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).
A drongo behind the Black Stump
Because of the huge response to its immigration programme, the Australian government has decided that future applicants for citizenship must be fluent in English. – News report
At last his name was called, though he would have been pleased for any reason to stay out of the rain.
Sydney Harbour Bridge, glimpsed through broken slats in the venetian blinds, appeared two-dimensional behind the deluge. The weather on that day was rather different from what he had expected. Travel brochures, he reflected, were the same the world over.
“Jew-Anne Carlow Pine-toe?” called the bald-headed officer. He was a large man in baggy white shorts and a short-sleeved shirt.
“That is I,” said Juan Carlos Pinto.
“Up here, mate,” the officer said, indicating a moulded chair. There was a delay in which the immigration man found a file, wet his thumb and began paging through it. His mouth worked as he did so.
“Pine-toe,” the bald-headed officer said at length. “What kind of Julia is that?”
“Pardon?” said Juan Carlos.
‘Your bloody handle, jack,” said the officer. “Whassit? Eye-tie? You a bloody ding?”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Juan Carlos. “I do not understand.”
‘Don’t bung it on me, mate,” said the officer. “Where d’ya hail from? What’s ya bloody nationality?”
“I am Spanish,” said Juan Carlos. “From Andalusia.”
“Ah, well,” said the officer. “Seen one dago, seen the lot. Got enough of you jokers already, ask me. Pizzas and bloody pay-ellas coming out of our ears. Bunch of ratbags, mostly. No offence.”
He turned and addressed another officer who was busy at a tea urn across the room. “Hey, Alf!’ he said. “Drop that bloody billy and get yer hump over here!”
Alf strolled over, plastic cup in hand.
“You parly a bit of Spic, donya?” said the bald-headed officer. “Come and yabber to this galah. He’s one of them dago drongos.”
Alf studied Juan Carlos, taking in the immaculate suit and cravat, the calf-length boots.
“Done up like a bloody pox-doctor’s clerk, ain’t he?” said the bald-headed officer. “Laired like a bloody pom. No shortage of Oscar, that’s plain. Bag of fruit musta cost a bit of bloody scratch.”
“Hablo Inglais?” Alf asked.
Juan Carlos nodded. “I am bilingual,” he said. “I have studied at the academy in Madrid. For many years.”
“Pig’s butt!” said the bald-headed officer. “Don’t come the raw prawn with us, mate. Accent like that!”
He returned his attention to the file in front of him. “Means of Entry,” he read aloud. “How’d ya shoot through, blue?”
“He means how did you get here?” said Alf.
“I have come by ship,” said Juan Carlos.
“Thought so,” said the bald-headed officer. “Wet-bloody-backed it through the islands, dinya? One of those Polynesian bangers. Backhander to the skipper, no questions asked. Right?”
“It was the Oceana,” said Juan Carlos. “P and O line. Very nice ship. Very reposeful.”
“Huh!” said the bald-headed officer. He picked up Juan Carlos’s passport, flipped through it, then put it down. “Right, mate,” he said. “So what’s yer bloody lurk?”
“Lurk?”
“Yeah. You a bloody hash artist, or what? Setting up to run the hard stuff from Colombia, are yer? We’re on to that game, mate, tell you now.”
Juan Carlos looked at Alf. “He’s asking why you want to immigrate to Aussie,” said Alf. “What you plan to do here.”
“Ah,” said Juan Carlos, nodding. “It is simple,” he said. “I have read much about the Black Stump, such places. Now I wish to go there, to start a ranch. Somewhere into your interior. With my Spanish bulls.”
“Bloody oath!” said the bald-headed officer. “You got bulls?”
“Many,” said Juan Carlos. “Numerous herds. Always my family has them.”
“Strewth!” said the bald-headed officer. He looked at Juan Carlos as though seeing him for the first time, noticing a cheroot in a manicured hand. “Hey, can I bite ya for a smoke, mate?”
“He wants a cigar,” said Alf.
Juan Carlos handed one over, offering one to Alf, who declined.
“Right,” said the bald-headed officer, lighting up. “One more question, then she’s right. You ever done bird?”
“Bird?”
“Yeah, bird-lime. Y’know. Time.”
