Evita's Weekly Column

Evita Bezuidenhout was reunited with her long-lost niece from Benoni
in Hollywood last week. Invited by the University of California
(UCLA), South Africa's most famous white woman appeared at the climax
of Pieter-Dirk Uys' show 'Elections & Erections' which performed at
three different Los Angeles theatres to great acclaim.
At the Glorya Kaufman Hall, Evita announced: 'We South Africans are
known to do well all over the world. And especially here in Los
Angeles. And I am thrilled that my little niece is here tonight,
having done very well in California. Skattie? Waar is jy?'
And Charlize Theron walked out on stage, embraced Tannie with a big
hug and kiss and the audience went wild. The conversation between them
was fast, funny and full of Evita-isms.
'You must admit, meisie, that I was right to tell your mother to bring
you here to LA, and not let you take that job with PACT ballet in
Pretoria,' Evita said.
'Ja-nee, Tannie,' agreed the Oscar-winning Superstar. 'It's all thanks
to you.' And also to that 1980s photo of Evita which Charlize used
as her inspiration for the character in 'Monster'!
Evita was also interested to know if Charlize would be acting in the
upcoming film of Nelson Mandela's 'The Long Walk to Freedom'.
'I'll be playing you, Tannie Evita,' she said.
The two famous boeremeisies also touched on Charlize's Outreach
programme to schools in KZN and Tannie Evita's Darling Trust.
Pieter-Dirk Uys was also working at UCLA as guest professor and
performance mentor to a group of 21 students on how to use humour to
fight fear. The Los Angeles Times critic summed it all up.
'Uys dons false eyelashes and presidents listen'.

'These columns were published in the Weekender - Business Day's
Saturday/Sunday edition under the heading 'Setting a
Precedent.....President' Every week's column will be added here on
Mondays.

22 December 2007: the final one

So what will the world make of the Battle of Polokwane? As the SANC was
the only broadcaster allowed into the hallowed hall, whatever the camera
filmed was shared with the entire planet. The main camera in the great tent of
the people never stopped shaking! Was the cameraman so overcome with laughter,
or was it nerves? It seems the podium and the floor were 'insecure', not
built for the toyi-toying masses upon it. Then there was soccer-match
booing and disrespect shown to the old guard. At times, the balding heads on
stage looked like relics from the Soviet Union, the Politburo peeping over the
walls of the Kremlin looking down on what they hoped were the adoring
masses. Not so, foeitog.

It took me a long time last Sunday to complete the 25 kilometres from
Polokwane to the Turfloop Campus of the University of Limpopo. De Kock
said it looked like the road to Basra at the end of the first Iraqi War.
Hundreds of cars stalled in a traffic jam from hell. However, we were not
surrounded by burnt-out hulks, but gleaming black and grey bullet-proof German
limousines. Behind their tinted glass-windows sat the ruling classes, some
who were on bread and water once a day a mere 20 years ago. Members of the
NEC of the ANC, there by the grace of Thabo.
My son smirked: 'Apparatchiks in their tailored Africa-chic, with GQ
fashion plates in designer suits? Even though they are on parole?' Tony Yengeni
waved back. 'Sies, Mama, the average member of the ANC would have to spend
a lifetime in earnings to afford a fraction of this gluttony.' He sighed.
'Aluta Continua!'
The reason for the gridlock was a donkey cart full of delegates from the
Northwest Province. They'd been on the long trek to Polokwane for a week
and here they were, nearly there, excited, proud of their membership, hopeful
and singing a now familiar old struggle anthem.
'Bring me my machinegun,' growled Moff de Bruyn. My son's best friend was
joking, of course, because he and De Kock on principle don't carry a gun.
I hope they never live to regret that decision.
De Kock felt this first hiccup put the whole Polokwane experience in a
nutshell.
'First and Third World, forced together in an uncomfortable
koeksister-coil of conference,' he laughed. 'The haves and the don't-haves, pretending
that all comrades are rewarded equally.'

I was there as an observer, to oversee the catering. 4000 people needed to
eat three times day, en mense, hulle kan eet! I'd done a lot of planning
with my daughter Billie-Jeanne. B-J, as the wife of an NEC member, could
advise me in preparing a selection of expensive delicacies for the
sophisticated palates of the Ueber-Comrades. Outside in the veld, the rest
of the people partied on chips and cooldrink, wearing the t-shirts of the
next Induna of the Nation. Jacob Zuma is the Arnold Schwartzenegger of the ANC.
His slogan should be 'I'll be back'! In spite of every possible hurdle, he
has hijacked the venerable old party from under the noses of the ancien
regime, and turned it into his own bridal shower. Even his bodyguards are
dressed like hip-hop dancers on 'Idols'. 'Didn't Winnie start that
sun-shaded dark Armani-suited look for her Xhosa-Nostra, Mama?' asked my
son.
Moff agreed. 'Ja, and JZ has added his Zunami-touch.'
After winning, Jacob actually waved at me and smiled, but I think he does
that to every white woman he sees. The black ones don't get away that
easily. He ends up marrying most of them, it seems.

The conference was enthralling and terrifying. De Kock and Moff, as
special observers for the TAC, never took their eyes off Minister Manto, but
somehow she never lifted her hands to her mouth. De Kock said she was probably on
an ankle-drip. Terror Lekota saw his Bloedrivier on the 16th December, when
the 100% Zulu Boys and Girls disrupted the usually staid and Soviet-styled
proceedings. That's when the floor trembled under the toyi-toying Nikes
and the world saw us vanish in a blur of clenched fists.

As the days merged into one long African-timed wait for something to
happen, I realized that it was all too familiar for comfort. This was so like the
National Party Congress in the late 1970s, where a new leadership was
called for after the resignation of Prime Minister John Vorster. He only bowed
out of that cushy job because of the Information Scandal. Rather than let him
have his day in court, the NEC of the NP kicked him up into the
Presidency.
The battle lines were drawn: Botha versus Botha: Pik or PW?
The great advantage we Nats had on this recent Polokwane Rubicon, was the
confidentiality that is bred by total control. There was no media tent, no
sms's, no journalists other than those in the pay of the party which meant
all those present. No television. The SABC was the SAUK and so we allowed
our bloodbath to happen in secret. Potential leaders showed united smiling
facades in black and white photos, but the knives were firmly in each
other's backs.
Pik was the favourite, young, energetic, successful and a party person. He
would lead us into what could even be called the New South Africa. But
then this walk in the park turned into a vastrap in a minefield. P.W. Botha and
his gang elbowed their way into the centre of attention, like a jackbooted
fuehrer. Jobs were promised. IOU's were called in. Contracts were
tantalizingly waved. Wealth and untold power lay ahead for those who would
Botha-hop from passionate youth to pursed-lipped experience. History is
the result. P.W. became the party leader and eventually led the country into
his stagnant Rubicon of anarchy and decay.

As I stood in the vast feeding tent wearing my SA flag apron, I watched
the white students from the old Pietersburg Technicon serve their black
governors Chicken a la Tambo, Beef a la Hani and Putupap a la Sisulu. I
had to smile at the irony of life. Someone said: when history repeats itself,
it takes tragedy and turns it into farce. And yet the celebration of what
really took place will only become clear once the dust settles and the
tears dry. Whatever happened and no matter the outcome which will change us
forever, democracy suddenly grew up in front of our eyes. The anarchy was
transparent. The new leadership of the ANC will hopefully adapt party
structures in the future and realize, as we in the National Party did far
too late, that the people must lead and the government can follow! But as
Democratic Alliance leader Helen Zille commented: 'What will the world
conclude about delegates who sing "Bring me my machinegun" - and that on
the official Day of Reconciliation?'
Skattie? Only in today's South Africa.

SKATTEBOL
A few hugs:
Winnie Mandela, for looking younger, more poised and totally in control,
in a yellow gown, showing every woman how to comport yourself in the
public eye when yours must be filled with tears;
The ANC Youth League for learning so well from United States elections
to know that no computer counting can be trusted. Just look at Bush the
Son's double digital re-election.
Kadar Asmal, for once again defying gravity and turning his comments
into a wonderful cross of verbal anarchy between all the Marx Brothers,
including Lourenço Marques!

HAIRBALL
We worry:
Where do we go from here? Will defeated Thabo resign as President of the
country? Will Thabo hand over to his Deputy, Phumzile, who can mentor the
new Zumamatic into the main job? Will we have a General Election already
in April 2008? Will the rand become a cent?
And will I, Evita Bezuidenhout, still stand for President in 2009?

ISSUE OF THE DAY
"If politics be the food of life, go on a diet!" Surely not the words of
William Shakespeare, even as quoted by President Thabo Mbeki. This
weekend every columnist in South Africa is focused on the Z-factor. Not
Zimbabwe, not Zambia, not Zsa Zsa Gabor. It's that final letter in the
alphabet of local politics: Zuma. So I'm going to do what I usually do
in cases of overreaction - ignore the obvious issue. The Z won't go
away, and hopefully neither will you.

I think I had my first plate of bobotie when I was six years old. My
mother always made it on the fourth Sunday of each month, but it was
'net vir die groot mense'. The discovery of so many different tastes in
one bite left an inspiration on my tongue that has lasted a lifetime.
Bobotie is my muti and this is why it has become my recipe for
reconciliation.

Since becoming a redundant member of the Diplomatic Corpse in 1994, I
have spent time in the kitchens of Parliament, helping the new ANC
Government come to terms with African Cuisine after a lifetime in exile.
I simply put putu-pap with
everything: with British bread-and-butter pudding, with Japanese sushi,
even with the Atkins Diet. I sent the recipe for reconciliation to all
the major trouble spots in the world: Northern Ireland, North and South
Korea, Chechnya.
Even to the Congo Peace Accord with our Minister of Foreign Affairs, but
then Nkosozana Dlamini-Zuma ate the recipe! My bobotie has been on the
table for President Thabo Mbeki - that's to say, on those rare occasions
when he has been back in South Africa on one of his state visits.

Ja-nee, when friends sit round a table and eat together, their
friendships deepen and flourish. Imagine if you put enemies round a
table. They can't fight.
Too many knives and forks around. They must talk. And when they eat a
good plate of boerekos, problems get solved. Recently I sent my bobotie
recipe to the White House for George W. Bush's Middle-Eastern Conference
at Annapolis: the kosher recipe for Prime Minister Olmert and the halal
recipe for President Abbas. All they have to do is make their separate
boboties, sit around a table, eat - and talk. Lives are saved and the
world is a better place.

So who will eat my bobotie after next week? I am hoping to get all the
contenders to the throne of Amandla round a table for some of my home
cooking before it's too late. Wherever you use it, my recipe for
reconciliation is fool proof. Even you could try it and pretend to be
our next President!
_____________

DRIED FRUIT BOBOTIE: MY RECIPE FOR RECONCILIATION

INGREDIENTS:
6 dry apricots
6 dry apple rings
125ml seedless raisins
cold black tea, orange juice or water
2 large onions cut into slices
200ml boiling water
25ml cooking oil
15ml curry powder
10ml turmeric
1kg minced beef
2 thick slices old white bread, crumbed
50ml vinegar
salt and pepper
2 eggs
125ml milk
fresh lemon leaves (optional)

METHOD
1. Soak the apricots, apple rings and raisins in a bit of cold black tea
for a while 2. Drain the fruit, halve the apricots and cut apple rings
in pieces 3. Preheat oven to 180 degrees C (350 degrees F) 4. Grease the
ovenproof dish well 5. Boil onions in water till soft 6. Add cooking oil
and fry onions lightly 7. Add curry powder and turmeric and fry lightly
8. Add minced meat, breadcrumbs, vinegar, salt, pepper and soaked fruit,
then mix lightly with a large fork 9. Leave mixture to simmer; stir
slightly 10. Place mixture in ovenproof dish 11. Beat eggs and milk
together and pour over mixture 12. Fold the lemon leaves into triangles
and push them into the mixture here and there 13. Bake bobotie on the
middle rack for 45 minutes, or until the egg custard has set 14. Serve
hot, starting with the President and work your way to the left
___________________________

SKATTEBOL
This week it is you, my faithful reader. Next week will be my
forty-fifth and final column. Setting a Precedent has been a thrill and
a responsibility, but by next week Polokwane has spoken and I have
always been led by the politics of the day. Maybe the choice will be
ideal; maybe it won't. I might not be in print each Weekender, but I
will be watching their every move. And if they don't deliver on their
promises, I'll be back. Keep that glass half-full, never half-empty!

HAIRBALL
Shame on the once-powerful ANC Women's League who used to carry the
torch for the protection and enrichment of the South African woman, for
throwing their substantial support and weight behind Jacob Zuma for
President of the ANC - a man who has come to represent for many women
everything the Women's League was created to fight, to expose, and to
reject. Come back Winnie, all is forgiven!

8 December 2007

OUR POLOKWANE RUBICON
“So, how serious is your presidential campaign, Mrs Bezuidenhout?” he asked with a laugh in his voice. I looked at him, this suave elegant man, outspoken yet never soft-spoken, forward yet never out-front. A consummate
politician. I should have asked him the same question, but I didn’t.
Some people say it’s impossible. How can Evita Bezuidenhout become

South Africa

’s President? But did anyone think George W. Bush would get the job twice? With the IQ of an artichoke? And Arnold Schwartzenegger? Again Governor of California and he can’t even act? It’s not the campaign that I’m serious about. It’s the result. So far, the ANC Comrades Marathon has given us nothing on the detail or substance of
their policy. We know nothing about the intentions of Zuma, Tokyo , Cyril or the cluster of tsotsi-tannies auditioning for the job that Thabo has already embossed with his initials.
Health, welfare, housing, education, security, defence, environment, finance…? Well finance is clear – while the world economy is digital, ours is still Manuel. Trevor has made all the cynics smile by making them rich and content. What does Zuma say about the poor? He suggests a death penalty
knowing that he will get the support of all those who would not give him the time of day otherwise. NP Prime Minister B. J. Vorster did the same back then and we ended up with deaths in 180-day detention.
So I do not flaunt my credentials the way these populists do. Nor do I pretend to be in a leadership race while others don’t. I just look at my three small grandchildren and think: where will they be in seven years from now? Is there anything I can do today that will help them tomorrow? Can I make sure that our fragile democracy will remain in full working order for
when they and everybody’s children and grandchildren will need it?
I don’t trust anyone in the present gemors to be a custodian of our future. They’ve all lied themselves out of the picture.
A Zuma presidency might seem more accessible than our present Mbekivellian leadership, but it’s all so like the old National Party secret-society-syndrome. The old Broeders hated each other from the word go, but would always be seen shaking hands and pledging their support of one another. Their greed and their dishonesty led to the downfall of an entire generation of South Africans who believed their lies. I was one of them.
So counting my policy-points off on my fingers:
Education – I will encourage learners to finish school by refunding all their school fees on completion of Grade 12 so that there are funds for further studies.
Health – I will expect all banks to make accessible health insurance available for poor people. If not, more taxes on bank profits.
Corruption – guilty parties forfeit all assets and will work at minimum wage in social services in full view of public scrutiny.
Parliament – we will make all MPs responsible to the constituents and Cabinet Ministers paid a minimum wage only, but with expenses controlled by the House. No MP or parliamentary office holder, Minister or Director-General
may enter private sector employment after leaving Parliament for 3 years.
Heritage - There will be no more VAT on books to encourage reading and writing.
Zimbabwe – I will order the invasion of Zimbabwe so that all the millions of Zimbabweans can go home.
The deciding vote is in the hands of 800,000 ANC members who are represented by the elite in Polokwane vs 42 million South Africans watching from the sidelines. Remember how only 900,000 of us voted during the apartheid years, observed by the other 27 million from the sidelines? Ja-nee, déjà vu!
_________________

SWITCHING OFF
Having just come to terms with the simple complexity of life through the eyes of a computer, I’m no longer as nervous as I was, but still on edge. This internet banking never seems to make sense as all your precious confidential information flies away into space. Everything is now linked to the World Wide Web. How many times have I been turned away by a bank clerk, because the computers are down? Even to make a cash-deposit is virtually impossible as no one knows how to count money physically. When Escom has an outage, the interlinking cables blackout an entire city, traffic lights, heartlung-machines and cellphones.
So don’t tell me there isn’t a clever maverick genius, probably under the age of 20, designing the final meltdown? All we now need is a computer virus that will dissolve the sensitive brains of our civilization. All computers will be down as they are all linked, from Tokyo to New York via Frankfurt . And watching the world financial markets rocket from all-time highs to record lows in 24 hours, hints that the ‘perfect storm’ of economic collapse could be just around the corner. Experts shake their heads and disagree.
‘Don’t worry,’ they say.
Worry! The First World is living on credit and if anyone called in all the IOUs, the result would be another meltdown-catastrophe. Yes, they say, but China has too much to lose if they cash in their mega-dollars. Possibly, except they’ll then take the place of a comatose bankrupt USA as the only
solvent superpower.
So when the lights go out all over the world and the voices of communication are stilled, we will glide back into the 14th century. Who will be able to count then? Will there still be words without Microsoft? And where’s your pencil? Find it. You could become King of the World!
_____________

SKATTEBOL
Thanks to Wilma Tredoux, a returning émigré from Australia for putting my son and his friend off their plans to move to Sydney with their small adopted boy Nkosi. Both De Kock and Moff felt there would be a greater chance to live out their dreams in a country less traumatized by racial tensions and abject poverty.
‘You know,’ said Tannie Wilma, ‘many South Africans immigrated to Australia , and the IQ of both countries went up!’

HAIRBALL
If there ever was a goldmine crying out to be exploited with brilliant vision, superb marketing, emotional focus and administrative excellence, it is Robben Island . A World Heritage Site, it encompasses the best of the Struggle against the worst of the past. Everyone is wanting to visit Nelson Mandela’s former home. So how can there be a R25 million deficit in the past year? Why are there no top of the range boats transporting the world across Table Bay ? Nee, magtig, they’re running Robben Island like a kraal!

1 December 2007

ANOTHER AIDS DAY
De Kock has insisted that I focus on the importance of today. It's his
father's birthday, but that's not what he means. 1 December is Aids Day.
Throughout the world people are supposed to celebrate life and survival.
'But there is no cure for this Aids,' I said to my son.
'No Mama, but there is medication and knowledge. No one needs to die of
Aids in 2007.'
I don't know what to say about this frightening virus. Of course, being a
white Christian Afrikaans woman means I don't need to worry. How can it
affect me? As far as I know it only happens to the poor, who mostly also
happen to be black.
'No, Mama, the HI-virus is democratic. It doesn't take sides. Everyone is
susceptible.'
'But surely if it is such an immediate danger, our government would have
rallied all their resources to fight against it?'
De Kock gave me one of his looks, as if to say, don't talk such rubbish!
'The President has access to the best information. Mbeki refuses to
acknowledge that HIV leads to Aids. What if he's right?' I asked.
'He's a denialist,' De Kock hissed.
'No,' I replied, 'they now say he's a dissident.'
'So what's the issue here, Mama? It's like saying Adolf Hitler wasn't a
mass-murderer; he was just anti-Semitic.'
'Well,' I shrugged, 'I also don't know anyone with Aids.'
I was hoping he would change the subject. He didn't.
'We are losing over 1000 people a day to Aids,' De Kock said softly. 'We
have a 9/11 situation every three days and no one says anything! Will we
wake up in ten years and realize that millions of our people have died
because we did nothing? That's genocide, Mama!'
What a terrible thought. This made me angry. 'Darfur is genocide!
Auschwitz, Cambodia, Ruanda!' But he wouldn't let go.
'The new genocide is to withhold vital information that will save a life.
Ignore them and they will go away? Yes, the poor, the unemployed, the
sick, the orphans will die.'
'You mean to insinuate that Mbeki's denials are just to save his
government money?' I was appalled.
'Governments make calculated decisions like that every day. No, this is
far worse,' De Kock fumed.
'Damn it, De Kock! Why are you so involved with this Aids-thing anyway?' I
pleaded.
'Because I'm positive,' he said.
'Well, if you think you know what you're doing, I won't argue. But surely
there are more urgent things to attend to?'
'Like what, Mama?'
I was thinking of the Polokwane Congress, the 2010 Soccer World Cup, Judge
Hlope's new Porsche.
'Nou goed, it is Aids Day. But only on 1st December. Tomorrow we talk
about something else.'
'Every day should be Aids Day, Mama!'
Suddenly I knew what drove our Health Minister to drink.
______________

THE CLICK SONG
One day South Africa will have a leader who has not been in jail or come
from exile. That will herald a new era in our politics, but it won't be
happening in Polokwane in two weeks time.
We were so lucky in 1994. The new politicians who came out of the
University of Robben Island had had so many years to contemplate and plan how to take
on the responsibility of government. Then the exiles returned from the
First World to fill the top positions in the administration.
I remember listening to the wave of discontent from comrades who fought
the Struggle here in South Africa without the benefit of international
publicity and overseas support. They resented this 'Retex Regime' - the returned
exiles with their fancy British accents and exotic Soviet degrees and
textbooks.
But let us not be ungrateful. These South Africans who had their roots in
the centres of learning and experience in the West brought back a vast
trove of knowledge without which we would have been in deep trouble. I wonder if
our Constitution could have been drafted in such remarkable detail without
the exiles round the tables of negotiation.
Remember also that the Afrikaner had nowhere else to go. Unlike former
European colonies where the Imperial masters pulled down their Union Jack
and Tricolor and laid the administration fallow and gutted, we in the
National Party knew that to survive we had to talk to and respect the
former enemy and understand that they too loved the land we for so long took for
granted as our exclusive domain.
It does amuse me though to notice how the crisp British accents of some of
members of the ANC Executive are changing. Someone is making a lot of
money teaching them the Xhosa clicks and Zulu clucks and making sure that
'cat-tag-gory' replaces 'category' and 'sirkumstins' becomes the norm for
'circumstance'. Eish!
_____________

SKATTEBOL
Afrikaans actress Lizz Meiring - who still so reminds me of my former
secretary Bokkie Bam - gave a benefit performance of her show 'Bizzie
Lizzie' to raise a much-needed R25,000 in support of veteran actor Limpie
Basson. It is a shame that so many of our great artists languish in old
age homes or worse, because there has never been a structure of financial
support for them in their retirement. Bravo Lizzie!

HAIRBALL
Why must important books be over 800 pages long? I look at Mark Gevisser's
massive tome on Thabo Mbeki. A life's commitment to wade through it all.
One would appreciate important details to be highlighted in italics for the
hasty reader like me. Having just finished rereading Nelson Mandela's
'Long Walk to Houghton', I look at 'The Dream Deferred' and realize that Thabo
is definitely thicker than Madiba.

24 November 2007

TRAFFIC AND INTOLERANCE
The most pressing issue for any new President to confront will not be
education, health, housing or finance. It will be traffic! Johannesburg is a
prime example of the permanent gridlock. Not so long ago there were two rush
hours - one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Now it's a 20-hour
daily nightmare. The N1 to Pretoria is bumper to bumper at all times. When
one realises that the present road system was originally planned and built
for use by less than four million whites, you wonder where the democratic
government's priorities were after 1994. We now know it was on delivery on
promises made mainly to themselves: bigger cars, luxury homes, more food and
a lifestyle fit for an elitist comrade.
No one planned for 2007, when 40 million people would crowd the
infrastructure of roads, especially in Gauteng. That doesn't even include
the millions of African guests, a polite name for the illegal residents from
Zimbabwe, Mozambique and the other African Union allies.
Now that Escom has also exposed itself as a relic from the time when only
members of the National Party used electricity, traffic is the biggest
casualty. Every outage blacks-out traffic lights and transport crawls to a
virtual halt.
Whatever happened to common sense? Government should focus on public
transport away from our roads. Instead we are selling off all un-utilized
rails to China. Our once successful network that covered the country is
useless relic, occasionally used for a few luxury trains or half-empty
goods-coaches.
To drive on our roads is to wave life goodbye. There is no respect for any
law or rule. Cars pass on the left or on a white line. Many don't bother to
halt at a red light, or stop street. Taxis stop anywhere including on yellow
and red lines to expel or load passengers, often not even pulling over to
the side of the road. Faulty headlights at night create lethal death traps
at high speed.
The first step in my Presidency will be to have a policy of zero tolerance
on roads. Jump a light, you forfeit your car. Break a rule, goodbye to your
licence. Three parking tickets and you walk for good. And any corrupt
official caught soliciting a bribe will man midnight speed traps in the
middle of the Karoo for a year.

