Entries for the Swellendam Book of Records?
This time round we offer salutations to some remarkable Swellendam residents who have recently achieved great accomplishments. On 1 February 2009, Frank Bacon celebrated an amazing 99-year birthday! A keen and intrepid mountaineer, he has spent many years teaching young mountaineers the art of the craft in the Swiss Alps. In a matter of weeks, Frank Bacon is to be presented with his 50-year membership of the Mountain Club of South Africa award. Elsewhere in this magazine we deal with a fascinating episode in his life, the story of the Mt. Minapin Ice Axe. Still spritely as ever, General Graham Moodie is not far behind having turned 97 years in January. Not forgetting the ladies, attractive Nana Shand is as bright as a button at 92 years. Just back from a holiday in AbuDabi, she is ready to go straight onto her next adventure. As for all our 80 yearold Spring Chickens, they look so good because they eat so good! However, accomplishments are not measured by age alone. How many of us can celebrate becoming a granny three times in one year? This singular achievement befell Swellendam artist, Maggy Lismont during her sojourn in Belgium last year.
Motlanthe collapses after strings cut
PRETORIA. South African President Kgalema Motlanthe has been rushed to a private
workshop after the strings that move his limbs and keep him upright were accidentally cut. An ANC spokesman also confirmed that his jaw mechanism had also been slightly damaged but said this was not a serious problem as it was not Motlanthe’s job to say anything.
Motlanthe had been addressing journalists this morning at a briefing entitled “Trust Me, I Know What I’m Doing, Mostly” and had just begun to defend his credibility as President when the incident took place. Shocked onlookers said that Motlanthe had just rattled his little wooden fists on the lectern and stamped his little wooden clogs on the floor, exclaiming, “I’m a real resident!” when his strings were cut and he slumped to the floor.
However ANC spokeswoman Opiate Maponya said that there was no cause for concern. She said that the cause of the incident was being investigated but that early indications pointed to Deputy President Baleka Mbete, who had been clipping her fingernails while waiting for the President to finish talking. “We believe Comrade Mbete’s grooming regimen may have compromised the strings as they moved across her clippers, at which point Comrade President Motlanthe was redeployed to the floor.” She said that Motlanthe was recovering well but added that the ANC would consider appointing a caretaker puppet to fill in while Motlanthe’s jaw was oiled and new strings were attached.
Dummy or Puppet
However she would neither confirm nor deny speculation that the new puppet would be a larger and more sophisticated ventriloquist’s dummy and not a traditional wooden puppet. “We categorically deny the insinuation that traditional puppets are difficult to control,” she said. “The Comrades of the National Executive Council have proven themselves masters at all the nuances of puppetry. However the struggle is constantly evolving and we must evolve with it. If Comrade Zuma believes that the nation would be best served by a ventriloquist President sitting on his knee, then that is his decision.” Meanwhile, the office of ANC President Jacob Zuma, has confirmed that it has received an official complaint from a group of professional ventriloquists and puppeteers who say that he moves his lips too much when making President Motlanthe perform in public. However, it assured the group that Zuma’s shows would not go on for much longer as he was “planning to ditch the dummies and take over the spotlight as soon as court proceedings allow”. (Another quote from SAs best satirical website http://www.hayibo.com/)
Sunday, 22 February 2009
The Mount Minapin Ice Axe
At 99 years of age, Frank Bacon of Swellendam is arguably the oldest man in town! These 99 years have encompassed a life of high adventure including, when he was in his 70s, circumventing the Annapurna massif in the Himalayas, a journey of over 300 km, usually taking 3 weeks or more. 
In an entirely different context, Frank Bacon was intimately involved in another mountain-related adventure, the amazing story of the Mount Minapin Ice Axe. Only brief details can be recounted here but, let’s start at the beginning. On 7 July 1958, two British climbers Ted Warr the leader and Chris Hoyte, team doctor, ascended the final summit slope of the broad, west ridge of Minapin, at the altitude of over 7000 m. The next day was fine and calm. But Dennis Kemp and Water Sharpley, the remaining party members, climbing from Camp 3 to Camp 4, could find no sign of the summiting members or evidence that they had safely returned to their camp. For another two days they searched without success and then gave up due to physical fatigue and soft snow. They began their sad descent to Minapin Village and the long journey home to inform the family and friends of their loss. The 5th member of the party, Trevor J Braham, an experienced Himalayan climber and then editor of the Himalayan Journal, had already returned to India two weeks previously as his leave had expired. In the UK, no formal memorial service was held for the lost two members. The families wished to grieve privately as the Hoyte family had already lost two other sons. Members of the expedition kept in touch for a while, but, gradually, contact disappeared. By 1996, eleven climbers had lost their lives on this mountain. On 24 July 1996, 38 years after the British party’s accident, two young Japanese climbers, Hiroshi Iwasaki and Masanori Suzuki, climbing in alpine style, successfully summited Mount Minapin. Iwasaki and Suzuki descended separately on the steep summit slope. At an altitude of between 6800 m to 7000 m, Suzuki spotted a white wooden stick lying on the slope. On checking, he was surprised to discover it was an old ice-axe in perfect condition.
The rescued ice axe was taken back to Japan and, after rubbing its wooden shaft with linseed oil, Suzuki kept it at his house.
Researcher Appointed
One and half years passed with no further action. Then, on 25 January 1998, while celebrating the 30th Anniversary of the Himalayan Association of Japan, a Tokyo university lecturer, Shigeharu Inouye, was told about the discovery of the ice axe. He expressed such keen interest that he was promptly appointed ‘Researcher’! In time, he found that 37 parties had attempted to ascend Mount Minapin. Only 13 attempts had been successful. By a laborious process of investigation and elimination, he narrowed the search down to five likely expeditions: the British in 1958, German in 1959, Austrian in 1964, Japanese in 1965 and the successful Austrian Party of 1968. Eventually, with the aid of the Internet, Shigeharu Inouye traced Sheila Harrison of the Alpine Club, who passed on the address of Trevor Braham, the only surviving member of the 1958 expedition. Next, to his surprise, Inouye received a letter from Ann Anderson, the surviving daughter of the late Ted Warr. Coincidentally, Ted Warr had helped to establish the London Mountaineering Club in cooperation with his close friend, Frank Bacon, who now became deeply involved in the exchanges with his Japanese counterpart and others in England. It was finally established that the ice axe was a ‘Stubai’, one of the seven new ice axes that were donated to the British expedition by Stubai Fuhnes of Austria. Finally, in a moving ceremony at the Alpine Club in London on 24 July 1996, Frank Bacon together with survivors and various participants in the ill-fated expedition, gathered to hear presentations by John Jackson, Ted Warr’s business partner, Trevor Braham of the original expedition, Esther Sharpley, widow of Walter, sisters and brothers of Hal Hoyte and Mike Warr, son of Ted.
A slideshow of pictures taken by the late Dennis Kemp was shown and finally, the last guest speaker, the persistent and dedicated researcher, Shigeharu Inouye, was able to hand over the long-lost Stubai ice axe.
In an entirely different context, Frank Bacon was intimately involved in another mountain-related adventure, the amazing story of the Mount Minapin Ice Axe. Only brief details can be recounted here but, let’s start at the beginning. On 7 July 1958, two British climbers Ted Warr the leader and Chris Hoyte, team doctor, ascended the final summit slope of the broad, west ridge of Minapin, at the altitude of over 7000 m. The next day was fine and calm. But Dennis Kemp and Water Sharpley, the remaining party members, climbing from Camp 3 to Camp 4, could find no sign of the summiting members or evidence that they had safely returned to their camp. For another two days they searched without success and then gave up due to physical fatigue and soft snow. They began their sad descent to Minapin Village and the long journey home to inform the family and friends of their loss. The 5th member of the party, Trevor J Braham, an experienced Himalayan climber and then editor of the Himalayan Journal, had already returned to India two weeks previously as his leave had expired. In the UK, no formal memorial service was held for the lost two members. The families wished to grieve privately as the Hoyte family had already lost two other sons. Members of the expedition kept in touch for a while, but, gradually, contact disappeared. By 1996, eleven climbers had lost their lives on this mountain. On 24 July 1996, 38 years after the British party’s accident, two young Japanese climbers, Hiroshi Iwasaki and Masanori Suzuki, climbing in alpine style, successfully summited Mount Minapin. Iwasaki and Suzuki descended separately on the steep summit slope. At an altitude of between 6800 m to 7000 m, Suzuki spotted a white wooden stick lying on the slope. On checking, he was surprised to discover it was an old ice-axe in perfect condition.
The rescued ice axe was taken back to Japan and, after rubbing its wooden shaft with linseed oil, Suzuki kept it at his house.
Researcher Appointed
One and half years passed with no further action. Then, on 25 January 1998, while celebrating the 30th Anniversary of the Himalayan Association of Japan, a Tokyo university lecturer, Shigeharu Inouye, was told about the discovery of the ice axe. He expressed such keen interest that he was promptly appointed ‘Researcher’! In time, he found that 37 parties had attempted to ascend Mount Minapin. Only 13 attempts had been successful. By a laborious process of investigation and elimination, he narrowed the search down to five likely expeditions: the British in 1958, German in 1959, Austrian in 1964, Japanese in 1965 and the successful Austrian Party of 1968. Eventually, with the aid of the Internet, Shigeharu Inouye traced Sheila Harrison of the Alpine Club, who passed on the address of Trevor Braham, the only surviving member of the 1958 expedition. Next, to his surprise, Inouye received a letter from Ann Anderson, the surviving daughter of the late Ted Warr. Coincidentally, Ted Warr had helped to establish the London Mountaineering Club in cooperation with his close friend, Frank Bacon, who now became deeply involved in the exchanges with his Japanese counterpart and others in England. It was finally established that the ice axe was a ‘Stubai’, one of the seven new ice axes that were donated to the British expedition by Stubai Fuhnes of Austria. Finally, in a moving ceremony at the Alpine Club in London on 24 July 1996, Frank Bacon together with survivors and various participants in the ill-fated expedition, gathered to hear presentations by John Jackson, Ted Warr’s business partner, Trevor Braham of the original expedition, Esther Sharpley, widow of Walter, sisters and brothers of Hal Hoyte and Mike Warr, son of Ted.
A slideshow of pictures taken by the late Dennis Kemp was shown and finally, the last guest speaker, the persistent and dedicated researcher, Shigeharu Inouye, was able to hand over the long-lost Stubai ice axe.
Only God can make a Tree - By Estelle Stodel
Trees are the lungs of the earth and, as air breathing beings, our need for them is of paramount importance. It is therefore our duty to nurture and look after the trees if we want to survive as a species. The October 2007 issue of National Geographic displays a poster of the changing climate of the world—it is a frightening scenario of what IS coming, not what MAY come. GLOBAL WARMING HAS ARRIVED.
Strange weather is but a foretaste—and still there are those who are cutting down trees for no good reason. WHAT are they thinking? ARE they thinking? We humans are the most destructive of all Creation. Our redeeming quality is that we can change all that—if we get back to integrity, honour and caring. We are running out of choices. But we know all this…. don’t we? If we wait till the Apocalypse arrives, it will be TOO LATE! Do something NOW! Civilization is in desperate need of people who will speak and act for those who cannot. Climate change is a reality and you don’t need an expert to tell you where to look for the evidence—it is all around you. Just LOOK. We have a friend, a helicopter pilot currently working in Nigeria who comes back to Cape Town every few weeks. What he sees every day from his bird’s eye view in the helicopter, is truly frightening. Those age-old forests that help control and regulate the world’s rainfall are being decimated at an unbelievable rate, as are the Amazon forests. What are we doing about it? Precious little, if anything—pretty much too little, too late! That won’t change either until there is a shift in our thinking… until the value of a growing, healthy tree is greater than the timber it may or may not yield.
Not only do we need trees for shelter and protection (eg. windbreaks), we need trees for their beauty. Biodiversity is what creates a favourable environment for all concerned, both man and the animals who were the first inhabitants. The trend at present is for Holistic farming where one works with nature. Here, all creatures are allowed to exist—even the predators. Luckily, this is becoming more widely practised. Neil McGregor, a farmer in the Niewoudtville area, has done just that. Starting many years ago he has made a huge success of this method.
Here is what happened to a tree I loved and often used to visit. The word ‘visit’ taken from the Oxford dictionary, gives a few options. I have chosen two. The first is ‘go to see and spend time with.’
Whenever my special tree came into view on my daily walks, I would catch my breath—those spreading branches and its quiet dignity. It looked so firmly anchored, so permanent, so reassuring—a Milkwood, a protected tree—or so I thought!
Under the tree, was a mass of old, twisted, gnarled and exposed roots going in all directions, holding fast to the earth—nothing could move that tree, not even the strongest of winds. Throughout its more than 100 years on this earth, it had withstood and recovered from many storms, many hardships from crippling droughts to irresponsible aerial crop spraying, which had turned its glossy dark green leaves yellow.
A Tree of Stature
Imagine this tree throughout its life—the first few years after germination—all alone. Probably started as a berry, dropped by a bird on its way somewhere, through lean years of drought and hot veld fires to good years with adequate rainfall. Ploughing and harvesting must have been rather scary when you’re a little Milkwood trying to survive. But it managed and grew and grew till it became a tree of stature—a shelter to man and beast when the heat shimmered all around. In the fields above were other Milkwoods of a similar age and size and over the years those trees became a landmark for the generations of people who lived nearby or were visiting the area.
MILKWOODS WERE, AND STILL ARE, PROTECTED TREES!
A few months ago, the approach road to our property was altered and we thought it a rather nice, albeit a longer distance. We nevertheless phoned and thanked the owner of the farm between our house and the Infanta road. Weeks went by until our next trip to the river.
Something seemed different, the field above our property was all rough and ploughed up. Then it hit us like a thunderbolt! Someone else had paid a visit. Here, the second meaning of the word ‘visit’ applies—meaning ‘inflict something harmful and unpleasant’. The Milkwood was gone—there was no sign of it having ever been there! Oh God, that beautiful tree.... just... gone! A priceless heritage lost for ALL time! Shock gave way to anger so intense that we were speechless. The fury is still there. All those years of growing, struggling—now, pointlessly destroyed. No earthly reason can EVER vindicate such destruction.
What must that tree have felt while it was being gouged out of the ground by huge, mechanical machines, roots being torn from its hold on the patch of earth where its birth-awakening took place.
Think too, of the habitat of the smaller creatures who saw that tree as their home, their protection. Not long ago, a pair of Secretary birds were interested in building their nest in its leafy top. Other birds also nested there. Nearby, Bat-eared foxes had their den. The Stanley’s Bustards used to frequent that field in the breeding season and it was an amazing sight to see the males puff out their white chest feathers. Blue Cranes and their chicks and sometimes a family of Rheebuck would stand and watch our approach for a few seconds then run for cover. All gone now—and so is the pleasant anticipation of seeing all these lovely glimpses of nature on the way to the river.
Will those innocent animals be tolerated once those fields are planted? Time will tell. It seems that, once again, the original inhabitants will be displaced unless their future is taken into account and provision is made for them nearby.
