades.

But I was starting to run late. I still had to catch a cab back to the airport and get home to tell my wife. Those were the days before cellphones and I was dying to tell her the good news. I got the dream job - the break we needed and the chance we wanted.

As I left I got my first 'comrade' handshake from people who had real credentials in the struggle against Apartheid - not just some leftie student who thought it was cool to be radical. It starts like a normal handshake, then shifts to a quick grip similar to someone doing arm wrestling, and then shifts back to a normal handshake - hands always touching and the movements quick, clear and to the point - just like my new comrades.