BOER MAAK 'N PLAN?
How we have learnt the worst and the best from the rest of the world. Fact
and fiction seem to run neck to neck. The white Afrikaner's history is a
complete fantasy. We don't even know where we came from, unlike the San or
the Xhosa.
Right from the start, our politicians were rewriting our history to make
themselves strong and make us frightened. People who live in fear will do
anything to avoid confronting their fear. So we never asked questions.
Did Jan van Riebeeck actually bring civilization to South Africa in 1652?
How could he? He was from Holland. Besides, now we are told he was an
escaped Dutch convict that came to steal chickens from the Bushmen.
Our glorious Groot Trek was not to salvage what was left of our Christian
values from the barbarism of invading British armies. The fact that 125
branches of the Great Trek started in Cape Town on the same afternoon was
simply because there were 125 Afrikaners who couldn't agree on anything. And
so we can go through our sacred history and push over the paper tigers of
our patriotism: the Battle of Blood River, won not thanks to God but to
guns. Voortrekker Piet Retief's massacre by the Zulus, only because he was
drunk and lusting after the daughters of Dingaan. Sies.
Then came apartheid and were did that come from? Divinely inspired by God?
No, brought from Holland by Dutchman called Hendrik F. Verwoerd. Please
don't blame the Afrikaners for apartheid. We Boere are too lazy and too
stupid to have thought up something so successful.
A visit to the USA in the early 1950s introduced us to their Indian
Reservation System on which we then based our black homelands policy. George
W. Bush has also learned from us. Whereas during apartheid we locked up our
political prisoners on Robben Island without trial, Bush is now doing the
same on Cuba.
Last week Gordon Brown, the newish British Prime Minister, announced his
vision for a more secure and safe future for most of his subjects. Inspired
by us, he will extend the 28-day detention-period for Muslim suspects to 56
days. Some way to go before they have the courage to take it as we did to 90
and 180 days. Of course, then the world accused us of corrupting human
rights and freedoms. Trust the British, like the Americans, to take
corruption and turn it into policy.

SKATTEBOL
Piet Koornhof was always too much of everything. Just his extravagant looks
underlined that. I don't know enough about his true anti-apartheid beliefs
to excuse what he did not do as a Minister during those years. But when he
left his wife for a younger, darker woman, we were all horrified. But Tannie
Lulu would not divorce her skandelike Piet. 'I promised God I would stand by
my husband for good or ill,' she said. And she did. When he died last week,
she was at his side. Mooi skoot Lulu!

HAIRBALL
I hate the expensive new cinemascope plasma television screen. Everything is
now stretched to fit the width of the picture. I was invited by BEE friends
to view my SABC2 TV show 'Dinner with the President' on Thursday and
couldn't believe how squat, fat and dumpy I looked. Like a cousin of Queen
Elizabeth! I pleaded for the screen to be reduced to a normal size, but my
hosts wanted to show off their new acquisition. Siestog, unlike botox,
plasma must be bad for the ego of any television star, let alone some
overweight politician!

17 November 2007

RUSSIAN ROULETTE
Why is my son planning to move to Australia? Could it be all these new
books dissecting the politics of the ANC and its leader? While we are all wading
through Mark Gevisser's Thabo-tome, obsessed with who will succeed the
President? Who will be on the stamps and coins? It might be useful to
wonder how, not if, President Vladimir Putin will retain power in Russia when his
second and, according to the Russian Constitution, final Presidential
terms runs out in March 2008. The current Russian Czar and former KBG operative
gave a familiar hint. At the congress of his United Russia Party (URP), he
graciously agreed to head its party list. Then, after the General
Election, he says he might become Prime Minister. He would then handpick the
President of the State.
'Why does this ring a bell?' I asked De Kock.
'It's a warning bell.
'But there's more Stalinist examples from Moscow,' he added. When this
Putin-puppet completes his first term of office, he might step down for
"health reasons", "a corruption trail" etc, and Premier Putin would
automatically return legally as President without breaking the letter of
the Constitution. Or he could use his URP's majority in the Duma to change the
Constitution and devolve real power to him as Prime Minister, so turning
the Presidency into a merely ceremonial job.'
'Why is it useful to know this?' I asked my son.
De Kock sighed.
'Mama, for URP read ANC. For Putin see Mbeki. Thabo Mbeki says he will
accept a third term as President of the ANC. Which Mbekivellian puppet
will be sworn in as President in 2009, Mama?' he asked.
I couldn't imagine.
The Stalinist background in our leader's political alphabet makes him an
extraordinary African shadow to his Russian comrade. No matter how
corrupt, no matter how careless, no matter how blatant an Mbeki
Presidency-in-perpetuity might seem to the democratic West, as in the case
of Russia they will just hold their noses and do business with
Pretoria/Tswane.
'Corruption disguised as gesture-politics still makes a great deal of
money for many even while they stand on their moral high ground, Mama,' De Kock
murmured, while he filled in the next page of his application for an Australian
residency permit!

URBAN LIES
An urban legend swept through my office last week that made the small
hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Our Zimbabwean cleaner became
quite hysterical with laughter.
It seems that at a minor South African airport, while passengers were
waiting to board their plane to Johannesburg, who should stride through
the concourse, surrounded by his sun-shaded, dark-suited toyi-toyi bodyguards,
but a populist ANC pretender to the throne of democracy.
He waved, acknowledging a shower of applause, went through the waiting
area into a huge bullet-proof limousine. Joined by two police cars with blue
lights flashing, security guards shuffling beside the car, this convoy of
power purred across the tarmac to the waiting plane and boarded.
The intercom crackled in the waiting area. The airline announced that the
scheduled flight to Joburg was cancelled "due to technical problems".
Technical difficulties? Did an engine suck in an AK47 and fall off? Was
the front wheel embedded in the sand? Amazed passengers watched as their
luggage was off-loaded. Then with a flourish and scream of engines in excellent
working condition, the populist ANC superstar and his entourage zuma'd
away into the sky.
Echoes of Robert Mugabe in our Presidential race? In South Africa?
'No,' I shook my head, 'This can't be true.'
The Zimbabwean cleaner just screamed with laughter.
'Eish!' she sobbed.
________________

SKATTEBOL
Oprah Winfrey doesn't have to take everything so personally. I watch her
programme whenever I can and marvel at her ability to take the most
mundane, the most horrific or bizarre subject, and rivet one's attention, usually
on her positive solution to a negative subject. Some cynics have said they've
never come across a more humble person who never stops talking about
herself. Who cares? She cried for her Gauteng schoolgirls who were abused.
She took the blame. The buck stopped with her. I salute Sis Oprah!

HAIRBALL
An internationally attended congress in South Africa hosted an exciting
craft display to showcase the unique talent that we need to celebrate. Our
country is already world-famous for its beadwork, designs and wire-art,
not just crime and corruption. From every corner of the land, talent is
developing and the colourful, exotic and exquisite products need to be
shown. Pity that the organisers were told by government that no white
crafters would be allowed to take part. Skande!

10 November 2007

PICASSO AND AFRICA
A brilliant artist from Darling, Nina van der Westhuizen, painted my
portrait in the style of Picasso. Fancy that. Two eyes on one side of my
head and I don't know what my mouth is doing, but it looks like me as seen
by him!
It all started when she took me and my grandchildren to the Picasso in
Africa exhibition at the National Gallery in Cape Town some months ago. We
also took Sandy, a young local painter from the community, a man in his
twenties who is developing a keen sense of art. His paintings are selling
very well. He had never seen a real Picasso before.
I was fascinated to watch my grandchildren look at each painting and see
exactly what it was supposed to be. To me Picasso made interesting designs
and a deurmekaar-depiction of people. But Winnie-Jeanne saw the dimensions
and explained to her brother and sister that even though it all looked
like jigsaw-puzzle in a mess, it all made sense. I'm sure it did.
I eventually sat down on a bench and paged through a Huisgenoot I'd bought
for my mother. I love art, but all in its place. Too much of art is like
an overdose of koeksisters: you start seeing circles and dots in front of
your eyes. As Nina laughed: 'More Kadinsky than Picasso.'
I smiled politely. I've never been to Kadinsky. Is it near Warsaw?
Young Sandy didn't say a word. For the entire hour, he just went from one
painting to the next, staring, studying, shaking his head, then nodding
his head. He laughed as if he'd found something that belonged to him once and
he'd thought he'd lost. I was quite relieved when the hour passed by and
it was time to go on to our next treat, a visit to the local MacDonalds.
I walked out of the National Gallery with Sandy. He was silent. As we came
into the Gardens, Winnie-Jeanne saw a squirrel. The children chased it
with delight and we stood under an oak tree - for far too long - trying to coax
the creature down with a handful of nuts.
The visit to MacDonalds was a more familiar experience. When we got back,
Nina asked them to make a list of the highlights of their visit to Cape
Town. All three grandchildren agreed on their choices: No 1 was
MacDonalds,
No 2: Squirrel and No 3? Picasso.
I couldn't hide my impatience. Eventually I asked Sandy what his
impressions of the Picasso's were.
'So? What did you think?'
'Picasso? Ja, Mrs Bezuidenhout, I now think I understand.'
I tried not to smile too broadly.
'Oh yes?'
'Ja,' he said. 'In art there are always rules, but no boundaries.'
____________________________

SMALL PRINT
Last week, my daughter Billie-Jeanne brought round a DVD to share with me.
I was hoping it would be the uplifting experience that so many Hollywood
films promise. A nice musical about contented people who can't possibly exist.
Or a love story where the happy ending seems as elusive as a UFO. I was in
for a great disappointment. The subtitled film was set in the former East
Germany during the years of the Soviet occupation. That dreadful communist
Erich Honicker was in control and the Stasi, his secret police, reigned
supreme.
'I don't want to see this, B-J,' I pleaded. 'Isn't there another Shrek
sequel instead?'
But my daughter is as headstrong as I am and when she is on a mission,
nothing will divert her.
'It's about us also, Mama,' she said.
I give up. Every horrible, shocking bloody conflict in the last decades of
world history is always 'about us.' I had to sit through a documentary
about Cambodia's Pol Pot and his murderous band of genocidal maniacs.
'Mama, it's about us.'
No, it's not! We didn't do that to our people. Then came another film
about the Holocaust. I still look away when they show the piles of bodies lying
like broken twigs on the edge of a barren forest. I still struggle to
believe what people can do to other people. Nogal Germans, who grew up
with culture, music, literature and art.
'It's about us, Mama.'
No, it's not about us! We never even thought of those terrible solutions.
Besides, we were not anti-Semitic. We were just worried about being
swamped by an uneducated, barbaric alien majority.
And that Spielberg film about the slave trade that marooned millions of
black people on the unfriendly shores of America, brutalized and tortured,
killed and maimed by supposedly decent good, often Christian people? Yes,
inevitably: 'It's about us, Mama.'
'No, it's not! We freed the slaves when it became fashionable to employ
them and pay them a minimum wage. We handed over a country to them, knowing
they were not yet ready to run it as a first world investment.'
So I was not happy sitting with Billie-Jeanne, my glasses in hand, German
dictionary on the table next to me, ready to be irritated and possibly
bored by an old story.
'The Berlin Wall and apartheid ended together,' I muttered. 'A lifetime
ago!'
'This is about freedom of speech and expression,' Billie-Jeanne sighed.
'That's not an old story. That's.....'
About us?
'Yes,' she said. 'The Stasi infiltrated every home, every family. Parents
spied on children. Kids reported mothers and fathers. It was a society run on
fear.' She looked at me with a smile. 'About us if we're not careful.'
'We are not being spied on,' I fumed. 'You don't report me. I don't hand
you over to agents?'
'Not yet,' she shrugged. 'Do you know what the Constitution says about
freedom of expression?'
'Yes, of course,' I huffed.
'What does it say?'
O gits! I never read the constitution properly. I just know it's unique.
'It says Freedom of Speech and Expression is guaranteed.'
'And the small print?' My daughter was on a mission again and I was in the
dark.
'What small print?" I asked.
'Terms and conditions apply.'
______________

SKATTEBOL
I had a chance to talk again to one of my favourite people. I hasten to
add that she is a politician, but happily that never sours our relationship.
She has always been a leader in her field, as Acting Secretary-General of the
ANC to South African High Commissioner to the Court of St James. Cheryl
Carolus is now a Queen BEE and a major role player in what used to be
known as a man's world. I asked her if I was wrong to be nervous about the
results of the ANC Congress in December. She laughed.
'Tannie Evita, stay nervous and lose some more weight.' Then she added.
'The ANC has often explored every cul-de-sac before finding the freeway. It
happened during Codesa, during the 1994 birth of democracy and now with
our leadership issues. Moenie panic nie, Tannie. Alles sal regkom!'

HAIRBALL
Usually scum floats to the top, but in the case of our Western Cape
politics, it settles at the bottom. In this case, the southern tip of
Africa. Is it possible that all the rubbish, the flotsam and jetsam, the
gemors in local politics here has clogged up the wheels of government that
should be running our Mother City?
Every day one is just aghast at the cheek and arrogance of some skollies
who should be laughed off the benches of government, trying to elbow their way
into power disgracefully cheered on by members of the ANC. Helen Zille is
being accused of spying on her enemies. My liewe aarde skat, I would have locked
them up long ago and swallowed the key!

3 November 2007

LAST MAN ON THE FIELD
How could we let our President end up on a rugby field in Paris looking
like a linesman? The world was glued to their television screens, watching the
Springboks kick themselves a victory and so a World Cup. President Sarkozy
as the host, stepped onto the field with aplomb, followed by Gordon Brown,
Prime Minister of the team that didn't win. And who was that small
uncomfortable figure in a little green tracksuit? Surely, he can't want to
tend the sprinkler system now? O jinne, it's our leader!
Many South Africans are angry that so many of the English team ignored our
President. From Jonny Wilkinson to all the superstars of Europe's number
one team, after embracing the French President who does not shy away from
human touch, and shaking hands stiffly with their Scotsman Premier, they just
jogged past our Thabo. Nee mense, he was the winner of the night! I
noticed him watching them pass by and even giving a little shrug. Siestog, my
heart went out to him. Suddenly all the political armour fell away and here was
a man who stood exposed in the glare of the greatest publicity stunt in the
world: a Rugby World Cup victory looking like just anybody.
Where were his minders? What was the Paris embassy thinking of? Where were
our Comrade Ambassador and the battalions of advisors, public relations
comrades, PAs, Hub Directors, Heads of Genre and other important builders
of image and substance?
Were they also lying prostate in the VIP box, Mantoed out on expensive
booze and not doing their jobs? I would not just fire them; I'd use them as
Blitz to braai the Ambassador!
Knowing that every titled ANC politician was present in that French
stadium, the fact that our President had to wonder onto the field with no support
from his staff is a scandal. He's not supposed to be an actor. After Tony
Blair's summersaults and Bill Clinton's cartwheels I suppose every world
leader is expected to walk the tightrope while singing "Don't worry; be
happy" backwards?
No. There are many times that we have seen President Mbeki at important
meetings. In fact, he turns up at so many gatherings of G8 leaders, I'm
surprised they haven't changed the name to the G8 and-a-half! Thabo always
looks elegant, poised and very much in control, knowing how his body
language will suggest the emotional state of his nation. So he looks
nervous, tense, defensive and doesn't wear jewellery or carry a wallet.
But he never stands around like a spare wheel.
Then the Springboks saved the day once again. They embraced their
political leader, the man who was poised to send them all into the 'slegs
blanke-wilderness' and made him feel like one of them. The sight of Thabo
Mbeki vanishing into the skyscraper crowd of leftwingers and huge
scrumhalfs to be hoisted onto their shoulders like a favourite son, is something that
will stay with me. We realize that we have a government for the people, of
the people, by the people - led by a man who really can't stand people.
But maybe we're wrong. Here he didn't have a choice. With white hands all over
him, he suddenly saw what the world looked like from up there. And he
smiled. Then he laughed. And suddenly he was what I've always hoped for.
Thabo looked happy.
Ja-nee, the bland world out there needs to be reminded every step of the
way. I will give our Honourary Springbok a T-shirt for the future which
will say: 'Be Nice To Me - I'm President!'
______________

DISASTER INVESTMENT
My son De Kock taught me a new phrase: 'Disaster Capitalism'. It means
that our belief that since the end of the Cold War free elections and free
markets have joined forces to create a better life for all - is a lie.
Democracy can still protect the people and prevent economic autocrats from
subjecting citizens to their greedy demands. But when disaster strikes,
panic opens closed doors.
Yes, the earthquakes, the floods, the hurricanes and the tsunamis tear the
silken fabric of civilization aside and expose the bloody realities of
chaos. When social structures are destroyed and the channels of democracy
clogged up with dead bodies, flaming homes and jumbled ruins desperate
need overcomes suspicion.
So, says De Kock, is Disaster Capitalism born.
He discovered this in a book by Naomi Klein while involved with a small
charity trust in Thailand helping the victims of that terrible tsunami
create a new life. It has been a lumpy road. He lost South African friends
on a cheap holiday there, but De Kock found out that the structures in
place to assist with financial donations are often redesigned to divert
important funds to the wrong receivers. I'd say: 'stolen'.
In Sri Lanka that terrible wall of water washed away a quarter of a
million people. They had been living in their ramshackle beach-dwelling
communities for decades. Mega corporations have had their eyes on that prime tourist
land, but the people would not budge. The tsunami did the job. Now, in
order to get the desperately-needed loans from the World Bank and International
Monetary Fund, the local government has banned the people from returning
to their former beachfront homes, declaring it a 'buffer zone' for indigenous
dwellers. But not for the international hotel trade!
De Kock then showed me a paragraph about South Africa. I think it was
around the 1991 Codesa talks. We never saw Thabo Mbeki there. Not that it
mattered because no one thought he would become so significant. It seems that in
the last days of the Struggle, the ANC was forced to haggle with the World
Bank and IMF for loans to rehabilitate a country ravaged by the tsunami of
racism. De Kock thinks Thabo's fingerprints are all over those negotiated
conditions. The banks demanded that the ANC ditch most of the social
protections included in their Freedom Charter and leave the economic
policies of apartheid in place. So while the political merry-go-round was
taking place outside Johannesburg, someone behind closed doors was
negotiating the costs. Ja-nee, it certainly makes you look at where we are
with new eyes. How long before the 'indigenous people' here wake up and
realize their disaster has become the playing field for the capitalist
rescue teams? Is this Jacob Zuma's trumpcard?
_____________

SKATTEBOL
Although I have always treasured my description as 'the most famous white
woman in South Africa', it is with joy that I step side to welcome
another.
Helen Zille, Mayor of Cape Town and Leader of the Official Opposition had
breakfast with me last week. I invited her to join my Kitchen Kabinet
which is there to assist the people in my community. Not only did she agree; she
has also voiced her support for my campaign to become President. Helen
shows what a difference passion in politics can make. Not only is she a loved
housewife and mother, but a major social leader who is guiding an unruly
Mega-city into the future. And she speaks Xhosa and German. Though on the
Cape Flats maybe she needs Nigerian and Chinese!

HAIRBALL
More name changes on the horizon, this time for football teams. Siestog,
leave them alone. President Mbeki, still with Springbok hoof prints on his
thighs, suggested that Bafana Bafana get a grown-up name. I didn't ever
see it suggesting that the team were the 'babies of international football'.
Bafana Bafana has always been a delightful nickname for our soccer team.
And we whites can pronounce it. Then there is Ama-Glug Glug and of course
Ama-Bokke! What will we replace them with? OR-Tambo-Team or Winnie's
Eleven?
I think we have far more important issues to solve. By all means, change
the names, but winning a few more matches without the added burden of
political correctness will make it a better investment?

So President Nicolas Sarkozy is now not only the new right-wing President of France and best friend of George W. Bush, but also a ‘racist’ via his speechwriter. Henri Guiano, they say, was responsible for the speech delivered by his boss in the Sengalese capital Dakar during July that sparked an uproar on the continent. What did he say? He argued that ‘colonization is not responsible for all of Africa’s current troubles.’ Hoe nou? Does this means that Africans are to blame?

As an African, I have learnt how to take responsibility for what my tribe did wrong. Who else? Interestingly our President Mbeki was the only voice in the African Union to congratulate his French counterpart for his speech. But how do the rest of us in Africa feel?

Many Africans in power are too busy consolidating their dominance and amassing wealth to care what a white ‘frog’ says about their past. Most poor Africans haven’t got the time for the luxury of such opinions, while they dodge bullets, droughts and the onslaught of Hollywood film stars in search of adoptable babies. So that leaves you and me, the few that have the time and interest to read newspapers and cringe at the familiarity of Sarkozy’s prejudice.

I agree with him and I don’t. If only Africans had not been so easily invaded – swayed, bribed, bedazzled, then stagnated and finally humiliated by the waves of whites who arrived with plumed hats, French champagne, viruses and a white man in the sky called god. Guns and flamethrowers against sticks and stones soon allowed colourful bits of fabric to flutter from poles and overnight the colonies were born.

The generosity of spirit, captivating naivety and ‘gasvryheid’ among Africans, including my tribe, caused the loss of our sovereignty. Is it our fault that we didn’t kill them while they slept in our beds uninvited? Or that the Master’s wine wasn’t poisoned or the Madam’s throat slit while she powdered her nose? No doubt future generations of young blacks still waiting in line to be counted will blame their forefathers for giving up the struggle too soon.

The French are the last people who should ignore colonialism. Racing ahead of the hated British rivals, France gobbled up most of West and North Africa. Dutch, British, Portuguese and German pirates arrived in quick succession. My forefathers. Do we now hand back what they stole and say: ‘Sorry? We meant to colonise North America, but the wind was not on our side.’ Besides, by then the American settlers had exterminated most of their feathered and war-painted subjects.

I was on Robben Island recently with a party of foreign guests. As we walked past the neat cells of Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu, Govan Mbeki, and the little place they kept Robert Sobukwe, the German, French, American and British tourists were in tears. These civilized people who between them have been responsible for the murder of hundred of millions of aboriginals through the centuries, are now here crying over those we kept alive!

_____________

SPARE THE CHILD

I was smacked as child. Not by my mother, but by schoolteachers. There was one Meneer van Zyl who used to cane us all on a cold winter morning to warm himself up. This we took as part of our schooling. The boys had to bend over and were hit with a cane, while we girls were beaten across the palms of our hand with a ruler that left splinters behind.

I admit that I did once or twice revert to giving my children a hiding. Not at the same time, but there was a period in their development as young Christian Nationalist Afrikaners that I knew if I didn’t take charge of their discipline they would find it somewhere else. So I kept my eye on their schooling. After a first experience at the hands of a teacher who obviously enjoyed the act of beating a child, I just phoned Prime Minister John Vorster and the teacher ended up working as a clerk in the Department of Coloured Affairs.

How could I have used corporal punishment on my children, you hiss? It was not called that in those days, even by liberals. It was a smack here and a tap there.

My daughter Billie-Jeanne was caught playing in the Laagerfontein River with a young black boy. They were both 10 years old and naked. I smacked her very hard. It was a bad thing she did. Not only was she a lady who should never be seen naked in public; he was black and that was against the law of man and God. It didn’t help of course. As soon as she could, Billie-Jeanne befriended the son of the president of my homeland of Bapetikosweti. They became very good friends. She fell pregnant at the height of apartheid. Thankfully General Magnus Malan smuggled the non-white infant out of South Africa in a Caspir to Swaziland and that, we hoped, was that.

By then Billie-Jeanne was too old to smack. So in my frustration I smacked newly-elected FW de Klerk at a braaivleis when he said nothing under him would change. It worked. He freed Mandela and ended apartheid. And Billie-Jeanne could now marry her black prince.

My son De Kock was found at the Landbank one Saturday trying to draw money from my account. Dressed up as me! And the horror was that they cashed his cheque because they thought it was me. He needed a good hiding and once he’d taken off my clothes, he got it. Did that help? Look at him today. Unmarried, overweight and the make-up he wears I don’t think is good for his acne. His twin Izan was a member of the AWB and no one would dare touch him out of fear of retribution from Eugene Terre’blanche.

Which brings me to the controversial issue of the day. Should parents be punished for striking a child? And should the child be allowed to report their parents? I say yes to the first and no to the second. Too many children have been brutalized by parents who have no sense of dignity and restraint. By all means stop them with the law. But to give a child the right to drag his parents to court? Today children are abusing each other, inspired by what they see on television. Parents are very often absent, if not in person then in spirit.

The most upsetting aspect of this proposed new law is how badly the media have reported it. My son-in-law Le Roy brought me the draft legislation. It does not introduce a draconian Orwellian measure of family repression. It is in keeping with any civilized country in the world. Stop hitting the children! Talk to them instead. And if that doesn’t work, take them to the Kruger National Park and show them how lions disciplines their cubs! A nice wet lick might do the trick!