By killing one tree in that situation, you kill off a whole biosphere and, the sad fact is, you cannot reinstate that biosphere in one human lifetime. The trees and those they protected are gone for good. I once found the perfect quotation—one I have used before: “God placed animals in our care …not at our mercy”. It appears that all of nature is now at our mercy—see where playing God has got us!
Permit Granted
That tree was not the only one killed in that way at about the same time. There were others of similar age—all beautiful and all old. I have the pictures of those trees, sent to those in charge of issuing permits for the removal of protected trees. What they do NOT show is the sheer size of those trees. Pity I did not at least have someone standing next to, or under the trees to show their scale. No one from the department came to inspect the trees earmarked for destruction—yet the permit was granted.
When you look around at other farms in the area, you will see trees in the middle of a field that is planted every year. The farmers simply plough and harvest around them.
They are sensitive to their environment and have learned to live with nature. A tree in a field is such a thing of beauty and the eye goes straight to it like an arrow. The environment has been shaped by nature over time and it knows best. It is easier to change our thinking. Our time here is short and as custodians we have a duty to those who come after us. In memory of that tree and the others in that field, I think this timeless poem is appropriate:
I think I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast.
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.
Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain
Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.
Joyce Kilmer (1886—1918)&
Strange weather is but a foretaste—and still there are those who are cutting down trees for no good reason. WHAT are they thinking? ARE they thinking? We humans are the most destructive of all Creation. Our redeeming quality is that we can change all that—if we get back to integrity, honour and caring. We are running out of choices. But we know all this…. don’t we? If we wait till the Apocalypse arrives, it will be TOO LATE! Do something NOW! Civilization is in desperate need of people who will speak and act for those who cannot. Climate change is a reality and you don’t need an expert to tell you where to look for the evidence—it is all around you. Just LOOK. We have a friend, a helicopter pilot currently working in Nigeria who comes back to Cape Town every few weeks. What he sees every day from his bird’s eye view in the helicopter, is truly frightening. Those age-old forests that help control and regulate the world’s rainfall are being decimated at an unbelievable rate, as are the Amazon forests. What are we doing about it? Precious little, if anything—pretty much too little, too late! That won’t change either until there is a shift in our thinking… until the value of a growing, healthy tree is greater than the timber it may or may not yield.
Not only do we need trees for shelter and protection (eg. windbreaks), we need trees for their beauty. Biodiversity is what creates a favourable environment for all concerned, both man and the animals who were the first inhabitants. The trend at present is for Holistic farming where one works with nature. Here, all creatures are allowed to exist—even the predators. Luckily, this is becoming more widely practised. Neil McGregor, a farmer in the Niewoudtville area, has done just that. Starting many years ago he has made a huge success of this method.
Here is what happened to a tree I loved and often used to visit. The word ‘visit’ taken from the Oxford dictionary, gives a few options. I have chosen two. The first is ‘go to see and spend time with.’
Whenever my special tree came into view on my daily walks, I would catch my breath—those spreading branches and its quiet dignity. It looked so firmly anchored, so permanent, so reassuring—a Milkwood, a protected tree—or so I thought!
Under the tree, was a mass of old, twisted, gnarled and exposed roots going in all directions, holding fast to the earth—nothing could move that tree, not even the strongest of winds. Throughout its more than 100 years on this earth, it had withstood and recovered from many storms, many hardships from crippling droughts to irresponsible aerial crop spraying, which had turned its glossy dark green leaves yellow.A Tree of Stature
Imagine this tree throughout its life—the first few years after germination—all alone. Probably started as a berry, dropped by a bird on its way somewhere, through lean years of drought and hot veld fires to good years with adequate rainfall. Ploughing and harvesting must have been rather scary when you’re a little Milkwood trying to survive. But it managed and grew and grew till it became a tree of stature—a shelter to man and beast when the heat shimmered all around. In the fields above were other Milkwoods of a similar age and size and over the years those trees became a landmark for the generations of people who lived nearby or were visiting the area.
MILKWOODS WERE, AND STILL ARE, PROTECTED TREES!
A few months ago, the approach road to our property was altered and we thought it a rather nice, albeit a longer distance. We nevertheless phoned and thanked the owner of the farm between our house and the Infanta road. Weeks went by until our next trip to the river.
Something seemed different, the field above our property was all rough and ploughed up. Then it hit us like a thunderbolt! Someone else had paid a visit. Here, the second meaning of the word ‘visit’ applies—meaning ‘inflict something harmful and unpleasant’. The Milkwood was gone—there was no sign of it having ever been there! Oh God, that beautiful tree.... just... gone! A priceless heritage lost for ALL time! Shock gave way to anger so intense that we were speechless. The fury is still there. All those years of growing, struggling—now, pointlessly destroyed. No earthly reason can EVER vindicate such destruction.
What must that tree have felt while it was being gouged out of the ground by huge, mechanical machines, roots being torn from its hold on the patch of earth where its birth-awakening took place.
Think too, of the habitat of the smaller creatures who saw that tree as their home, their protection. Not long ago, a pair of Secretary birds were interested in building their nest in its leafy top. Other birds also nested there. Nearby, Bat-eared foxes had their den. The Stanley’s Bustards used to frequent that field in the breeding season and it was an amazing sight to see the males puff out their white chest feathers. Blue Cranes and their chicks and sometimes a family of Rheebuck would stand and watch our approach for a few seconds then run for cover. All gone now—and so is the pleasant anticipation of seeing all these lovely glimpses of nature on the way to the river.
Will those innocent animals be tolerated once those fields are planted? Time will tell. It seems that, once again, the original inhabitants will be displaced unless their future is taken into account and provision is made for them nearby.
By killing one tree in that situation, you kill off a whole biosphere and, the sad fact is, you cannot reinstate that biosphere in one human lifetime. The trees and those they protected are gone for good. I once found the perfect quotation—one I have used before: “God placed animals in our care …not at our mercy”. It appears that all of nature is now at our mercy—see where playing God has got us!
Permit Granted
That tree was not the only one killed in that way at about the same time. There were others of similar age—all beautiful and all old. I have the pictures of those trees, sent to those in charge of issuing permits for the removal of protected trees. What they do NOT show is the sheer size of those trees. Pity I did not at least have someone standing next to, or under the trees to show their scale. No one from the department came to inspect the trees earmarked for destruction—yet the permit was granted.
When you look around at other farms in the area, you will see trees in the middle of a field that is planted every year. The farmers simply plough and harvest around them.
They are sensitive to their environment and have learned to live with nature. A tree in a field is such a thing of beauty and the eye goes straight to it like an arrow. The environment has been shaped by nature over time and it knows best. It is easier to change our thinking. Our time here is short and as custodians we have a duty to those who come after us. In memory of that tree and the others in that field, I think this timeless poem is appropriate:I think I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast.
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.
Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain
Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.
Joyce Kilmer (1886—1918)&
The Turnstone Syndrome - By Terry Oatley
Some six months after Nyasaland became an independent state and called itself Malawi, my wife and I went there on a holiday. One of our destinations was Nkata Bay, on the northwest shore of Lake Malawi. While we were there, the lake steamer arrived on its fortnightly schedule and everybody who was anybody thronged the large, floating wooden jetty. In a newly independent country, politics is an important topic and we overheard a conversation in which one resident endeavoured to explain the intricacies of politics to somebody that he had maybe just met. “To know politics” he explained, “you have to know English!” He enlarged on this statement at some length and then added, “But in South Africa the white man speaks another language. It is Aff, af, afree, afrikanz! Yes, and if you can speak Afrikanz, then you REALLY know politics!”
In 1964, that was a perceptive viewpoint. But the truth of his initial statement has endured, and today’s politicians need to be conversant with English when addressing the media, especially if they wish to achieve international exposure for their pronouncements.
Have you noticed how our public figures seldom miss an opportunity to employ idiom and metaphor when addressing the media in English? This tendency is particularly prevalent among those whose home language is not English. Under such circumstances, the fact that they have learnt to converse in what is not the easiest of languages is commendable—and what better way to express their familiarity with the language than to trot out the odd idiom. Every language has its own idiom, closely linked to its cultural heritage. However, although one can be conversant with languages other than ones own, trotting out foreign idiom may result in misunderstanding (or even insult) if one is not fully acquainted with the relevant cultures.
Some of the best computer programs commissioned by ministries to translate texts from their own language into a chosen other language and back again have proved unable to handle idiom. An English-Russian-English program, for example, when tested with the phrase ‘Out of sight, out of mind’, responded with ‘Invisible and insane’.
When using metaphors there is also always the risk of mixing them up a little. A couple of prime examples will suffice. In answer to the question “How will you respond if your Party loses this by-election?” a spokesperson replied “We will burn that bridge when we get to it!” and (in blithe response to a torrent of protest over a previous utterance) another party stalwart said, “It runs off my back like duck’s water!”
In such off-the-cuff comments speakers are apt to get things a little mixed, or to say something hilarious when they did not intend to be humorous. On SAFM news one morning a few years ago, it was reported that condoms ordered for issue to school learners were of a size too large for teen-agers. Consequently it might increase the risk of HIV transference and pregnancy rather than reduce it. The concerned Doctor who had brought the matter to the notice of the relevant authorities concluded his sound-byte with the comment “You must have the right tool for the job, you know!”
Then there is what I call the Turnstone syndrome. The Turnstone is a migrant visitor to our shores, a small wading bird that may be seen running along the water’s edge, one of the several species collectively called Strandlopers in Afrikaans. Turnstones have broad and slightly upturned beaks, well adapted for prying under stones to uncover the small creepy-crawlies on which they feed. These birds are widespread in Europe, and may well have provided the example for the English cliche so often used in our crime-ridden country by those in charge of our safety and security—“No stone will be left unturned in the search for the perpetrators of this crime”. One wonders whether parliamentarians and their spokespersons might make less use the phrase if they were aware of the comment by ancient Greek playwright and satirist Aristophanes: “Under every stone lurks a politician.”
Leave no tern un-stoned
A different group of coastal seabirds are called terns. There are several look-alike species that are difficult for novice birders to identify with confidence, and at birder get-togethers the facetious comment “Leave no tern un-stoned” is often made. Sooner or later some political spokesperson is going to inadvertently commit this transposition of noun and adjective to pronounce that ‘‘no turn will be left un-stoned”—in the context of a drugs bust, it might even be appropriate.
Another much hackneyed phrase takes the form of “The fact of the matter is”. This argumentative statement is employed by English speakers from all walks of life, but especially by politicians who want to shout down the opposition. The ‘fact’ is often not a fact at all, but a personal opinion and it is as well to bear in mind that somebody using the phrase is often wrong, even at the top of his or her voice. But gullible people may well buy the argument. As George W. Bush is alleged to have said to his staff “You can fool some of the people all the time—and those are the ones you need to concentrate on.”
Older generations of English people like myself seldom have problems with foreign idiom. This is because, as an old German joke (translated) puts it: If a man speaks three languages, he is trilingual; if he speaks two languages he is bilingual; if he only speaks one language, he is English!
In 1964, that was a perceptive viewpoint. But the truth of his initial statement has endured, and today’s politicians need to be conversant with English when addressing the media, especially if they wish to achieve international exposure for their pronouncements.
Have you noticed how our public figures seldom miss an opportunity to employ idiom and metaphor when addressing the media in English? This tendency is particularly prevalent among those whose home language is not English. Under such circumstances, the fact that they have learnt to converse in what is not the easiest of languages is commendable—and what better way to express their familiarity with the language than to trot out the odd idiom. Every language has its own idiom, closely linked to its cultural heritage. However, although one can be conversant with languages other than ones own, trotting out foreign idiom may result in misunderstanding (or even insult) if one is not fully acquainted with the relevant cultures.
Some of the best computer programs commissioned by ministries to translate texts from their own language into a chosen other language and back again have proved unable to handle idiom. An English-Russian-English program, for example, when tested with the phrase ‘Out of sight, out of mind’, responded with ‘Invisible and insane’.
When using metaphors there is also always the risk of mixing them up a little. A couple of prime examples will suffice. In answer to the question “How will you respond if your Party loses this by-election?” a spokesperson replied “We will burn that bridge when we get to it!” and (in blithe response to a torrent of protest over a previous utterance) another party stalwart said, “It runs off my back like duck’s water!”
In such off-the-cuff comments speakers are apt to get things a little mixed, or to say something hilarious when they did not intend to be humorous. On SAFM news one morning a few years ago, it was reported that condoms ordered for issue to school learners were of a size too large for teen-agers. Consequently it might increase the risk of HIV transference and pregnancy rather than reduce it. The concerned Doctor who had brought the matter to the notice of the relevant authorities concluded his sound-byte with the comment “You must have the right tool for the job, you know!”
Then there is what I call the Turnstone syndrome. The Turnstone is a migrant visitor to our shores, a small wading bird that may be seen running along the water’s edge, one of the several species collectively called Strandlopers in Afrikaans. Turnstones have broad and slightly upturned beaks, well adapted for prying under stones to uncover the small creepy-crawlies on which they feed. These birds are widespread in Europe, and may well have provided the example for the English cliche so often used in our crime-ridden country by those in charge of our safety and security—“No stone will be left unturned in the search for the perpetrators of this crime”. One wonders whether parliamentarians and their spokespersons might make less use the phrase if they were aware of the comment by ancient Greek playwright and satirist Aristophanes: “Under every stone lurks a politician.”
Leave no tern un-stoned
A different group of coastal seabirds are called terns. There are several look-alike species that are difficult for novice birders to identify with confidence, and at birder get-togethers the facetious comment “Leave no tern un-stoned” is often made. Sooner or later some political spokesperson is going to inadvertently commit this transposition of noun and adjective to pronounce that ‘‘no turn will be left un-stoned”—in the context of a drugs bust, it might even be appropriate.
Another much hackneyed phrase takes the form of “The fact of the matter is”. This argumentative statement is employed by English speakers from all walks of life, but especially by politicians who want to shout down the opposition. The ‘fact’ is often not a fact at all, but a personal opinion and it is as well to bear in mind that somebody using the phrase is often wrong, even at the top of his or her voice. But gullible people may well buy the argument. As George W. Bush is alleged to have said to his staff “You can fool some of the people all the time—and those are the ones you need to concentrate on.”
Older generations of English people like myself seldom have problems with foreign idiom. This is because, as an old German joke (translated) puts it: If a man speaks three languages, he is trilingual; if he speaks two languages he is bilingual; if he only speaks one language, he is English!
A Moment in Wales - By Gillian Rattray
There are little white cottages on the green hillsides, white with gray slate roofs. Their walls are of stone from the Welsh quarries. All else is green and gray. Wales, I think to myself, is green and gray, yet the cottages are white. Even in the villages, where some of the walls of the houses are coloured, there is a look of gray. The small fields on the hillsides are enclosed by dark green hedges. There is nothing pretentious about the farms or the villages. I read somewhere that a person from Wales is not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but with music in his blood and poetry in his soul.
I have come to Wales, to the village of Brecon, for a short ceremony to be held to honour my son David. It will be commemorated by the Royal Welsh Regiment together with the Regimental Museum on the second anniversary of his death. I have come for just one day, for the ceremony.