“Time?”
“The officer is asking,” said Alf, “do you have a prison record. Have you ever been in jail?”
Juan Carlos looked puzzled. “I thought that was no longer necessary,” he said, “for one to come to Australia.”
Extract from John Ryan’s Spy story (published on Amazon.com, Kindle direct publishing)
Moses removed his football boots and socks, pumped paraffin into the Primus from the ten-gallon tin that also served as a bedside table, lit the stove and lay back on his bed. He would make tea and then wander up to one of the Greek cafes to buy a pie for supper.
When Moses awoke, the cottage was in darkness but for the blue flame of the Primus. Yet something had awoken him. He listened and the noise came again. Someone was trying the door to Mrs Buhl’s kitchen, across the path.
Moses opened his own door. By the partial light of the pressure stove he could see someone on the kitchen steps. The person was carrying what looked like a large book or a parcel.
Alerted by the gushing noise of the Primus, the figure turned and lunged at Moses, propelling him backwards into the cottage. Moses glimpsed a white face under a cloth cap before strong hands grasped him around the throat and he realised with alarm that the man was trying to strangle him.
Moses managed to pull up one knee and lash out with his instep. There was a cry of pain and a fist struck Moses on the side of the face. But by then he was rolling away and scrambling to his feet.
Moses grabbed the stove by its base, below the hissing flame, holding it out in front of him like a torch, hoping the light might force the intruder to turn and run. However, the man lunged at him again, throwing punches, forcing Moses against his makeshift table.
Moses lost his grip on the stove and, as it fell, he heard a gurgling sound behind him. He realised with horror it was the noise of paraffin escaping from the overturned drum.
Moses tried to run for the door but found the intruder blocking his way, his arms outstretched.
Stanley Robertson, the stationmaster, said afterwards he caught sight of the blaze just as the overnight goods train from East London was pulling in. The train was two hours late as always. Stanley said the flames were so high that he thought the town hall was on fire.
The O’Briens felt the heat before they saw any evidence of it. So intense was the fire that it melted the tarmac on that side of Owen Street.
Jack Langton, Howard’s father and the former policeman, was the first person to ring up the manual telephone exchange and tell the operator to get hold of Harry Perry, the town clerk. He told Perry to rally the fire brigade and quickly. Forget about sounding the hooter, Jack said, it’s too late for that.
When Danny ran across the road and saw the source of the fire, it was as though a dark cloud entered his brain and he could not think or speak.
Patrick said to his father, ‘Moses can’t be in there, dad! Can he? He told us he’d be going up to get a pie!’
Digger O’Brien put a hand around the shoulder of both sons. They were standing on the island in Owen Street. The rafters of the cottage had started to collapse, leaving a red imprint on the black sky. Danny stared, fixated, until his father physically turned the boy’s head away.
Jimmy Millar, the wall-eyed Mr Fixit, was in charge of the firemen that night. They broke down the door of the Buhl’s cottage, releasing a blast of hot air and a smell that took Digger O’Brien back to the trenches.
Emerging from the cottage a few minutes later, Jimmy beckoned to Digger.
‘Don’t go in, because it’s a mess, but there’s a corpse,’ he said.
‘Moses?’ Digger asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Jimmy Millar.
Digger O’Brien went in anyway. The body, trapped between the skeleton of the bed and a red-hot paraffin tin, was charred beyond recognition. But the sight of what remained of Moses’s football boots under the bed, burned leather and metal studs, would stay with Digger forever.
‘They couldn’t run a bath’
In Lusaka, leaders of the African National Congress were returning from exile. In four years, they would be in charge of South Africa.
With the party was a member of the anti-apartheid movement who had been close to them for several years. I asked him what sort of government he thought they would make.
“They are good people,” he said. “But right now they couldn’t run a bath, let alone a government. They’ve got some quick learning to do.”
The man explained, “The ANC has never really prepared itself for this. Before sanctions seriously began to bite two years ago, many members had come to believe that change would not happen in their own lifetime.”
Evidence of that unreadiness (and immaturity) came early, with the announcement of free health care for children under six and pregnant or breastfeeding mothers.
