ANC is cutting off its nose . . .
Leader of the Freedom Front, Pieter Mulder, suggests Jacob Zuma’s State of the Nation speech shows the ANC’s “gas is out of the bottle”. Certainly the man himself looks deflated. And ill.
And what activity has there been since that dull, repetitive speech? Not much.
Former Finance Minister Pravin Gordhan who, towards the end of his tenure did at least accept the need for an economy drive, has been energetic in his new job of cleaning up local governments. This last week, his department fired four Limpopo mayors and charged East London councillors who pocketed six million rands intended for Mandela memorial services.
But there is no indication yet how the Government plans to garner all the funds it would need for its development plan, including a whole new ministry with all those attendant officials. It’s interesting to note that the Nats could manage with 16 ministries. The ANC requires 35.
The Minister of Rural Development has come up with a ridiculous scheme by which farmers would give half their land to their workers. Even Julius “I want it all” Malema must know that is impossible.
One of Zuma’s stated aims during his second term is to see the creation of a million new jobs in the agricultural field. Financial experts shake their heads, citing the growing mechanisation in farming generally; a process that is likely to speed up if there are more strikes in the industry.
However, there is a way to at least make a start if only the ANC government would recognise it.
In the past 20 years, the State has appropriated white farms in all the provinces by the “willing seller” scheme. Other farms are on offer but somehow still awaiting payment by the Land Bank.
In its relatively short life, Israel has been able to transform the barren land it was allocated after World War II. To a large extent, it has achieved this through its kibbutz system. These communally run settlements, in which children are collectively reared, played a crucial role in the development of the country. In the process, many thousands of young Israelis and foreign volunteers have been trained in diverse skills – agricultural, industrial, even ecological.
Although there has been a recent movement to the greater comfort of Israel’s cities, the 270 kibbutzim still account for 40 per cent of the country’s agricultural output.
Would that not be a viable way of employing and training some of the millions of South African youngsters currently out of jobs? By creating collective farms on all that vacant land, with the assistance of Israeli experts?
It would indeed. If only the ANC could forget the past. Forget that Israel helped the Nat government develop the atomic (though not the nuclear) bomb in the late eighties.
That must be the sticking point, for it is inconceivable that somebody in government would not have considered the kibbutz route before now.
Extract from John Ryan’s “Spy story” (Amazon.com, Kindle direct publishing
Otto Steiger, commander of U 160, stared out through binoculars at the small bay where the submarine’s dinghy was headed. Overhead, the Milky Way blazed with a billion stars.
Anyone with a less jaundiced eye might have been enthralled at the sight. But Steiger had other things on his mind.
Immediately, he was worried that the dinghy might be too visible from the shore in that starlight. And, from behind the hills, the moon would soon be up. He would much have preferred cloud cover. He worried also that the contact vehicle had not yet arrived. Above all, he worried about the war and his own plight.
Below Otto Steiger, as he stood at the top of the conning tower, was the emblem he and his crew had decided on when the vessel was commissioned more than two years earlier. It was supposed to be a rabbit’s foot, a symbol of luck, but the member of the engine room crew who had volunteered to paint it had overstated his artistic talents. So, instead, what he eventually achieved looked rather like an overweight lily or, some thought, a leek.
Yet, up to now, the emblem had brought a fair deal of luck to U 160. The fact that it was still intact after two years and some months, particularly in the seas off Africa, spoke for itself. But that had been the time when the war was running in Germany’s favour, as detailed in regular bulletins from naval headquarters to the U-boat fleet. Since then, the bulletins had dried up, younger and younger men were being conscripted into the services, and Steiger was enough of a realist to know what all of that indicated. During his last furlough, just a month earlier, he had heard that the German navy was losing submarines at the rate of twenty a month.
Whether or not the information was right, it sent a chill up Steiger’s spine. He just hoped luck would not abandon him and his crew in this outlandish part of the world.
How had the mighty fallen! Steiger remembered the day he had been offered a transfer from destroyers to the elite submarine corps. It was hardly an offer, more an order he could not refuse, but the role of the submarine in modern naval warfare had been so romanticised that he was elated at the chance.