The Commanding Officer of the regiment has sent his car and driver to Heathrow Airport to fetch me, so I travel in splendour along the curvy roads, through villages with names such as Pontypool and Abergavenny, names made familiar to me from the stories David told of the battles of Isandhlwana and Rorke’s Drift. The soldiers of that far-off Zulu war in 1879 came from farms in these valleys, from these villages. With names such as Jones and Williams. Most, it seemed, were called Jones. I think of those young lads taking Queen Victoria’s shilling, leaving their humble white-walled cottages for the vastness and strangeness of Africa, meeting, most of them, death at the hand of Zulu warriors. I think of the farewells, and their walk over the hills to the village of Brecon to join the regiment. I think of their mothers. I think of the heartbreak when so many did not return.
In Brecon we find the seventeenth century house, now a B & B, where I am to stay. It has thick walls, dark stout beams, creaking stairs and floors, and a Welsh name which I find unpronounceable.
In the beautifully appointed interior of the old house, in my quaint bedroom, I am made to feel at home. After a quick shower and a cup of tea, I walk to Brecon Cathedral, wherein are housed some relics which are very special to our family. In a side chapel of the beautiful building, where God has been worshiped for more than ten centuries, there hangs the Queen’s Colour of the regiment. Fugitives from the battle died, trying to save this relic. The bodies of the two men are buried on our farm in Zululand. The Colour was found, a month or so later, in the Buffalo River, also on our farm. The Queen later placed a circle of immortelles on the Standard of the Colour when it was presented to her after the war—the only time such an honour was granted by Her Majesty.
I am alone in the cathedral building so there is nothing to disturb me as I gaze at the relics. I ponder on the lives of so many men whose blood was spilled on a summer’s day in far-off Zululand.
It is cold when I awake the next morning: January the 26th—the second anniversary of David’s death. Grey clouds hang low over the town.
At noon I am fetched by a different driver—yesterday’s man is scheduled for exercises on Salisbury Plain. In the Officers Mess, part of the enormous and impressive brick building of the regimental barracks, we are given a buffet lunch and meet together with sixty or more of David’s friends, who have come from every part of Britain to witness and share in this celebration. There is more than a sprinkling of officers, smart in their uniforms, together with dignitaries from the town.
After lunch, we move to the garden of the Regimental Museum. The museum is enclosed by high and beautiful ancient gray brick walls; the memorial plaque is on one of these walls. At present it lies hidden behind a pair of green curtains, which my daughter-in-law will draw when the plaque is unveiled. To one side of the curtains stands Shenken, the goat, the regimental mascot, snow-white hair newly combed, resplendent in his green and gold coat, his much be-medalled sergeant ‘guardian’ at attention beside him. There is a simple basket of white flowers beneath the curtains.
Our little group gathers. My two grandsons stand tall and proud (in new dark coats, I observe), together with their mother, Brigadier Aitken and the Commanding Officer of the 1st Battalion, The Royal Regiment of Wales.
The assembly is greeted by the brigadier, followed by words from the Commanding Officer. They speak so kindly of my son, and talk of how he inspired reconciliation between the British and the Zulus. We all say together “They shall grow not old as we that are left, grow old. Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”
And then the bugler lifts his shiny bugle to his lips and plays the Last Post. Silence—and then the Reveille is played. The world seems to have come to an end. People from the village have gathered quietly outside the museum gate. They stand with heads bowed. The sun must have emerged from the gray clouds, as I feel its warmth drying the tears on my face.
Nicky then steps forward and unveils the plaque. How thrilled I am that it is fashioned of slate from the Welsh hills! For ever there will be a piece of Wales that is David’s. The words on the plaque are boldly carved:
IN PROUD MEMORY
OF
Dr. DAVID GREY RATTRAY1958-2007
FUGITIVES DRIFT LODGE
SOUTH AFRICA
ZULU WAR HISTORIAN
AND
REGIMENTAL FRIEND
While I , myself, feel a connection to each Welsh mother who lost a son at the hand of Zulus in far-off Africa, my heart is warmed by the recognition of this famous regiment of Wales to one of South Africa’s sons.
I have come to Wales, to the village of Brecon, for a short ceremony to be held to honour my son David. It will be commemorated by the Royal Welsh Regiment together with the Regimental Museum on the second anniversary of his death. I have come for just one day, for the ceremony.
The Commanding Officer of the regiment has sent his car and driver to Heathrow Airport to fetch me, so I travel in splendour along the curvy roads, through villages with names such as Pontypool and Abergavenny, names made familiar to me from the stories David told of the battles of Isandhlwana and Rorke’s Drift. The soldiers of that far-off Zulu war in 1879 came from farms in these valleys, from these villages. With names such as Jones and Williams. Most, it seemed, were called Jones. I think of those young lads taking Queen Victoria’s shilling, leaving their humble white-walled cottages for the vastness and strangeness of Africa, meeting, most of them, death at the hand of Zulu warriors. I think of the farewells, and their walk over the hills to the village of Brecon to join the regiment. I think of their mothers. I think of the heartbreak when so many did not return.
In Brecon we find the seventeenth century house, now a B & B, where I am to stay. It has thick walls, dark stout beams, creaking stairs and floors, and a Welsh name which I find unpronounceable.
In the beautifully appointed interior of the old house, in my quaint bedroom, I am made to feel at home. After a quick shower and a cup of tea, I walk to Brecon Cathedral, wherein are housed some relics which are very special to our family. In a side chapel of the beautiful building, where God has been worshiped for more than ten centuries, there hangs the Queen’s Colour of the regiment. Fugitives from the battle died, trying to save this relic. The bodies of the two men are buried on our farm in Zululand. The Colour was found, a month or so later, in the Buffalo River, also on our farm. The Queen later placed a circle of immortelles on the Standard of the Colour when it was presented to her after the war—the only time such an honour was granted by Her Majesty.
I am alone in the cathedral building so there is nothing to disturb me as I gaze at the relics. I ponder on the lives of so many men whose blood was spilled on a summer’s day in far-off Zululand.
It is cold when I awake the next morning: January the 26th—the second anniversary of David’s death. Grey clouds hang low over the town.
At noon I am fetched by a different driver—yesterday’s man is scheduled for exercises on Salisbury Plain. In the Officers Mess, part of the enormous and impressive brick building of the regimental barracks, we are given a buffet lunch and meet together with sixty or more of David’s friends, who have come from every part of Britain to witness and share in this celebration. There is more than a sprinkling of officers, smart in their uniforms, together with dignitaries from the town.
After lunch, we move to the garden of the Regimental Museum. The museum is enclosed by high and beautiful ancient gray brick walls; the memorial plaque is on one of these walls. At present it lies hidden behind a pair of green curtains, which my daughter-in-law will draw when the plaque is unveiled. To one side of the curtains stands Shenken, the goat, the regimental mascot, snow-white hair newly combed, resplendent in his green and gold coat, his much be-medalled sergeant ‘guardian’ at attention beside him. There is a simple basket of white flowers beneath the curtains.
Our little group gathers. My two grandsons stand tall and proud (in new dark coats, I observe), together with their mother, Brigadier Aitken and the Commanding Officer of the 1st Battalion, The Royal Regiment of Wales.
The assembly is greeted by the brigadier, followed by words from the Commanding Officer. They speak so kindly of my son, and talk of how he inspired reconciliation between the British and the Zulus. We all say together “They shall grow not old as we that are left, grow old. Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”
And then the bugler lifts his shiny bugle to his lips and plays the Last Post. Silence—and then the Reveille is played. The world seems to have come to an end. People from the village have gathered quietly outside the museum gate. They stand with heads bowed. The sun must have emerged from the gray clouds, as I feel its warmth drying the tears on my face.
Nicky then steps forward and unveils the plaque. How thrilled I am that it is fashioned of slate from the Welsh hills! For ever there will be a piece of Wales that is David’s. The words on the plaque are boldly carved:
IN PROUD MEMORY
OF
Dr. DAVID GREY RATTRAY1958-2007
FUGITIVES DRIFT LODGE
SOUTH AFRICA
ZULU WAR HISTORIAN
AND
REGIMENTAL FRIEND
While I , myself, feel a connection to each Welsh mother who lost a son at the hand of Zulus in far-off Africa, my heart is warmed by the recognition of this famous regiment of Wales to one of South Africa’s sons.
How does Milford Track compare to our own Hiking Trails? - By John Hely-Hutchinson
What makes a seventy-eight year old man travel halfway round the world, in order to hike a sixty km trail and clamber over a thousand metre mountain in the company of strangers?
Allison and I had given ourselves a trip to New Zealand as a golden wedding present, and, since we were there anyway, I applied to tramp the Milford Track, one of the most famous hiking trails in the world, which is enjoyed by 14 000 walkers every year.
Its fame rests partly on history. It lies near the southern tip of New Zealand, which contains scenery grand enough to form a backdrop to the film ‘Lord of the Rings’. The northern end of the track is barren, but contains greenstone, which was used by the Maoris hundreds of years ago for making ornaments. At the southern end, lies a fertile plain inhabited by craftsmen who carved the stone. The stone could not be conveyed to the craftsmen round the coast by sea, because the roaring forties made the waves too rough for even the most seaworthy Maori canoes, so a route had to be found through the intervening mountains. Luckily, volcanic action had split the mountains open into deep canyons, giving glaciers and rivers a chance to level the valley floors. The chosen route, which was further developed by Scotsmen in the early twentieth century, follows two of the canyons, which are separated by a high watershed.
The scenery, which includes the canyons, the watershed and the final view of Milford Sound, is grand, but much of it tends to be veiled in cloud. What are always visible are some fine waterfalls, one of them nearly 600 m tall, which pour down impressive rock faces and splash into refreshing swimming holes. Rain is frequent, and avalanches and wash-a-ways occur several times a year, which adds to the excitement. New Zealand is further south than we are, so the weather is cooler, but it is also nearer the ozone hole over the south pole, so sunscreen is essential.
The route is lined with trees. Unfortunately the track lies too far south to see the magnificent kauris, but at the southern end there is a dense beech-forest, which merges into alpine scrub as the ground rises, while towards the northern end, there are miles of tree-ferns. These are New Zealand’s national plants, which look like our own Cycads, although they are not biologically related. There are also sprays of mountain buttercups growing out of the barren ground at the edge of the track, like spring flowers in the Karoo.
Bird Life
Birds abound. One couldn’t see the Kiwi, New Zealand's national bird, because it moves at night. And the track is too far south for the stunning black swan. But the chicken-sized Pekas will walk up to hikers almost near enough to be touched. Apparently they are very good to eat, but luckily hikers are not primarily interested in gourmet cooking. On the other hand, the Kea parrots are destructive. They will attack unattended packs with gusto. They are particularly fond of boots, which they rip to pieces. So gear has to be hung up, in the same way as we ourselves hang up our hiking gear to discourage baboons. The only noticeable insects are sand-flies, which bite and have to be warned off with sprays. We saw no reptiles, not even the attractive lizards and there are no snakes, so perhaps St Patrick visited the country long before the Maoris. The only wild mammals we saw during our entire trip to New Zealand live in the sea namely seals, dolphins and a whale.
New Zealanders are essentially democratic, so the Milford track has been prepared for everyone, including those who have never donned a pack before. The path underfoot is less rocky than the trails we are used to hiking in the Cape. The bridges over the streams are well-made, and their wood flooring is covered with netting to prevent slipping. The overnight huts are as good as the Cape huts, with the additional advantages that cooking fires are provided, as well as game wardens who highlight points of interest and forecast the weather.
A local touring company offers an easy luxury tour of the track, on which hot food, laundry and bedding are provided. But the cost is beyond the budget of most South Africans. As a hiker on the standard tour, I prepared myself thoroughly, walking my boots in for a year beforehand and choosing my kit on the advice of a friend who had done it before. As an individual hiker, I had to cater for every eventuality. However, after a lot of economies, I reduced my pack weight to only 7 kg, including dehydrated food for morning and evening. Over the previous two months I had practiced hiking with a full pack for an hour most days.
Although the track itself is too narrow to walk more than one abreast, there was a lot of chat at the passing—and at beauty-spots. One common question was “How old are you?” When I told them, they said: “You’re doing well”. When I asked one of them how old he was, he replied “Thirty-five and struggling”, so I countered: “Then you’ve got a lot of adventure ahead of you.” He went on: “I thought I’d try this before I got too old, but looking at you, I’ve got plenty more years of tramping ahead of me”. To which I replied “If your wife looks after you as well as mine has over the past fifty years, you should have no trouble”.
At the huts, talk was general and it was hard to make oneself heard. The whole world was turned upside down in these discussions. No-one escaped unscathed: Barrack Obama, Hillary Clinton, Al Gore, as well as science, religion, global warming and democracy—they all took a knock. Even South Africa did not escape scot-free. During the conversations, single trampers like myself would be welcomed into a group, and permanent friendships were built up.
Comparing the scenery with our local trails, Milford Sound itself is stunning and there is no equivalent here. But one sees it only for a few minutes. The canyons are cooler and smoother than for instance our Fish River and the valley floors are covered with trees. The watershed is nowhere near as spectacular as the Drakensberg or even the Langeberg summits and one certainly misses our Kruisarende. The waterfalls are comparable to ours. Much of the scenery is softer, and in a way more European. The Scottish pioneers no doubt felt very much at home there.The route itself is not all that strenuous. This means that ordinary folk, with no experience of hiking, can enjoy it. The presence of these first-timers makes it a rather civilized experience. Some folk feel such a sense of achievement at the end of the trail that they leave their boots hanging on the sign at the exit. For them, first-time is last-time. But on the route itself, they interact closely with each other—a closeness which melds with the scenery and effort into a warm fellowship, a fellowship I wouldn't have missed for all the world.
Allison and I had given ourselves a trip to New Zealand as a golden wedding present, and, since we were there anyway, I applied to tramp the Milford Track, one of the most famous hiking trails in the world, which is enjoyed by 14 000 walkers every year.Its fame rests partly on history. It lies near the southern tip of New Zealand, which contains scenery grand enough to form a backdrop to the film ‘Lord of the Rings’. The northern end of the track is barren, but contains greenstone, which was used by the Maoris hundreds of years ago for making ornaments. At the southern end, lies a fertile plain inhabited by craftsmen who carved the stone. The stone could not be conveyed to the craftsmen round the coast by sea, because the roaring forties made the waves too rough for even the most seaworthy Maori canoes, so a route had to be found through the intervening mountains. Luckily, volcanic action had split the mountains open into deep canyons, giving glaciers and rivers a chance to level the valley floors. The chosen route, which was further developed by Scotsmen in the early twentieth century, follows two of the canyons, which are separated by a high watershed.
The scenery, which includes the canyons, the watershed and the final view of Milford Sound, is grand, but much of it tends to be veiled in cloud. What are always visible are some fine waterfalls, one of them nearly 600 m tall, which pour down impressive rock faces and splash into refreshing swimming holes. Rain is frequent, and avalanches and wash-a-ways occur several times a year, which adds to the excitement. New Zealand is further south than we are, so the weather is cooler, but it is also nearer the ozone hole over the south pole, so sunscreen is essential.
The route is lined with trees. Unfortunately the track lies too far south to see the magnificent kauris, but at the southern end there is a dense beech-forest, which merges into alpine scrub as the ground rises, while towards the northern end, there are miles of tree-ferns. These are New Zealand’s national plants, which look like our own Cycads, although they are not biologically related. There are also sprays of mountain buttercups growing out of the barren ground at the edge of the track, like spring flowers in the Karoo.