________________________

SKATTEBOL

At last, dear aunty Doris Lessing has won the Nobel Prize for Literature at the age of 88. I have cut out the picture from the paper where she sits on the front step of the entrance to her London home, ‘wydsbeen’, in a 50s floral print dress, her hair like a ‘muisnes’, her bags of groceries spilling over behind her. She couldn’t care less about prizes, but now has won every major literary award in the world. ‘A royal flush’ she said, twinkling for a moment through the sternness. And to think her works were banned here during apartheid. That’s why we all read Doris Lessing at night by torchlight in the same garage where our men folk had just watched the banned ‘Last Tango in Paris’.

HAIRBALL

Gary Player. Burma. Tutu. Golf. Nelson Mandela’s Children Fund. Wat ‘n gemors. I have always liked ou Gary. A sweet rather dumb man, but then you don’t expect a champion golfer to also have a brain. But always generous to a fault. Braaivleising with P.W. Botha. Putting with John Vorster. And now helping some people in a far-off land build a golf course. Why did no one do their homework? This should be old news. I have been hosting dinners for the NMCF for the last 10 years. Will they now ban me because I was an Ambassador in an apartheid Homeland? And meanwhile South Africa’s imports from former Burma have risen 210% in the last year. What hypocrisy. Word wakker, mense!

______________________

13 October 2007

BIRTHDAY TRAIN
To celebrate one's 72nd birthday on the most beautiful train in the world is to feel 16-years-old all over again. There I was, standing on the open verandah of the lounge coach of Rovos Rail, the 'Pride of Africa', watching the landscape of Gauteng gently slide past. With my three grandchildren, even the debris and untidy mess left by industry and development looked quaint and even glamorous. Our host Rohan Vos is the genius behind this unique experience of olde worlde train travel as it once was, with all today's luxury as it should be. I was treated to a fresh look at South Africa.
The train isn't fast and for that alone I will always recommend it. Sometimes it wouldn't do anything - just wait on a siding for a goods train in a hurry, approaching from the distance like a steel snake out of hell. We'd shake in the slipstream of that ugly monster and then wend our gentle way, absorbing the details of each panorama. Everything in our lives is such
a hurry, rushing from here to there at the same time, by air, by car, by schedule; two hours maximum from A to B; not a second longer than necessary from X to Z.
Sipping a cool Chardonnay somewhere outside the rumour of a city, I recall those magical 13 days to the UK on a Union Castle mail-ship during the 1950s. The fancy dress parties; the ceremony of crossing the Equator; the excitement of seeing the coastline of Europe through the mist of the English
Channel. Then the adventurous train trip from Southampton into Waterloo Station in the heart of London.
Nowdays your journey is from one grim security check to the other, feeling like a happy tourist as you leave the South and looking like a terrorist as you stumble through the x-rays in the North.
Rovos Rail is not the only luxurious adventure on rail in the world, but the others don't really compare. Pik and I once took the Orient Express from Paris to Venice, which was delightful but very cramped and wobbly. My son and his friend took the Trans Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok and assured me that the word 'luxury' wasn't in the Russian language. Our Blue Train is a Concorde in full flight, a five-star destination towards a five-star destination. But the Rovos Experience is to celebrate not just the view, but the room that goes with it.
I had the Royal Suite with its huge bed, spacious sitting room and en-suite bathroom with seven windows that opened to the air and the sounds of travel. In the small bath, all three grandchildren besported themselves as we tick-tocked through the Vaal Triange towards the changing landscapes of
highveld, bushveld, grasslands and space. They photographed their experience on their phones and sent them into their Facebooks for all their friends to see. Ai tog, die kinders van vandag.
After three days and two nights, we glided into Cape Town Station filled with the joys of being part of this remarkable country where a glamorous glittering train can snake through the slums of an urban squatter camp. And be waved at! Men, woman and children stood amid the squalor and dust cheering and smiling.
'They were happy to see us pass!' I gushed to De Kock who came to meet us in Cape Town.
He just laughed.
'No, Mama, they were probably saying: "Okay, rich white woman, we remember your face!"
Yes, De Kock. Then they can all vote Evita for President!
__________

THE GERMANS ARE COMING
Angela Merkel has just been to South Africa and it was a pleasure watching her expression of delight as she tried my world-famous bobotie. I had met her once or twice when she was a mere parliamentary cog in the wheels of German democracy. I remember wanting to suggest a good hairstylist in Berlin, but I'm glad I didn't. Angela has stayed her own person and a major American magazine has hailed her 'the most powerful woman in the world'! So the hairstyle doesn't count.
It was good to see her here with an entourage strikingly devoid of the usual corporate hyenas. Having been through Ethiopia and being briefed firsthand about Darfur, Frau Merkel made some pertinent comments about Robert Mugabe's death-grip on his country. As far as Zimbabwe is concerned, my action as a future President will be very simple: I will invade Zimbabwe, so that all the Zimbabweans can go home.
I think the fact that the German Chancellor is originally from East Germany says a lot. Having been brought up in the icy sterility of communism and stifling atmosphere of state control, she more than most understands the advantages of straight talk and transparency.
There are calls to demand that Mugabe be banned from the upcoming summit between African Union and European Union leaders in December for obvious reasons. Angela declined to back those calls, while Thabo Mbeki was too busy checking Sms's to take part in the discussions. I believe Britain's Gordon Brown will boycott the conference if Mugabe attends, which somehow plays right into the bloodied hands of Harare's Pol Pot.
Does history allow us to learn lessons from its horrors and so reinvent repeated genocides? Once there was Bosnia and then came Ruanda. Then Sierra Leone and now Darfur. The killing fields of Cambodia merge into the mist of history. The bloody pot of the Zimbabwean dictator keeps boiling over and nothing happens.
Of course, we Afrikaners were very heavily influenced by the Germans. Not only did the culture of Beethoven and Goethe, Wagner and Schiller inspire our writers to try and conjure up an Afrikaans Walpurgisnacht of passion in writing and performance. Germans also set us a very high political standard. Ja-nee, it would have taken us Afrikaners a very long time before we had killed six million blacks.
_____________

SKATTEBOL
Am I glad the Lotto is back again when one realizes how many people are wasting money they need for their family's education and health? They would have wasted it anyway on other pointless luxuries like cell phones, fruit machines and liquor. Hopefully the support of needy instances will be speedily reinstated now that we have the assurance that everyone involved with the running of the Lotto is honest. Who would be happy to bet on that?

HAIRBALL
A man who has already been in jail three times for rape, armed robbery and assault only to be freed after a few weeks each time, has once again been caught. This time he was brutally assaulting a young woman in broad daylight. But they say he cannot be locked up for this, because he didn't rape the
girl! So he'll be back on the streets within days. Have I missed a democratic bottom-line here, or is our system of justice completely out of its mind?
_________________

My heart bleeds for our leaders in government; there they are being blamed for wasting tax-payers money on hiring spacious planes to keep up with President Mbeki’s ‘Inkwazi’. Lesser officials are pilloried for staying in the most expensive hotels, only because they need a few nights’ good peaceful sleep. They are rebuked for overeating in the most expensive restaurants, just because they know that to order only a sensible salad when entertaining an important foreign guest will appear ‘snoep’. Sour elements have added up this ‘wastage’ and it comes to R1.5 billion rand. True, that could be used for our pressing housing, health, education and security needs, but let us get our priorities right.

I know all too well how the pressures of office and responsibilities diminish a sense of social balance and fiscal control. When I was the South African Ambassador to our premier black homeland of Bapetiksoweti, I was constantly in planes, at hotels, eating three meals a day, purely to find a way to solve our crisis of isolation. I’m not sure how much all that cost – during the 1980s we didn’t add anything up to make a total.

Today we look at our Cabinet Ministers and their silhouettes tell us all. No wonder they have to hire private Boeings so that they can fly first class. Their backsides are so huge they couldn’t possibly fit into economy or even business seats. They now have to live with vicious cartoons and horrible names like ‘greedy’, ‘corrupt’, ‘decadent’, or as my children would say when they were very small, ‘vetgatte’!

There is a solution, comrades. I have just spent eight days at the Stellenbosch Hydro. During that time, I exercised, walked, slept and was massaged and given skincare. I ate apples, oranges, paw-paws, bananas and naartjies. I drank three litres of water a day. I lost six kilos!

If sometime I find our Minister of Health in a sober mood I will suggest this to her. Encourage all obese Members of the Cabinet for the sake of their jobs, their hearts and our future, to take eight days every six months and pull themselves together. It is not just about the weight they will lose. They will clear their heads and see the wood for the trees. They will gain confidence and gather inspiration. They will be energized, while still eating less waddling around the world in our name! And the whole caboodle won’t cost millions. It’s not just that you are what you eat. In South Africa, you are what you are!

My son De Kock suggested I spend some time rereading these columns. I can’t believe this is Number 34. But as I read them, I understood what he was getting at. It was what I realize I am getting at virtually every week: targeting the ANC.

I have always underlined the fact that I don’t belong to any political party. Ever since the NP exploded and sought refuge in the DA or under Thabo Mbeki’s wing, I decided that I had had enough of parties for a lifetime. Now it was time to start working. So I have always tried to be as balanced as I can be when commenting on the political heritage of the last few days, weeks or months.

On reading my opinions in this column, I do keep seeing the letters ANC on every page, over and over again.

‘You’re becoming a vuvuzela of white noise, Ma,’ De Kock sighed. ‘It’s boring to have to read the same moans and whinges every week.’

‘I don’t whinge, De Kock. Liberals do that. I also don’t moan. Cabinet Ministers do that off the record. What I do is observe. I stand by the side of the road and watch this massive Comrades Marathon run down the hill with handbags full of loot.’

‘And why do you think these politicians are getting away with plundering the coffers of the nation before stepping out of the political chorus-line into a multi-million rand directorship? It’s because we are not focusing on the other side of the coin.’

What coin? Then it dawned on me. It should have nothing to do with sitting on the sidelines and watching the passing parade of white-collar athletes. It was time to step into the fray with running shoes and try to keep up with the issues.

‘Is democracy healthy and thriving? No. Why? Because we, the people, have lost interest in the hard work that it takes to keep a democracy alive. Politicians don’t encourage that. The present government has learnt so well from the your old NP regime, remember?’

I pretended not to. He was right. The NP policy of don’t inform or educate or explain or apologize. Keep the people in the dark. Eventually they will fall asleep and you can do what you want.

‘So the onus is on us, Mama. We in the shadows of power must stay awake and not just criticize or blame. Find alternatives and demand action from our own.’

I have always been suspicious of the word ‘opposition’. We keep saying that a healthy democracy needs a strong opposition, but in our case that is usually from whites or from coloured nationalists. So it becomes anti-black and racist, which is unacceptable. You can never win that argument. We should rephrase the whole conflict and refer to parties not in government as ‘alternatives’.

‘Mama, you want to be the President of a nation that only exists on paper. Our window dressing is world-class, thanks to Thabo Mbeki who always looks towards the West to have his ego stroked, while hiding his China trump card under his Dracula cloak. Our parliament is a rubber stamp. Decisions are made behind closed doors. Democracy dies behind closed doors. We need a President in 2009, not a Poppie!’

A ‘Poppie’? I’ve just turned 72 and my son calls me a ‘Poppie’. Maybe I should just stop caring and join the ANC?

A new Anglican Archbishop has been chosen. I am sorry to see the previous one go, but welcome Thabo Cecil Makhoba. At least I will be able to pronounce his name without having to first practice in the ladies cloakroom. Dear outgoing Nongonkulu Ndugane. He would just laugh at my mangled efforts to get his name right. So I would just call His Grace Nunu! The new Archbishop of Cape Town will please understand my reluctance to call him ‘Thabo’. Liewe aarde, one is enough!

When will they learn that when South Africa became a democracy in 1994, the constitution proclaimed nine provinces. Some were familiar, others a more complicated experience. But there was no longer a Transvaal. So will those who keep saying that they come from an ancient place that ceased to exist 13 years ago, realize how stupid they sound? It’s like someone still referring to our country as the ‘Union’ of South Africa!

23 September 2007

THE THIRD WAY
The first question at dinner tables of Gauteng now is: 'Who will be our next President?' The next question, depending on the answer, is: 'Then maybe we should emigrate to the UK? They don't mind taking whites..'
Has anyone in the ANC thought up a third scenario for their congress in Polokwane? The first one is to elect a new president of the party for a first term, who will then automatically become the President of the country in 2009. Jacob Zuma? The second scenario is to elect a president of the party for a third term who cannot become the President of the country. Thabo Mbeki? The third choice is simple: don't elect anyone in Polokwane. Put off that crucial party-splitting vote until December 2008 and then
summon the comrades to a special congress three months before the 2009 election. By then many of the present pretenders to the throne of Lord MacBeki will have spent themselves and fallen off the track winded. Putting Jacob Zuma back on trial now can only be seen as Mbekivellian intrigue and could lead to a Zuma-landslide in December 2007.
No good can come of a Polokwane vote that gives a Zuma the Presidency of the party, while an Mbeki stays on as President of South Africa until May 2009, when a new President is sworn in at the Union Buildings. The sniping, backstabbing intrigue and loathing that will foul our political life over the fence between Party and Presidency will be so much worse than this
present noisy 'united front'- gemors. Even a Tokyo as ANC Prez will not find it a comfortable wait in the wings to fill the Induna's shoes in 2009.
I sincerely hope that those ANC leaders with integrity will eventually allow their incensed voices to be heard. I am no fan of today's governing elite, but I know many decent, hardworking, honest and passionate ANC members on their Titanic of All-Power-to-Us. Surely, they cannot allow their party to sink on the iceberg of corruption and lies. I now realize that in spite of the speed wobbles on our racetrack to power, we are so much better off than during the National Party regime. Then, out of 100 politicians, we had 99 liars and thugs, give and take one or two close friends. Today, out of 100 politicians, 80 of them are worthy of admiration and support, while the other 20 are liars and thugs. But we all know who they are!
So vuku'zinsele ANC! Stand up and do something remarkable. Expose the soft underbelly of greed and corruption of those few comrades whom I would not even allow into my backyard. And if I found them there, I'd phone my private security firm!
The old joke that 'ANC' could also stand for A Nice Cheque can't raise a smile as the truth hurts too much. But let us not forget that once upon a time there was a liberation movement that came out of a bloody struggle and picked up the poisoned thorn crown of racism and hatred. They managed to
turn it into a tiara of compassion and democratic rights for all. They could have acted like Robert Mugabe's Zanu-PF thugs. They could have been another Pol Pot regime. They had reason to want revenge. They didn't. But what happened to them?

WOMEN TAKE NOTE
You strike a woman, you grapple with this Tannie!
Employment Equity Commissioner and Black Management Forum President Jimmy Manyi repeated the call that white women had benefited disproportionately from affirmative action. He recommended that their status as a designated group which include blacks, women of all races and people with disabilities, be reconsidered. In plain English: white women should no longer be allowed in the queue for employment and advancement.
Could this be called apartheid? An old reason for a new issue. The curse of racist revisionism, this time in the hands of those who are biting the ones that feed their egos, is turning back on the perpetrators. Affirmative action works. But Black Economic Empowerment is on a par with Britain's
Cash-for-Honours debacle. Their OBE vs our BEE!
Affirmative action means to focus on those who were historically prejudiced and to give them a chance to also be considered for advancement and employment. White women fit the description completely. They were as discriminated against. If some overpaid, arrogant and sexist comrade has
decided to beard the white lioness, he had better check the den first.
I therefore call on all women, black and white, to take note of this direct infringement of their constitutional rights. If men have decided we're not worth it, to hell with them. Let us form our own queue and apply ourselves to what we can find. That gives us the best jobs in the country. Raising our
families. Protecting our homes. Supporting our communities. Spreading the truth about the lies. And then when the men come home tired, drunk and covered in the lipstick of fellow-comrades-in-their-arms, we'll just gently push them out of the bedroom, cock our guns pointedly and lock the door. Put us out into the desolate meadows Comrade Manyi, and we will turn those meadows into prime real estate. Moenie met ons lol nie!

SKATTEBOL
I always hope for a reason to laugh out loud. It seldom happens. At last a delightful email from a reader of this column needs sharing. The subject is, of course, our Minister of Health.
'Let's face it, Evita. No matter how many times the DA has stirred, the Minister appears unshaken, and despite her career being on the rocks, she is still the Mainstay of the ANC government. President Mbeki has given her his Absolut support and quickly wiped the silly Smirnoff her deputy's face. Ja-nee Tannie, Manto is still OKWV!'
The next round is on me!

HAIRBALL
First, it was no Lotto for two weeks. Then two months. Now it's become a way of life. The South African Tata ma Chance seems to have permanently tata'd. While many of us mourn the loss of our weekly adrenaline, the effect on charities and worthy causes is devastating. Every day I hear of small butimportant social gems closing down. A ballet school in a township. Disabled people's physical training. An animal welfare group. Old age support. Orphans being helped no more. And the most recent casualty is the annual Sithenghi Film Festival. Shame on Lotto? No, Lotto equals Government. The reason it's been suffocated by red tape is because the comrades want a finger in the till and the till has been refused them by the courts. So no Lotto.
Mense, if our rulers can't run a little lottery, how do they expect to rule a country?

8 September 2007

GHOST STORYTIME
Since my grandchildren seem to enjoy anything told in soap-opera style,
I prepared a story for them to explain what I saw last week.
'Kinders? Imagine it is full moon in Parliament Square in the centre of
London. The witching hour. The statues come alive. One by one, they step
off their pedestals and slowly approach the new figure standing
motionless with his arms outstretched in a familiar pose.
'They'd heard that an African had been so honoured. Would he also be
black?
It seemed that all the statues looked black - their bronze tarnished in
the weak English sun - as they stared up at the statue of Nelson
Mandela.
'Lord Palmerston, who was Prime Minister in the 1850s when some 50,000
of Mandela's own Xhosa people died in a famine triggered by Britain's
seizure of their lands, shrugged. His colleague, Benjamin Disraeli, who
helped carve up Africa with other European powers at the Congress of
Berlin in 1885 just nodded. Winston Churchill and Jan Smuts were
smiling. Even though they had laid the foundations of what was to become
the apartheid state Mandela dedicated his life to destroying, they felt
they could claim this Nelson as one of them. Churchill, after all, was a
great supporter of white self-rule for South Africa, being obviously on
the Boer side. Smuts negotiated the surrender of the Afrikaner army in
1902 and was a key player in the creation of the Union of South Africa.
Under his direction, Mandela's homeland became a race-based state. All
the laws that were later refined and clarified by apartheid were passed
while Smuts was in government.
'Madiba seemed to blink as he looked from the one to the other. The
former British leaders stared back, not quite sure how to react to this
man their beloved Margaret Thatcher had famously branded a 'terrorist'.
They all knew the Iron Lady was standing on her plinth just round the
corner in front of the Houses of Parliament. But the first President of
democratic South Africa had done his homework. He knew of the legacy
left by Winston Churchill after his defence of democracy against the
Nazis. He also admired the way Jan Smuts who when shot at during the
miner's strike in Johannesburg in the 1920's, refused to allow his
bodyguards to shoot back. When they asked why he simply said: 'You'd be
using up your bullets and will have nothing to fight back with later!'
'Mr Mandela, the new hero on the Square, beamed that magic smile and
softened the cold hearts of his neighbours. And yet deep down he
wondered why so many of his fellow statues, who did so much for human
freedom in other contexts, seemed to have been on the wrong side over
Africa. It is a question we might ask ourselves today.'
My grandchildren applauded briefly and went back to surfing the
internet.

VOORKAMERFEES FUN
The reality of being home in South Africa embraced me with a vengeance
within hours of arriving in Darling to visit my mother at the old age
home.
The people of my adopted town were celebrating their fourth annual
Voorkamerfest. Eighteen homes are chosen in the town, most in the former
disadvantaged areas and some in the traditional white streets. The
entertainments happen in peoples front rooms.
This year all the 1700 tickets were sold out in advance. The crowds made
Darling look like Las Vegas, except no one was gambling. You could not
lose at the Voorkamerfest. Wherever you went, you were rewarded with a
unique and life-changing experience. Everyone meets at my Perron at the
old Darling Station and there township-taxis pick them up and drive them
on their chosen route. Each route includes three 25 minute performances
in three varied homes. No one knows exactly who will perform where. They
take potluck, not just with the artists involved but in most cases white
people who have never been in a township-taxi, let alone a coloured
neighbourhood through choice.
Some of the homes are small RDP structures that can only hold the 24
chairs needed and a small area for performance. Here could appear David
Kramer or Antjie Krog. At the next stop, flautist Marietjie Pauw or the
musical ensemble Khoi Khonnexion might be entertaining, while the third
house with spacious library branching off to one side and a pool
shimmering outside you may find Stef Bos from the Netherlands and Denise
Jannah from Suriname.
I met Sarie Benade at the Spar. She had stars in her eyes.
'Mrs Bezuidenhout, this is my fourth year as theatre manager,' she said
breathlessly. 'I have had my picture taken so often, I now don't mind
not having my teeth in.'
She showed me around her small one-roomed home. There was a wire
stretched across the ceiling. I pointed at it.
'Oh, that's for tonight. I turn this into a B&B.'
'How, Sarie?' I asked, interested.
She was quite cross with me.
'Sies, Mrs Bezuidenhout - and there you always tell us that we can make
our dreams come true. I dreamed I want a B&B, and it's come true!'
'But in this small house..?' I purred.
'Easy. There's the wire. I hang a blanket over it at night. On this
side, I sleep. On that side is the B&B.'
And so it was that evening. A Dutch couple spent a night they would
never forget. This unique festival is a must for everyone's cultural
calendar and the next one is already booking. So keep that first weekend
in September 2008 free.

SKATTEBOL
Billionare property owner Leona Helmsley, known as the Queen of Mean in
New York because of her horrible treatment of people, died and left $12
million to her Maltese poodle Trouble. Immediately everyone screams blue
murder.
Yes, she could have left it to an orphanage or a charity, but the
loudest protest is: what about her children and grandchildren?
I say: let them stand on their own feet one day and earn their keep. I
implore all parents to take their savings and go on a world cruise or
fly over Kilamanjaro or have a facelift. Parents deserve to spoil
themselves and not their offspring. I will triple-tax all inheritance
when I am President and to those who spend their old age savings with
imagination, a tax rebate!

FURBALL
My grandchildren had school friends over for the holidays. I never once
saw their eyes. From first thing in the morning they were busy staring
down at their cellphones checking for SMSes. Or they fiddle endlessly
with their iPods. The rest of the day is spent playing constant
videogames. They don't see the sun shining. They don't hear the rain
fall. Their greatest adventure is looking up into the TV screen. And
when I stupidly asked: 'Don't you children read books?' They sniffed and
said: 'Yes, Gogo, Facebook!'
Am I alone in my desperation?

1 SEPTEMBER 2007

DIANA LIVES!
Ten years ago on August 31, I was in Nelson Mandela's kitchen preparing
bobotie for the President of Uganda and three SADAK Foreign Ministers. It
was a low-key affair. Deputy-President Mbeki was in Norway on government
business, so I let the Indonesian cook and half the staff off work early.
I was just about to wheel in the dessert trolley, when one of President
Mandela's bodyguards stumbled into the kitchen in tears.
'Diana is dead!' he wailed. Like a chorus of starving hyenas, everyone
around me joined the sorrowful howling.
For a moment, I had to work out which Diana had passed on. Diana Delport
who was teaching returned exiles in government basic Afrikaans? The Swazi
woman who brought fresh vegetables every Tuesday? The Cuban housekeeper's
pregnant cousin? No. Diana, Princess of Wales was dead!
I had to sit down. I didn't know the ex-wife of Prince Charles other than
meeting her in passing - like so many millions others. Pik always said she
was a reminder to him how easily mutton could become ham. He thought she
was a mediocre actress on a political platform. She never convinced him.
But I was a fan. It was time the British Royal Family had someone who
embraced, touched and meant it. The Windsors have always reminded me of
the Malans, Claasens' and Oosthuizens - dour, squat and irritating. Diana gave
them a touch of the Anneline Kriels.
As spokesman for a little children's charity in Pretoria, De Kock had met
Diana a few times personally. My son is always quick to remind me how
Diana changed perceptions of HIV/Aids in the 1980s. When everyone was so scared
of contact with the infected, the Princess of Wales went into a hospital and
put her arms around a man who was dying of Aids. She didn't wear a
protective mask or gloves. She held him close with love. De Kock remembers
how everyone who saw it on television gasped: 'Diana touched someone sick!
She will die of Aids!'
Well no, Diana died because the driver of her car was drunk. De Kock says
Diana changed his fear and put things into perspective. He wonders if she
were still alive today, would Diana sit on the sidelines and allow Thabo
and Manto to pile up the body count in South Africa with their denials? She'd
be on television tonight holding a child and saying: 'Protect this treasure
with your life!'
Ja-nee, sadly no one protected Diana and she lost her life. Ten years have
past. The flowers of farewell at the gates of Kensington Palace are no
longer fresh, but memory doesn't fade.