One effect of that has been to clog queues at hospitals and clinics with youngsters and mothers suffering from minor ailments, while chronic patients are delayed or even denied treatment.
Another is much more serious and even tragic. Teenage girls, many of them still at school, have become pregnant in order to get the grants on offer. And hundreds of those have abandoned their babies because they lacked the will or the proper funds to carry on as mothers.
Just a few weeks ago, a two-year-old boy was dumped by his mother in the traffic on a motorway. Fortunately, a truck driver was able to brake as the child ran into the path of his vehicle and the police were on hand to contact the welfare authorities.
Babies have not only been abandoned. They have been battered too. And not only by young mothers driven to their wit’s end by constantly crying infants. There seems to be a boyfriend or partner syndrome in some cases: “If you don’t shut that child up, I will!”
Introducing these grants may have been an honest mistake by honorable men but they have become a point of corruption ever since. Old age pensions continue to be claimed long after the death of the original recipient. Many thousands of rands in social security funds have been embezzled by officials down the line.
The incompetence of civil servants has been another major problem in the 20 years of democracy. A recent independent report showed that less than 20 per cent of municipalities were properly managing the funds allocated to them. Hence all the protests over the non-delivery of services.
Mismanagement is rife at province level too, particularly in the education departments. Witness the scandal in Limpopo a few years ago where hundreds of pupils had to go without school books for most of a year because a consignment had simply been dumped in the veld by the company contracted to deliver them.
Another issue has been the quality of teachers appointed. If they are appointed at all, for there are instances where posts continue to go unfilled, year after year.
This is particularly true in the rural areas where pupils have to write exams on work they have never been taught.
Where money is there, yet no one is sure how it should be apportioned, major corruption can readily flourish. And that in turn is fed by a sense of entitlement that has almost become endemic. If you don’t know where that cash should go, just help yourself! You deserve it, after all, after apartheid.
And that path leads us right to Nkandla, and to a shameless president we legally may call a liar now.
Political commentators differ on how much Jacob Zuma will suffer at the polls through the folly of his R246-million homestead. I believe it will be considerable.
More than a million of the “born free” generation (whom Zuma and company must have come to regard as their party’s voters-in-waiting) are so disillusioned they haven’t bothered to register. Julius Malema’s EFF group should attract a fair number of the former ANC Youth members. And Ronnie Kasrils’s “don’t vote” call to ANC voters at large must be a barometer of how many of the older leaders feel.
If the new ANC leaders had any common sense, they would have called for Zuma’s impeachment ahead of the Democratic Alliance. But then common sense seems to be a commodity in short supply among the present ANC hierachy.
As are honesty and integrity.
If you can’t stand the heat
It was in my early years of bachelorhood that I discovered a feeling for the culinary arts.
Some men resist kitchens as they might the main computer room at Cape Kennedy, but I have never been one of those. My attitude to that traditional female preserve is: If you can’t beat them, scramble them.
In this mood last weekend, my family in town at a matinee, I decided to whip up a Quiche Lorraine for us for supper. Now a Quiche Lorraine, as any gourmet cook knows, is a tricky little dish in that one has to achieve just the right blend of bacon, cheese and seasoning, being in the process extremely canny with the salt. A pinch too much will spoil everything.
I had just finished this delicate preparation, had just popped the flan into a preheated oven, when the doorbell rang.
It was a young man from a commune down the road, though I hardly recognised him at first behind a flour-mask that extended from chin to eye-level. He seemed equally taken aback to find me in my ruffled apron but recovered to ask if I could let him have a bouquet garni, mispronouncing a name I could see was as foreign to him as colloquial Kurdish. He also asked if I knew anything about pastry-making.
Is the Pope a Catholic, I said to myself, but aloud I told him, “I think you’d better take me to your recipe.” We picked up the bouquet garni on the way out.
The kitchen in the commune was enviably large but in a state of devastation. Unwashed utensils lay about as though distributed by a hurricane.
At the centre of things was a pastry board containing a very solid lump of dough and surrounded by ingredients that indicated a production line for a steak and tomato pie. The recipe was there to prove it, though half hidden under a jumble of plates and pans.