Bird Life
Birds abound. One couldn’t see the Kiwi, New Zealand's national bird, because it moves at night. And the track is too far south for the stunning black swan. But the chicken-sized Pekas will walk up to hikers almost near enough to be touched. Apparently they are very good to eat, but luckily hikers are not primarily interested in gourmet cooking. On the other hand, the Kea parrots are destructive. They will attack unattended packs with gusto. They are particularly fond of boots, which they rip to pieces. So gear has to be hung up, in the same way as we ourselves hang up our hiking gear to discourage baboons. The only noticeable insects are sand-flies, which bite and have to be warned off with sprays. We saw no reptiles, not even the attractive lizards and there are no snakes, so perhaps St Patrick visited the country long before the Maoris. The only wild mammals we saw during our entire trip to New Zealand live in the sea namely seals, dolphins and a whale.
New Zealanders are essentially democratic, so the Milford track has been prepared for everyone, including those who have never donned a pack before. The path underfoot is less rocky than the trails we are used to hiking in the Cape. The bridges over the streams are well-made, and their wood flooring is covered with netting to prevent slipping. The overnight huts are as good as the Cape huts, with the additional advantages that cooking fires are provided, as well as game wardens who highlight points of interest and forecast the weather.
A local touring company offers an easy luxury tour of the track, on which hot food, laundry and bedding are provided. But the cost is beyond the budget of most South Africans. As a hiker on the standard tour, I prepared myself thoroughly, walking my boots in for a year beforehand and choosing my kit on the advice of a friend who had done it before. As an individual hiker, I had to cater for every eventuality. However, after a lot of economies, I reduced my pack weight to only 7 kg, including dehydrated food for morning and evening. Over the previous two months I had practiced hiking with a full pack for an hour most days.
Although the track itself is too narrow to walk more than one abreast, there was a lot of chat at the passing—and at beauty-spots. One common question was “How old are you?” When I told them, they said: “You’re doing well”. When I asked one of them how old he was, he replied “Thirty-five and struggling”, so I countered: “Then you’ve got a lot of adventure ahead of you.” He went on: “I thought I’d try this before I got too old, but looking at you, I’ve got plenty more years of tramping ahead of me”. To which I replied “If your wife looks after you as well as mine has over the past fifty years, you should have no trouble”.
At the huts, talk was general and it was hard to make oneself heard. The whole world was turned upside down in these discussions. No-one escaped unscathed: Barrack Obama, Hillary Clinton, Al Gore, as well as science, religion, global warming and democracy—they all took a knock. Even South Africa did not escape scot-free. During the conversations, single trampers like myself would be welcomed into a group, and permanent friendships were built up.
Comparing the scenery with our local trails, Milford Sound itself is stunning and there is no equivalent here. But one sees it only for a few minutes. The canyons are cooler and smoother than for instance our Fish River and the valley floors are covered with trees. The watershed is nowhere near as spectacular as the Drakensberg or even the Langeberg summits and one certainly misses our Kruisarende. The waterfalls are comparable to ours. Much of the scenery is softer, and in a way more European. The Scottish pioneers no doubt felt very much at home there.The route itself is not all that strenuous. This means that ordinary folk, with no experience of hiking, can enjoy it. The presence of these first-timers makes it a rather civilized experience. Some folk feel such a sense of achievement at the end of the trail that they leave their boots hanging on the sign at the exit. For them, first-time is last-time. But on the route itself, they interact closely with each other—a closeness which melds with the scenery and effort into a warm fellowship, a fellowship I wouldn't have missed for all the world.
A Sketch in Cuisine - By Wendy Hose
Autumn is a second spring
When every leaf is a flower.
Albert Camus
The Papino Story
Papaws are now in season and, after some research, I came across this interesting story. Papaws or papaya (carrica papaya) is a tropical fruit, indigenous to South America. It was ungainly in size and did not travel well during the long sea journeys to their destinations.
So, in 1919, the Hawaii Agricultural station developed a new ‘solo’ variety—a smaller fruit about 7 to 13 cm in diameter. It was called ‘solo’ because one man could eat a whole fruit by himself.
In South Africa, in the Letsitele valley nestling in the foothills of the Drakensburg mountain, Len Hobson, an enterprising descendant of the 1820 British Settlers, decided that the local papaw variety which he grew, could be improved. After more than 10 years of experimenting, he succeeded in a obtaining a vastly improved smaller fruit with the most delicious flavour. The Papino is low in calories, nutritious and an excellent source of vitamin C, riboflavin and calcium. They also do not discolour when cut.
The new papaw is registered at home and abroad under the trade name ‘Papino’ Hobson’s Choice. (see the book “Papino Papaws Please” Muller & Retief )
This beautifully shaped papaw is a delight for making the most eye-catching dishes and I have chosen two recipes for you to try.
Festive Fruit Cup
(4 servings)
2 ripe round-shaped Papinos
1 large orange, segmented
2-3 tinned peach halves (or fresh ones if possible)
15 green grapes
1 tablespoon French dressing
60 g cream cheese
1 tablespoon chopped walnuts
Small sprigs of mint
4 glass fruit cups.
Cut the Papinos in half—straight across—and decorate the edges with a saw tooth movement. Mix the cut-up orange segments with pieces of peaches and quartered, pipped grapes. Toss the fruit in French dressing and spoon into the Papino halves. Mix the cream cheese with finely chopped walnuts and add a teaspoonful on top of each fruit cup. Decorate with half a black or green grape and a small sprig of mint and serve on a lettuce leaf or a small paper doily.
Chicken Salad Platter
(6 servings)
Lettuce
6 portions of cold cooked chicken
½ lemon or lime
1 Papino
1 green apple
2 young stalks of celery
½ green pepper
½ to 1 cup mayonnaise
2 to 3 tablespoons walnuts
Watercress and lemon or lime slices
Arrange lettuce leaves on an oval meat platter. Arrange the skinned chicken portions in the centre and sprinkle with a little lime or lemon juice. Cube the Papino and the green apple. Roughly chop the celery and green pepper as well as the walnuts. Mix the fruits, nuts and vegetables with mayonnaise to moisten the mixture thoroughly. Spoon the fruit and vegetable mixtures around the chicken. Garnish with watercress and thin lemon wedges. Sprinkle with a little paprika. This salad is a complete and tasty meal in itself. Although this is for 6 servings, it is easily adapted for more or less servings.
The following bread recipe makes a nice accompaniment for a luncheon instead of rolls:
Quick Sun-dried Tomato and Olive Loaf.
4 eggs
500 ml Self-raising flour
5 ml baking powder
5 ml salt
45 ml olive oil
30 ml tomato puree
A good grinding of black pepper
100 g black olives, rinsed and dried
125 ml fresh basil, chopped or
15 ml mixed dried herbs
8 sun-dried tomatoes, roughly chopped.
Beat the eggs thoroughly. In a large bowl sift flour with baking powder and salt. Mix in the eggs to form a dough. Add the olive oil, tomato puree and pepper, stirring well to combine. Remove pips from the olives and chop flesh roughly. Dry olives before adding to the mixture, together with basil and sun-dried tomatoes. It may be necessary to add a few spoonfuls of water to produce a soft, but not runny, dough.Spoon into a greased, 23 cm x 13 cm loaf tin (first line the bottom with baking paper for ease of removing the loaf). Bake for 45 minutes at 180 degrees.
When every leaf is a flower.
Albert Camus
The Papino Story
Papaws are now in season and, after some research, I came across this interesting story. Papaws or papaya (carrica papaya) is a tropical fruit, indigenous to South America. It was ungainly in size and did not travel well during the long sea journeys to their destinations.
So, in 1919, the Hawaii Agricultural station developed a new ‘solo’ variety—a smaller fruit about 7 to 13 cm in diameter. It was called ‘solo’ because one man could eat a whole fruit by himself.
In South Africa, in the Letsitele valley nestling in the foothills of the Drakensburg mountain, Len Hobson, an enterprising descendant of the 1820 British Settlers, decided that the local papaw variety which he grew, could be improved. After more than 10 years of experimenting, he succeeded in a obtaining a vastly improved smaller fruit with the most delicious flavour. The Papino is low in calories, nutritious and an excellent source of vitamin C, riboflavin and calcium. They also do not discolour when cut.
The new papaw is registered at home and abroad under the trade name ‘Papino’ Hobson’s Choice. (see the book “Papino Papaws Please” Muller & Retief )
This beautifully shaped papaw is a delight for making the most eye-catching dishes and I have chosen two recipes for you to try.
Festive Fruit Cup
(4 servings)
2 ripe round-shaped Papinos
1 large orange, segmented
2-3 tinned peach halves (or fresh ones if possible)
15 green grapes
1 tablespoon French dressing
60 g cream cheese
1 tablespoon chopped walnuts
Small sprigs of mint
4 glass fruit cups.
Cut the Papinos in half—straight across—and decorate the edges with a saw tooth movement. Mix the cut-up orange segments with pieces of peaches and quartered, pipped grapes. Toss the fruit in French dressing and spoon into the Papino halves. Mix the cream cheese with finely chopped walnuts and add a teaspoonful on top of each fruit cup. Decorate with half a black or green grape and a small sprig of mint and serve on a lettuce leaf or a small paper doily.
Chicken Salad Platter
(6 servings)
Lettuce
6 portions of cold cooked chicken
½ lemon or lime
1 Papino
1 green apple
2 young stalks of celery
½ green pepper
½ to 1 cup mayonnaise
2 to 3 tablespoons walnuts
Watercress and lemon or lime slices
Arrange lettuce leaves on an oval meat platter. Arrange the skinned chicken portions in the centre and sprinkle with a little lime or lemon juice. Cube the Papino and the green apple. Roughly chop the celery and green pepper as well as the walnuts. Mix the fruits, nuts and vegetables with mayonnaise to moisten the mixture thoroughly. Spoon the fruit and vegetable mixtures around the chicken. Garnish with watercress and thin lemon wedges. Sprinkle with a little paprika. This salad is a complete and tasty meal in itself. Although this is for 6 servings, it is easily adapted for more or less servings.
The following bread recipe makes a nice accompaniment for a luncheon instead of rolls:
Quick Sun-dried Tomato and Olive Loaf.
4 eggs
500 ml Self-raising flour
5 ml baking powder
5 ml salt
45 ml olive oil
30 ml tomato puree
A good grinding of black pepper
100 g black olives, rinsed and dried
125 ml fresh basil, chopped or
15 ml mixed dried herbs
8 sun-dried tomatoes, roughly chopped.
Beat the eggs thoroughly. In a large bowl sift flour with baking powder and salt. Mix in the eggs to form a dough. Add the olive oil, tomato puree and pepper, stirring well to combine. Remove pips from the olives and chop flesh roughly. Dry olives before adding to the mixture, together with basil and sun-dried tomatoes. It may be necessary to add a few spoonfuls of water to produce a soft, but not runny, dough.Spoon into a greased, 23 cm x 13 cm loaf tin (first line the bottom with baking paper for ease of removing the loaf). Bake for 45 minutes at 180 degrees.
Expert Advice from the (Not So Wacky) Wine Woman
Whether we are actively engaged in business, the hospitality industry or simply concerned with the neat and pleasing appearance of our towns, we cannot pretend to be disinterested when the word ‘tourism’ crops up. After all, it was only two years ago that, for the first time in the country’s history, tourism surpassed gold to become our top earner of foreign exchange.
In the Western Cape alone, about 10% of our workforce is employed in the tourism sector which, so it is reported, creates about 20 000 to 30 000 new jobs annually. Not only is tourism a sector with potential for growth, it can be a useful tool in alleviating poverty and unemployment.
Swellendam stands at the cusp of this development. Despite its potential, people complain that little or even nothing is being done to promote local tourism. This then gives rise to negative assessments and depressing reports by none other than the municipality itself which declares: “Tourism in its present structure is not at all a driving force for development”.
Mindful and aware of these negatives and undercurrents, some local residents have decided, yet once again, that the horse is not quite dead—yet and should perhaps be flogged (in the most kindly manner!) to try and revive an industry which, by no stretch of the imagination, should be dead or even lagging!
As a consequence, Daan van Rensburg, Chairman of the Swellendam Business Chamber, and Brian Strang, Chairman of the newly established Swellendam Tourist Organisation, convened a meeting on 9 February to enlighten the local business community and interested persons as to this new phase in the marketing of Swellendam as a tourist destination.
How refreshing therefore to perceive this local initiative and how important it was to attend a meeting to hear from Brian Strang what this initiative is all about. The meeting became even more important in that the main speaker was Bonita Malherbe, the pre-eminently successful manager and promoter of Robertson Wine Valley for the past six years.
Her dynamic presentation, if it could be weighed, was of purest gold. She fully agreed with those who had found the going tough, frustrating and fruitless saying that it would not always be easy. Here she quoted Og Mandino: “Failure will never overtake me as long as my determination to succeed is strong enough!” Clearly, as her subsequent address proved, if the spirit is willing, anything is possible.
As far as the Robertson Valley was concerned, she explained that, to begin with, the situation had been disturbing with a low, overall morale. This however had the positive advantage in that anything would have been an improvement!
They had started off with no elaborate marketing plan and a very small budget. The board had decided that initially, all they needed was ‘feet’ and that they should just stick with the basics and focus on events.
The Board opted for a concept of ‘Destination Marketing’ and decided to position the Robertson Wine Valley amongst the leading wine regions of the world, recognised for its wine, experiences and practices.
Phenomenal Growth
Staring with a modest budget of R26 000 in 2004 bringing 2500 visitors, the concept enjoyed phenomenal growth. By 2008, it had, with over 16 000 visitors, grown into the biggest regional wine fest with a R20.8 million impact. 57 activities in 2004 had increased to an astonishing 600 in 2008.
Regarding the related concept of Robertson Slow, Bonita explained that here too, valuable lessons have been learned—the hard way. One should not assume anything—a recipe cannot just be copied. Marketing approaches and strategies have to be adapted for each target market.
Lessons learned in the process include the following: communication is the key to any change; what you focus on, people will focus on; always give value for money; engage with your visitors and strive to get the feedback; don’t compare with other similar projects and don’t get too emotionally involved with projects—if it’s not working, change it.
Speaking generally, Bonita said the biggest mistake would be not doing anything. Secondly, face the fact that there is lots of red tape in Tourism—get over it, work with it. While advertising had been kept to a minimum, the harnessing of new technologies such as Facebook and viral campaigns, was essential. A good website and database was crucial but one still had to be clever! Finally, one has to maintain good media relations—one’s image has to figure significantly in the overall network!Lastly but not least, Bonita paid tribute to her team. Both the Board and staff were wholly committed and worked together in strong unity.
In the Western Cape alone, about 10% of our workforce is employed in the tourism sector which, so it is reported, creates about 20 000 to 30 000 new jobs annually. Not only is tourism a sector with potential for growth, it can be a useful tool in alleviating poverty and unemployment.
Swellendam stands at the cusp of this development. Despite its potential, people complain that little or even nothing is being done to promote local tourism. This then gives rise to negative assessments and depressing reports by none other than the municipality itself which declares: “Tourism in its present structure is not at all a driving force for development”.