REVENGE IS SWEET
I was so glad to see that Pieter-Dirk Uys got a mediocre review in one of
London's irritatingly leftwing newspapers. His show is called 'Evita for
President'! Does the man have no original thought? As can be expected, the
critic described his pathetic depiction of me as 'South Africa's answer to
Dame Edna Everage'! Well, if that's the answer, what was the question?
Anyone who has seen that horrible Australian woman with purple hair knows
there's no comparison.
In his show, Uys apparently tried to portray South Africa's leadership
struggle as a crisis of good against evil. During the apartheid years, we
unknowingly gave him some pertinent material to use against us on
international stages. And yes, apartheid was a bad thing. We admit that.
But today's democracy is just a normal milkshake of what works and what
doesn't.
Who wants to hear what Uys has to say anyway? In the old days South Africa
was on page one of the British newspapers. Apartheid grabbed the
imagination of the racist British and showed their hidden envy. But today they have
other priorities: not only a bloody war on two fronts that swallows up
their young soldiers, but shootings, robberies and scandals in every walk of
British life. Not to mention the pop stars on drugs and lighting
cigarettes illegally in public. It all makes Jacob Zuma in a shower, or Manto on a
whisky-drip rather feeble. With our freedom of speech anything can be said
and so there's no bite or danger in that anymore. Of course, never a word
about Muslims. That's not satire; that's suicide!
I hate the idea of a man dressing up in women's clothing. It's unnatural
and un-Afrikaans. I was constantly confronted in London by newspapers with
pictures of Uys dressed up as me. Always looking cheap, common and fatter
than I ever was. And in some pictures, he even posed with a smiling Nelson
Mandela! Does Madiba think that's me? Nee, magtig, I hope he knows who's
who!

SKATTEBOL
The first thing that happened to me at O R Tambo International Airport on
my return to South Africa after six weeks overseas was a typical South
African horror story. My luggage was stolen! One moment it was next to me as I
waited for the box of toys for my grandchildren to appear on the belt in
baggage collection. The next, my three matching ostrich leather bags were
gone! I was about to phone Jackie Selebi, when I realised a porter had put
them on a trolley and was waiting to accompany me through customs. I felt
so bad I tipped him in pounds. Six months salary!

FURBALL
The other thing that happened to me at O R Tambo, was to explain to
visiting tourists cowered in a corner that they wouldn't be murdered in the customs
hall. But maybe in the car park. Yes, this was once called Johannesburg
International Airport and, no, they had been hijacked. Oliver Tambo was on
our side. And yes, it was in shambles as if a bomb had hit the airport,
but no, Al Qaeda had not exploded a device. They were just rebuilding the
airport in optimistic preparation for the millions who will visit us in
2010. So jack up your signage and explanations ORT!

25 AUGUST 2007

BEING A TOURIST
I have a camera. I promised my grandchildren I'd photograph wonderful and
rare things while here in the UK. I thought a visit to the British Museum, a
tour of Buckingham Palace and attending a recital of the De la Rey song in a
Richmond pub would be experience enough, but I now wished I had more time to
explore through my lens. Imagine taking a multicoloured balloon over the beautiful
town of Bath to appreciate the happy marriage of architecture and landscape,
while drifting placidly over the Avon Valley? Britain's premier seaside resort,
Blackpool, which I think is the ugliest place outside Vereeniging, still
has trams! Just one ride would convince me to reintroduce them into our major
cities in South Africa.
I believe that up in Scotland you can book yourself a seat on a big
creaking seaplane and fly low across Britain's biggest lake, Loch Lomond. Staying
in Scotland, there is always the magical visit to the Isle of Skye right up
north.
Although there is a motor bridge that connects it with the mainland, I
have been told to sail over the sea like a bird on the wing with a five-minute hop
from the charmingly-named Glenelg to the unpronounceable Kylerhea.
Of course, the legendary Edinburgh Festival is in its last week and while
I will not have the time to go this year, De Kock and Moff de Bruyn intend to
visit for a few days and take some kiekies. Maggies, I remember how Pik Botha took
me there during the late 1970s. Those were the years when we had to censor so
much in South Africa to prevent the Communists from taking over. Plays, films,
pop songs - even that book for children, 'Black Beauty', were embargoed to
protect the moral fibre of our small band of Broeders. Pik bought himself a kilt!
Of course he said it was actually for Magnus Malan and that he would never
wear a 'dress' like that. But I believe nowadays in Pretoria he wears his
McGuiness kilt very often. He still bemoans the fact that it came without the
promised complimentary Guinness beer! And that furry little handbag-thing called a
sporran? Pik wears his on the inside.
But there is no need to travel in order to find something unique in this
country to photograph. I just walk down the road outside my London apartment.
There are Greek coffee shops, Italian ice-cream parlours, Sardinian spaghetti
palaces, Indian restaurants, a Polish bakery, the Bosnian carwash, a Russian
butcher, an American hamburger joint, a German delicatessen, the Pakistani newspaper
kiosk, an Irish pub, French hairdresser and of course, South African dentist. So,
when you see a real English person in the street, you photograph them!

SPEER OF THE NATION
Why are we messing around with our 2010 planning? BEE building hopefuls
competing with BEE architectural potentials. And everyone wants to be paid
up front. I can assure you most of them won't deliver on time. One just has
to look at the farcical Gateway Project in Langa to realize how easily hope
can wither into hopelessness.
China is our biggest ally and friend. We are selling every spare rail to
Beijing to bolster their craving for raw materials. We support them at the UN and
in the Security Council in spite of their appalling human rights record. If Thabo
wasn't Xhosa, he'd be a Mandarin.
China has the answer. They have been planning for their 2008 Olympics for
a decade and are now giving Beijing the facelift of the century. A few years
ago I visited this capital of the last communist outpost. Beijing was still
Peking.
It could have been the setting for an operetta. This was before Tiannenmen
Square changed the way we look at their politics. Before we were
concerned.
Since the massacre we look the other way. Now all has changed. Human
rights have been put into perspective.
Seventy years after a master architect had plans to change Berlin from a
Nazi Capital into an unrivalled Reich Metropolis, it's happening in Beijing.
The lead designer of this huge architectural project is none other than the
son of Hitler's favourite architect, Albert Speer! Is it surprising that the
Chinese want Speer's so to create their Olympic dream?
I have no problem with what the Chinese government does as long as it is
not on my doorstep. But one thing is for sure. We could do with a decent 2010
planner and who better than the son of Adolf's 'Devil's Architect'?
I've sent him an email. We'll make Herr Speer an Honourary member of the
ANC.
Our 2010 is only three years away and our present planners can't even
answer their cellphones civilly. Maybe the only solution is to get in the son of
an old Nazi to put things right, or else the whole 2010 caboodle will be
moved to Perth. There are so many South Africans in that part of Australia no one
will notice the difference. And with current technology, we can put Table
Mountain in the background of every televised match!

SKATTEBOL
At last someone has had the courage to say it loud and clear. Let pregnant
women stop lounging around public places in small teeshirts and naked bulging
bellies!
Not my words, but those of a leading fashion guru in the UK. I have always
loved the sight of a pregnant woman. She is feminine, vulnerable, excited and
unique.
But when I go to the mall and see these hiphop-cha-cha-cha girls, seven
months pregnant and displaying themselves like swollen cows, I lose my sense of
delight. So cover up, meisies, your boeps are not the height of fashion
and don't appeal to the masses!

FURBALL
I've become aware of something being offered over the internet called 'a
revenge package', in which people can destroy the financial status and
relationships of their enemies at the click of a mouse! For as little as R140 a month, you
can make the credit ratings of people you hate plummet and even have them
suspected of fraud. Their bank accounts can be shut down remotely and all their
essential utilities cut off. False emails and text messages can be sent containing
false accusations of affairs and sexual liaisons. Liewe aarde, I hope this never
falls into the hands of our national intelligence or certain factions in
the ANC, especially as we go in to the leadership struggle!
________

18 AUGUST 2007

SHOWERING WITH THE HON. GORDON BROWN
Gordon Brown will be a wonderful Prime Minister of Great Britain. He
doesn't have to prove anything. After the theatrical fireworks of Tony
Blair, liewe Gordon just has to focus on doing the right thing slowly and
not make grand primetime gestures. Ironically, he has inherited a
minefield of tensions among many of his subjects who are Muslim. The war
on terror, which so often reminds one of PW Botha's total onslaught, has
put everyone on edge. They feel suspects need to be interrogated without
the normal safeguards. Britain already has a 28-day detention without
trial. Gordon and his Home Secretary now want to extend this to 56 days.
I went to 10 Downing Street and took him some koeksisters, knowing him to
have a sweet tooth - after all, he is a Scot. He laughed when I said that
he and I had a lot in common. As a Scot and an Afrikaner we both hate the
English. It was a joke of course, but somehow his laughter was little more
than polite. We discussed an invasion of Zimbabwe so that everyone could
go home, only to be diverted by a call from Thabo Mbeki who changed the
subject to Darfur.
Gordon Brown must be relieved to be able to embrace the genocide there
with such headlining passion. Never mind it's been going on for 3 years.
Tony Blair ignored it in order to become a warmonger in Iraq. Now to prove
his fierce independence, Gordon can be the peacemaker. I don't think Thabo
is happy to have his thunder stolen by a novice on the block, but then
Gordon Brown's been around for a long time too.
I told the British Prime Minister that during the National Party's
governance of South Africa, we had 90-day and a 180-day detention clauses,
which seemed to work very well.
He said: 'Yes, but you threw people out of the windows of John Vorster
Square.'
I was offended.
'No Gordon, that's just liberal propaganda. These terrorists slipped on
the soap in the shower and then fell out of the window.'
I remember it was a difficult story to believe in those days, because we
knew blacks were scared of water.
'However, Muslims wash their feet at least 4 times a day,' I added, 'so
maybe there's some potential in that for the future here in the UK.'
But Gordon Brown was already on the phone to George Bush to find out if
the Iraqi detention centres had showers on the seventh floor.

AN EXILE IN EXILE
'For him to fire the one person who seemed to understand the need to
confront Aids with compassion and knowledge, says more about our President
than the Department of Health!' So says a veteran in our ruling party
still living here in London.
Ja-nee, old members of the ANC never die; they just go back into exile.
She didn't want me to mention her name as she has relatives in the party
in South Africa and doesn't want them to suffer.
'None of us actually took him that seriously when we saw him at our
parties in North London during the 1970s. Smoking his pipe, twinkling at a
lady of his fancy. Always shadowed by his éminence grise, Essop Pahad,'
she confided in me over a cappuccino in Hampstead.
'Now the lion tamer is running the circus,' she added, as we glumly tried
to find more details and opinion in the British press. My cellphone nearly
exploded with messages echoing people's dismay at the removal of Nozizwe
Madlala-Routledge. And for what?
'She openly criticized Mbeki's attitude to HIV and Aids, his blindness
towards the actions of his Beetroot Queen. Of course, Sisi Manto got her
medical qualifications from the University of Leningrad during the darkest
days.'
I didn't want to brag about my honorary degree in Economics from Potch,
purchased for R150 in 1980.
'Manto showed some flair in the beginning,' I said, somehow ready to
defend my government even though I intend to replace most of them in 2009.
'Evita dear, Stalinists always show flair. Charm. Even a sense of humour.
They seduce you into their confidence, suck out your life force and spit
you out before moving on. Just check your history.'
I made a note of the name: Stalin?
'I went back in 1995. I was so excited. I have so much to offer. I tried.
In 1999, I made some comments that I thought were constructive. The doors
slammed shut around me. I was a stranger in my own backyard. So I came
back here to London.'
I looked around the little coffee shop run by a Polish emigrant.
'So this is where you ANC people would meet in the 1970s? Our security
police were looking for you in Brighton.'
'Ja, there was a tearoom here in those days. One of the few in London that
didn't seem to mind homesick blacks coming in for breakfast and reading
about their pain in the papers.'
'Sounds like it was run by a typical English lady like Julie Andrews,' I
smiled.
'Actually no, a typical Afrikaans Tannie like you!'
And how would my secretive comrade solve the crisis in Manto's domain?
'Let's hope her liver finds out it can reject the body,' she winked.

SKATTEBOL
South African plays have done very well at the Edinburgh Festival. I'm so
proud of our clever young artists! Yes, our local can even be lekker here.
And yet it seems British critics and the majority of audiences only seem
to understand if the focus of the drama is our past and about apartheid.
When it comes to the complications of today's democracy they're left in
the dark. Remember that apartheid was the last international political
T-shirt. Seen any recently about Darfur, Zimbabwe, North Korea or Gaza?

FURBALL
The Yangtze River Dolphin is no more. Another beautiful creature has
become extinct because of us. Recently I saw a David Attenborough
documentary with my grandchildren. It was set in Australia. There was an
ugly parrot-like creature, all beak and scraggly feathers, leaving its
little cave every morning and waddling up to the top of the hill. There he
would call for his mate. All day. And wait. All day. Then he would waddle
down back to his cave. And the next day, up to the top of the hill again.
Calling. Waiting. All in vain. There would never be a mate in his life. He
was the last of the species!! Ons het so gehuil!
_______________________________________________________

11 AUGUST

EX UNITATE BOBOTIE
I'm so sick of the hypocrisy around Woman's Day! Suddenly last week for
one day only, everyone made sure that you knew you were not a man. Why?
Whoever decided that all men (and women?) were born equal is an idiot. We
are all born to become equal. That starts at birth. It's a full-time job,
and if the instinct were left alone, I think most of us would have found
our individual niche by our teenage years. But no. We are over-educated to
think what others teach us, repeat what others write, speak and believe
what others prescribe. No wonder we've all become equally dull and
dangerously docile.
Maybe the reason women have always been seen as the weaker sex is because
they haven't played the equality game with as much brutal commitment as
the men. The 'stronger sex' thrives on its uniformity. The more they look
alike, the better - with their similar clothes, identical haircuts and
rigid attitudes. They have a singular need to be equal to one another and
superior to us.
Women used to be so recognisably different to men - feminine, mysterious
and unobtrusively influential. Nowadays they try to look like men and to
be equal to men. It's a big step backwards.
I have always believed that women hold the greatest weapon of influence -
their cooking. Women should go back to the kitchen where they are strong.
Let the men run businesses, banks and countries. It will keep them off the
streets. But when your husband comes home after a hard day on the golf
course and you have cooked his favourite food, he will sit and eat with a
smile. And you will have a family. If he comes home and you're not there
with his favourite food, he will go to another woman for it. Then you will
never have a family. And in those moments when your man is eating his
favourite food and his mouth is full, then you can talk! It's in those
moments that we women have changed the history of the world. Not only
during those 24 hours on the 9th of August each year.

THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW
When I read about my carbon footprint, I want to look under my shoe in
case I have something clinging to the sole. It all sounds messy, so
indelible. Here in the UK, at dinner table-talk the reality of global
warming has taken over from the fear of sitting next to a Muslim woman on
the bus. Everyone is trying to lessen the impact of the carbon footprint
left behind. Some people talk about not flying in planes, because of the
pollution it causes. Others install energy monitors at work to find out
how much they use. Warning signs now read: Switch off lights wherever you
can! Put your computer to sleep to cut energy usage by 60%! Only print
email-pages you need! Recycle paper, glass, tin cans, plastic and
cardboard!
'Is your business trip really necessary?' is an SMS I would send to every
civil servant when I am President, especially to politicians and their
entourages. And yet, while the ordinary people sit and earnestly curtail
their activities and raise awareness of what they can do to protect our
ailing planet, governments, big business, international corporations,
armies, navies, air forces and the motorcar empires just rev their engines
regardless and the globe sweats another drop towards implosion.
I don't want to be a spoilsport, but I really think it's all too little
too late. The planet is in a terminal state of decay. Scientists tell of
terrible sounds coming from deep under the Arctic ice pack. And no, it's
not the Russians singing their anthem of conquest! It seems our world is
breaking up at the joints. Just one medium-sized iceberg melting into the
ocean would raise water levels by meters worldwide.
So if you live near the sea, move inland and uphill. By 2010 they'll be
playing water polo in the Green Point Soccer Stadium!

SKATTEBOL
I went walking on London's famous Hampstead Heath in the rare and
extraordinary sunshine of England's first and only day of summer. I
stopped. In the pathway were two young parents, a tousle-haired boy and a
slight blonde girl. They both looked twelve. They stood transfixed by a
small vision in blue dungarees, obviously their child taking his first
steps. The wonderment, the delight, the disbelief on their faces blotted
out all the horror in the world around us. Yes, there is hope.

FURBALL
We call it 'bek en klou-seer'. Farmers all over the world dread foot and
mouth disease. Now it has once again appeared in the English countryside.
De Kock cynically remarked that terrorists could change tactics and
reinvent their war on terror by introducing the germ into rural areas,
while infecting the urban pet population with rabies. That would have a
collective effect on the British people far worse than a tube-train bomb.
Thank heavens no one thinks like my son.
_________________________________________________________________
4 AUGUST

THE FEW THAT GOOGLE
Here in London I read our President's weekly letter on the ANC webpage. I
never did that in South Africa, because the cartoons in the press were
always better. And much funnier. But here in the first world everyone has
a computer and would rather scan the news on their screens than sit with a
nice cup of coffee and read the daily newspaper. Foeitog, they don't know
what they're missing. But then De Kock, who is also here in London to get
ARVs for his friend Moff de Bruyn, pointed out a study by World Wide Worx.
It states that a total of 3.85 million people in South Africa - a mere 8%
of the population (or 1 in 12 people) - will have access to the internet by
the end of 2007.
So whom is Thabo Mbeki writing for? Certainly not the millions of black
South Africans the ANC say devour every word of wisdom that drips from the
Presidential lips. The countless homeless, the desperate poor. They just
hope for the best, as they close their eyes to what is happening to them.
'But then who is Thabo talking to in his website blog?' I ask my son.
'The leaders of the G8, other presidents and prime ministers. George Bush
in Washington. Tony Blair in Gaza. Bill Clinton in an airport lounge.
Probably for those here in the UK with whom he was at Sussex University and some
other English dropouts who pretended that they would change the world.'
'Maybe they did?' I said, though I couldn't think of any.
'No, Thabo has. Firstly to deny the link between Aids and HIV. And now to
expose the fact that he doesn't know what tik is?'
I didn't dare tell De Kock that I too wasn't sure what tik is.
'It's all gesture-politics, Ma. They talk and lie. We are here in London
to get treatment that Moff cannot freely get in Pretoria. At least we can
afford to find it elsewhere. What about the other few million? Think about
that, Ma!'
I still don't know what to think.
____________
SEE CAPE TOWN AND DIE
Everyone wants to visit us on our magical southern tip of Africa. We, who
spend most of our time there, are used to all the people from other lands
who come to us for our special climate, beauty and adventure. I open one
of the biggest papers here in London this morning and my heart just stops.
'A country with everything - except security,' says the headline.
'Crime puts tourists off South Africa!' shouts the other. By now, I can
assure you, everyone has turned the page to a detailed presentation of
either India or Peru, Antarctica, Easter Island, Tasmania or Disneyland.
You can fly to any place on earth from here for less than four hundred pounds.
To fly to South Africa costs more thanks to our proudly South African
monopoly. And then when you get there you might lose your bag, your nerve
and your life?
Nee wat, mense. The story in the newspapers here underlines that South
Africa's spiralling crime figures have deterred over 22 million tourists
from visiting the country over the past five years. And who is spreading
this vicious unfair subversive lie? No other than our Minister of Tourism,
Marthinus van Schalkwyk. Out of the mouths of the babes. No, more like the
horse's mouth! I feel like such a fool when confronted by interested
parties here in the UK. What do they want to discuss? Investment? Cultural
exchanges? Arms deals with the ANC?
No. They want to know if they need a bodyguard, a bullet-proof Humm-vee
and a steel vest? I just laugh and say:
'Toemaar Skatties, you can buy all that at our local supermarkets. Now let
me tell you about our optimistic plans for the future?'
I end up alone in the room.
____________________

SKATTEBOL
I have always hoped old age homes would allow pets. I'm right. American
doctors are fascinated and baffled by a cat called Oscar that can
apparently predict when nursing home patients are about to die. Oscar curls up next
to sick patients when they have four hours of life left. The cat has so
seldom been wrong that when Oscar moves, the staff call the relatives. Some
family members find solace from it. Hopefully the patients don't start screaming
when they see Oscar.
My son sniggers and suggests the cat probably wants to eat them while
they're still warm! Sies De Kock!

FURBALL
Those elusive Kebble Millions. And he wasn't even a Colombian or Nigerian.
My favourite defence of this corrupt magician comes from ANC treasurer and
Manto's husband Comrade Mendi Msimang. He, in defending the R3.5m donation
from onse Brett to the people's party, argued in court documents that
Kebble received 'indirect benefits' from his donations. Really? Mendi says that
by donating the money Kebble was "maintaining an institution of democracy."
Liewe aarde, sounds a bit like Louis Luyt defending his purchase in the
apartheid days of the Citizen for one rand.
_________________________________________________________________
24 July 2007

THE FEW THAT GOOGLE
Here in London I read our President's weekly letter on the ANC webpage. I
never did that in South Africa, because the cartoons in the press were
always better. And much funnier. But here in the first world everyone has
a computer and would rather scan the news on their screens than sit with a
nice cup of coffee and read the daily newspaper. Foeitog, they don't know
what they're missing. But then De Kock, who is here in London to get ARV
treatment for his friend Moff de Bruyn, pointed out a study by World Wide
Worx. It states that a total of 3.85 million people in South Africa - a
mere 8% of the population (or 1 in 12 people) - will have access to the
internet by the end of 2007.
So whom is Thabo Mbeki writing for? Certainly not the millions of black
South Africans the ANC say devour every word of wisdom that drips from the
Presidential lips. All the countless homeless, the desperate poor, the sad
molested, assaulted and frightened women, the insane and the
politically-correct. They just hope for the best, as they close their eyes
to what is happening to them, my son added.
'But then who is Thabo talking to in his website blog?' I asked.
'The leaders of the G8, other presidents and prime ministers. George Bush
in Washington. Tony Blair in Gaza. Bill Clinton in an airport lounge. And
probably for those here in the UK whom he was at Sussex University with.
The other white English dropouts who pretended that they would change the
world.'
'Maybe they did?' I said, while not knowing of any.
'No, Thabo has. Firstly to deny the link between Aids and hiv. And now to
expose the fact that he doesn't know what tik is?'
I didn't dare tell De kock that I too wasn't sure.
'It's all gesture-politics, Ma. They talk and lie. We are here in London
to get treatment that Moff cannot freely get in Pretoria. At least we can
afford to find it elsewhere. What about the other few million? Think about
that, Ma!'
I still don't know what to think.
____________
SEE CAPE TOWN AND DIE
Everyone wants to visit us on our magical southern tip of Africa. We, who
spend most of our time there, are used to all the people from other lands
who come to us for our special climate, beauty and adventure. I open one
of the the papers here in London this morning and my heart just stops.
'A country with everything - except security,' says the one headline.
'Crime puts tourists off South Africa!' shouts the other. By now I can
assure you, everyone has turned the page to a detailed presentation of
either India in all its attractions. Or Peru, Antarctica, Easter Island,
Tasmania or Disneyland. You can fly to any place on earth from here for
less than four hundred pounds. To South Africa it is always more thanks to
our SAA monopoly. Then you get there and lose your bag, your nerve and
your life?
Nee wat, mense. The media story underlines that South Africa's spiralling
crime figures may have deterred more than 22 million tourists from
visiting the country over the past five years. And who is spreading this
vicious unfair subverive lie? None other than our Minister of Tourism,
Marthinus van Schalkwyk. Out of bek of the babes? No, more like the
horse's mouth! I feel like such a fool when confronted by interested
parties here in the UK. What do they want to discuss? Investment? Cultural
exchanges? Arms deals with the ANC?
No. They want to know if they need a bodyguard, a bullet-proof Humm-vee
and a steel vest? I just laugh and say:
'Toemaar Skatties, you can buy all that at our local supermerkets. Now let
me tell you about our optimistic plans for the future?'
I end up alone in the room.
____________________

SKATTEBOL
I have always hoped old age homes would allow pets. I'm right. American
doctors are fascinated and baffled by a cat that can apparently predict
when nursing home patients are about to die. Oscar curls up next to sick
patients in those final four hours of life left. The cat has very seldom
been wrong. Some family members find solace from it. Hopefully patients
don't start screaming when they see Oscar. My son sniggers and suggests
the cat probably wants to eat them while they're still warm! Sies De Kock!