Of course, they never told you the truth about submarines. They never told you how precarious it was to command a vessel not much more than half the length of a football pitch in combat against ships of much greater size, speed and strike power.
They never told you – or maybe they never knew, those admirals, those toffee-nosed relics of World War I – the dangers of diving in the Indian Ocean. These waters were so clear that you could not hide from the bombs and depth charges of enemy aircraft. Yet, deep down, they concealed rocks and coral sharp enough to penetrate any submarine’s inner hull. And, when the weather turned around, they could produce waves that made the North Atlantic look like a millpond.
Instead, what naval bosses tried to instil in you was an entirely false sense of security in the one facility the submarine had that the other naval craft did not – the ability to submerge and thus, allegedly, become invisible.
In reality, submarines spent most of the time on the surface, plodding along on their diesel engines at the pace of tramp steamers, pitching and rolling, forcing the crew to grab at any possible appendage in the interior structure of the vessel to stay upright.
They never told you, although they surely did know, those old admirals, what it would be like sharing such cramped quarters with fifty other males, breathing the same polluted air, day after day, week after week, bumping against one another in the narrow gangways. Sardine cans, the other naval men had begun to call submarines, and they weren’t far out.
As Otto Steiger scanned the coast around the river mouth, he caught a flash of headlights from the contact area and signalled back with the Aldis lamp. So the dinghy should be back within the hour, with the jerry cans of water they desperately needed and possibly some fresh meat and fruit, bananas or paw paws.
Exactly what the contact could supply didn’t really matter. In the end, it would all taste of diesel fumes.
A holiday not to be forgotten
Dear Mr McGregor,
First let me say how much the family enjoyed those few days at your hotel. We are only sorry that you will not be able to accommodate us next season but unfortunately, according to your receptionist, you are fully booked for some time hence.
That is a great disappointment, considering the marvellous stay we had at “Bluewaves”. However, it must be an encouraging situation for your good selves. You seemed to have a number of vacant rooms when we were there. Perhaps the economy really is set to pick up, as some predict.
My wife mentioned on the telephone that we are returning your snooker balls plus table tennis set by courier. How they came to land up in our boot remains a mystery. The children deny all knowledge and I must accept their word, although I do appreciate that Mrs McGregor will be suspicious after the incident involving the shoes.
Believe me. That was no more than an ill-conceived prank, collecting them from the corridors and mixing them up like that on the stairs and in the foyer. Yet, while the thought might be admirable, inviting guests to put their shoes out for cleaning is an old-fashioned practice I think you would do well to review.
In our experience, this no longer happens at most holiday hotels (and, I assure you, we have stayed at a good few). The trend seems to be towards a small cleaning set, lodged in the cupboard where one keeps the spare blankets. It’s merely a suggestion.
Of course, the matter might have come to nothing had the housekeeper not done herself an injury by falling down like that (How is she, by the way? We sent her flowers) and if the youngest – with the best motives in the world, I might add, which is why my wife was a bit sharpish with your good woman – had not undertaken the job of polishing them before her brothers threw them down the stairwell.
Being a parent yourself, I imagine you will appreciate that four-year-olds are too immature to know that one should not apply boot polish to suede leather, but that is Melissa’s nature. She will make someone an excellent wife some day, she has this absolute fetish about polishing things.
And colouring things, for that matter. That, of course, would explain the rather unfortunate development on the Thursday afternoon when you were showing the “Creatures of the Lost Lagoon” DVD which, incidentally, we did not think suitable for young children and we were not surprised when Melissa left.
Even so, we misunderstood her completely when she announced that she was going off to “paint the porch”.
Both my wife and myself interpreted that to mean that Melissa was intent on altering the colours on the front of the doll’s house she was given last Christmas, perhaps using her paint-by-numbers set.
We certainly were not apprised of the fact that the gentleman in Bungalow 3 owned a car of such manufacture, or we might have immediately been suspicious.
Nor did we realise that our daughter would have ready access to the materials with which (if I may say so) you maintain the “Bluewaves” pool in such exceptional condition.