Mindful and aware of these negatives and undercurrents, some local residents have decided, yet once again, that the horse is not quite dead—yet and should perhaps be flogged (in the most kindly manner!) to try and revive an industry which, by no stretch of the imagination, should be dead or even lagging!
As a consequence, Daan van Rensburg, Chairman of the Swellendam Business Chamber, and Brian Strang, Chairman of the newly established Swellendam Tourist Organisation, convened a meeting on 9 February to enlighten the local business community and interested persons as to this new phase in the marketing of Swellendam as a tourist destination.
How refreshing therefore to perceive this local initiative and how important it was to attend a meeting to hear from Brian Strang what this initiative is all about. The meeting became even more important in that the main speaker was Bonita Malherbe, the pre-eminently successful manager and promoter of Robertson Wine Valley for the past six years.
Her dynamic presentation, if it could be weighed, was of purest gold. She fully agreed with those who had found the going tough, frustrating and fruitless saying that it would not always be easy. Here she quoted Og Mandino: “Failure will never overtake me as long as my determination to succeed is strong enough!” Clearly, as her subsequent address proved, if the spirit is willing, anything is possible.
As far as the Robertson Valley was concerned, she explained that, to begin with, the situation had been disturbing with a low, overall morale. This however had the positive advantage in that anything would have been an improvement!
They had started off with no elaborate marketing plan and a very small budget. The board had decided that initially, all they needed was ‘feet’ and that they should just stick with the basics and focus on events.
The Board opted for a concept of ‘Destination Marketing’ and decided to position the Robertson Wine Valley amongst the leading wine regions of the world, recognised for its wine, experiences and practices.
Phenomenal Growth
Staring with a modest budget of R26 000 in 2004 bringing 2500 visitors, the concept enjoyed phenomenal growth. By 2008, it had, with over 16 000 visitors, grown into the biggest regional wine fest with a R20.8 million impact. 57 activities in 2004 had increased to an astonishing 600 in 2008.
Regarding the related concept of Robertson Slow, Bonita explained that here too, valuable lessons have been learned—the hard way. One should not assume anything—a recipe cannot just be copied. Marketing approaches and strategies have to be adapted for each target market.
Lessons learned in the process include the following: communication is the key to any change; what you focus on, people will focus on; always give value for money; engage with your visitors and strive to get the feedback; don’t compare with other similar projects and don’t get too emotionally involved with projects—if it’s not working, change it.
Speaking generally, Bonita said the biggest mistake would be not doing anything. Secondly, face the fact that there is lots of red tape in Tourism—get over it, work with it. While advertising had been kept to a minimum, the harnessing of new technologies such as Facebook and viral campaigns, was essential. A good website and database was crucial but one still had to be clever! Finally, one has to maintain good media relations—one’s image has to figure significantly in the overall network!Lastly but not least, Bonita paid tribute to her team. Both the Board and staff were wholly committed and worked together in strong unity.
Consequence of Touch - By Wagtale
How privileged we are to be able to get an insight into the workings of the mind of a leading creative artist and to see not only a presentation and examples of her work but learn of the background and motivation itself . Last month it was a great pleasure to be able to attend such a presentation where the new and decidedly ‘lateral’ work of Dr. Hanja Badenhorst went on display at her gallery Artery.
We saw beautifully modelled, delicate human hands crafted to portray both the instigator of touch, accompanied with surgical tools etc, and the supplicant, receiving of healing.
Here in her own words, Hanja explains how she was motivated to branch out into such a very different (for her) milieu.
Touch Mediates
Historically, touch was considered to be a most important sense. Aristotle and the Stoic philosophers held that touch mediates every type of sense perception, even vision, as invisible particles bombard various surfaces of the body to convey smell, taste and sound. Of all social behaviours, touch is recognised as one of the most carefully guarded and monitored.
Touching another’s body generates an immediate demand for a response, as well as a special intimacy (or even a threat) unique among communicative behaviour.
I am concerned with the theme of medical and scientific intervention in the human body and specifically, the consequences of touch as I experience it in my profession as private general practitioner and part-time medical officer in a state hospital. The medical professional’s hands are used on a daily basis both as a diagnostic as well as therapeutic tool in handling medical and surgical equipment to cure or alleviate pain and suffering. It follows that, not only vulnerability but also a sense of invasion can be experienced by both giver and receiver of touch. Hence, the consequences of touch are far-reaching for both giver and receiver of the touching action. One is expected to keep a distance and not become emotionally involved.
The natural response is to set up barriers, either physical or emotional, which protect both givers and receivers of the consequences of touch and thereby overcome the awkwardness and the invasiveness of certain examinations or procedures.
The art-science discourse
My work is informed by the art-science discourse, currently relevant in the contemporary art world. I have been influenced by the work of the Institute of Unnecessary Research (IUR), an international group of artists working in the field of practice-based research into science and technology. Amongst these, Heather Barnett’s work explores the intersections of art, science and technology—often in collaboration with non-arts professionals and processes. As an artist in residence in various settings in the medical and scientific sphere, her work is concerned with issues of society, technology and identity with particular reference to medical science.
My own work methodology was executed on a more personal level, as I deal with the doctor-patient relationship daily on a first-hand basis. In my installation work, Tact(ful) 2008, I use images of surgical instruments printed on open latex gloves and mounted on glass. My later phase, Tact(ful) 2009, combines real surgical instruments with wax casts of bare and gloved hands, displaying the instruments in glass containers on light boxes. Pure white wax casts are used not only to create a clinical context, but also to emphasise its somatic connotations by simulating bare skin and skin covered in latex. Some of the instruments were manipulated by means of wrapping with latex, communicating the protective attempts to create barrier mechanisms to overcome the awkwardness of invasive experiences.
The wax casts are displayed in glass containers on the light boxes, rendering them luminous, but at the same time rigid or totemic—fragile but yet seemingly indestructible, referring to the tension that exists for the giver of touch in the clinical setup, in creating physical and emotional barriers—as compensating mechanisms—to overcome emotional involvement.
Conclusion
Although my work is based on my daily experience on a rather personal level, I draw inspiration from the medical sciences in order to create contemporary art which is accessible to the general public. I attempt to provoke the viewer into critically engaging with the dominant ideologies regarding the human body today, especially that of the medical profession and the far-reaching consequences of clinical touch.In my video projection work, Latex (2008), I was also influenced by the work of Leora Farber. I used clinical film footage, but with more subtle references to invasion—or perceived invasion—than Farber’s rather aggressive portrayal. Digitally manipulated footage of putting on and removing latex examination gloves was played in a continuous loop and projected onto a suspended hospital bed linen screen. The manipulation of these images render them ominous, alien and, at times, even menacing. As a result, the work strongly communicates the invasion experienced by the receiving party, as well as the executor of the procedures.
We saw beautifully modelled, delicate human hands crafted to portray both the instigator of touch, accompanied with surgical tools etc, and the supplicant, receiving of healing.
Here in her own words, Hanja explains how she was motivated to branch out into such a very different (for her) milieu.
Touch Mediates
Historically, touch was considered to be a most important sense. Aristotle and the Stoic philosophers held that touch mediates every type of sense perception, even vision, as invisible particles bombard various surfaces of the body to convey smell, taste and sound. Of all social behaviours, touch is recognised as one of the most carefully guarded and monitored.
Touching another’s body generates an immediate demand for a response, as well as a special intimacy (or even a threat) unique among communicative behaviour.
I am concerned with the theme of medical and scientific intervention in the human body and specifically, the consequences of touch as I experience it in my profession as private general practitioner and part-time medical officer in a state hospital. The medical professional’s hands are used on a daily basis both as a diagnostic as well as therapeutic tool in handling medical and surgical equipment to cure or alleviate pain and suffering. It follows that, not only vulnerability but also a sense of invasion can be experienced by both giver and receiver of touch. Hence, the consequences of touch are far-reaching for both giver and receiver of the touching action. One is expected to keep a distance and not become emotionally involved.
The natural response is to set up barriers, either physical or emotional, which protect both givers and receivers of the consequences of touch and thereby overcome the awkwardness and the invasiveness of certain examinations or procedures.
The art-science discourse
My work is informed by the art-science discourse, currently relevant in the contemporary art world. I have been influenced by the work of the Institute of Unnecessary Research (IUR), an international group of artists working in the field of practice-based research into science and technology. Amongst these, Heather Barnett’s work explores the intersections of art, science and technology—often in collaboration with non-arts professionals and processes. As an artist in residence in various settings in the medical and scientific sphere, her work is concerned with issues of society, technology and identity with particular reference to medical science.
My own work methodology was executed on a more personal level, as I deal with the doctor-patient relationship daily on a first-hand basis. In my installation work, Tact(ful) 2008, I use images of surgical instruments printed on open latex gloves and mounted on glass. My later phase, Tact(ful) 2009, combines real surgical instruments with wax casts of bare and gloved hands, displaying the instruments in glass containers on light boxes. Pure white wax casts are used not only to create a clinical context, but also to emphasise its somatic connotations by simulating bare skin and skin covered in latex. Some of the instruments were manipulated by means of wrapping with latex, communicating the protective attempts to create barrier mechanisms to overcome the awkwardness of invasive experiences.
The wax casts are displayed in glass containers on the light boxes, rendering them luminous, but at the same time rigid or totemic—fragile but yet seemingly indestructible, referring to the tension that exists for the giver of touch in the clinical setup, in creating physical and emotional barriers—as compensating mechanisms—to overcome emotional involvement.
Conclusion
Although my work is based on my daily experience on a rather personal level, I draw inspiration from the medical sciences in order to create contemporary art which is accessible to the general public. I attempt to provoke the viewer into critically engaging with the dominant ideologies regarding the human body today, especially that of the medical profession and the far-reaching consequences of clinical touch.In my video projection work, Latex (2008), I was also influenced by the work of Leora Farber. I used clinical film footage, but with more subtle references to invasion—or perceived invasion—than Farber’s rather aggressive portrayal. Digitally manipulated footage of putting on and removing latex examination gloves was played in a continuous loop and projected onto a suspended hospital bed linen screen. The manipulation of these images render them ominous, alien and, at times, even menacing. As a result, the work strongly communicates the invasion experienced by the receiving party, as well as the executor of the procedures.
Swellendam Stargazers - By Dr. Christian Glatz
An exciting new tourist attraction has been added to Swellendam’s ever-growing repertoire of activities.
A group of young enthusiasts, Chris Heyneman, Petro Janse van Rensburg, Christian Glatz and Sanet Glatz, each with a passion for astronomy, have decided that Swellendam and its many tourists might benefit from having something extra, interesting and unusual to enjoy in the evenings—a Night of a Thousand Stars!
Accordingly, they resolved to make their telescopes available, sharing them with like minded enthusiasts and those wishing to learn more under the beautiful African night skies. And so Swellendam Stargazers was born.
General astronomy talks are presented every Monday night at Wildebraam Berry Estate in the beautiful natural surroundings of the Hermitage Valley. Tasty meals are offered by Wildebraam’s talented chef, Hennie van der Merwe. Other nights in the week are also available provided enough people (at least 4 people per night) are interested and bookings are made in advance.
Outdoor facilities include two telescopes. The huge 16 inch Meade LightBridge Dobsonian telescope is driven by the user’s own hands, so that finding your own beautiful nebulas and galaxies becomes very exciting. A 6 inch Celestron NexStar, which is driven by two accurate engines keeping views of a particular object fixed, enables lovely photographs to be taken.
As special events unfold in the night skies—like meteor showers or eclipses—more targeted talks and demonstrations, relating to the specific topic, are presented as was done with the recent solar eclipse.
When the weather does not play along and clouds obscure the heavens, a back-up, alternative program is put on. This may include a ‘sneak-cheat’ preview of the skies with astronomy software and drawings of constellations on laminated paper. Some hitherto unknown artists have already shown their true colours on some of these cloudy nights!
Talks have also been held at the Swellendam High School, where some 60 pupils showed considerable interest in the lovely sights up in the sky.
So what happens on an average night?
A 3-course meal is served—if this option is chosen. After the meal, a 40 to 60 minute talk (in plain, clear English, Afrikaans—or German, if required) will explain ‘what is up there’. People attending are then split into two groups and each is given a tour of the night sky through their respective telescopes by Chris and Christian.
Ample time is allowed for questions throughout the evening. Those wishing to stay longer, may swop around to see the heavens through the other telescope. Provision is made for those with their own digital cameras, to take photographs through the Celestron telescope.
What can one see up there?
Planets: Saturn with its beautiful rings is clearly visible. Jupiter with its red stripes and four of its moons also grace the skies with their presence. The other planets, especially nearby Venus and Mars are also visible, but are no longer seen as mere spots.
Stars: Breathtaking views of the brightest stars in the night sky, including the major celebrities such as Sirius, Betelgeuse and Rigel.
Star constellations: The prominent constellations are pointed out and the legends behind them described. These include the legend of Orion, the Seven Sisters, Scorpio and also a San legend about the night sky.
Star clusters: Through the telescopes, clusters such as 47 Tucanae and Omega Centauri are majestic in their brilliance.
Nebulas: The stirring Great Orion Nebula, the Lagoon Nebula and the Trifid Nebula in Sagittarius are but a few of the beautiful nebulas that are visible.
Moon: Breathtaking views of our nearest neighbour are presented—with proof that the moon is indeed made of cheese!
Swellendam Stargazers are currently targeting mainly the local guest houses but locals are, of course, most welcome too! Those interested in learning to present these talks are also welcome to contribute.
Please contact Sanet Glatz at:
Cell: 084 255 0522 (preferably after hours)
Website: http://sstargazers.webs.com
A group of young enthusiasts, Chris Heyneman, Petro Janse van Rensburg, Christian Glatz and Sanet Glatz, each with a passion for astronomy, have decided that Swellendam and its many tourists might benefit from having something extra, interesting and unusual to enjoy in the evenings—a Night of a Thousand Stars!
Accordingly, they resolved to make their telescopes available, sharing them with like minded enthusiasts and those wishing to learn more under the beautiful African night skies. And so Swellendam Stargazers was born.
General astronomy talks are presented every Monday night at Wildebraam Berry Estate in the beautiful natural surroundings of the Hermitage Valley. Tasty meals are offered by Wildebraam’s talented chef, Hennie van der Merwe. Other nights in the week are also available provided enough people (at least 4 people per night) are interested and bookings are made in advance.
Outdoor facilities include two telescopes. The huge 16 inch Meade LightBridge Dobsonian telescope is driven by the user’s own hands, so that finding your own beautiful nebulas and galaxies becomes very exciting. A 6 inch Celestron NexStar, which is driven by two accurate engines keeping views of a particular object fixed, enables lovely photographs to be taken.
As special events unfold in the night skies—like meteor showers or eclipses—more targeted talks and demonstrations, relating to the specific topic, are presented as was done with the recent solar eclipse.
When the weather does not play along and clouds obscure the heavens, a back-up, alternative program is put on. This may include a ‘sneak-cheat’ preview of the skies with astronomy software and drawings of constellations on laminated paper. Some hitherto unknown artists have already shown their true colours on some of these cloudy nights!
Talks have also been held at the Swellendam High School, where some 60 pupils showed considerable interest in the lovely sights up in the sky.
So what happens on an average night?