It seemed my new friend George (for the sake of anonymity) had drawn the short straw in the cook-of-the-day stakes. His commune mates were all down at the beach.
Thus far, George had followed the recipe in good faith, taking care to prepare everything before the actual baking process. But the tomato looked as if it had been garrotted, the onion chopped by the simply process of throwing it under a bus. The garlic had been butchered skin and all.
I set all this aside, suggesting it might be saved for some future soup, and called for a new lot. I began by showing George how to skin tomatoes by immersing them in boiling water, then in cold.
Next I demonstrated the best method of slicing onions, halving them first to stop them rolling around. Then I tapped the garlic to loosen the skin.
“Now the way to crush a clove of garlic,” I told George, “is to place it in salt. After that, it comes apart at the point of a knife. Like so.“
Having adjusted the oven, I trimmed and floured the meat and placed it all in a pie dish with salt, pepper and the bouquet garni. I rolled the dough to the thickness of a five-rand piece, set it with a hole at centre, decorated the top with pastry leaves and brushed on the beaten egg. I considered breaking the egg with one hand, as I am able to do, but rejected the idea as possibly too ostentatious. Then I put the pie in the fridge for ten minutes to relax.
“That’s a good tip to remember,” I said to George. “A lot of cook books don’t tell you to do that.”
While waiting for the pie to settle, I put on the kettle with George’s permission and made us some tea, pouring the tea into the milk to scald it. Somehow tea never tastes the same the other way about.
George had seemed most impressed at all these goings-on and said as much. “Look,” I told him, “cooking’s just a matter of knowing a few basics, then being able to read the recipe.
“Women deliberately load the whole thing with mystique. It’s a defence mechanism. They’re afraid we’ll think less of them. If too many men came to realise how easy it was to cook, the stature of the woman slaving over the hot stove just wouldn’t be the same.”
George said he saw.
After ten minutes, I took the pie from the fridge, baked it for 30 minutes at 220C until the pastry was well risen and golden brown, then lowered the heat and left the rest to George. I told him the meat should be done in about two hours and suggested one or two accompaniments. Perhaps just cauliflower and peas, if George could manage those.
George could hardly thank me enough and rushed out ahead of me to buy the frozen vegetables.
Outside, a light rain was falling but the world seemed an exceptionally good place. I got to thinking how right that axiom is, about it being better to give than to receive.
In these spirits did I whistle my way home, back through the front door and up the stairs. Back to the acrid and highly distinctive smell of burning Quiche Lorraine that emanated from the kitchen.
Still, the tinned spaghetti we eventually had for supper was opened to a nicety.
Green light to a dead end
So the president is cock-a-hoop about the matric results. And playing the race card again by accusing the Opposition leader of not being able to accept that blacks are able to pass exams.
But Helen Zille has good reason to be sceptical about the statistics. Her own province, which regularly has had the best results, is suddenly fourth behind certain ANC strongholds. Also (surprise! surprise!) Limpopo has registered a 71.8 per cent pass rate, although pupils in the province were denied text books for most of the year!
Almost as bad as this clear manipulation is the news that some provinces have been culling numbers before the exams, telling Grade 11 pupils who might fail that they will not even get a chance to write matric. How cynical is that?
The biggest problem with our education, of course, is that many thousands of the pupils who have been allowed to write, and successfully, will merely have been given a green light into a dead end.
That problem will persist until the country as a whole comes up with a better programme of job creation. To that end, the government could help by looking to develop the state land it has appropriated over two decades, setting up and training youngsters on community farms.
The Israeli government would be able to assist, and might be pleased to do so. Its kibbutzim were at the heart of that country’s own agricultural development and still employ many young citizens.
But then Jacob Zuma and his acolytes are unlikely to approach Israel. For them it is a state non grata for a couple of reasons. While they will accept the Chinese, despite their poor record on human rights, they will not readily forget that Israeli scientists provided nuclear power assistance to the old Nationalist government. Or that Israel continues to be beastly to the Palestinians.
Oh, well.
High Noon in torrid Luanda
November in Luanda is a knock-down and drag-out month for heat. Which, like Bermuda’s sandflies and Daytona Beach’s mosquitoes, is not a fact you will see bandied about in travel guides.