It may be of some consolation to the person involved to consider that he must now the most waterproof vehicle in the country, but I would urge that you get your staff to put a lock on that shed.
On the subject of presents, our eldest assures us that he acted entirely without malice when he went to practise his new trumpet that night behind the ladies’ powder-room. He says when he blew down the overflow duct, it was merely as an experiment in resonance and he had no idea anybody was “ensconced”.
Still, I imagine Mrs Clifford sees the funny side of it by now.
My son also asks me to apologise on his behalf for his language to you in the affair over the pedal-boat. Normally, he never uses those terms. Indeed, we were not aware that words like those were part of his vocabulary.
Gary says it was a reaction to having been called a “bloody Vaalie” but I myself believe his response was out of genuine fear, considering how far out to sea he was when he decided to “abandon ship” , as he puts it. The redeeming aspect of it all is that he is a reasonable swimmer.
My son also says – and I think he has a point – that if it is the rule of the hotel that those craft should not be employed beyond the mouth of the lagoon, you should have a large notice up somewhere to that effect.
Did you manage to get it back, by the way? Although, of course, you are bound to be insured against that sort of thing.
I trust your electricity will have been restored by this time, and the other repairs done. I am not an expert in these matters, and it is probably none of my business, but if I were you I would get somebody to have a look at the wiring.
It seems ridiculous to me that an entire hotel should lose its power because a small metal spaceship becomes jammed in a light socket. And my friends tell me the fire would never have happened if you had installed an adequate “earth leakage” system.
Once again, sir, let me express our sincere regret that you will not have room for us next year.
Yours etc.
P. S. We will certainly try again closer to the time, in case there should be any cancellations. The prospect of another holiday at “Bluewater” is too good to be missed.
From John Ryan’s Time wounds all heels column
A holiday not to be forgotten
Dear Mr McGregor,
First let me say how much the family enjoyed those few days at your hotel. We are only sorry that you will not be able to accommodate us next season but unfortunately, according to your receptionist, you are fully booked for some time hence.
That is a great disappointment, considering the marvellous stay we had at “Bluewaves”. However, it must be an encouraging situation for your good selves. You seemed to have a number of vacant rooms when we were there. Perhaps the economy really is set to pick up, as some predict.
My wife mentioned on the telephone that we are returning your snooker balls plus table tennis set by courier. How they came to land up in our boot remains a mystery. The children deny all knowledge and I must accept their word, although I do appreciate that Mrs McGregor will be suspicious after the incident involving the shoes.
Believe me. That was no more than an ill-conceived prank, collecting them from the corridors and mixing them up like that on the stairs and in the foyer. Yet, while the thought might be admirable, inviting guests to put their shoes out for cleaning is an old-fashioned practice I think you would do well to review.
In our experience, this no longer happens at most holiday hotels (and, I assure you, we have stayed at a good few). The trend seems to be towards a small cleaning set, lodged in the cupboard where one keeps the spare blankets. It’s merely a suggestion.
Of course, the matter might have come to nothing had the housekeeper not done herself an injury by falling down like that (How is she, by the way? We sent her flowers) and if the youngest – with the best motives in the world, I might add, which is why my wife was a bit sharpish with your good woman – had not undertaken the job of polishing them before her brothers threw them down the stairwell.
Being a parent yourself, I imagine you will appreciate that four-year-olds are too immature to know that one should not apply boot polish to suede leather, but that is Melissa’s nature. She will make someone an excellent wife some day, she has this absolute fetish about polishing things.
And colouring things, for that matter. That, of course, would explain the rather unfortunate development on the Thursday afternoon when you were showing the “Creatures of the Lost Lagoon” DVD which, incidentally, we did not think suitable for young children and we were not surprised when Melissa left.
Even so, we misunderstood her completely when she announced that she was going off to “paint the porch”.
Both my wife and myself interpreted that to mean that Melissa was intent on altering the colours on the front of the doll’s house she was given last Christmas, perhaps using her paint-by-numbers set.