A 3-course meal is served—if this option is chosen. After the meal, a 40 to 60 minute talk (in plain, clear English, Afrikaans—or German, if required) will explain ‘what is up there’. People attending are then split into two groups and each is given a tour of the night sky through their respective telescopes by Chris and Christian.
Ample time is allowed for questions throughout the evening. Those wishing to stay longer, may swop around to see the heavens through the other telescope. Provision is made for those with their own digital cameras, to take photographs through the Celestron telescope.
What can one see up there?
Planets: Saturn with its beautiful rings is clearly visible. Jupiter with its red stripes and four of its moons also grace the skies with their presence. The other planets, especially nearby Venus and Mars are also visible, but are no longer seen as mere spots.
Stars: Breathtaking views of the brightest stars in the night sky, including the major celebrities such as Sirius, Betelgeuse and Rigel.
Star constellations: The prominent constellations are pointed out and the legends behind them described. These include the legend of Orion, the Seven Sisters, Scorpio and also a San legend about the night sky.
Star clusters: Through the telescopes, clusters such as 47 Tucanae and Omega Centauri are majestic in their brilliance.
Nebulas: The stirring Great Orion Nebula, the Lagoon Nebula and the Trifid Nebula in Sagittarius are but a few of the beautiful nebulas that are visible.
Moon: Breathtaking views of our nearest neighbour are presented—with proof that the moon is indeed made of cheese!
Swellendam Stargazers are currently targeting mainly the local guest houses but locals are, of course, most welcome too! Those interested in learning to present these talks are also welcome to contribute.
Please contact Sanet Glatz at:
Cell: 084 255 0522 (preferably after hours)
Website: http://sstargazers.webs.com
Dini the Wagtail - By Rita Du Toit
A few days before Christmas my friend, Margaret, turned up at our door with a small box in her hand and a worried expression on her usually sunny face.
“We found this little bird lying on the ground. We can’t keep it at home because we have cats and dogs. Please, will you care for it?”
I opened the box to meet my new child. It already had markings I could recognise—it was a young Wagtail. From early spring to the end of summer we have at least one pair of Wagtails nesting in the Hoya on our front stoep. This bird looked bedraggled and weak. I fed it a few drops of diluted honey-water. After another dose an hour later, I moved it into a bigger box lined with polar fleece, covered it with a net and left it in the darkened spare room.
“Goodnight baby”—not a word from the bird!
Imagine my dismay when I took the net off very early the next morning to find my ‘baby’ missing. However, he was not far from the box, sitting on the bed under the folds of the net. He had tried to escape, just like Houdini, the escape artist—and that is how he got his name!
I prepared a hard-boiled egg by putting it though a fine sieve and ‘softening’ it with water and fed him with a straw which I cut into a point—the closest I could get to a beak. He ate well, albeit small amounts, every hour.
I would pick him up and stroke him before I fed him. At first I had to hold him as he wriggled to get away but very soon he learnt to sit quietly on my hand whilst I fed him. Eventually I put his food on the kitchen counter and, if I tapped with the straw, he would come to investigate. He quickly learned to pick up the food himself.
He never tried to escape again and we became absurdly fond of him.
We went to the farm for Christmas and he had to spend the day in a cupboard because the farm cats would have considered him a ‘gift’ from Santa Claus!
He ate little bits of meat from a tin of dog food and finely grated cheese—preferably cheddar! The Wagtails on the front stoep collected cheese at our back door. Often they come into our kitchen and we have to drop what we are doing to grate cheese onto the lawn at the kitchen door. The shrill command for "Cheeeeese" cannot be mistaken!
Our local Vet, Rob, lent me a ‘meal worm farm’ so that I could harvest two or three worms a day—using tweezers! I tried hard to be a dedicated foster mother but drew the line at picking up a wiggling worm!
My friends came to visit Dini and, once he could fly, he had the run of the cottage. Strangely though, he preferred to run after me and he would sit on my head or my shoulder as I moved around the house. He investigated everything I did and one day, whilst making a salad, I chopped up some lettuce. Dini loved it so I added that to his diet. He interfered with my cards when I played a game of patience and sat for ages looking out of the kitchen window at the birds that we feed outside.
I read up all the information in Roberts’ Birds. Wagtail fledglings would normally stay in the nest from 14 to a maximum of 21 days. He had not been a newly hatched chick when he arrived and, after two weeks, we realised that we had to let him go.
I felt terrible. I was quite confident that he was the best fed Wagtail on the block but I was worried about his life skills and his vocabulary. I explained to him that he should be very careful ‘out there’ and that his main objective would be to find a really clued-up wife! He had a bath that morning in the shallow dish where I had tried, unsuccessfully, to teach him to drink water. When he was dry, I groomed him with a little soft toothbrush,. He looked so dapper—my little Wagtail son! But I had to be brave and he had to be free.
On the ledge where he was sitting, I opened the window wide. He walked onto the windowsill—I held my breath as he peered over the edge—and walked straight back in!
I took a broom to sweep the back veranda. Dini followed me outside and, when I had finished, he followed me back in again.
Oh dear! This bachelor boy was not going to leave home. Maybe his huge, clumsy mother was inarticulate, but the food was delicious.
My husband Mike picked him up and carried him out onto the lawn. Mike walked to the bottom of the garden and Dini ran happily after him. “Fly—you silly bird!” he said. Mike put out some grated cheese and, in no time, all our ‘boarders’ were there. Sparrows, Weavers, Flycatchers, Robins, Drongos and even two inquisitive doves. We put Dini in with them and he was quite overawed—not getting too close to any one of them.
Then a female Wagtail arrived and a small miracle was about to play out before us! She immediately collected some cheese and went over to Dini to feed him—but he wouldn’t take the food. She flew up onto the roof above the kitchen and gave two short, sharp calls. Now Dini hadn’t taught me a word of ‘Wagtail’ but I knew that she was saying, “Come up here!”
He didn’t respond. After trying four or five more times, she disappeared. We were so disappointed—such an opportunity lost!
And then, back she came with her mate. When they both called him he flew up onto the neighbour’s carport and followed them—into the wide blue yonder? No, into a nest on our front stoep! They only kept him for two days and now the nest is empty again.
Even our Vet says that it is most unusual for a pair to ‘adopt’ a relatively big bird—yet they did! Dini must have learned all he needed to know before he went off on his own. There’s a good chance that he could come back to breed in one of the nests on the front stoep. He will be most welcome.
Dini was a baby. He needed security, food and love. He trusted me to fulfil these needs. I learned so much from this little bird.
“We found this little bird lying on the ground. We can’t keep it at home because we have cats and dogs. Please, will you care for it?”
I opened the box to meet my new child. It already had markings I could recognise—it was a young Wagtail. From early spring to the end of summer we have at least one pair of Wagtails nesting in the Hoya on our front stoep. This bird looked bedraggled and weak. I fed it a few drops of diluted honey-water. After another dose an hour later, I moved it into a bigger box lined with polar fleece, covered it with a net and left it in the darkened spare room.
“Goodnight baby”—not a word from the bird!
Imagine my dismay when I took the net off very early the next morning to find my ‘baby’ missing. However, he was not far from the box, sitting on the bed under the folds of the net. He had tried to escape, just like Houdini, the escape artist—and that is how he got his name!
I prepared a hard-boiled egg by putting it though a fine sieve and ‘softening’ it with water and fed him with a straw which I cut into a point—the closest I could get to a beak. He ate well, albeit small amounts, every hour.
I would pick him up and stroke him before I fed him. At first I had to hold him as he wriggled to get away but very soon he learnt to sit quietly on my hand whilst I fed him. Eventually I put his food on the kitchen counter and, if I tapped with the straw, he would come to investigate. He quickly learned to pick up the food himself.
He never tried to escape again and we became absurdly fond of him.
We went to the farm for Christmas and he had to spend the day in a cupboard because the farm cats would have considered him a ‘gift’ from Santa Claus!
He ate little bits of meat from a tin of dog food and finely grated cheese—preferably cheddar! The Wagtails on the front stoep collected cheese at our back door. Often they come into our kitchen and we have to drop what we are doing to grate cheese onto the lawn at the kitchen door. The shrill command for "Cheeeeese" cannot be mistaken!
Our local Vet, Rob, lent me a ‘meal worm farm’ so that I could harvest two or three worms a day—using tweezers! I tried hard to be a dedicated foster mother but drew the line at picking up a wiggling worm!
My friends came to visit Dini and, once he could fly, he had the run of the cottage. Strangely though, he preferred to run after me and he would sit on my head or my shoulder as I moved around the house. He investigated everything I did and one day, whilst making a salad, I chopped up some lettuce. Dini loved it so I added that to his diet. He interfered with my cards when I played a game of patience and sat for ages looking out of the kitchen window at the birds that we feed outside.I read up all the information in Roberts’ Birds. Wagtail fledglings would normally stay in the nest from 14 to a maximum of 21 days. He had not been a newly hatched chick when he arrived and, after two weeks, we realised that we had to let him go.
I felt terrible. I was quite confident that he was the best fed Wagtail on the block but I was worried about his life skills and his vocabulary. I explained to him that he should be very careful ‘out there’ and that his main objective would be to find a really clued-up wife! He had a bath that morning in the shallow dish where I had tried, unsuccessfully, to teach him to drink water. When he was dry, I groomed him with a little soft toothbrush,. He looked so dapper—my little Wagtail son! But I had to be brave and he had to be free.
On the ledge where he was sitting, I opened the window wide. He walked onto the windowsill—I held my breath as he peered over the edge—and walked straight back in!
I took a broom to sweep the back veranda. Dini followed me outside and, when I had finished, he followed me back in again.
Oh dear! This bachelor boy was not going to leave home. Maybe his huge, clumsy mother was inarticulate, but the food was delicious.
My husband Mike picked him up and carried him out onto the lawn. Mike walked to the bottom of the garden and Dini ran happily after him. “Fly—you silly bird!” he said. Mike put out some grated cheese and, in no time, all our ‘boarders’ were there. Sparrows, Weavers, Flycatchers, Robins, Drongos and even two inquisitive doves. We put Dini in with them and he was quite overawed—not getting too close to any one of them.
Then a female Wagtail arrived and a small miracle was about to play out before us! She immediately collected some cheese and went over to Dini to feed him—but he wouldn’t take the food. She flew up onto the roof above the kitchen and gave two short, sharp calls. Now Dini hadn’t taught me a word of ‘Wagtail’ but I knew that she was saying, “Come up here!”
He didn’t respond. After trying four or five more times, she disappeared. We were so disappointed—such an opportunity lost!
And then, back she came with her mate. When they both called him he flew up onto the neighbour’s carport and followed them—into the wide blue yonder? No, into a nest on our front stoep! They only kept him for two days and now the nest is empty again.
Even our Vet says that it is most unusual for a pair to ‘adopt’ a relatively big bird—yet they did! Dini must have learned all he needed to know before he went off on his own. There’s a good chance that he could come back to breed in one of the nests on the front stoep. He will be most welcome.
Dini was a baby. He needed security, food and love. He trusted me to fulfil these needs. I learned so much from this little bird.
We’re in the News—but not the first! - The Swellendam Church Steeple - By Peter Piggott
When the aging church steeple of our venerated Moederkerk was sky-hooked by helicopter and merrily whirled into oblivion, the event did not go unnoticed. Movie maker Cathy van Eeden was on hand to record every moment on her video camera and, soon it was on the World Wide Web. 
Ace reporter Willemien de Wet, took pictures and wrote up a report that appeared as a front page story in Die Burger.
But how did a Bavarian newspaper get the story? In its 30 November edition, the Münchener Merkür reported as follows:
Kirchturm kracht in Kirchenschiff
Die Restaurierung eines Kirchturms ist im süd afrikanischen Swellendam danebengegangen. Nun muss auch noch die Kirche wieder aufgebaut warden—der Turm krachte nämlich durch das Dach in das Gebäude. Ein Hubschrauber (helicopter) hatte den an Kabeln befestigten Turm der historischen Kirche leicht angehoben. Plötzlich rissen die Seile, und der Turm rauschte zu Boden. Verletzt wurde dabei niemand.
Not the first!
From Bryanston, Sandton, comes the comment by Peter Piggott, veteran chairman of Heliquip, one of South Africa’s pioneering helicopter companies and himself involved in many helicopter lifts and operations in the past:
“Well there is very little one can say except, was a Critical Job Risk Analysis carried out by the SAAF??
I remember back when I worked for Helicopter Services, 1966-1967 and the Company was charged with a similar task on the Dutch Reformed Church at De Deur.
The ladies of the Church had gathered and, with much enthusiasm, had prepared a feast of koeksisters, vetkoek and the like for the church members while they watched the illustrious pilots in their Alouette II place a new Perspex steeple high upon the church tower.
As there was insufficient space for anyone to place the steeple from the outside, a plan had been made for the attaching rope to be threaded through a hole in the centre of the apex of the steeple. Once the steeple was secured in place, the rope would be cut and removed by the helicopter.
This was a good plan as safety was of prime consideration. No person would have to balance precariously on the outside, while the helicopter was hovering above.
The helicopter arrived and duly picked up the steeple. It circled the church grounds to show off the crew’s expertise to the assembled gathering.
The rope chosen was of nylon with sufficient strength to lift an elephant. Unfortunately, because of its method of attachment, it could not swivel. Normally, this would not be too important, except that this particular, beautiful Perspex tower was shaped like a tall thin pyramid.
On moving through the air, it spun gracefully around and around until the heat generated at the hole in the apex just melted the nylon rope and it crashed unceremoniously into the adjacent cemetery.
The company involved replaced the tower and, with the experience gained, made a successful lift of the new tower. I wonder if this is to be the fate of aging church steeples on all our churches?”
Ace reporter Willemien de Wet, took pictures and wrote up a report that appeared as a front page story in Die Burger.But how did a Bavarian newspaper get the story? In its 30 November edition, the Münchener Merkür reported as follows:
Kirchturm kracht in Kirchenschiff
Die Restaurierung eines Kirchturms ist im süd afrikanischen Swellendam danebengegangen. Nun muss auch noch die Kirche wieder aufgebaut warden—der Turm krachte nämlich durch das Dach in das Gebäude. Ein Hubschrauber (helicopter) hatte den an Kabeln befestigten Turm der historischen Kirche leicht angehoben. Plötzlich rissen die Seile, und der Turm rauschte zu Boden. Verletzt wurde dabei niemand.
Not the first!
From Bryanston, Sandton, comes the comment by Peter Piggott, veteran chairman of Heliquip, one of South Africa’s pioneering helicopter companies and himself involved in many helicopter lifts and operations in the past:
“Well there is very little one can say except, was a Critical Job Risk Analysis carried out by the SAAF??I remember back when I worked for Helicopter Services, 1966-1967 and the Company was charged with a similar task on the Dutch Reformed Church at De Deur.
The ladies of the Church had gathered and, with much enthusiasm, had prepared a feast of koeksisters, vetkoek and the like for the church members while they watched the illustrious pilots in their Alouette II place a new Perspex steeple high upon the church tower.
As there was insufficient space for anyone to place the steeple from the outside, a plan had been made for the attaching rope to be threaded through a hole in the centre of the apex of the steeple. Once the steeple was secured in place, the rope would be cut and removed by the helicopter.