By eleven o’clock, even the black Angolans – whom one would expect to be reasonably immune to the situation – are scurrying off to find some respite among the palm groves.
They dart from one pool of shade to the next, criss-crossing streets and alleys as they go, like a terrorised crowd fleeing before some hidden sniper.
One o’clock is the meridian. Now the siesta is fully into its stride, the pavements downtown deserted.
Except for me, trudging along on a pair of fried eggs. Intermittently massaging a neck gone stiff to no avail, from turning to look out for taxis.
And a solitary policeman. Grey of face and uniform, he keeps measured pace on the other side of the street, plainly suspicious of the stranger who chooses to venture out in this sauna weather.
With sidelong glances, we watch each other through the haze that rises from the tarmac. Clomp. Clomp. The sound of our feet is an infraction upon the gentle snoring of the city.
I think this could make a good movie scenario. Then remember that it did. ‘High Noon’, of course. Gary Cooper, the late Princess Grace, and the most convincing bunch of renegades that ever appeared on celluloid.
The vision of Deadwood Gulch (or was it Dodge) grows as we turn a corner, still faultlessly in step, and head towards the old town hall. It’s the heat, naturally, and the silence, the shuttered buildings and the minute hand up in the clock tower, moving fatefully onward.
In my mind, it becomes a game. The cop, gun strapped low, can be Cooper. A little darker and rounder, perhaps, but pure granite underneath.
Me? I’m Tonto, Festus or Pancho. Some such sidekick. Not quite a Cooper but the next best thing. A veteran of shoot-outs and bar brawls.
Striding out to our next showdown, I smile conspiratorially across at my partner. He responds with a frown. Deadwood Gulch fades into reality.
My hotel still being a long way off, I start whistling to lighten the load. The policeman’s frown darkens so I stop. Maybe it’s a jailable offence to whistle during the siesta.
At once, an alarm bell begins to ring somewhere ahead of us.
Cooper, that was, acts commendably in character. The large gun is palmed, quick as a flash. He turns towards me but is persuaded by my idiot expression that I can have nothing to do with this new development.
Together we move towards the sound. The source turns out to be a jeweller’s shop, which fact causes us to exchange meaningful glances.
Peering through the glass frontage, we see the alarm on an inside wall. Its little hammer is beating in agitation. There is no other sign of movement.
The policeman and I confer by way of jumbled sign-language. The front door, we agree – after furious pulling and pushing at the knob – is impenetrable.
But running down both sides of the shop are service lanes. My companion signals that I should tackle one while he investigates the other.
Stumbling past dustbins, I find a small window near the back of the building. It is open but stoutly burglar-proofed.
I chin myself up on the ledge, long enough to gain an impression of a dark room, full of packing cases and broken timepieces. Also to glimpse an indefinable shape – possibly someone’s cap – edging forward above the level of a work-bench.
I drop down, charged with adrenalin, and sprint back to the street, clearing the dustbins like a steeple-chaser.
Taking the bend at full speed, I run straight into the chest of a grey uniform, which clutches me eagerly. Surprised, I stare into the face and, suddenly, the heat of the day gives way to a clammy chill.
It is not my policeman!
Stuttered explanations fall on foreign ears. I point wildly at the interior of the shop and the new cop grunts knowingly. Though he is shorter than my friend, his grip is ferocious.
I consider the circumstantial evidence. A burgled shop, a stranger in obvious flight from the scene. My fingerprints on the windowsill.
Of course, everything will be sweet when Cooper shows up. If he shows up. What if he had taken off after the real burglar? Never to be encountered again? Or not by me, at any rate.
But even as I stand there, with the policeman’s arm around my throat, Cooper emerges from the other lane.
He is carrying a large ginger cat. He drops it as he takes in the scene, stands poised for a moment, then moves to the attack.
A barrage of slaps to the other policeman’s neck secures my immediate release. The invective that accompanies this threatens to curl the paving stones.
The second cop retreats, spectacularly abashed. My friend takes my arm. And together, Cooper and Festus (or Tonto or Pancho) go forward in search of new pursuits.
A cold beer, I feel, would be an adventure in itself.
From One Man’s Africa
John Ryan 