We certainly were not apprised of the fact that the gentleman in Bungalow 3 owned a car of such manufacture, or we might have immediately been suspicious.
Nor did we realise that our daughter would have ready access to the materials with which (if I may say so) you maintain the “Bluewaves” pool in such exceptional condition.
It may be of some consolation to the person involved to consider that he must now the most waterproof vehicle in the country, but I would urge that you get your staff to put a lock on that shed.
On the subject of presents, our eldest assures us that he acted entirely without malice when he went to practise his new trumpet that night behind the ladies’ powder-room. He says when he blew down the overflow duct, it was merely as an experiment in resonance and he had no idea anybody was “ensconced”.
Still, I imagine Mrs Clifford sees the funny side of it by now.
My son also asks me to apologise on his behalf for his language to you in the affair over the pedal-boat. Normally, he never uses those terms. Indeed, we were not aware that words like those were part of his vocabulary.
Gary says it was a reaction to having been called a “bloody Vaalie” but I myself believe his response was out of genuine fear, considering how far out to sea he was when he decided to “abandon ship” , as he puts it. The redeeming aspect of it all is that he is a reasonable swimmer.
My son also says – and I think he has a point – that if it is the rule of the hotel that those craft should not be employed beyond the mouth of the lagoon, you should have a large notice up somewhere to that effect.
Did you manage to get it back, by the way? Although, of course, you are bound to be insured against that sort of thing.
I trust your electricity will have been restored by this time, and the other repairs done. I am not an expert in these matters, and it is probably none of my business, but if I were you I would get somebody to have a look at the wiring.
It seems ridiculous to me that an entire hotel should lose its power because a small metal spaceship becomes jammed in a light socket. And my friends tell me the fire would never have happened if you had installed an adequate “earth leakage” system.
Once again, sir, let me express our sincere regret that you will not have room for us next year.
Yours etc.
P. S. We will certainly try again closer to the time, in case there should be any cancellations. The prospect of another holiday at “Bluewater” is too good to be missed.
The man who cried wolf
When Nick first saw the dinghy, he thought it must be fishermen, possibly seine-netters. Then, as it edged into the bay below him, he heard the sound of a vehicle’s engine and a dark shape moved towards the shore.
The dinghy disgorged two figures. They stood for a while on the beach. Nick saw the flash of headlights, outlining a large car or a truck, and the figures began to walk towards it.
At the same time, another light appeared from beyond the surf line, flashed a message and repeated it. Dot, dot, dash. U. Pause. Dash, dot, dot, dot. B. After that, the same again, in quick succession.
U and B? UB? Unterseeboot! It had to be, thought Mostert.
He felt the hair stand up on the nape of his neck. And as he continued to watch, willing his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom, he could make out the silhouette of a conning tower and a hull swinging on an anchor.
Nick heard thumping noises, the sound of wood on wood as though boxes were being loaded and then the swish of oars as the dinghy began to move out to sea.
He turned and ran, down and along the path, back to the ferry. The rowing boat was there, the oars laid across the stern, but the man who had rowed him over was not to be seen.
Mostert had spoken many times about his prowess as an oarsman, but had never actually tried to row. Now he did, clumsily, in a mild state of panic, catching crabs and going nowhere.
He slowed down, concentrated on a task that he thought had to be really quite simple, dug the oars deep and began to make progress. Reaching the other side, Nick dragged the rowing boat as high as he could up the bank and ran to his hotel. Brian Eayrs, the Needles Hotel owner, was in the bar with two customers.
Mostert took him aside. ‘I need to use your telephone,’ he said.
‘Not tonight, Nick, I’m afraid,’ said Eayrs. ‘The main exchange closed at six. Come and have a drink instead.’
Nick finally had three, wondering as he drank them if he should tell these people what he had seen, and became more convinced with every passing moment that he could not. Nick Mostert, well known in recent Transkeian lore for seeing a U-boat that never was, claims another sighting at Port St Johns.
He decided it was too late anyway for anyone to achieve anything that night, went off to bed and slept badly, his stomach burbling.
Extract from Spy story (Kindle direct publishing, Amazon.com).
John Ryan 