FURBALL
Those elusive Kebble Millions. And he wasn't even a Colombian or Nigerian.
My favourite defence of this corrupt magician comes from ANC treasurer and
Manto's husband Comrade Mendi Msimang. He, in defending the R3.5m donation
from onse Brett to the people's party, argued in court documents that
Kebble recevied 'indirect benefits' from his donations. Really? Mendi says
that by donating the money Kebble was 'maintaining an institition of
democracy." Liewe aarde, sounds a bit like Louis Luyt defending his
purchase in the apartheid days of the Citizen for one rand.
_________________________________________________________________
21 JULY 2007
__________

A WONDER-FUL WORLD
It's become the new party game: choose the Seven Wonders of your world. We
have seen a list recently compiled that includes Petra in Jordan, the Taj
Mahal in India, the Great Wall of China, and Machu Picchu in Peru. Now
every wit and wag has compiled their own list of funny and sometimes not so
funny wonders.
I've always kept a private collection of special things. Not pyramids,
coliseums or Stonehenges, but photos of my children on their first
birthday, a lock of hair from the head of singer Jim Reeves, my mother's handwritten
recipe for waterblommetjiebredie dating back to 1927, as well as my fruit
knife, the one Dimitri Tsafendas used to make Hendrik Verwoerd the late
Prime Minister. This last item is not a favourite; just essential proof of
my innocence.
There are other things that I can't share, because you would have had to
be there to understand them. Like President P.W.Botha's original Rubicon
speech and how it came to end up in my alligator-skin evening bag! I asked my
grandchildren to make me a list of what they saw as the Seven Wonders of
their world. It could have been in Chinese! Facebook, Google, Paris
Hilton, Bafana-Bafana, Harry Potter, Ushibama and JakiSakiFlu. I believe the last
two refer to an expensive skateboard from Japanese and sunglasses from
South Korea. Don't ask me about the others. I just don't know, except that
Google can tell you how much you have in your private back account and that Paris
Hilton is not a city or a hotel. Bafana-Bafana is a soccer team that never
wins, but then a Zola Budd is also a taxi, so maybe I'm wrong there too.
It just goes to show that every generation has its own priorities. What is
important to me in my advanced years is not even an option for those who
haven't reached their teens.
Was it like this when I was their age? Imagine me at 10. My name was
different as well. 'Evangelie Poggenpoel' would not have travelled well as
the Ambassador to Bapetikosweti. I was overweight. My hair was kroes,
because of the Bethlehem air and not a terrible secret in my genes. My
teeth were always sticking out and I had to wear elastic bands over them that
made me look like some circus clown. My mother was passionate about the Dutch
Reformed Church where she was the organist. Any dominee became her Brad
Pitt. She would dust off her sacred bust of Paul Kruger and refer to our
picture of Die Slag van Bloedrivier in the lounge as one of the wonders of
her world. Meanwhile I was dreaming about becoming Bethlehem's Debbie
Reynolds and marrying a nice Afrikaans boy who wouldn't call me Mama.
I think the 100 million Internet voters who contributed to the new list of
Seven Wonders made public on 07-07-07 missed out a unique wonder of the
world: South Africa. From horror to hope, from death to life, from white
to black. And still here to tell the tale!
_________________
HERE TODAY GONE TONIGHT
Anna Boshoff is dead. She was the formidable daughter of Prime Minister
Hendrik Verwoerd and always someone I found fascinating in spite of her
very peculiar Afrikaner beliefs. She was a Christian and a racist and wore
those contradictory labels proudly on her sleeve. She believed all that nonsense
that made us say 'Ja Oom' when her father lectured us about white
supremacy.
And yes, she stuck to her guns and didn't care what people said.
And in our rainbow democracy, few said anything.
I remember a moment in Pretoria in the mid-1980s. Two subversive satirists
wrote a disgusting play about Hendrik Verwoerd in which, I was told, a
scene is depicted where Oom Hendrik's mother does an obscene sexual act on Oom
Hendrik's father in a train somewhere in Holland. I didn't have any idea
what this meant. Pik asked me to investigate. So I went to the offices of
the Publications Control Board. They were holding a appeal trial against
the banning of this vieslike work.
There sat Anna Boshoff, her husband Carel and the whole Verwoerd clan. It
was chilling. Not a laugh line on a single one of their faces. Imagine my
surprise when a character-witness for the two satirists explained that
what he saw on stage wasn't that obscene sexual act described in such detail by
the prosecution.
It was merely Mama Verwoerd, having sewn a button on Papa Verwoerd's
trousers, bending down to bite through the thread. I was still shuddering
at the thought as I glanced at the Verwoerd contingent. My heart nearly
stopped. Anna Boshoff was laughing!
__________________

SKATTEBOL
My daughter Billie-Jeanne once had a small part in a film that starred
Bill Flynn. She always said he was the consummate gentleman, artist and friend.
His premature death has left a terrible emptiness in our world. I have
always loved what he did on stage and television. Even when he was the
young star of many of the productions at the Space Theatre in Cape Town during
the 1970s. We tried to ban them, but our attempts all ran down their backs
like a duck's water. Bill never held that against us. He forgave and made fun
of our fear. Now he's gone too. What a skattebol.

FURBALL
The Evil Empire has at last shown its greedy hand says my son De Kock.
FIFA has taken off the kid gloves. Sepp Blatter, their 'Darth Vader' stated
that the 2010 Soccer World Cup is a FIFA event and would be so trademarked. I
thought it was a South African celebration. But no, FIFA now wants to own
the numbers '2010' and the words 'South Africa' and 'Africa'. Nonsense!
Let us make our voices heard. There is a feeble suggestion that the public is
being consulted. So react accordingly. FIFA-fo-fum indeed!
_________________________________________________________________

14 JULY 2007

FRIDAY 13TH
I survived yesterday. I avoided picking up the black cat. I didn't walk
under a ladder. I crossed my fingers when I ate anything red. I sang
verses of Nkosi Sikele every time I had a racist thought. I was not going to be
gotten at by superstition. But my friend Miems didn't even open her eyes
on Friday 13th. She wore a mask. She had earplugs. She locked all her doors.
Nothing could get to her on that day.
Until one month in 1975, her house burnt down, because of an electrical
short and Miems became braaivleis! And she didn't even know it!
Tant Sarah in Bethlehem had a wonderful solution when it came to Friday
13th. Even in those days, it was irritating that a British superstition
had so enveloped us Afrikaans people with fear over a date. It was bad enough
being an Afrikaner seven days a week! All those sacred laws we had to
adhere to. Don't sit next to a black. Don't invite non-whites into your living
room. Don't allow your children to get too friendly with the maid's
children. Don't do this and don't do that.
We Afrikaners would never walk under a ladder anyway, because we knew the
blacks on top of it could so easily drop their tin of paint on our heads.
And why should any of us have tolerated black cats in our homes? So we
didn't need these foreign influences to frighten us even further out of
our minds. But Tant Sarah, whom I now realise harboured a secret wish that the
hated Rooinekke would re-invade the Orange Free State and tie her up in a
basement, starve her and then, as she put it, 'mors met haar'. It took me
years to work out what 'mors' meant. I think I'm still wrong. Tant Sarah
put her clock back at midnight on Thursday 12th and pulled the calendar date
off so it said Saturday 14th. She was in yesterday with one foot and tomorrow
with another. So nothing ever happened to her on Friday 13th. In fact
nothing ever happened to her at all. I was determined not to become like
Tant Sarah. Maybe that's why I left Bethehem in 1951 and went to the evil
city of Johannesburg, where I found fame and fortune as a film star. You
might remember my film 'Boggel en die Akkedis'? Or the one they keep
repeating on KYKNET - 'Meisie van my Drome'? The fact that both those
films had their various premieres in Pretoria on a Friday 13th probably had
nothing to do with their failure to get me a Hollywood contract. But then
I wouldn't be your next President. It's a funny world.
_____________________________________
XMAS IN JULY
Another date that always sets the fear of the devil in my heart is
Christmas. There is something wrong with chopping down a nice healthy tree
and dragging it into the living room to die. It would inevitably fall over
at the worst moment. Then you would have to decorate it with little silver
things, coloured lights and golden balls. Tinsel glittered all over and
the star at the top of the tree was lopsided and never seemed to shine. Bits
of cotton wool would give the feeling of snow. In South Africa?
The only Christmas that ever worked for me was when Pik and I visited
Vienna one year and we stayed over for those few days of Weinachten to see what
it was all about. It actually snowed and never stopped! Everything was white
all over. Pik laughed and said this was a Broederbonder's dream come true.
Suddenly it all made sense.
We celebrate Christmas at the wrong time of the year! Associating the
visit of Father Xmas with sunburn, peeling noses and sunstroke can only lead to
bad tempers and the constant fights my children would get into round the
Xmas tree. So a few years ago, I started rearranging the calendar.
During this month of July it is Xmas. At least in Darling, where the rain
will beat down on the sinkdak, it will make sense to wear warm comfortable
clothes. Braai and slaai go well with the atmosphere of the platteland and
we suggest that our guests bring presents for each other, usually the ones
they got last Christmas and didn't want. Even giving it back to the person
who gave it to you doesn't seem to matter. The fireplaces will rage with
hot coals, the wine will be warm and calming, and just to show that we hold no
grudges against the British, despite the concentration camps during the
Anglo Boer War - we all sing that silly carol 'The Twelve Days to
Christmas'. You know how it goes? '......And a partridge in a pear tree'?
De Kock, who is now learning the language to talk to the little baby he
and his friend Moff de Bruyn have adopted, translated the carol into Xhosa.
All wrong, it seems. That line came out as 'a skunk in a thorn bush!' The baby
laughed for the first time.

_______________
SKATTEBOL
The terrible insult of seeing my sister advertised as performing her
obscene cabaret at the National Arts Festival has a delightful twist. On her
opening performance, as she peeled off the zebra-skin coat that belongs to me and
that she stole from my dressingroom, there was a big bark from the
audience.
At first, everyone thought there was a drunk student giving Bambi
Kellermann what she deserved. But it was a black Labrador seeing-dog accompanying a
blind man. She looked up and saw straight through my sister's hypocrisy
and sleaze. She barked for a whole minute making her criticism very clear. Or,
as my friend Rhoda said: 'Maybe she just saw another bitch on stage and
said so!' Whatever, soentjies vir die groot swart hond!

FURBALL
I was forced to sit in front of the television with my three grandchildren
and watch the Live Earth concerts last week. None of the music was my cup
of tea, but I thought I could learn something about global warming and what
we as four out of the two billion people watching could do to make a
difference. Nothing. No matter how many lights we switch off, coal we
don't burn, gasses we prevent escaping, or C02 we convert to H20, the planet
will melt - finish en klaar. The only solution is an immediate ban on all
planes, cars, trucks, 4X4's and factory pollution. It can't happen. So call the
concerts what they are. A publicity stunt for Al Gore and the performers,
another way to make quick money. At least we were spared Bob Geldorf's
vuil hare!

7 JULY 2007

LET THEM EAT CAKE
The public service strike is over and no one seems to have won. Some lost
income, respect, medication, education and lives. The trade unions exposed
their political agendas. Now that the Gallagher Estate Imbizo is over,
nothing has radically changed. Maybe history can teach us a few lessons?
Did Geraldine Fraser-Moleketi know that the poor people of Paris decided on
the 4th July 1789 that enough was enough? Their standards of living were far below
their rulers.
On their meagre earnings they could not afford them food, let alone
caviar, oysters and champagne. All they wanted was a mere 12% increase in income.
It fell on deaf ears. The nobility galloped past obliviously in their new
gleaming carriages, speeding from a party at the Tuilleries Palace to a
ball at the Versailles Estate without so much as a wave. The only reaction of the
creme de la creme was to give themselves a hefty 57% raise in benefits. It was
the last straw. The poor people of Paris picked up sticks and dug up
cobblestones and marched on the great prison of the Bastille. The nobility laughed,
because to them this looked as pointless as bearded cave-dwellers dismantling
skyscrapers with highjacked planes. But that was the beginning of the end
of the Ancien Regime and the start of the French Revolution. Viva la Nation and
oppas,
Comrade Gerrie!
_________________________

KAROO MIDNIGHT BLUES
I sat in a cafe off the N1 recently at 3am and had the best cup of coffee
imaginable. The silence was only gently underlined by a small crackling
radio tuned to an all-night station. They were playing my old Ge Korsten
favourite, 'Seeman'. The peace and tranquility of the moment was tangible.
I'd forgotten how special petrol stations in the Karoo are in the dead of
the night. Just me and the three 'joggies' earning their living; one
filling up my BMW with petrol to get me to Cape Town in time to cook bobotie for
the President of Benin; the other cleaning my windscreen of the pollution of
Gauteng; the third making me a fresh whitebread peanutbutter sandwich. I
felt like a school girl in Bethlehem back in the 50s. It was as if the
world had passed me by. If it weren't for the occasional hiss and roar
of a passing truck, this could have been 20 years ago when my husband
Hasie and I would drive from Laagerfontein to Cape Town for the Opening of
Parliament. Fourteen hours through a country that then probably belonged
to twenty senior members of the Broederbond. Now as far as the eye can see is
land waiting to be utilized. Although, I could not see the homeless poor
agreeing to settle here in the middle of nowhere. I paid for my coffee and
the car's lead-free cooldrink, and stepped outside in the stillness of the
night.
The stars were blinding in their clarity. I took a deep breath. The fresh
air nearly killed me!
________________________

SKATTEBOL
The Mdzananda Animal Clinic operates out of three shipping containers and
is the only such establishment serving between 500,000 and a million
Khayelitsha residents and their pets on the Cape Flats. Darren Taylor has
just become Mdzananda's first fulltime vet and maintenance worker,
administrator and staff trainer. He also fixes the roof.
This grassroots, non-profit clinic charges minimal fees to encourage
residents to value the service. What a skattebol! Do I detect a possible
Minister of Animal Health in my Cabinet who would do a better job rolling
out ARV's than the present cabal?
__________

FURBALL
De Kock played me a CD of a well-known Afrikaans comedian. I am not a fan
of this so-called stand-up comedy. To me it just sounds like a boring
wedding-reception with the drunk brother of the bride unable to end
his barrage of disgusting jokes. I was more than put off by what I heard.
Besides the usual vieslikhede, this joker enjoyed his best moments
regurgitating old ka**ir jokes, ho*n*t jokes and m*ffie jokes, underlining
the pathetic rightwing, anti-democratic rantings of our past. The cherry
on this koek was where the recording took place: in the heart of London, to
an audience of 2000 young white Afrikianmers now working in the UK. Sies
kinders, julle behoort julle te skaam. Please stay there. There is no
place for losers like you in our future!
_______________________

30TH JUNE 2007

DIVIDE AND RULE
What an argument!
He said: 'You people did it during apartheid and it worked like a charm.
The Xhosa were obviously the powerhouse of revolution and resistance to your policy
of separate development. So you brilliantly decided to develop them
separately. By creating two Xhosa homelands, Ciskei and Transkei, you were hoping to
make sure that they would spend more time and energy fighting each other than
bothering whites in the big picture.'
I had to agree. 'To a certain extent it worked.'
'Yes,' he sneered, 'Neither Transkei nor Ciskei became anything other than
a small irritation in the side of the white elephant called the Bantustan
Solution. I have always suspected that apartheid was in many ways twenty
years ahead of the world. Wherever we look today your policy of divide and
rule has been adapted so that people die.'
'Starting in Iraq?' I murmured. He was African-American and didn't like
that.
'Not so simple,' he tried. 'There the ever-flowing rivers of blood become
stagnant with sectarian casualties. Sunnis versus Shiites. What a thrill
that must be for the hawks in the Pentagon to sit back and watch the enemy
devour each other. Just one bomb in a Sunni mosque results in multiple
bombs in four Shiite shrines and the circle moves on, dividing so the invader
can rule.'
I tried to change the subject to our recent public service strike.
He ignored me.
'Looking further into the Middle East we now see the much-touted Two State
Peace Plan has fractured into a dream come true for the warriors of
Israel.
Suddenly the West Bank and Gaza, as silly on a map as your homeland of
Baberskertwotti's six different pieces...'
'Eight pieces,' I corrected. 'And it's Bapetikosweti.'
'Whatever,' he sniffed, 'They have declared independence from each other.
Hamas and Fatah, two arms of the same terrorist monster, are now pointing
their guns at one another. Israeli soldiers can be forgiven for lifting a
kosher sandwich and breathing a 'Shalom and thank you, meshugeners!'
Thank heavens an actress joined us and the conversation moved round her
weight, her talent and her new lips. I love theatre festivals!
_______________________________________
SHOOT BAMBI
My sister appeared at the Grahamstown Festival and insulted me from the
stage. Of course, I wasn't there to react. I can assure you she and I will
never appear in the same place at the same time. The last time I spoke to
her was so long ago, I can't remember. How can I forgive what she did to
us as a family? Going over to Europe and marrying a Nazi? Were there no nice
Afrikaans boys good enough for her? And then she had to hide this war
criminal from Simon Wiesenthal, and in order to pay the bills, she became
a striptease dancer in Hamburg. Sies! I was so shocked, especially when
respected members of the National Party would approach me and whisper that
they had seen my sister Bambi Kellermann 'kaal'! Naturally, she got away
with it all by pretending to be an Australian. Otherwise, the
anti-apartheid people would have forced the clothes back on her body. When her Nazi
husband died as Minister of War in Paraguay - and I remember John Vorster had met
him there on his State Visit - she had the cheek to bring his ashes back
to South Africa! For the last 13 years, I live in abject terror of being
confronted by her. They say she's got a wine-tasting cellar in Paarl, but
Pik tells me he thinks it's a place of no repute. A b-r-o-t-h-e-l! I can't
say that word. And now she sings songs and belittles me in the eyes of the
nation. When I am President, I will be very strict about the protection of
privacy. And it's nothing personal. I would just say to my security
detail:
'Shoot that terrorist Bambi on sight.'
________________________

SKATTEBOL
Labour Chancellor Gordon Brown is now the Prime Minister of Great Britain,
having to fill the 'blood-soaked footprints of Tony Blair'. This is not my
opinion, by the way. If I were Blair, I would have bombed Bagdad years ago
without Bush, but maybe that's an Afrikaans thing. I watch Scotsman Brown
take over the reigns of power without envy. All we have to contend with
here are black and white. The Brits now add brown! Remember, Nelson Mandela was
in jail for 27 years and look what he did? Gordon Brown was imprisoned in
11 Downing Street for 13. Hopefully he has had time to think how to do things
properly.

FURBALL
There are some areas of freedom that no Constitution should interfere
with. And one is what I as a Gogo can prevent my grandchildren from seeing on
television. Last Saturday I woke up at 3am to get a drink of water and
found Winnie-Jeanne and Nelson-Ignatius, both under 12, watching eTV. Was it a
nature programme? An episode of ER? No, it was so-called soft pornography.
Naked white women and naked white men doing things I don't think any child
should be allowed to see without parental supervision. Believe me, when I
am President, freedom of television will be a distant memory. So, eTV,
prepare to be sprayed by my Doom!
_______________

_________________________________________________________________
The Live Earth concert on the 7th July 2007, with more than 150 top
musicians http://liveearthsos.msn.com/Hub.aspx?mkt=en-za

23rd June 2007

THEATRE FOR AFRICA
For the next two weeks, Grahamstown is the Cultural Capital of South
Africa.
I will be there with my grandchildren, wrapped up and ready to applaud.
Theatre festivals have always had a special charm, even though during the
years of National Party governance, our cultural celebrations were usually
constipated by anti-government, pro-liberation and decidedly communist
sentiments. Today one realises that they were just exercising what we now
call freedom of speech. But then it was called subversion, and we locked
people up for it. Some of them died.

Pik Botha once took me to the Edinburgh Festival during the 1980s when
most new directions in South African theatre had been banned for obscenity and
blasphemy. We saw some nice operas, a ballet and a terrible, award-winning
play where the actors were naked. Sies! I closed my eyes. Just as well;
Pik showed me what I'd missed back at the hotel. Imagine! naked photos in the
programme! Nudity on stage has even happened in Grahamstown, but luckily
it was so cold nobody could see the difference I'm told.

But it's the bad language and the use of His Name I find unacceptable.
There are so many ways to tell a story in eleven languages. Why must the first
choice always be through the toilet bowl? Even Afrikaans plays aren't
spared. At least Xhosa leaves much to the imagination, as they don't have
words for bodily functions. In Grahamstown I will stick to children's
theatre this year. Winnie-Jeanne and La Toya-Ossewania love puppet shows
and sing-alongs. Nelson-Ignatius is more into judo and shadow-boxing. I see
there's GrandPa Grump, Esmerald Elephant, Alfie Elf and Bongiwe and his
Beanstalk. Why does that title make me nervous? So I'll be wrapped up in
my faux-fur, with the children in their 'coolest jeans', jackets and beanies,
screaming when Molly the Rag Doll is captured by The Broomstick Dragon. I
see there's also Eco-Wolf and the Three Pigs. Politics always raises its
snout somewhere.
________________
NEVER ON SUNDAY?
Remember Melina Mercouri? She was that fiery blonde actress who rose to
fame in a film called 'Never On Sunday'. Maybe you don't; it was banned in
South Africa. I met her in the 1980s when as the newly appointed South African
Ambassador to the Black Homeland Republic of Bapetikosweti, I was part of
a fact-finding mission to Greece. We wanted to find out why the Colonels had
failed in their putsch against democracy. Melina was in line to become
Minister of Culture, very much in the spirit of Pallo Jordan's reward for
fighting the struggle here. That's where the similarity ends. Her dream
was to introduce a Cultural Capital of Europe, choosing a city in one of the
member nations which would annually reflect the jewels of Europe.
When I am President it will be one of my ideals, not just because its time
we allowed ourselves to celebrate our talent, but because Melina proved
how successful a plan it is. In the first two years, we'll start with
Provincial Capitals of Culture in all nine provinces, culminating in the third year
of a Cultural Capital of South Africa. The project would not depend on
government funding. They can't even run a lotto. I'll encourage business
in return for publicity and tax incentives. I know we have the greatest
talent in the world in every community - a Michelangelo, a Mozart, a Makeba and a
Charles Manson. It's just that at the moment the mass murderer always gets
out first. It's time to open the doors to real talent and not just the
criminal element in society. And do it even on a Sunday!
___________________
SKATTEBOL
My great friend Mimi Coertse has just turned 75! I can't believe how time
has flown. I also didn't know she was older than me. She has always been
more energetic and certainly younger at heart. She was my friend back in
the 1950s. I went to Vienna with her when she was employed by the State Opera.
Mimi and her voice captured the hearts of audiences and artists for
decades.
She even got me a job in the chorus of 'Aida' - in the great march when
the pharaoh returns to his land with elephants and slaves. We all had to
black-up as the slaves were not white. I refused. I was a boeremeisie from
Bethlehem in the Vrystaat! I was the only white slave among the black
hordes. The Viennese audience loved me, but I was fired. I don't blame
Mimi.
She has always supported me as much as I have enjoyed her. Her work among
young 'non-white' singers during the days when it was illegal has resulted
in a renaissance of opera sung by black artists. I remember when a Cabinet
Minister wagged a finger at her and told her to stop that subversion. She
turned to him and snapped: 'Skat? Gaan k-k!' Viva Mimi!

FURBALL
Paris Hilton just makes me laugh. To combine the capital of France with
the name of a hotel-chain is asking for trouble. I thought she was a cartoon
character from a new Disney film, but my granddaughters like her and, to
my horror, see her as a role model. Never mind they're black girls and she's
a white princess. And now she's in jail for not having a driving licence and
being drunk? Some example to the youth! It seems after two days in jail,
she was set free for medical reasons. Aitsa! Somebody must have read to her
all about Tony Yengeni and Shabir Shaik.
_________________________________________________________________

16 June 2007

ABRACADABRA
We had an expensive magician perform his act at La Toya-Ossewania's fifth
birthday party last week. As Gogo, I was in charge and crossed my fingers
that the tall, thin West African would impress the children. He made a
rabbit appear from a hat and say 'hello' in fourteen Nigerian languages
while ten coloured scarves came floating out of my ear! I pretended to be
impressed, but then I saw Nelson Mandela conjure up democracy from a
bloodstained SA army helmet in eleven languages while drawing forth
scarves in the colours of a rainbow from FW de Klerk's heart. Magic is everywhere.