This was a good plan as safety was of prime consideration. No person would have to balance precariously on the outside, while the helicopter was hovering above.
The helicopter arrived and duly picked up the steeple. It circled the church grounds to show off the crew’s expertise to the assembled gathering.
The rope chosen was of nylon with sufficient strength to lift an elephant. Unfortunately, because of its method of attachment, it could not swivel. Normally, this would not be too important, except that this particular, beautiful Perspex tower was shaped like a tall thin pyramid.
On moving through the air, it spun gracefully around and around until the heat generated at the hole in the apex just melted the nylon rope and it crashed unceremoniously into the adjacent cemetery.The company involved replaced the tower and, with the experience gained, made a successful lift of the new tower. I wonder if this is to be the fate of aging church steeples on all our churches?”
Re-writing History - and enter the Hippos and Cheetahs - By Raymond E Hose
The latest example of that fast growing and most resonant of industries in South Africa—the re-writing of history—appears in the form of a glossy calendar freely distributed to schools by the Department of Education. Thinly disguised as a ‘research document’ by an impressive sounding organisation The Diop/Du Bois Institute, the content is critical, spiteful, offensive, bordering on hate speech and riddled with inaccuracies. Each month of the calendar is festooned with “Quotations of Bennie Bunsee”—Bennie Who??
The credits on the last page say it all. Bennie Bunsee is the Research and Development co-ordinator of this august organisation. The contact persons are Shafiek and Faik.
The tone of the overall report is plaintive yet extremely accusative.
How African slavery built the Americas;
How slavery destroyed African civilisations;
Slavery, colonialism and land conquest in South Africa.
In the month of April, for example, some pique is expressed over the denial by historians that early Egypt was an African civilisation and that Christianity emanated from this civilisation. It registers more pique because, so it is said, the Egyptians now wish to replace the nose of the Sphinx with an aquiline nose whereas the original flat broad nose was distinctly African!
In the month of February, it is explained how everything began with the African people:
“The first stage of this history as the first race on earth, they (the African people) built glorious cultures and civilisations, stemming from the Kush-Ethiopian empires that spanned the world and which reached its apex in the Nubian, and ultimately the glorious Egyptian Pharanoic civilisation during the very beginning of the rise of human civilisations. This is thousands of years before BC. Unfortunately, much of this history of the African people and their civilisations is buried in antiquity and for centuries was lost to the world.”
In March, the accusations begin
“The denial by the West of the great achievements of the non-West civilisations was to justify their so-called civilising mission towards the darker races they conquered and colonised worldwide, and upon whose backs they built their affluence.”
We can just imagine how the early Celts, Picts, Franks, Lombardi, Teutons, Visigoths, Burgundians, Vandals and Allemans suddenly decided to put an end to their constant invasions and internecine strife to hold a summit where they decided, unanimously, that in furtherance of their widely-held jealousy of glorious Nubia and Timbuktu, they would band together to civilise and/or destroy this magnificent African civilisation, bury all its infrastructure and then, not only enslave all its people but wipe away any memory of their existence.
“Contributing to this devastation was that with the rise of Western colonialism and imperialism, and its accompanying racism, history was re-interpreted (sounds familiar!) by Western historians to put the West at the apex of human achievement and historical development. The non-Western civilisations, which were the first civilisations, long before the rise of the West, were denied their place in humanity’s development. Africa, which produced the first known of the human civilisations on its soil, was for centuries called the ‘Dark Continent’ by the West.”
Without going into the rights and wrongs of the matter, one has to concede that it was a brilliantly crafted and most successfully executed operation by those Celts, Picts, Franks, etc. Such inter-tribal cooperation and dedication of purpose has seldom been seen since and is not readily found amongst any people nowadays. Sadly, Africa was immediately transformed into a Dark Continent.
The words genocide, extermination and slavery pepper the whole report and a large section is devoted to slave uprisings. On a lower, grammatical, plane it is noticeable that the word Black is spelled with a capital B whereas white remains in lower case.
The calendar concludes with December:
“In South Africa, colonialism began with slavery in the Cape. But it is believed it existed in different parts of the country as the land was systematically taken away from the African people through military conquest and the African and Black people enslaved and ruthlessly oppressed.”
(Has the Institute ever heard of Chaka?)
Yet, in its mission statement, the report claims its vision is to:
“bring universal freedom, peace and harmony in the light of the disintegration of social relations and the relative failure of the rationalist materialist secular system identified with the West and which reflects a crisis within modern civilisation”.
Throughout the months, Bennie Bunsee quotes: “A people that does not know it’s (sic) history does not know itself”. Perhaps the Diop/Du Bois Institute and Bennie Bunsee in particular should focus on another famous quote: “Let bygones be bygones” and get on with the original concept of building a Rainbow Nation.
Perhaps we might even echo Shelley: “The world is weary of the past, Oh might it die or rest at last.”
Instead of bothering to re-write history and wittingly build up inharmonious resentment, it may be wiser to research and address some of the real issues of Africa.
George Ayittey (*1) a prominent Ghanaian academic, points out that Africa’s problems
are not the result of external factors, but internal ones. Greedy politicians in Africa make no attempt to better their country. Instead, they just sit at their desks using up their country’s foreign aid money while blaming all of Africa’s problems on colonialism and the rest of the world.
He says, playing the ‘blame’ game isn’t going to get Africa anywhere and a large amount of today’s issues are a result of Africa’s corrupt governments, greedy leaders and never ending warfare. Therefore, if Africa and Africans wish to better themselves, they need to begin to look at the causes within Africa.
On July 24, 2005, in the TV program Wide Angle, Professor Ayittey discussed social, political and economic development in Africa with Anchor, Bill Moyers (*2):
GEORGE AYITTEY: In Africa, we see our governments as the problem. In fact, one Lesotho traditional chief said as much back in 1989, “Here we have two problems, rats and the government.”
BILL MOYERS: Rats and the government?
GEORGE AYITTEY: Yes, it is because Africans see government as the problem. In fact, we call them vampire states because they suck the vitality out of the people, their own people. A vampire state is a government which has been captured or hijacked by a phalanx of bandits and crooks who use instruments of the state to enrich themselves, their cronies and tribesmen and exclude everybody else. It’s called the politics of exclusion.
Now, if you want to understand why America is rich and Africa is poor, ask yourself, how do the rich in each of these areas make their money?
Take the US, for example. The richest person is Bill Gates. He's worth something like $64 billion. How did he make his money? He made his money in the private sector by selling something, Microsoft computer software. He has something to show for his wealth.
Now, let’s go to Africa. Who are the richest in Africa? The richest in Africa are African heads of state and ministers. How did they make their money? They made their money by raking it off the backs of their suffering people. That is not wealth creation. It is wealth redistribution.
BILL MOYERS: By stealing the money?
GEORGE AYITTEY: By stealing the money!
BILL MOYERS: But you see, that’s what troubles those of us who are looking for a way to be helpful to Africa. Why and how would they steal money given to AIDS programs and money given to build a civil society?
GEORGE AYITTEY: It’s because they hold the key institutions in the state. They control the military. They control the media. They control the judiciary. They control the electoral commission. They control the civil service. They control the central bank. This is why it is very important to take these institutions out of their hands.
BILL MOYERS: Jeffrey Sachs, who’s advising Kofi Annan at the UN on how to solve poverty and develop the third world, says, “The poor are poor because of failing infrastructure, poor energy sources, geographic isolation, disease and natural disasters that inevitably conspire to foil progress.”
GEORGE AYITTEY: Well, if you go to an African village and tell them this, very few villagers will believe you because they clearly see where the problem is. If you want to understand why Africa is in such a rut, there’s one word which describes it. And that’s ‘Power’.
Power is what describes the condition of Africa. The inability, or the adamant refusal, of African leaders to relinquish or share power has been the bane of development in Africa. Zimbabwe would have been saved if Mugabe were willing to step down or share political power. Isn’t it ironic that a continent with so much, actually has so little. That a people blessed with such an abundance of natural resources are, in fact, poverty stricken and deprived of even the slightest bit of wealth.”
Hippos and Cheetahs
It was George Ayittey who coined the phrase Hippos and Cheetahs in describing the current situation in Africa. In a brilliant speech in Arusha, he unleashed an almost breathtaking torrent of controlled anger toward corrupt leaders and the complacency that allows them to thrive.
He likened the entrepreneurs present at the conference as the young, agile ‘Cheetah Generation’, a new breed of African taking their futures into their own hands—fast-moving entrepreneurial leaders who brook no nonsense about corruption and who demand democracy, transparency and accountability for better governance.
Above all, they are willing to do anything, regardless of government help, to succeed and make Africa better.
He contrasts these Cheetahs with the ‘Hippo Generation’, the ruling elite stuck in their intellectual patch, constantly complaining about colonialism and imperialism. “They won’t reform, because they benefit so much from the status quo.”
Hippos, are the old guard of complacent, greedy politicians and bureaucrats wallowing in the muck but happy to do so in their role as perpetual victims of colonialism and poverty.
Ayittey acknowledges his anger at a continent that’s so rich in natural resources yet so poor in material terms. An enduring tragedy is the fact that so many people, governments and organizations want to help the people in Africa who, alas, they don’t understand. As a result, “helping Africa” has been turned into a theatre of the absurd, where “the blind are leading the clueless”.
It’s unclear whether well meaning folks like Bono are blind or clueless, but as Ayittey reminds us: “Africa’s begging bowl leaks! It would be absurd to pour more money into it, given that corruption costs more than $180 billion a year”.
In the light of these views and developments, perhaps the Diop/Du Bois Institute and Bennie Bunsee in particular might be better advised to follow the less sycophantic and blinkered approach. Better by far to distance themselves from our local Hippos and focus instead on the positive and infinitely more realistic long-term ambitions of the Cheetahs for the overall betterment of Africa.
“Nicely off he went” is the phrase used by ANC leader Jacob Zuma to describe former president Thabo Mbeki's departure from politics during a television interview outside the National Assembly following President Kgalema Motlanthe's State of the Nation address.
How wonderful for South Africa in particular and Africa in general if our Hippos would all simply “go off nicely!”
*1 George Ayittey is a prominent Ghanaian economist, author and president of the Free Africa Foundation in Washington DC. He is a professor at American University and an associate scholar at the Foreign Policy Research Institute.
Ayittey holds a B.Sc. from the University of Ghana, Legon, Ghana 1969;
M.A. from the University of Western Ontario, London, Canada 1971 and a
Ph.D. from the University of Manitoba, Winnipeg, Canada 1981.
Publications:
Africa In Chaos.
Africa Unchained: The Blueprint for Africa’s Future.
Human Rights: Africa’s Shady Politicians Are at Root of Continent’s Destitution.
China and Africa - what China wants in Africa and how Africans should view this new pragmatic ‘friendship’.
*2 Bill Moyers—Public Affairs Television Journalist; Deputy Director of the Peace Corps in the Kennedy Administration; Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences; Trustee of the Rockefeller Foundation and recipient of the 2004 Global Environmental Citizen Award.
The credits on the last page say it all. Bennie Bunsee is the Research and Development co-ordinator of this august organisation. The contact persons are Shafiek and Faik.
The tone of the overall report is plaintive yet extremely accusative.
How African slavery built the Americas;
How slavery destroyed African civilisations;
Slavery, colonialism and land conquest in South Africa.
In the month of April, for example, some pique is expressed over the denial by historians that early Egypt was an African civilisation and that Christianity emanated from this civilisation. It registers more pique because, so it is said, the Egyptians now wish to replace the nose of the Sphinx with an aquiline nose whereas the original flat broad nose was distinctly African!
In the month of February, it is explained how everything began with the African people:
“The first stage of this history as the first race on earth, they (the African people) built glorious cultures and civilisations, stemming from the Kush-Ethiopian empires that spanned the world and which reached its apex in the Nubian, and ultimately the glorious Egyptian Pharanoic civilisation during the very beginning of the rise of human civilisations. This is thousands of years before BC. Unfortunately, much of this history of the African people and their civilisations is buried in antiquity and for centuries was lost to the world.”
In March, the accusations begin
“The denial by the West of the great achievements of the non-West civilisations was to justify their so-called civilising mission towards the darker races they conquered and colonised worldwide, and upon whose backs they built their affluence.”
We can just imagine how the early Celts, Picts, Franks, Lombardi, Teutons, Visigoths, Burgundians, Vandals and Allemans suddenly decided to put an end to their constant invasions and internecine strife to hold a summit where they decided, unanimously, that in furtherance of their widely-held jealousy of glorious Nubia and Timbuktu, they would band together to civilise and/or destroy this magnificent African civilisation, bury all its infrastructure and then, not only enslave all its people but wipe away any memory of their existence.
“Contributing to this devastation was that with the rise of Western colonialism and imperialism, and its accompanying racism, history was re-interpreted (sounds familiar!) by Western historians to put the West at the apex of human achievement and historical development. The non-Western civilisations, which were the first civilisations, long before the rise of the West, were denied their place in humanity’s development. Africa, which produced the first known of the human civilisations on its soil, was for centuries called the ‘Dark Continent’ by the West.”
Without going into the rights and wrongs of the matter, one has to concede that it was a brilliantly crafted and most successfully executed operation by those Celts, Picts, Franks, etc. Such inter-tribal cooperation and dedication of purpose has seldom been seen since and is not readily found amongst any people nowadays. Sadly, Africa was immediately transformed into a Dark Continent.
The words genocide, extermination and slavery pepper the whole report and a large section is devoted to slave uprisings. On a lower, grammatical, plane it is noticeable that the word Black is spelled with a capital B whereas white remains in lower case.
The calendar concludes with December:
“In South Africa, colonialism began with slavery in the Cape. But it is believed it existed in different parts of the country as the land was systematically taken away from the African people through military conquest and the African and Black people enslaved and ruthlessly oppressed.”
(Has the Institute ever heard of Chaka?)
Yet, in its mission statement, the report claims its vision is to:
“bring universal freedom, peace and harmony in the light of the disintegration of social relations and the relative failure of the rationalist materialist secular system identified with the West and which reflects a crisis within modern civilisation”.
Throughout the months, Bennie Bunsee quotes: “A people that does not know it’s (sic) history does not know itself”. Perhaps the Diop/Du Bois Institute and Bennie Bunsee in particular should focus on another famous quote: “Let bygones be bygones” and get on with the original concept of building a Rainbow Nation.
Perhaps we might even echo Shelley: “The world is weary of the past, Oh might it die or rest at last.”
Instead of bothering to re-write history and wittingly build up inharmonious resentment, it may be wiser to research and address some of the real issues of Africa.
George Ayittey (*1) a prominent Ghanaian academic, points out that Africa’s problems
are not the result of external factors, but internal ones. Greedy politicians in Africa make no attempt to better their country. Instead, they just sit at their desks using up their country’s foreign aid money while blaming all of Africa’s problems on colonialism and the rest of the world.He says, playing the ‘blame’ game isn’t going to get Africa anywhere and a large amount of today’s issues are a result of Africa’s corrupt governments, greedy leaders and never ending warfare. Therefore, if Africa and Africans wish to better themselves, they need to begin to look at the causes within Africa.