Once we understood what was happening when we did something. You fed a
horse and he pulled a cart. You lit a candle and there was light. Today,
whatever you do is shrouded in mystery and confusion. Load-shedding, blogs, jpegs,
HIV, NEPAD are a few of the things I think I comprehend. But everything
else I don't understand and I can't fix. It's magic.

Take Google.com for example. I type a name into that cyber place and
within seconds, I have all the information that would have taken me months to
research. Last week I typed 'Shabir Shaik', and twenty-seven Swiss bank
account numbers flashed onto the screen within seconds. 'Chippy Shaik'
gave me four more bogus degrees and there were many more Shaiks to explore if
one had the interest.

How does my cellphone pick up a call from Pik Botha while I am in a train
travelling from Shanghai to Beijing? With Pik outside Pretoria in his
shorts and Crocks and me half a world away, the connection is as clear as if
we're in the same location. I always get nervous when Pik phones me after noon,
because I don't know what he's saying and he doesn't know what he means.
The fact that there no wires link us, makes it even more magical.

SMSes? How does that work? Not only can voices fly secretly from one side
of the country to another, but also words? And pictures? Do they go round us
when we're in the way? Or do these atoms (or whatever they're called) just
cut right through our bodies? Through our brains? Through our souls? If
you opened our heads, what would we find? Another google?

Give me politics any day. It looks clever; it sounds mysterious; but it's
always the same old story: what's in it for me. There's never any magic in
greed.
____________________

16 JUNE 1976 AND ALL THAT
I explained it a few times, even noticing an edge of impatience in my
voice.
"Kinders, the Soweto Uprising of 16 June 1976 started the beginning of the
end of apartheid." My grandchildren just laugh. They cannot believe any
white could be so crazy to think it up, and any black so 'uncool' to let
it happen.
"The children of Soweto took to the streets and burnt down their schools
in protest against the education policy of the National Party government," I
told them.
Winnie-Jeanne was already glancing longingly at her cellphone in the hope
that Gogo would be brief. "They were protesting against Afrikaans in
schools."
Nelson-Ignatius nodded gravely. "We don't mind it," he said.
"Yes, but you have the choice of eleven languages. In 1976 we just allowed
English and Afrikaans."
It was time for their favourite TV show, 'Sewende Laan'. And so the youth
of today abandoned all interest in the heroes of the past and watched a soap
opera that could have been made in 1976!

We never really have had a proper analysis about what happened in that
milestone, or millstone, in the Afrikaner's history. Andries Treurnicht
was the Minister of Education who refused to budge on his rigid Afrikaans-only
policy. He then broke away and formed his right-wing Conservative Party
after doing all the damage. I suppose that will always be there to haunt
us Afrikaners.

But then let us not forget that the ANC-in-exile sent a message to the
black youth trapped in the webs of apartheid: 'Liberation before Education'. So
they burned down their schools and today, 31 years later, we have a
generation of middle-aged comrades who can't read or write, have no jobs
and a virus that has no cure. The less told the youth today, the better. They
might just laugh and call us all crazy.
_______________

SKATTEBOL
With everything going up in price, from petrol to bribes, it is so
inspiring to know that the Cape Town Book Fair is in full swing in its second year.
I was there last time and had a wonderful experience browsing around and
seeing so many books about South Africa. I remember the days when to find
a local author telling a universal tale was rare indeed. Freedom of speech
has not necessarily given us as much speech as we expected, but our stories
are being written and published. Now we just have to buy them.

FURBALL
If I am sick of Tony Blair, how must the British people feel? I can't say
I ever liked him as much as I liked Bill Clinton. Blair always is
over-rehearsed and obviously performing. He certainly knows how to put
across his point of view, but the danger of being seduced by his
gesture-politics is always there. Blair promises and that in itself seems
to be the delivery. Now he and his wife Cherie have the cheek to travel
around Africa saying goodbye? Meanwhile poor Gordon Brown sits in the wings
watching his former boss place smudgy fingerprints all over the chalice of
power that will only be his in July. Any close friend of Thabo is suspect.
Just look at Mugabe!

9 JUNE 2007

YOU ARE WHAT YOU WATCH
I remember when I saw my first dead person. A lifeless body under a
blanket.
The hand was sticking out and I couldn't take my eyes off the
well-manicured nails and the wedding ring. It was not an actual human body, but a picture
in a newspaper of the victim of a shooting. I was upset for days. This
must have been in the 1950s.
We were never shown things like that. Protected from television until
1975, we were only exposed to newspapers and magazines. When Jayne Mansfield,
that American film star who was always bending forward to show her talents, was
killed in a car accident, I paged through a German magazine at Frankfurt
airport and saw a picture of her severed head lying some way from the
wrecked convertible. I had to run to the toilet.
I have just sat with my three grandchildren in front of the television and
watched the evening news. We eat early on a Friday, so often we combine
the news with some lovely bobotie and an ice-cream treat. We ate and watched
the images of six dead people lying next to the N1 after a taxi collision,
four mangled bodies after an explosion in Gaza, the dirty feet of a child found
hanged in Florida. None of us stopped eating.
What's happened since the 1950s? Have we become so dulled to pain and
horror because nowadays it's no different from adverts for toothpaste, breakfast
cereals and soft drinks?
Nelson-Ignatius, who is still small enough to cry in the dark, asked for a
gun for his birthday. I suggested a nice puzzle, or maybe even a CD of
dance music - I know he loves to move to rhythm.
'No, Gogo! I want gun.'
So I went to a toyshop and asked for a toy gun for a small boy.
'Mrs Bezuidenhout,' smiled the shop assistant, 'we have just the thing. A
new selection of toy guns from China!'
He showed me three. I laughed.
'No, please, not real guns. I want toys.'
'These are toys,' the man beamed.
I wanted to run to the toilet. Toy guns so real that if I pointed one at
you, you'd give me your car keys. Are we surprised at the state of
violence in South Africa if we give our small children realistic weapons to play
kill-kill with? In the old days toy guns had a piece of red plastic in the
muzzle so you knew it was not real. This has now ended up deep inside the
toy. So I suggest that the next time someone holds you up with a pistol,
don't panic. Go close to the muzzle and stare right into it. If you see
the red plastic, you know it's just a toy. If there's no plastic, siestog, too
late.
_______________

THE ART OF THE MATTER
Last Monday night I gave a speech at the Business Day-BASA Awards in the
newly renovated Alexander Theatre in Johannesburg, a venue now renamed
after the Township. My son De Kock's friend, Moff de Bruyn, helped me
formulate my presentation and it was a great success. First, I celebrated
the rash of new theatres bursting on the scene all over Gauteng.
'Maybe that's where we should be hosting the 2010 World Cup if the
stadiums don't materialise?' I said. Everyone laughed.
Then Moff wanted me to communicate how happy we should be that we have
this important support for the arts from BASA. I did. Everyone applauded.
Business & Arts South Africa is a not-for-profit company whose primary aim
is to promote mutually beneficial and sustainable business-arts
partnership that will benefit society as a whole. BASA works across all arts
disciplines - visual arts, performing arts, literary arts, film, craft, music, song
and dance.
'Ja, Moff, it all reads so well in the brochure, but what does it mean?'
I was amazed at the simplicity of it all. Business must fall in love with
art as it has with sport. Tax-incentives must be introduced to encourage
business. Dormant talents will rise and make us proud. The media must
start looking at all South African art with the respect that is usually shown
the cure for disease, and not as an irritation that has been packaged as
celebrity gossip on page 23.
'Tannie Evita,' he pleaded. 'The Lotto is dormant. National Arts Council
response to requests for funding is dinosaurian. Every community has all
the talent we need. Let's find it and develop it. Why must everything be so
bland and just focused on the lowest common denominator?'
What did Shakespeare say? 'In an upside-down society, the lowest common
denominator floats on top'? Ja-nee.
_____________________

SKATTEBOL
Some people care beyond the call of duty. When a teenage mother whose
pregnancy had not even been noticed by her close family, dropped her
newborn baby down a pit-toilet, Netcare 911's rescue workers rushed from
Pietermaritzburg to the scene after the child's great-gogo noticed the
child was missing. They went down into the long drop and saved the baby's life.
People like Jack Haskins of the SAP Search and Rescue Unit make everything
worthwhile. Good news at last. Dankie skatties.

FURBALL
I see that tacky 'Bad' Brad of Big Brother, now a chequebook politician,
has offered any MP R200 000 to cross the floor in September and join his party
The Organisation. Maybe I should not wish him a furball down the throat.
This is one way to expose the crossing of the floor procedure as one of
the major flaws in our democratic structure. I know that certain parties are
already offering monthly retainers to some small-time MPs, trying to get
them to take the plunge into the long drop of party politics. With less
than 112 seats in opposition, the ANC only needs to rattle 112 4X4 keys and
we'll be a one party state again. But let someone with intelligence and style
expose it. Not 'Bad' rubbish.

31 MAY LIKE ANY OTHER DAY
Like 6 April, 31 May has faded into the insignificance of faux-history.
Meaning that neither date really meant what it said. 6 April was the day
in 1652 when the Drommedaris arrived in Table Bay with Jan van Riebeeck on
board. We Afrikaners were taught that on that day civilization arrived in
South Africa. 'Civilization? Impossible! He was from Holland,' my son De
Kock likes to remind me. 31 May started as Union Day, celebrating the
Afrikaner's first steps in 1910 towards independence from the British iron
fist after the Anglo-Boer War. Then, more importantly, Dr Hendrik
Verwoerd's gift of independence from the world in 1961 renamed it Republic
Day. A few days ago 31 May 2007 came and went with no celebration.
I remember that last day of May as the most important day in my calender
as a cabinet minister's wife. Hasie always had to make a speech at some or
other National Party rally. I was usually behind the official stand seeing
to the koeksisters, koffie and koeldrank, and making sure that the black
workers drank out of their tin mugs and not from our glasses. In those
days we women wore hats and gloves, the first to protect us from the
African sun and the second to protect us from African germs. Then when I
became Ambassador I was seated on the podium with the speaker of the day,
hat and gloves still intact. Dr Piet Koornhof was the Minister in charge
of my homeland. He was usually the last on the list of preferred speakers,
because he had a very subversive sense of humour for an Afrikaner
Broederbonder.
There we were, Republic Day 1981 in Pietersburg. The entire Cabinet and
members of the Diplomatic Corpse. I had just become the representative in
Bapetikosweti. Piet Koornhof had been kicked up from Sport or something
harmless into the new position of Minister of Cooperation and Development.
He was very excited by his new job and kept nudging me. I knew if the
Prime Minister saw our lack of concentration, he would stop the
proceedings and glare in our direction. I was terrified of PW Botha. I
urged Piet to stop. But he kept on nudging me. No, touching me, invading
my space, as children say nowdays.
'Piet, los my uit!' I hissed through clenched teeth. Today of course I
could accuse him of sexual harrassement, but in those days all we
Afrikaners women could say was 'Dankie Oom'.
He gave that funny wheeze of a giggle and cackled in my ear: 'Evita, I'm
now your Minister! When I make a joke it becomes a law; when I make a law
it becomes a joke!:" And it was true.
_________________
PRESIDENT POMPIES CELEBRATES TOO
I saw my old gardenboy last week. He was a miracle in the days when to
grow anything in Laagerfontein was a wonderwerk. He had green fingers
under that black skin. He was polite and never talked back. He never went
on strike or asked for more bread. He was happy with R20 a month. So he
became the President of my Homeland of Bapetiksoweti. Today we are
related. My daughter Billie-Jeanne married his son Leroy. But since the
days of apartheid, he is still Ou Pompies to me, because that's what I
called him when he tended the plants. Now he is a millionaire and sits on
38 boards as director.
'Pompies?' I laughed, 'Did you ever think this would happen to you?"
He nodded wisely. 'Gogo Evita,' he said - mercifully without the 'Madam' -
'I have Standard Four. I can read slowly and carefully, and I have a
secretary to write on my behalf. And every day I have to fly to a board
meeting somewhere in South Africa. I have more Voyager miles than the
President. I get free holidays at game farms and end up redesigning my
hosts garden. I am now regarded as one of the fathers of the Struggle.'
I suppose he's right, keeping in mind that Bantu Holomisa was in charge of
one part of the Xhosa Bantustan Empire, while Stella Sicgau was heading up
the other. But in spite of them helming the Transkei and Ciskei during
apartheid, they were embraced by the ANC. Bantu slipped out and created
his own retirement with the United Democratic Movement, while Sisi Stella
remained a Minister until her death.
'Didn't you want to be a Minister, Pompies?' I asked.
'Ag Gogo, I was mos a President.'
Spoken like a true old tuinjong. Happy B.E.E. Day, Pompies ou skat.
_______________

SKATTEBOL
Three teachers at Winnie-Jeanne's school refused to go on strike yesterday
and will probably lose their jobs and their union membership. My
granddaughter was very upset at the prospect of having to stay at home
because her school was closed by strike action. She loves going every day
and meeting her friends, comparing their latest cellphones. The teachers
came to me and asked my advice. As a potential President, I seem to be
already regarded as an oracle of wisdom. My answer was very simple.
Teachers, like policemen and nurses, are the guardian angels of our
society. Without them we are lawless, brainless and probably dead.

FURBALL
A furball is mild compared to what I want to push down the throat of
Cosatu's Secretary-General Zwelinzima Vavi. A prickly pineapple maybe? Or
a lacerating rusty iron swastika? How can this leader of the Congress of
South African Trade Unions tell a NUMSA rally in Port Elizabeth that the
reported economic boom in South Africa was nothing more than government
propoganda similar to that of Adolf Hitler's Nazi Germany? Does this
prominent spokesman for labour and our future know nothing? His stuped
comments add fuel to the fires of social unrest and failed expectations.
Hilter forced Jews to wear a yellow star. I'd pin a golliwog face on
Vavi's Armani lapel! Houtkop!
_________________________________________

26 May 2007

AN AYE FOR AN I
If Thabo Mbeki can become a Knight of the Order of St John and Jacob Zuma
can wear a clerical collar, then I can give a sermon! I had always hoped
that one day I would be invited into the Dutch Reformed Church for this reason.
I can't believe it finally happened! Last week, in Darling's Kerksaal and
what's more on Mother's Day; to share with the moeders of the gemeente what it
means to be a mother. I know pride is meant to be a sin, but I couldn't
help it; I was simply thrilled that finally I have been recognised as a mother
of the nation by our church. My mother, Ouma Ossewania, was so proud.

The fact that I am the most famous white woman in South Africa has
diverted attention from the fact that I raised a family often single-handedly,
while my husband was a politician. During those years, Hasie held several of the
most important jobs in the National Party hierarchy. I remember during the
prime ministership of Hendrik Verwoerd, Hasie had two Cabinet portfolios:
Minister of Black Housing and Minister of Water Affairs. So he combined
his two portfolios by building a black township in a dam.

Meanwhile I was at home in Laagerfontein bringing up twin sons and a
daughter. So I know a lot about what to do as a mother, and especially
what not to do!

Unfashionable as it is today, mothers must try and work from home while
their children are small. A Xhosa nanny is ideal to teach the children
that. Employing Zimbabwean help might be cheaper, but is not as practical.

Mould the children to be part of the family as a whole, where sons can do
the washing-up and ironing, while daughters can walk the Rottweiler and
clean the pistols. Unfortunately, I spoilt my son De Kock and now I find
out that he wears my clothes at parties.

Discipline starts at home and once the children know the rules from an
early age they will not break them easily. An important point I made to my
church group was to encourage them as a family to sit around a table during
mealtimes. How often do our families sit in front of the television
without a word of conversation? When last did a mother ask a child to tell the
family what happened that day? When last did you talk to your child?

Of course, as with all South African families, politics is never far
behind and before I could prevent it, the talk turned to reconciliation and the
ever-present danger of fear and racism. Having celebrated our thirteenth
anniversary of freedom recently, it is essential to underline the good
fortune of our being here as one nation and not scattered around the
country in the chaos of a civil war.

After I sprayed the congregation with my perfume 'Jeau Mour', my black
grandchildren came and sang 'Afrikaners is Plesierig'. The congregation in
the N.G. Kerksaal all rose to their feet and gave me a standing ovation.
Life is just full of surprises.
________________
WHAT A FRIEND WE HAVE IN ?
My daughter Billie-Jeanne showed me a picture from an overseas magazine.
'Who do you think that is, Mama?' she asked.
I sensed a trick question. The face didn't look in any way familiar. In
fact, at first I thought it must be Osama bin Laden, but the features were
too dark. Though he looked Middle-Eastern, maybe even Iraqi.
'Another Al Qaeda terrorist supposedly killed in Afghanistan?' I ventured.
Billie-Jeanne laughed and turned the page.
'I know who that is. It's Jesus,' I gasped, still uncomfortable saying
this aloud. There He was, a familiar gaze through blue eyes, soft light brown
hair lightly resting on slim shoulders. This image of Jesus had been part
of my life ever since as a little girl in Bethlehem. I realised that there
was no point in falling in love with Bertus van Graan in Standard 1. To love
Jesus was an investment for a better future.
Billie-Jeanne turned back to the terrorist face.
'And you still don't know who this is?' she asked.
I became irritated. I don't like being painted into a corner with my own
lack of knowledge when it comes to the politics of fear.
'I don't know. I don't care.'
'It's the real Jesus, Mama,' Billie-Jeanne declared and handed me the
article.
As I read it, my mouth became drier and my stomach fluttered nervously. It
was a very simple premise. Jesus came from the Middle East and looked like
one of them. My image of a white, blue-eyed, light-brown haired, slim man
that peopled my Nuwe Testament was imported from model agencies in
Hollywood during the last century.
'You see, Mama, Jesus could have been black,' my daughter whispered. I was
speechless and so glad I didn't know that when I spoke to the gemeente!
______________________________
SKATTEBOL
Even though R1000 a month cannot solve the problems of hunger,
homelessness and violence on the Cape Flats, the fact that Cape Town's mayoral
committee member for economic development, Simon Grindrod, is donating that amount
from his monthly salary back to the City, is commendable.
I have always said politicians should lead by example, so I hope that
instead of demanding the 35% raise in their allowances, MPs give some of
their loot back to where it can do more good.

FURBALL
It's like a horror movie come true. A trove of police evidence, including
more that 30 knives, drug items, tik and dagga was discovered at a public
dump on the Cape Flats last week. A group of workers who found the
dangerous material lying in the rubbish say a police van drove up and dumped the
items. Is no one thinking? It's bad enough with tik permeating the
population of the outer suburbs of the Cape like a cancer. If the police,
who more than anyone should lead by example behave like idiots, the result
will be more death, injury, hopelessness and pain.

_________________________________________________________________

KILLING VERWOERD
The day Dr Hendrik Verwoerd was assassinated I nearly died. Not because he
was dead, but because I knew it was with my fruit knife that he'd been
stabbed to death. How can I explain this horrible event today?
Dimitri Tsafendas, a mere parliamentary messenger with no face, walked
into the House of Assembly and killed the architect of apartheid. Stabbed him
three times! At that time, it was like the end of the world. Today, there
are people who want to put up a public statue to Tsfendas. And as far as
Zimbabwe is concerned, I've even heard people say: 'Where is Tsafendas now
that we need him?'
I hope no one will blame me for Oom Hendrik's death. Dimitri Tsafendas
came to my house in Acacia Park, because I was looking for a housepainter. I
knew not to use the local coloureds, because they were drunk and cheeky. Here
was a white man, one from overseas as well; and a Greek. They started
civilization, didn't they?
So he began painting my house. What a mess! Green with pink; blue with
brown. Sies! The smell of the paint got into my freshly-baked koeksisters
and I knew I wouldn't get the gold medal for National Party
Koeksister-bakster-van-die-Jaar.
So my husband, Hasie, who was a minister in Verwoerd's government, got
Tsafendas a job in Parliament as a messenger. We didn't use cheap blacks
in those days. I packed a lunch box for Dimitri: koeksisters, biltong,
droë-wors, and a nice green apple with a fruit knife, so he could peel it.
What happened? Tsafendas went to Parliament and used his knife to peel
Verwoerd! Horrible!
The next time I saw my knife it was in the hands of the Minister of
Police, John Vorster. He was only 13th in line for the job of leader, but suddenly
he was the new Prime Minister! He was cleaning his nails with my fruit
knife. He even smiled at me. It was too awful. I knew we were in for a
decade of darkness.
Today I read about Tsafendas and his terrible fate at the hands of the
apartheid authorities. I just feel pity and sadness. I could have gone to
him in jail and comforted him with another green apple. But I did nothing.
That's the lesson I have learnt. You do nothing? Nothing happens. You do
something? The world can change overnight.
____________________

MEETING CLINTON
I always thought our National Security and ANC pageantry took the cake,
but there is nothing to beat the chaos that overtook Cape Town when the
Clintons came to visit. Yes, I know it was worse in Pretoria when the Bushes
arrived later that century, but they are the Mussolinis; the Clintons were
Churchills.
I was still unsure of my official status. My homeland of Bapetikosweti had
been swallowed up by democracy in 1994 and with it my job. I was just
another Afrikaans bureaucrat without a pension. But then Nelson Mandela
asked me to assist his staff with the catering for all the dinners he was
forced to give. Every night they were there at his Pretoria kraal. Some of
the most terrible political scoundrels in history. All parading around as
independent democrats in order to have their snaps taken with the most
famous democrat in the world. Madiba with Muammar Qaddafi, Fidel Castro,
Yasser Arafat, Robert Mugabe, the Spice Girls. I cooked for all of them.
Then the First Couple arrived. That means you give over your country to
the United States of America without them even firing a shot. Enter their
security - men in dark suits with rubber hoses pressed into their ears
talking into their wristwatches. I'd seen it in films and laughed. But
this was not funny, it was real. Traffic in Cape Town was stopped. Emails from
Maputo were returned. Bergies in the Gardens were sobered up. Table
Mountain
kneeled, exhausted. And there they were, the President of the United
States of America and her husband.
I'd found a soul mate. Hillary Roddam Clinton had no time for pretty chat.
She was focused on the real issues. And that was her future. Meanwhile
Bill, who is soon to become the First Lady's Man when she becomes President of
the USA in 2008, peered down the fronts of all us meisies and made us swoon. I
swear I would go wherever he commanded if I wasn't married, a Christian,
older than him, a mother, a grandmother and a wife.
But keep your eye on William Jefferson Clinton. He's not finished with us
yet!
_______________

SKATTEBOL
I love Durbanites. They are always so otherwise. In the old days, they
clung on to British Imperial values even though that Evil Empire was dust and
the Afrikaner ruled their white world. Then they pretended to be liberals and
condemned apartheid loudly, while voting for the National Party in secret.
Even their Homeland Leader enjoyed all the pomp and cheques that came with
the job without acknowledging where they came from.
Now Durban is awash with vicious accusations of racism and worse.
Offensive names of streets must be changed says the ANC, even though Durban does not
have any Malan, Strydom, Verwoerd, Vorster or De Klerk Streets for them to
focus on. It's Fidel Castro Avenue and Che Guevara Road they want to
introduce. I say, choose any cul-de-sac and then focus on real things.

FURBALL
Everyone is still blaming the Proteas for causing the end of the world, of
civilization, of family values, of trust and hope and the future. Why?
Because they lost one game of cricket after winning many others. They did
well to get into the semi-finals. Someone had to win. And the Australians
did win. Good. The Australians have so little to celebrate. Now they can
feel special for batting and bowling. Our Proteas can come home and
realise how lucky we are to still have the time and energy to enjoy sport. Mense,
it's only sport! It's a game of cricket! It's not a tsunami, or a virus.
Or even a politician. As my granddaughter, La Toya-Ossewania, says: 'Get a life! Or
play rugby and win! Eish!'

____________________________________

5th May 2007

CREATING A BIG ISSUE
During the month of April our entire country is paralysed. First there is
that Easter Weekend with the satelite days taken off before and after.
Then comes Freedom Day which gives us all the freedom to take off the 26th and
the 28th. Hello Worker's Day and no one works. How we can celebrate
working
by not working is beyond me. As President, I will decree that Worker's Day
means every citizen should go out and do voluntary work on 1 May. Pick up
rubbish. Help old people fix their leaking roof. Baby-sit. Dog-walk. Weed
the golfcourse. Photograph the speeding car. Steal bricks from the Green
Point Stadium building site and drop them at the Gateway Project in Langa.
iWork.
Some people work all the time. We see them in Cape Town at the robots.
Charming with smiles and seducing us into buying their magazine. 'The Big
Issue' is as much part of Cape Town as Lion's Head and the South-Easter
wind. Nine thousand Capetonians have found work through this job creation
and development project since 1996. Now the organisation faces a crippling
debt of R2.8 million after hosting the highly acclaimed fourth annual
Homeless World Cup last year.
I have taken on this challenge as an example of my social awareness. With
the support of the director of the Baxter Theatre in Cape Town, Mannie
Manim, who has donated his beautiful auditorium free of charge, my
manifesto, 'Evita for President', will be presented on Sunday night as a
fundraiser for 'The Big Issue'. And if we can't raise enough money there,
I will take a leaf out of Nelson Mandela's book and phone local CEO's at
home at 3 a.m. and ask for donations!
I think this magazine is the one example of empowerment that works across
racial lines and it must not be allowed to slow down. Worker's Day means
we don't work. 'The Big Issue' shows that we succeed!
_______________

YELTZIN VREK
They are now dying in public and are buried in awe. Boris Yeltzin was
funeralized in a Christian church in Russia, a stalag where not so long
ago Christianity was as illegal as freedom and the Times of London.
Happily I couldn't go to his funeral because Jacob Zuma still had my car
keys and I couldn't get to the airport in time. But my daughter
Billie-Jeanne went with her husband Le Roy and she said it was like a
black and white film starring Marlene Dietrich. Mists and aromas floated round
the Gothic church like soft drugs. Candles fizzled and snapped like
papparazzi.
And there in the middle of it all lay liewe ou Boris, shiny like a Barbie
Doll and threatening to open his eyes and roar: 'Ha ha, this is a coup
d'etat!' An old party trick of his.
I remember the funeral of Leonid Breshnev. We never knew till the last
minute that this was truly the last funeral for that old Red who'd been
declared dead so many times. The last place I wanted to be was Moscow in
winter. Remember, this was in the early 1980s. I had just become the South
African Ambassador in the Independent Homeland of Bapetikosweti. P.W.
Botha was not a fan of mine, but as Pik couldn't go because he had a headache, I
was sent to spy! To make sure that this arch-enemy of Afrikaner
Civilization was in the Communist Hell where he belonged.
I have always had a suspicion that Russians and Afrikaners are cut from
the same cloth. Bedonnerd, harde-koejawel and in the end, soft as kittens. I
stood in the queue at the Kremlin. I could smell Lenin's sour embalming
juices from the crypt to the left. British Prime Minister Margaret
Thatcher stood in front of me. I was fascinated by her strong calves, like a boere
netball-player. As she got to the open coffin, she peered in, her blond
hair like a nazi helmet. Then she pulled a long pin out of her lapel and stuck
it into the leg of the dead Brezhnev. For a moment I thought his eyes opened,
but when he saw Mrs Thatcher, I think he preferred death to a greeting. At
least we knew for sure Brezhnev was vrek.
I met Gorbachev there. The rest is history. Perestroika bred
Pretoriastroika. Gorbie ended with what was left of the Soviet Empire as a
birthmark on his forehead, while F.W. de Klerk just had the broad smile of
survival on his face.
_______________

SKATTEBOL
World Press Freedom Day happened on Thursday and wherever you read the
press on that day, there was very little freedom and often no press. There's
pulp. There's trash. And there's the freedom to tell lies, spread rumours, add
gossip, pretend to know better, pontificate, lecture, fingerwag, insult,
assault, degrade and satirise. But freedom of speech doesn't include any
of those things.
Freedom of speech surely means the freedom to say what no one wants hear,
because it is true;
what no one wants to confront, because it involves them; which no one
believes can happen, because they are already victims.
I salute those who protect and celebrate Press Freedom and wish some of
them would risk coming to South Africa and show us what it really means, so
that when I am in Tuynhuis I know where to stop it.

FURBALL
How dare teachers go on strike? They are the oxygen that gives our
children life and if they stay away, our children's brains wither and die. I have
pledged that as President I will give 100% raises to policemen, teachers
and nurses. Yes, even Comrade Thabo has accused me of empty theatrical
gestures.
But there is no choice. Police, teachers and nurses must suffer and stay
at their jobs. The future depends on their total commitment. They dare not
strike! Democracy does not extend into their lives. Teachers are the
batteries that keep our lights shining. I will do everything to keep those
lights on. So, teachers, be careful in the next few weeks. I will get your
names and you will all go down Shaft 56 of the Kipgif Copper Mine in
Hondepisdorp. My revenge will be sweet. Your future will be sour, dark and
unenlightened.
______________________

28 April 2007
_____________________

VIVA DE-MOCK-RACY
Thirteen years ago, when we woke up on April 27, we couldn't see that the
sun still shone. Our windows were blocked with tins of tuna! For months
we'd stocked up on porridge and condensed milk, sugar and rusks. We'd filled
our cupboards with food and drink, batteries and toilet paper. Were the
Americans or the Chinese about to invade? No, we were about to have our
first democratic election.
The blacks would win of course, and the world would end. I didn't believe
that. I had been involved with the delicate process of reconciliation at
CODESA, both 1 and 2. In charge of the catering, I had the inside track on
the truth, both good and bad. And most of it was good. I'd met the former
enemies of white South Africa, the communists and terrorists who would now
be our Ministers and our Ambassadors. They were no different from us in
their love of the land.
But outside in the real world of diminishing white power, people were
frightened. Rumours and gossip fuelled the flames of urban legend, and the
end of the world was nigh. Yes, the world we knew was kaput. Apartheid was
dead. Democracy was no longer too good to share with just anyone.
I drove my mother Ouma Ossewania to the voting station on 27 April, 1994.
She was very angry. The National Party had not bothered to come to the old
age home to get her vote, as they had for the last 50 years. Mama always
voted Nat. The other old people who wavered were bluntly told: 'Vote Nat
or see your hole!' (It nearly rhymes if you translate that into Afrikaans).
Behind us in the queue were two black women who worked at Mama's old age
home. They always made sure she got an extra potato on Sundays.
'Mies Poggenpoel? Who you going to vote for?' asked Aia Nomsa.
My mother waved her NP flag as usual.
'You must vote for the ANC,' said Sissi Beryl.
'For why?' grunted mother.
'If you vote ANC, I will stay on as your personal maid. If you vote NP, no
potato on Sunday!'
So my mother voted for the ANC.
'Rather a good maid than a good government,' she said without a twinkle of
irony.
Amandla Mama, amandla!
_________________

AFFIRMATIVE REACTION
Affirmative action is one of the most destructive conversation pieces at
dinner parties, where usually no one depends on it anyway. People hate it
and call it unfair, if not racist. The majority are usually white
neo-democrats who benefited from a previous affirmative action policy
based on their white skins. I am very quiet when that subject hits the fan,
because in my family there are now so many skin-hues that affirmative is
the only way to go. But deep down, I wish I had the courage to stand up and
plead: please - not again!
Yes, you have been disadvantaged for some many decades and, of course, it
is now your turn to shine. I also want my black grandchildren to rule the
world. But it is my job to make sure they can read and write, spell and
argue. And win. Education. You can spell that in eleven languages and
sadly most people can't read it!
After 1948 when the Nats took power, all you needed besides a white skin
was the ability to say 'Ja Oom' and tell the time. You would be running the
Roads Section of the Province or head up the Education Department before
you could say 'Dankie Tannie'! Today too many affirmative action appointees
haven't passed the test either. What do you say to these attractive,
enthusiastic, young (sometimes not so young) people? That you been
appointed just because of the colour of your skin and the ability to say 'Amandla
Comrade'?
Back to square one.
Civil responsibilities, roads, hospitals, schools and the alphabet of
goverment is back in the kindergarten of political correctness.
It even ironically affects art, usually the area where nothing seems to
impede. The raw novelist whose first pregnant story will never give birth
to a breath of career is published on a Friday and spinned as a
bestseller.
And is pulped by Monday. But never mind, he was The Token Black writer,
successful because of black, not of brilliance. The necessary affirmative
action has now made way for Affirmative Reaction!
Please don't let us to allow this to once again become too much of our
future. It is bland and boring and meaningless. I know. I come from an
affirmative reactive background. It was called Die Nasionale Party
Regering and Ons Afrikaanse Kultuur!
___________________

SKATTEBOL
Jacob Zuma sometimes takes the cake. I've never been alone in a room with
him for more than a minute, so I don't know what the fuss is about. I have
always liked Zulu men. He is funny and warm, embracing and entertaining.
And a perfect politician. Which means you never believe a word he says. He
will be a brilliant President, and yet within a week, he will be impeached for
what he does with such style: play to the gallery, whoever she might be.
Siestog, he still allows me to call him by his Zulu name 'Innocent'. Last
week he made a speech at the Cape Town Press Club. On his lapel, he wore
my campaign button: 'Evita Bezuidenhout for President'. Do you blame my knees
for going slightly weak? It makes running away very hard!

FURBOL
The public's right to know pales in comparison to their right to be
protected. The horrible echo of a mass murderer's voice on television and
radio newscasts during the last weeks, matched by his crazed expressions
of hate and revenge, did not help us understand why over thirty students
were murdered in Virginia, USA. The young killer has succeeded in his aim
of becoming world famous and arguably the 'biggest mass murderer in US
history'. Is this now the new reality TV-show prize? Who will be the next
bloody candidate on the evening news?

_________________________________________________________________

21 April 2007
________________

YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE JEWISH
Some of my best friends are Jews. Today that's nothing special, but I
remember when we Afrikaners also discriminated against them. In fact, we
hated everyone: the English, the French, the Dutch, the Swedes, the
Russians, the Chinese. The only people we really liked were the blacks.
But because of apartheid, we could not entertain them in our homes. My mother,
Ouma Ossewania Kakebenia Poggenpoel, would warn us as children.
'Kinders, always remember. The English are our arch enemies, the Catholics
are the anti-Christ and the Jews are all thieves.'
She never referred to the Blacks, because they have never been the real
problem in South Africa. The whites were!
Some Jews made me look beyond my prejudice. There was Rabbi Benjamin
in Pretoria who during the Info Scandal in 1978 gave such comfort to Prime
Minister John Vorster who thought he would have to go to jail because of
the corruption. Instead he became State President.
And of course, Mrs Helen Suzman. There she sat in our white Parliament,
the only member of the so-called opposition to the apartheid government, and
year in and year out, she said the same thing every day:
'Free Mandela! Get rid of apartheid!' She drove the Broederbond mad! 'Free
Mandela! Get rid of apartheid!' Like a demented chihuahua on Medinite!
Eventually F.W. de Klerk couldn't take any more. 'Evita?' he hissed, 'how
do I shut her up?'
'Just do what she says,' I whispered. And so he freed Mandela and got rid
of apartheid.
Golda Meier also crept into the Afrikaner heart. When she was Prime
Minister of Israel, I was sent to Tel Aviv with a message from our Foreign Minister
Pik Botha to their Defence Force boss, General Dayan. Now I realise we
were swapping cases of KWV 10-year-old brandy in return for three nuclear
bombs.
Golda used to entertain me in her kitchen. It would be full of members of
her government. They were her Kitchen Cabinet. She fed them bagels,
gefilte fish and latkes and planned the next war against the Arabs. Golda has
inspired me to take a leaf from her book when I become President. I will
also appoint a Kitchen Cabinet and over bobotie and putupap, we will plan
our invasion of Zimbabwe. That's one way of getting the 4 million refugees
to go home. Boer en Jood maak 'n plan!
__________________
TODAY CAN BE YOUR DAY
Next week will give us Freedom Day and everyone celebrates freedom.
Then there's International Women's Day and suddenly everyone thinks
about women. Youth Day and briefly the children are important. The next
day it's business as usual. Women are beaten and raped, children are
drugged and abused and freedom disappears down the drain of carelessness.
The United Nations has a very full calendar of Special Days. Some of them
are important if only to remind us what we so easily forget. 21 March is
International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination. 23 April
is World Book and Copyright Day. 31 May will be World No-Tobacco day. 11 July
sees World Population Day on an over-populated planet. 16 September is
International Day for the Preservation of the Ozone Layer. Siestog. And on
5 October we celebrate World Teacher's Day. Don't be intolerant on 16
November, because that's International Day of Tolerance. The 9th of
December is International Anti-Corruption Day and 11 December International
Mountain Day.
Let's find a date for Dog Day and Cat Day? Gogo Day?
Picking-up-plastic-Bag
Day. Hug Your Neighbour Day. Keep Smiling Day.
Phone-your-local-MP-and-harass-them Day. Be nice to Thabo Day. And make
sure that every day is Freedom Day! Women's Day! Youth Day! My Day and Your
Day! We don't need the un-United Nations to lead the way into that maze of
hypocrisy.
______________
SKATTEBOL
My Darling Trust looks after the needs of the community in our West Coast
village. This week Claremont Rotary Club sent us three wheelchairs. One of
our young women who is part of a trainee group learning arts and crafts
has been wheelchair-bound all her life. We swapped her old one for one of the
new gifts. For the first time in her life, she is now able to move herself
about. Her old chair forced her to wait for someone to push her. A life
has been changed. Thank you Skattebol Suzanne of Claremont Rotary Club.

FURBALL
Recently this week, the United Kingdom government removed the Holocaust
from its school curriculum, because it 'offended' the Muslim population which
claims it never occurred. It's not April Fool's Day! This is a frightening
portent of the fear that is gripping the world and how easily each country
is giving into it. Does this mean that if Tannie Sannie de la Rey is
convinced that apartheid never existed and blows herself up in the local
supermarket, we will also remove those references from our curriculum? The
fact that very little is taught about apartheid in our schools is just
incompetence. Sies Tony Blair!

14 APRIL 2007

APARTHEID A PART LOVE
While we apologise for apartheid, the civilized world is trying to say
sorry for slavery. 1807 was their Damascus Rd Experience. But it took till 1838
to free millions of helpless captives. We started in 1990 and four years
later our chalk was cheese. Images of what African people went through on those
terrible sea journeys from their homelands to the new hellholes in America
and Europe still haunt so many mothers and fathers and children today.
My son de Kock says: 'Darfur' and my heart sinks. Nothing has changed.
Something terrible is happening all the time. China uses slave labour and
is invited to sit at the highest tables of world power, because China is big
and Darfur is in the Sudan. Sand. No oil. No bomb.
I have always believed that if we had developed an oil industry in South
Africa, the civilized world would have moved in by 1977 as they did in
Iraq.
But the suffering of mere people, who were also not white, was only worthy
of a few UN resolutions and a finger-wag from afar. Now Robert Mugabe is
enslaving his people with starvation and fear and the neighbours - who
were once enslaved by apartheid, look the other way and sip their expensive
BEE cocktails.
At least we whites in South Africa have been spared an apology for
slavery, though finding the right words to say sorry for our brand of legalised
racism is not easy. I always feel I need to do something when I meet
Desmond Tutu. He is so far above everyone else as an example of how to
turn the other cheek while standing heavily on your toes. I won't wash his
feet.
They stole the bucket out of my car. But Desmond is gentle and always
laughs before he seriously confronts my fears.
'Just remind yourself that you were silent in those times when the sound
of your voice could have changed things, Ousie,' he whispers.
So let me apologise for apartheid. On behalf of all Afrikaners. On behalf
of all white South Africans, Rhodesian refugees and British immigrants. I
will apologise for apartheid on behalf of all Coloured and Indians who
pretended to be Italians. Yes, apartheid was a failed experiment from Holland that
just wouldn't work in South Africa. We realise it now. We apologise for
apartheid. We are very very sorry it didn't work. And we promise we will
never do it again!
_____________

ADOPTING AN ANGEL
My son De Kock and his best friend, Moff de Bruyn, have adopted a black
baby! My heart nearly stopped for two reasons. Firstly, what do they know
about bringing up a baby? They are two men without wives. Moff doesn't
even have a mother and I'm too busy running for President to change nappies.
Then secondly, I believe this child is an Aids orphan. De Kock was angry.
'Mama, don't call him an Aids Orphan. Many babies born to parents who died
of Aids, don't necessarily have Aids.'
I'm sure he's right. I'm still quite nervous, but what a beautiful little
boy. Since my daughter Billie-Jeanne married Leroy Makoeloeli and gave me
three little black grandchildren, I am quite colour blind. I just see them
as a Gogo should: with love and excitement, knowing that they don't have
the terrible baggage of the past. They believe that democracy will make their
dreams come true.
I must admit, every time I look at my black grandchildren, I feel so
ashamed - of the terrible prejudice I carried in my heart against people of colour
for so long. How could I been so insensitive, so uncivilized. So
unchristian? To blame children for colour? They don't have colour.
Children are innocent and pure like angels. Until they start stealing. Then they
become black.
I visit De Kock's little Sipho whenever I'm in Pretoria. Just to be on the
safe side, I wear my yellow rubber gloves. Luckily I found a pair of
matching shoes and a handbag so it doesn't look too
Rhoodepoort!
____________

SKATTEBOL
I listen to the radio and all I hear are black people complaining about
white racism. Ai tog. Then again, how refreshing it is to hear free speech
in action. I embrace these fellow-South Africans and even though I don't
agree with them, I will die defending their right to be so irritating.
Actually, I won't; I'd rather tell them to grow up. Yes, plans are moving
to put the soccer stadium on the golf course in Green Point, Cape Town. Yes,
most white people living there are against it. No, it is not to prevent
blacks from coming to Green Point to see a soccer match in 2010. It is to
protect our environment. Think again, skattebolle. If you then agree that
the soccer stadium should be on the Cape Flats closer to your homes,
imagine what riches and infrostructure would flow into those areas and not into an
already wealthy white enclave?

FURBALL
South African Airways has managed to lose billions, besides the over R280
million that 'fell through the cracks'. Are those the cracks between the
goldcards in the pockets of their directors? Or are we just talking about
a new version of Struggle Bookkeeping. Mense, if SAA cannot do their job,
don't blame the passengers. Democracy also means choosing an airline that
doesn't cut back on food, frills, wine lists, booking offices, inflight
magazines and general service in order to save money. There's British
Airways, KLM, Lufthansa and Virgin. The passengers must lead and the heads
of the bosses of SAA must follow.
_______________________________

OF GUNS AND BOOKS
My grandchildren speak three languages poorly. Their English sounds
American, because of television; their Afrikaans is full of slang and the
Cape Flats influence; and their Xhosa is peppered with eish's and hau's! I
remember when Winnie-Jeanne was five years old. I found her paging through
a big Afrikaans childrens' book I had bought for her third birthday.
'Are you still reading that book, Winnie-Jeanne?' I asked.
'Gogo, it's so hard. Die kat sit op die mat.' she sighed.
'Yes, the cat sits on the mat. And what colour is that cat?'
She frowned at me.
'I don't know, Gogo. There are no pictures.'
'But what do you see in your head?'I asked.
She thought for a moment and her eyes widened.
'In my head? Am I allowed to?'
'Of course, skattie. What colour is the cat in the picture in your head?'
She closed her eyes.
'It's a brown cat.'
'And what colour is the mat?'
'A red mat! Yebo! The brown cat sat on the red mat!' she laughed.
'And where is the cat and the mat? In your house?'
'No, Gogo,' she added gravely, 'At your house, because our maid from Zim
doesn't like cats.'
No one had ever told her she could use her imagination and see pictures.
Luckily mine was developed by Springbok Radio and by books. Today there
are no more radio serials. And as for books, it's cheaper to buy a gun than a
book in our country.
I will definitely do something about this when I become President. Taking
the Value Added Tax off books will be a start. Triple VAT on lottery
tickets. (If they still exist.) No one will even notice. But to tax the
imagination of our children is criminal! How will they share stories that
are essential for their future understanding of our diverse cultures if
they don't have access to books because of the cost? A second-hand AK47 costs
R67.22 in Hillbrow and a new Harry Potter costs R460 in Hyde Park. Are you
surprised that the children are now buying the cheap guns and then going
into the bookshops to steal the expensive books?
__________________

TO BAN EASTER?
We're right in the middle of Easter, and this is only the start. Soon
there will be Freedom Day followed closely by May Day which always amuses me:
celebrating Workers' Day by not working! Too many public holidays! April
and May are completely chaotic for business and education because of all the
official days off, usually with unofficial stay-aways added on before and
after. What must a President do about this very thorny issue? If Jews and
Muslims and Hindus celebrate their religious holidays as passionately as
they do without them being national days of rest, why should we Christians
have Good Friday and Easter Monday, and also Christmas Day? The first
person to say hokaai is me. As a Calvinist, the last thing I would allow is for
anyone to interfere with my faith. As President I will have to take a leaf
out of Nelson Mandela's book of wisdom. Instead of selecting only one
language to be the official one, he declared all eleven to be equally
important. So the Jewish, Muslim, Hindu and Buddist religious holidays
will also have to become public holidays. Then we'll hear from Scientologists,
Athiests, and all the others who will demand their equality as protected
by the Constitution. Or we take out the Christian days and celebrate them
without being bribed. The debate is open Mondays to Saturdays. Sundays we rest.

__________________

SKATTEBOL
I was dragged off to see the film 'Bunny Chow' by my grandson
Nelson-Ignatius and his friends. The last thing in the world that would
tempt me into a cinema with ten small boys would be a local film about
comedians which doesn't star Leon Schuster. What a surprise! I laughed
till I cried and the wonderful thing was, my grandson and his small band of
Zulu warriors laughed with me. Such a relief to see a South African film just
about people trying to get other people to laugh. No baggage from the
past.
No Botha in sight. No guilt, no apology. So to all those those bunnies
chowing away, a big kiss from Tannie.

HAIRBALL
I wished I could say I don't read rubbishy tabloids like The Sun or The
Daily Voice or our local Western Cape rag, Die Son. But one can't help
glance down at the terrible headlines that suggest that in our upside-down
society the lowest common denominator floats on top. I telephoned one of
their people and all he said was: 'Tannie Evita, I give my readers what
they want.'

I said: 'But you are encouraging all the most dangerous emotions with your
use of racist language. Xenophobia! And those naked women in page three?'
He laughed. 'Send us your picture, Tannie Evita, and we'll use our freedom
of expression to publish it.'
Maybe as President I will rethink that freedom. Of course, the simplest
revenge is not to buy those rags. No, not so simple.

_____________________________________________

31 MARCH 2007

FOREVER CASTRO
What would I wear to Fidel Castro's funeral? That's to say if he ever
dies. America has been wishing him dead for a long time and he just laughs. I
have a soft spot for Castro, because without realising it he shattered my fear
of communism. In 1975, he was in New York to make a speech at the United
Nations, but because he was a communist leader from Cuba, no one in Manhattan would
feed him or let him use their toilet.
'Try your bobotie on Fidel Castro,' growled our UN Ambassador Pik Botha.
'If you poison him and he dies, no one will care.'
So we invited him. He arrived the next day! Either he was very hungry or
desperate to use the toilet. I will never forget our brave Pik hiding in
the bathroom, leaving me to answer the door. My heart wanted to stop
beating. I would have to confront a real live Communist! Sies! At
precisely twelve noon, the door-chimes gonged. I opened the door, trembling. There
stood Fidel Castro. Kommunis! He looked so normal. He looked like a vet
from Benoni. He was taller than Pik. He wore one of those dirty green Communist
uniforms, but with real medals on his chest. Not like our General Magnus
Malan who used to cut his out of the Kellogg's Cornflake box.
Well, what can I say? Fidel Castro loved my bobotie. It was only at Nelson
Mandela's Inauguration on 10 May 1994 that we met again. Fidel gave me a
bear hug, squeezing the breath out of my body and stepping on the shoes that
Imelda Marcos gave me.
'Promise me you'll come to my funeral one day and make the bobotie for the
people?' he asked.
I promised I would. My bag is packed.
_____________________

GETTING RID OF PRESIDENTS
I was so worried when Morgan Tsvangirai was injured by Mugabe's thugs. No, I
didn't think they were going to kill him to liberate a liver for Manto,
but the way things are going between South Africa and Zimbabwe, you just don't
know! I remember when Morgan came to see me years ago. He was still full
of hope that one day he could replace Robert Mugabe as President. Already
then his country was edging into famine. He wanted me to find him a recipe book
that didn't need food.
'How did you people get rid of PW Botha?' he asked. I was quite taken
aback.
How did he know? I told him: Valiums in his orange juice.
No politician should be in power for more than 5 years. Nelson Mandela
again set the benchmark when he stepped aside after one term. Thabo Mbeki has
already had three terms, if you realise that he ran the county while
Mandela inspired the world. American Presidents overstay their welcome after their
first year. And look at Tony Blair in Britain? His Gordon Brown handbag is
now bigger than the one Margaret Thatcher wielded during her eternal reign
as the Iron Lady.
Now I've given my son-in-law who is on Thabo Mbeki's staff a few Valiums
in case they get close to Mugabe's orange juice. Why is our President so nice
to that Harare monster? Or did Thabo Mbeki think up the Zimbabwean land
grab in the first place?
Maybe he said: 'Bobbie, I've had a great idea. Why don't you try it in
Zimbabwe first?'
A Valium for Thabo?