On July 24, 2005, in the TV program Wide Angle, Professor Ayittey discussed social, political and economic development in Africa with Anchor, Bill Moyers (*2):
GEORGE AYITTEY: In Africa, we see our governments as the problem. In fact, one Lesotho traditional chief said as much back in 1989, “Here we have two problems, rats and the government.”
BILL MOYERS: Rats and the government?
GEORGE AYITTEY: Yes, it is because Africans see government as the problem. In fact, we call them vampire states because they suck the vitality out of the people, their own people. A vampire state is a government which has been captured or hijacked by a phalanx of bandits and crooks who use instruments of the state to enrich themselves, their cronies and tribesmen and exclude everybody else. It’s called the politics of exclusion.
Now, if you want to understand why America is rich and Africa is poor, ask yourself, how do the rich in each of these areas make their money?
Take the US, for example. The richest person is Bill Gates. He's worth something like $64 billion. How did he make his money? He made his money in the private sector by selling something, Microsoft computer software. He has something to show for his wealth.
Now, let’s go to Africa. Who are the richest in Africa? The richest in Africa are African heads of state and ministers. How did they make their money? They made their money by raking it off the backs of their suffering people. That is not wealth creation. It is wealth redistribution.
BILL MOYERS: By stealing the money?
GEORGE AYITTEY: By stealing the money!
BILL MOYERS: But you see, that’s what troubles those of us who are looking for a way to be helpful to Africa. Why and how would they steal money given to AIDS programs and money given to build a civil society?
GEORGE AYITTEY: It’s because they hold the key institutions in the state. They control the military. They control the media. They control the judiciary. They control the electoral commission. They control the civil service. They control the central bank. This is why it is very important to take these institutions out of their hands.
BILL MOYERS: Jeffrey Sachs, who’s advising Kofi Annan at the UN on how to solve poverty and develop the third world, says, “The poor are poor because of failing infrastructure, poor energy sources, geographic isolation, disease and natural disasters that inevitably conspire to foil progress.”
GEORGE AYITTEY: Well, if you go to an African village and tell them this, very few villagers will believe you because they clearly see where the problem is. If you want to understand why Africa is in such a rut, there’s one word which describes it. And that’s ‘Power’.
Power is what describes the condition of Africa. The inability, or the adamant refusal, of African leaders to relinquish or share power has been the bane of development in Africa. Zimbabwe would have been saved if Mugabe were willing to step down or share political power. Isn’t it ironic that a continent with so much, actually has so little. That a people blessed with such an abundance of natural resources are, in fact, poverty stricken and deprived of even the slightest bit of wealth.”
Hippos and Cheetahs
It was George Ayittey who coined the phrase Hippos and Cheetahs in describing the current situation in Africa. In a brilliant speech in Arusha, he unleashed an almost breathtaking torrent of controlled anger toward corrupt leaders and the complacency that allows them to thrive.
He likened the entrepreneurs present at the conference as the young, agile ‘Cheetah Generation’, a new breed of African taking their futures into their own hands—fast-moving entrepreneurial leaders who brook no nonsense about corruption and who demand democracy, transparency and accountability for better governance.
Above all, they are willing to do anything, regardless of government help, to succeed and make Africa better.
He contrasts these Cheetahs with the ‘Hippo Generation’, the ruling elite stuck in their intellectual patch, constantly complaining about colonialism and imperialism. “They won’t reform, because they benefit so much from the status quo.”
Hippos, are the old guard of complacent, greedy politicians and bureaucrats wallowing in the muck but happy to do so in their role as perpetual victims of colonialism and poverty.
Ayittey acknowledges his anger at a continent that’s so rich in natural resources yet so poor in material terms. An enduring tragedy is the fact that so many people, governments and organizations want to help the people in Africa who, alas, they don’t understand. As a result, “helping Africa” has been turned into a theatre of the absurd, where “the blind are leading the clueless”.
It’s unclear whether well meaning folks like Bono are blind or clueless, but as Ayittey reminds us: “Africa’s begging bowl leaks! It would be absurd to pour more money into it, given that corruption costs more than $180 billion a year”.
In the light of these views and developments, perhaps the Diop/Du Bois Institute and Bennie Bunsee in particular might be better advised to follow the less sycophantic and blinkered approach. Better by far to distance themselves from our local Hippos and focus instead on the positive and infinitely more realistic long-term ambitions of the Cheetahs for the overall betterment of Africa.
“Nicely off he went” is the phrase used by ANC leader Jacob Zuma to describe former president Thabo Mbeki's departure from politics during a television interview outside the National Assembly following President Kgalema Motlanthe's State of the Nation address.
How wonderful for South Africa in particular and Africa in general if our Hippos would all simply “go off nicely!”
*1 George Ayittey is a prominent Ghanaian economist, author and president of the Free Africa Foundation in Washington DC. He is a professor at American University and an associate scholar at the Foreign Policy Research Institute.
Ayittey holds a B.Sc. from the University of Ghana, Legon, Ghana 1969;
M.A. from the University of Western Ontario, London, Canada 1971 and a
Ph.D. from the University of Manitoba, Winnipeg, Canada 1981.
Publications:
Africa In Chaos.
Africa Unchained: The Blueprint for Africa’s Future.
Human Rights: Africa’s Shady Politicians Are at Root of Continent’s Destitution.
China and Africa - what China wants in Africa and how Africans should view this new pragmatic ‘friendship’.
*2 Bill Moyers—Public Affairs Television Journalist; Deputy Director of the Peace Corps in the Kennedy Administration; Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences; Trustee of the Rockefeller Foundation and recipient of the 2004 Global Environmental Citizen Award.
War Stories—The Wartime Journal of S.O.C. - Part 2 Return - Kythera to Heliopolis
The Way Out
Just when they all felt very despondent and were left wondering what the next day would bring, there was a surprising but fortuitous telephone call.
We had thought we were the only men to be marooned on Kythera. Imagine our surprise when a call came through from Col. X, the British Attaché in Athens, to say that he was on the same island with some men who had escaped in the same manner as we had, probably a day or two after us. He was ringing up to find out if, by chance, there was anybody else on the island and was astonished when he heard that there were some 700 men on our end of the island. He informed us that he had managed to make arrangements with the Navy to take him off and that they were due to pick him and his men up after dark that evening. He said he would inform the Captain.
We at once set about collecting all the men from the hillside and ravines in which they were hiding and over which they were scattered for a considerable area. By midnight everybody was lined up close to the quay. Silence was maintained and no smoking was allowed. We were not absolutely sure that this telephone call was not the work of a fifth columnist - the latter had been rife in Greece, throughout the campaign - or whether it was genuine.
Return to Alexandria
At 03h00 am on the 29th April the whole contingent was rescued by the naval sloops Auckland and Hyacinth accompanied by the cruiser HMS Gloucester, one of the four cruisers that had taken us across to Greece, six months before. Alas, she is now at the bottom of the sea.
Not a moment was lost transferring 700 men with their equipment from the shore to the ships. The decks of those two little ships were tightly packed by the time we were ready to leave.
How pleasant it was to be with the Navy- again. As usual, we were regaled with drinks and, after everybody had had one or two, we all tried to get some sleep. We lay down on the floor wherever we could find room and those who had chairs remained in them. Many other refugees had been picked up at other ports en route.
Most of them were Greek Army officers. They all had the look of the hunted and hopeless outlook of men who have fought a great fight, only to see their country finally overpowered by a merciless foe. Many had probably had to leave wives and children in Athens and elsewhere. Their thoughts must have been bitter and terrible.
It was then that I, personally, realized more than at any other time of the war, how much I had to be thankful for—that my own wife and family were safe from all this in South Africa.
The next morning we at once embarked onto the Itria. She was practically empty but her holds as well as her main deck were soon filled with men. There were seven other cargo ships of about the same size as our own. These also, were all crammed with men from the services, who had been evacuated by various means from Greece.
But the evacuation of Greece was carried out almost entirely by the Navy, although many small boats of all descriptions were employed. As soon as we were all aboard, anchors were drawn and we were off, the eight of us. The two sloops accompanied us for a short distance before turning back to Crete. We were left with two destroyers escorting us.
Back to Sea
By 10 o’clock we were well clear of the bay and out in the open sea once again, on our way to Alexandria. About two hours later, several large ships hove in sight. These proved to be cruisers. They turned round and kept ahead of us and escorted us all the way back. British aircraft were now to be seen passing overhead, which was a very pleasant and reassuring sight.
We slept on the deck wherever we could, sleeping on any clothing we had managed to bring away with us, which was not much. Some had nothing at all, excepting the clothes they stood up in. I had my overcoat and one blank blanket which, when folded lengthwise, was something to sleep on and the overcoat acted as covering. How I blessed that overcoat—not only during the evacuation but during those bitterly cold months in Greece. The sea was like a mill pond and the sun shone from a very blue sky. That night too, was entirely without incident, and we all slept at peace with the knowledge that the Navy was there, carrying out its ceaseless, efficient vigil.
And so, on the 2nd of May, we came once again to the shores of Egypt and the old, old port of Alexandria. By 10 o’clock we were alongside the quay where, after a wait of about half an hour, we disembarked. On the quayside was hot tea ready for us and every man was given, free, a small bag of food, which consisted of an orange, a banana, a bun and a bar of chocolate. A train was waiting and all the airmen and NCOs proceeded to a nearby transit camp.
For us, the Greek campaign was over. A campaign of tragedies, but also of many happy memories. A country which one and all of us would ever remember, not only for its kindly and stout-hearted people, but for its wild beauty of endless mountains, olive groves and island dotted blue seas.
Signed: SOC, May 1941(F/Lt Stanley Oakes Crowther, RAFVR)
Just when they all felt very despondent and were left wondering what the next day would bring, there was a surprising but fortuitous telephone call.
We had thought we were the only men to be marooned on Kythera. Imagine our surprise when a call came through from Col. X, the British Attaché in Athens, to say that he was on the same island with some men who had escaped in the same manner as we had, probably a day or two after us. He was ringing up to find out if, by chance, there was anybody else on the island and was astonished when he heard that there were some 700 men on our end of the island. He informed us that he had managed to make arrangements with the Navy to take him off and that they were due to pick him and his men up after dark that evening. He said he would inform the Captain.
We at once set about collecting all the men from the hillside and ravines in which they were hiding and over which they were scattered for a considerable area. By midnight everybody was lined up close to the quay. Silence was maintained and no smoking was allowed. We were not absolutely sure that this telephone call was not the work of a fifth columnist - the latter had been rife in Greece, throughout the campaign - or whether it was genuine.
Return to Alexandria
At 03h00 am on the 29th April the whole contingent was rescued by the naval sloops Auckland and Hyacinth accompanied by the cruiser HMS Gloucester, one of the four cruisers that had taken us across to Greece, six months before. Alas, she is now at the bottom of the sea.
Not a moment was lost transferring 700 men with their equipment from the shore to the ships. The decks of those two little ships were tightly packed by the time we were ready to leave.
How pleasant it was to be with the Navy- again. As usual, we were regaled with drinks and, after everybody had had one or two, we all tried to get some sleep. We lay down on the floor wherever we could find room and those who had chairs remained in them. Many other refugees had been picked up at other ports en route.
Most of them were Greek Army officers. They all had the look of the hunted and hopeless outlook of men who have fought a great fight, only to see their country finally overpowered by a merciless foe. Many had probably had to leave wives and children in Athens and elsewhere. Their thoughts must have been bitter and terrible.
It was then that I, personally, realized more than at any other time of the war, how much I had to be thankful for—that my own wife and family were safe from all this in South Africa.
The next morning we at once embarked onto the Itria. She was practically empty but her holds as well as her main deck were soon filled with men. There were seven other cargo ships of about the same size as our own. These also, were all crammed with men from the services, who had been evacuated by various means from Greece.
But the evacuation of Greece was carried out almost entirely by the Navy, although many small boats of all descriptions were employed. As soon as we were all aboard, anchors were drawn and we were off, the eight of us. The two sloops accompanied us for a short distance before turning back to Crete. We were left with two destroyers escorting us.
Back to Sea
By 10 o’clock we were well clear of the bay and out in the open sea once again, on our way to Alexandria. About two hours later, several large ships hove in sight. These proved to be cruisers. They turned round and kept ahead of us and escorted us all the way back. British aircraft were now to be seen passing overhead, which was a very pleasant and reassuring sight.
We slept on the deck wherever we could, sleeping on any clothing we had managed to bring away with us, which was not much. Some had nothing at all, excepting the clothes they stood up in. I had my overcoat and one blank blanket which, when folded lengthwise, was something to sleep on and the overcoat acted as covering. How I blessed that overcoat—not only during the evacuation but during those bitterly cold months in Greece. The sea was like a mill pond and the sun shone from a very blue sky. That night too, was entirely without incident, and we all slept at peace with the knowledge that the Navy was there, carrying out its ceaseless, efficient vigil.
And so, on the 2nd of May, we came once again to the shores of Egypt and the old, old port of Alexandria. By 10 o’clock we were alongside the quay where, after a wait of about half an hour, we disembarked. On the quayside was hot tea ready for us and every man was given, free, a small bag of food, which consisted of an orange, a banana, a bun and a bar of chocolate. A train was waiting and all the airmen and NCOs proceeded to a nearby transit camp.
For us, the Greek campaign was over. A campaign of tragedies, but also of many happy memories. A country which one and all of us would ever remember, not only for its kindly and stout-hearted people, but for its wild beauty of endless mountains, olive groves and island dotted blue seas.
Signed: SOC, May 1941(F/Lt Stanley Oakes Crowther, RAFVR)
Tail Spin - Signs say it all?
I saw the sign at the entrance to the gravel road at the top of Murray street – the part that passes between the golf club and the municipal waterworks.
For some time now, road traffic has been banned—Gevaarlik/Geen Toegang/Closed the sign read. Eschewing caution, I walked past the sign, not knowing what to expect when, suddenly, I came across the problem. There was a huge crevasse across the gravel track!
With some trepidation I crouched to the very edge and then I saw it. Deep in the distant depths I thought I could just make out something unusual. Reaching for my pocket binoculars, I faintly made out an arched steel structure. To the left, was a pale sandy coloured patch.
Then it struck me—I was looking at the Sydney Harbour Bridge with Bondi Beach to one side.No wonder the sign suggested ‘Gevaar’. Any vehicle travelling along this stretch of road would most certainly have come a cropper. Thanks to the alert municipal official who had the presence of mind to post this sign and save any errant motorist from a fate worse than death—precipitously ending up in Sydney, Australia!
For some time now, road traffic has been banned—Gevaarlik/Geen Toegang/Closed the sign read. Eschewing caution, I walked past the sign, not knowing what to expect when, suddenly, I came across the problem. There was a huge crevasse across the gravel track!
With some trepidation I crouched to the very edge and then I saw it. Deep in the distant depths I thought I could just make out something unusual. Reaching for my pocket binoculars, I faintly made out an arched steel structure. To the left, was a pale sandy coloured patch.Then it struck me—I was looking at the Sydney Harbour Bridge with Bondi Beach to one side.No wonder the sign suggested ‘Gevaar’. Any vehicle travelling along this stretch of road would most certainly have come a cropper. Thanks to the alert municipal official who had the presence of mind to post this sign and save any errant motorist from a fate worse than death—precipitously ending up in Sydney, Australia!
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