____________________

SKATTEBOL
I was given a wind-up radio last week! At first, I thought it was a toy
for one of my grandchildren, but then they explained that this little machine
could be wound up or energized via a small solar panel and then the voice
of the world would be loud and clear. What a revolution it would be if every
household in South Africa had one! Knowing how often we lose our Escom
connection, with a few winds of the handle, each South African could
listen to music, commercials or Thabo Mbeki. No longer would Thabo have to write
his weekly internet letter that no one outside his inner circle reads.
Thanks to wind-up radio, he would speak directly to every citizen once a
week.

HAIRBALL
It's because I like Cape Town Mayor Helen Zille that I feel a taai klap
might be in order. In the year of her reign, she has done so much to
dispel all the fears that women in power seem to instil in men. Like a Rudy
Guiliani she has taken Cape Town by the scruff of its neck and shaken the
dust from its tentacles. Now she's ready to also become the leader of the
DA. Helen skattie, if you as a mother have to control and sort out an
impossible family, the last thing you need is to adopt at the same time! And you know
that the moment you turn your back to bend down and pick up an ANC banana
peel, someone from your own party will stab you in the caucus! Keep the
Mother City as your priority and let the minor issue of keeping that party
on the front page be Patricia de Lille's responsibility. She garners press
attention like a fat cat attracts hungry fleas!
_________________________________________________________________

24 MARCH 2007

AFRIKANER HUMAN RIGHTS OR WRONGS?
In order to protect their human rights, the Afrikaner Voortrekkers started
on their Great Trek. At least that is what we were taught at school. The
truth is here were one hundred and fifty branches of the Trek, because there
were 150 Afrikaners who could not agree on anything. Since then, put three
Afrikaners in a room together, two will gang up on the third and when he has been
vanquished, they will devour each other. Boer maak 'n plan, né? Today we
see it echoed through the choruses of 'de la Rey'!
As a possible future President of this irritatingly diverse, but
remarkably narrow-minded democracy, let me say to all Afrikaners: Skatties? Nobody in
my Government after 2009 will, and nobody in our present twelve-year old
rainbow nation is stopping you from being Afrikaans. You can speak
Afrikaans. Write Afrikaans. Laugh and sing in Afrikaans. So moenie panic nie; alles
sal regkom!
Just because we are not receiving the support of a minority government as
we did between 1948 and 1994, doesn't mean that we're back in the
concentration camps of the Boer War waiting for Die Generaal! Stop this snot en trane!
I am more Afrikaans in soul than most of these whinging mensies pretending
to be second-class citizens and making comparisons between affirmative action
and apartheid. Sies Afrikaners! Think for a moment.
I have uncovered so much of what really happened out in the segregated streets of our beloved land, while we were in our NG Kerk praying to our white God. The fact that we are still here, living free lives side by side with those whom we so damaged, is more than enough reason to be hopeful. If you really want to look into a crystal ball of blood, glance at today's Iraq. There by the grace of a few go we. It is in the best interests of our country that we all bury the hatchet in Robert Mugabe's back and concentrate on the way forward. Because if we had to stop and focus on the dark stains on every carpet, we will not live to apologise.
This week celebrated Human Rights Day. That means our day too. So celebrate
our language by speaking it. Celebrate our history by trying to find out the truth behind it. And celebrate our heritage by getting rid of the street names that will only lead to future humiliation. And if you don't know what to rename all those Hendrik Verwoerd Boulevards? Try Evita Bezuidenhout Boulevard! We already have one in Darling.

VIVA SAFARI BROEK!
I was cleaning my husband Oom Hasie's cupboard yesterday and came across a green and gold tie with a small ossewa-emblem on it. For a moment, I thought it was an ANC tie. In Hasie's cupboard? Then it dawned on me: it's an old National Party tie. Funny how similar they are! It's an antique now and quite meaningless. We must thank Marthinus van Schalkwyk for getting rid of the National Party. Everyone else failed. The communists couldn't manage it. Umkonto we Sizwe didn't succeed. Sanctions were a flop. Maybe Marthinus vanSchalkwyk was an ANC mole in the National Party! I think they recruited him when he was a 6-year-old, playing in the sandpit with his Dinky Toys. 'Hey Kathrada, that's the one!' said Jacob. And so Marthinus took the once-mighty National Party, dropped it in the toilet and pulled the chain. Weg! He started his short road to the top, becoming the leader of the New National Party, going from Kortbroek to Langbroek to
Onderbroek to Bangbroek to Natbroek to Sonderbroek. And now Safari Broek!
Viva Van Schalkwyk Viva!

SKATTEBOL
It is seldom that one embraces and rewards those who are terminally
stupid.
Firstly we vote with China and Russia against a Security Council
resolution condemning human rights abuses in former Burma. That was a deal so that
Zimbabwe would be left off future agendas. Now our Department of Foreign
Affairs' pathetic, shameful reaction to the Zimbabwean oppression,
violence and bloodshed shows once more that hypocrisy is the Vaseline of political
intercourse. I heard Deputy Minister Aziz Pahad explain why. I saw his
mouth move; I heard his high-pitched yelp, but as always, in the end I am in the
dark about what he said. Never mind. Political stupidity is so inventive
one is easily moved to applaud first and shudder later. Bush and Blair are
Chairman and Secretary. Welcome to the Club.

HAIRBALL
Did you know that about R600 million earmarked for the victims who
appeared before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission five years ago have still
not been paid out as reparations? Nee sies! This is again a hairbol in the
throat thanks to the Department of Justice. They are supposed to
administer the President's Fund, which was set up for this very reason. And now that
Justice has under spent its annual budget by R600 million, maybe this is
where the money has been hiding all the time. Pay out now, Justice, or I will
put you on my blacklist for 2009. I'll have you running our embassies in Caprivi
Strip,
Kurdistan and Chechnya!
________________________________________________________________

17 MARCH 2007

NO PENALTY; A JUST REWARD?
If I hear another plea to reinstate the death penalty, I'll kill
someone! It can't happen. Fullstop. The Constitution that protects all
of us also protects them. Them? Yes, those who in the past were executed
because it was a quick solution to a murky problem of punishing with a
final act of Man as God. We got it wrong most of the time.
I remember how often during John Vorster's 1970s regime, the Bryntirion
dinnertable talk would touch on who had been hanged that morning at
Pretoria's prison. How the neck had cracked and the rope had squeaked.
And then we'd lift our crystal glasses and toast the future of our
country, after praying to God to remain on our side.
When I am President, I will certainly not attempt to bring back a death
penalty. I know crime is the primary issue among all parts of our
society.
The rich get robbed; the poor get poorer. Travelling around and living
in the cities of South Africa becomes a daily round of Russian roulette.
As people now sigh: It's not if it happens to you, but when!
Daily I am made aware how broadly we are spreading this word 'criminal'.
There are thousands of people in jail awaiting trial who did not kill,
rape, assault or rob. They took a tin of food off the shelf. Those
people should not languish in prison and come out hardened criminals.
They should be fed and then work off their debt.
But what about murder? My son De Kock showed me an old film called
'Escape From New York' last year. I hated it and left after awhile. It
was set in the future with Manhattan turned into a penal colony run by
the inmates. I felt De Kock was insinuating my collaboration with the
Robben Island policy during apartheid. But what a good idea! Prisoners
are always bleating for their rights to vote. I agree.
In my South Africa all murderers will be sent to the same prison which
they will run, enjoying all the rights they once enjoyed and forfeited
in our civilized land. Let them rule themselves, and if they want to
execute each other? Foeitog. That's got nothing to do with us.
We messed up our chance to re-use Robben Island. But Madagascar needs
foreign investment. Let them build us a maximum secuirity jail among the
snakes and crocodiles and we will send them cash and convicts!

A 2010 L'UGHAWE SOLUTION
It nearly drove me crazy trying to get to OR Tambo Airport last week.
Everyone seemed to be on their way to Australia. No, they were going to
Cape Town for that Cycle Tour. I so admire middle-aged ( and not so
mature ) people for carrying their awkward bikes all the way into a
blistering South-easter gale to create a perfect situation for that
fatal heart attack as they cycle up and down the steep slopes of Table
Mountain and the Twelve Apostles in order to prove - what?
Anyway, sitting in a hour-long traffic jam to park in the Parkade, I
suddenly came upon the solution to the 2010 log-jam round the building
of stadiums. OR Tambo is a mess as they try to join the three parts
together to make a whole. Now there's just a hole! Cape Town Airport is
a dusty chaotic building site and Durban is .. well, Durban is Durban.
Imagine if we extended the building operations at our international
airports and actually completed perfect soccer stadiums in time for
2010? Then the fans could fly in from the rest of the world, get off
their planes, find their seats, watch the match, board their planes and
fly away. And live to tell the tale!

SKATTEBOL
It's been a week of horrors. White people have killed white children.
This is nothing to celebrate. But robber-baron Arthur Brown and his
group accountant Graham Maddock who are behind bars this week for
Fidentia's failure to account for more than R200 million belonging to
needy clients, have exposed an important fact. So thank you, seuns for
showing us that wealthy white people are also thieves and crooks, who
steal from the poor and desperate without so much as a shrug. It should
not just be the 'others' in our rainbow line-up who are always under
suspicion.

FURBALL
It's a tie! The Department of Justice - who single-handedly holds the
most pressing issues of crime, fraud, trial etc and did not spend up to
R600 million of their annual budget. If anything proves that justice is
in the wrong hands, this certainly does. Then there's the South African
Air Force who, after spending R13 billion on a flock of brand-new
fighter jets, has to ground them as useless, because there is no battle
to be fought from the sky. And last but not least, gesture politics from
Minister Jeff Radebe, now wearing the beetroot-soaked mantle inherited
from Manto, the Angel of Death.
Jeff has just announced that by 2011 one million Aids sufferers will be
on ARV's! Too late skattie, te laat!
____________________________________________________________

In which country in the civilized world does the bad live so close and happily with the good? And in our case, help the good to make money and so also become bad? As far as I can remember, Dr Wouter Basson was just one of the many brilliant young scientists who tried to find the solution to problems that had paralysed our Pretoria-based civilised world during the 1970s and 80s. It was all about the need to get rid of what we then called die gemors, 'the rubbish'. Today they are referred to as 'the people'. I'm still in the dark about the things they say 'Dr Death' did. Ja-nee, bad things happened during apartheid. There is no doubt about it now. So how come we didn't know about those crimes against humanity? We were all educated, decent, Christian, civilized people who loved Mozart, Irma Stern (even though she was a Jew) and Langenhoven. What went wrong? How could we have ignored the fact that our cousins and sons were involved in a genocide that removed the next generation of leadership?

I get goosebumps when I think where would we have been today if Nelson Mandela had come out of jail angry? How would you have felt? In jail for 27 years for what you believed in? Away from your children? Your wife goes mad? Nelson Mandela could so easily have come out of jail and spoken like Robert Mugabe. He could have said: 'To hell with democracy! Take the farms! Kill the whites.' And hundreds of whites and some coloureds could have died and no one on the news or CNN would have looked in our direction. In the eyes of the world we racists deserved to be punished after what we did to 'the rubbish'. But Nelson Mandela didn't say those things. None of them punished us. Let us not forget that, even though we no longer have those compassionate politicians who could come out of horror and give us hope. We now have a normal breed of greedy, ambitious, cold-blooded, career-professionals who are in it for what they can get out of it. That's sometimes called democracy. We're suffering from it in an acute form and only care will help us cure ourselves. That means, decide what you want and who will protect it for you. And if you don't find anyone, do it yourself.

In a healthy democracy, the people should lead and the government can follow.

WHICH QUEEN IS THE QUEEN?

I have her profile on all the stamps that come from the United Kingdom. I call her the Queen of England. My grandchildren say it's Helen Mirren! I explained to them that she was just acting the part of the Queen. Acting isn't real. The Queen did not accept the Oscar for her performance.

'No,' said La Toya-Ossewania, 'it was Helen Mirren, who is the Queen.'

It just shows how confused people are. What is real? What is pretence? We watched an Arnold Schwarzenegger film the other night.

I said: 'There goes the Governor of California.'

My grandchildren were irritated.

'No, Gogo, he's just an actor.'

'But he's been voted into that job for the second time,' I said, 'and he can't even act!'

They didn't know what to think.

'Is Thabo Mbeki an actor?' Nelson-Ignatius asked, after we saw a brief glimpse of our President in Sierra Leone. I just smiled and changed the subject.

Elizabeth 11 is now more popular than ever, maybe thanks to Helen Mirren. I met the Royals when they visited South Africa a few years ago. We were all together at Gallagher Estate sitting at tables. The Queen got up to make a speech. Everyone slowly turned round and watched her on the big television screen. There she looked like the Queen. On the stage behind the microphone she looked like a small tannie who never looked up once from her notes. So which one is real?

I do still hold a small grudge against the British Royal Family. When their Empire ruled the world and us, they took all our diamonds back to London and put them into the crown of the Monarch. Every time I see Queen Elizabeth wear her State Crown, I recognise all our diamonds. Sies, the

woman's wearing stolen goods. Whenever Madiba goes to London, I always remind his to ask the

Queen to give back our diamonds.

'No, Evita,' he replies, 'our diamonds are safer on her head than in our Parliament!'

HAIRBALL

A former wife of a legendary former president who had a birthday last weekend after losing her jewelry to an in-house robber, forgot to acknowledge the Minister of Foreign Affairs in her opening speech – and then compensated by supporting that comrade as a future president? Please Winnie, take a pill and calm down. Nkosozana Dhlamini-Zuma already flies from Pretoria to Harare via Paris. Do we need another terminal travel addict as President?

SKATTEBALL

Tony Leon is like a grandson to me. He is leaving his job as leader of the Opposition. Who will fill his shoes? Helen Zille dare not even leave her mayoral office in Cape Town in case the ANC change the locks. The other pretenders to the throne are all old NP cadres who pretend to act to the left while they think to the right. At last a ray of sunshine breaks through the white clouds of succession. Joe Seremane has indicated his willingness to stand as Il Duce Noir of the DA. I'd rather liewe Joe joined me in my quest for the Presidency, but if he wants to lead a bunch of old Voortrekkers back to their Bloedrivier, good luck Joe.

The controversial Great Wall of Bryntirion is not a R90 million import to protect the upper eschelons of our politburo against major crime. That as many tell us doesn't exist. It is now known as 'Redistribution and Culling'.

I was there when Chinese President Hu Jintao came to the Presidential kraal to have dinner with Thabo and Zanele Mbeki. It was a touch and go moment for me. I was supposed to be at my grandchildren's school where they were presenting a series of tableaux depicting the Groot Trek and the Battle of Blood River. Why they are still doing things like that I wouldn't know. I just remind myself that when I become President, we will look very closely at what our children are taught at school under the cover of truth. The legacy of apartheid history can be summed up in one word: all lies.

Happily I was spared that school performance with my two black grandchildren as boere tannies, kappies on head and hands clasped in prayer. I was in Thabo's kitchen cooking the babotie for the President of China. He'd heard about it from that mad Kim Jong-il, who'd intercepted the recipe on its way to Pyongyang and the discussions regarding North Korea's nuclear threats. The whole of Asia seems to be fascinated by my recipe for reconciliation. I even sent it to the Congo peace talks with our Minister of Foreign Affairs, Nkosozana Dlamini-Zuma – but then she ate the recipe.

It was at dinner that the Chinese leader presented ons eie Thabo with his official gift: a small brown Pekinese puppy called Madame Mao. It never stops yelping. At least they didn't call it Tony Leon!

When the realization dawned on the party that this small creature might wander into the busy street outside and be mowed down by one of the speeding police vehicles, I ventured a suggestion.

“What about a wall?” I whispered. I once tried to buy that Berlin Wall to put around Soweto, but the Germans had already broken it. Here was a chance to get the job done properly.

There was a moment's pause and then Hu Jintao beamed. Through his translator he agreed with me.

So not only will the Great Wall of China now snake around the Presidential Compound in Bryntirion at the cost of ninety million rand to the taxpayer, but little Madame Mao will feel very at home in her own forbidden walled city. Formerly known as Libertas and now, thanks to the need for adaptation and historical correctness, called Madiba-ungungluvu.

WINNIE-ANTOINETTE IN HER VERSAILLES

I took Pik Botha to see the film 'Marie Antoinette' last night. It was so beautiful to look at and while many people have criticized it for ignoring and trivialising the French Revolution exploding outside, I couldn't help thinking how accurate that attitude was. How many of us during those years of our Versailles of Seperate Development sat oblivious in our palaces and tried on new shoes, ate little cakes and giggled behind closed doors? My son de Kock thinks this film brilliantly encapsulates today's young generation who also have sealed themselves off from the facts of life through their internet, fashion, drugs and fear.

Then Winnie Mandela is robbed of R4 million worth of jewelery! Suddenly we are back on the brittle kerb of reality. What is it with this woman? I will never forget how frightened we were of her during the height of her struggle and our tussle. When she ran away from her banishment in Brandfort and paraded around Soweto in contempt of her banning order, she was the most famous and visible representative of an underground tsunami we tried so hard to contain. And yet I always felt some feeling of admiration for this black cobra of liberation.

I even sent her a birthday present to Brandfort in the 1980s. I knitted a toilet-seat cover in the ANC colours which, of course, were banned. If I had been caught putting the green, gold and black together, I would have been arrested and put in jail! So I hid in our toilet in Laagerfontein and knitted in secret. I managed to smuggle the package to her, thanks to a sweet-toothed security policeman who liked my koeksisters. She sent me a note. She liked the colours, but didn't know what the 'thing' was. It seems we'd banished her to a house without a toilet! Well, I hope Winnie

finds her lost things soon again. Yes, it was her birthday last week. I sent her a R50 Woolworths voucher. I think she's got a toilet-seat cover by now.

SKATTEBOL

To Sister Terre'blanche somewhere in Limpopo, who heard me speak on radio last week and, because of what I suggested, has made it a reality. I want to put orphanages and creches into old-age homes. She has done it! She says all the old people have been reborn as instant gogos and the little ones have someone to hug. Love is the order of the day, and it costs nothing!

HAIRBALL

To all the troubleseekers who are trying to find reasons to use songs to overthrow the peace and tranquility of this country. Starting with Jacob Zuma and his umshini wami: when I am President I will send him to Somalia as the SA Ambassador. He will find more than enough umshini's there! And as for that de la Rey hymn? It's like 'Sarie Marais' during the Anglo Boer. Or 'Jerusalem' during the Falklands. Or 'Jou kombers en my matras en daar lê die ding' during Codesa. Sing and dance; don't sing and fight!

Trevor hath spoken. If there's anyone in Government today whom I would like to retain in my kitchen cabinet, it would be Trevor Manuel. I have always admired how he has managed to walk the tight rope of ethnic tensions. Sometimes, surrounded by the Xhosa Nostra, Cape Flats Trevor can stand out like a sore thumb. But while they say he is too coloured, even too white to be the next President, Trevor manages to act black and think white. None of us thought he would be able to pull off the trick of finance when he became Minister. But Trevor has seduced the entire economic hierarchy into eating out of his hand. I couldn't do it better. And with a sense of humour too!

I will never forget how he once brought the Rovos Rail train to Darling for an evening. Deutsche Bank was the host to most of the financial leaders in the SADAC countries of Southern Africa. We were in a whirlwind of excitement. Flaming torches lined the pathway, hastily hacked through the bosse to lead from the train to the entrance to Evita se Perron. I wore my most spectacular long gown which Diana, Princesss of Wales, had sent me in one of her more lucid moments. The blood diamonds sparkled, the virgin silk glowed in the lights and when the train squealed to a halt in the heavy heat of the Swartland, Minister of Finance Trevor Manuel stepped out of the carriage and onto the red carpet. In slow motion he strode up towards me, leading the other VIPs with rogueish confidence and charm. Then he stopped and knelt on one knee like a latter-day Sir Walter Raleigh.

'Tannie Evita Bezuidenhout, I presume?” he twinkled and kissed my hand. I managed to hold out a hand without rings, as the last time a senior ANC official had so charmingly kissed my hand, he'd sucked off the ring and swallowed it! None of this BEE nonsense from Trevor. He led his party into my small salon and for the next few hours we laughed and danced and ignored the fact that if anyone else was watching, who could deny the accusation of a gravy train.

They left in the small light of dawn, the legendary seventeen-coach gem snaking its way back towards the reality of life. I heard subsequently that the foreign guests were dazzled by the exprience and were ready to sign anything. Maybe they did. Robert Mugabe's still there. Sadly my tax return showed no changes for the better. And why should it? The gravy train doesn't stop at my station any more.

Remember the old joke – what did they have in Zimbabwe before candles? Electricity! We can't laugh at that one anymore. Three times this week in various parts of the country, I found myself plunged into darkness. It started last year when someone apparently did not drop a loose screw into the machinery of Koeberg. It would be funny, if it wasn't so frightening. Koeberg isn't just a power station next to Cape Town, it's a nuclear time bomb that can leak enough radiation to restore an entire empty Cape back to the Khoi-khoi. It would take six minutes in a South Easter wind for fall-out to reach Darling, where my mother lives in the old age home. Perhaps, that would solve some problems. But no, shame, even though she is 107, she is my mother. So we have dark times ahead, because of careless planning. Or do we still call it 'Struggle Enterprize'? We didn't plan for obvious developments in our democracy. Whereas four million whites and some cheeky Tricameral Coloureds and Indians all had electricity up to 1990, now 17 years later 44 million of people need juice to power their (often what was once your) TVs, computers, phone-chargers, pool pumps, soccer stadiums and pistol ranges. No wonder Escom screams Eish! Tourists who want to see Darkest Africa, can land in Cape Town and need go no further.

One of my first jobs as President will be to look carefully at name-changing. Look at the turmoil around Pretoria renamed Tshwane, and Bloemfontein becoming Manguang. Or Port Elizabeth losing its identity in the vast Nelson Mandela Uni-mess. I even missed my plane the other day, because they've changed all the street names. In the old days it was so easy: all roads were named after the architects of apartheid. You left Pretoria on the Hendrik Verwoerd Boulevard, that became the John Vorster Rylaan, that became the PW Botha Straat, that crossed the FW de Klerk Cul-de-sac and eventually there was Jan Smuts Lughawe. Now everything's been renamed after the architects of democracy. So you leave Pretoria on the Nelson Mandela Boulevard. That becomes the Nelson Mandela Circle. You can go round the Circle and carry on the Nelson Mandela Street, but I prefer the Nelson Mandela Avenue that eventually passes the Nelson Mandela Art Gallery on the left. In the distance, you see the Nelson Mandela squatter camp. Turn right at the Nelson Mandela Library to get to the Nelson Mandela Square where they have the Nelson Mandela statue. I prefer crossing the Nelson Mandela Bridge on to the Nelson Mandela Freeway and eventually…I thought they'd call it Madiba International, but no, it's the O.R. Tambo. Johannesburg Or Tambo? How much longer do we have to tolerate an H.F. Verwoerd, D.F. Malan, J.G. Strydom or Dirkie Uys Straat? So let umlungu gogo sort this out. Leave it to the comrades and we'll travel on unpronounceable roads. And the Mother City Cape Town? Gogolethu!

Each week I will hand a plate of koeksisters to someone who deserves praise and encouragement. This week it must be Patricia de Lille, even though the leader of the Independent Democrats was until recently on my 'Mad Cow' list. After the debacle with municipal election intrigues in Cape Town, Kort-rok de Lille lost my support when she played musical beds with every party. Now she's giving Helen Zille support which assures Cape Town of at least some secure governance, until the ANC finds another way to roll the red carpet up under her feet. So Viva Zille, De Lille en Hulle!

I will also find my mampara of the week and smeer bokvet over their faces. First National Bank somehow took the cake from Tony Yengeni. Everyone wants to find Thabo Mbeki's address, phone number, email, SMS and You Tube, if only to say: 'Come home, all is forgiven.'