This blog will continue at a different site.

This blog will from now on continue at my new blog/website at www.thewhiteou.com

The articles posted here have evoked a fair amount of interest and it appears the site is on a rapid growth-path. I am no expert but I've been told by web gurus I need to move the domain from a Google-owned site to one where I own the domain name. And I should do it sooner rather than later.

Please go to www.thewhiteou.com where you will find all the articles currently on this site and any new ones posted.

Thanks for visiting. See you over at the new spot.

The world's dumbest tourist visits South Africa

I caught a radio news story about a Canadian who has to be the dumbest tourist ever to visit South Africa -- or anywhere in the world for that matter!
To save him further embarrassment I won't mention his name but I am sure, if you really want to find it, a quick internet search will turn it up.
Let me just say, it is not the same Campbell who set land-speed records in a specially-built car.
This particular tourist came to South Africa to party, visit interesting places and meet and interact with interesting locals.
It seems the not-the-sharpest-knife-in-the-kitchen-drawer visitor hooked up with five men and women from a Bloemfontein squatter camp (or to use it's more politically-acceptable designation, informal settlement).
With expensive camera and lenses draped over his shoulder, iPod dangling from his neck, cellphone in his hand and...wait for it...this is the kicker...R67 000 (about US$8 000) in his pocket, he asked his new-found chums to show him around the quaint little tin cottages of the squatter camp...er...informal settlement. He also asked them to take him to the local nightclubs and taverns.
Though I have no evidence to support my conjecture, I would hazard a guess that he looked forward to swapping names, telephone numbers and email addresses with the friendly, dusky beauties of the squat...er...village.
I am going to assume my readers are way smarter than the Canuck in question and, as such will refrain from stating the obvious details and outcome. Suffice it to say, it did not end happily for the man who makes a maple leaf look smart, involved a stabbing and a much poorer but hopefully wiser (don't hold your breath on that) tourist.
A man was quickly arrested for the crime, tried and sentenced.

Screwing like bunnies

Justice in South Africa is swift and efficient. For World Cup visitors that is. For the rest of us perhaps not so.
Take the recent case of the Benoni businessman who made many desperate calls to the Ekhurhuleni Metro Police calling on them to save him from being drowned when his car was trapped on a flooded road.
In all fairness, the cops who ignored the calls had good reasons for doing so -- they were busy in the operations room, fucking each other like bunnies and, let's be honest, stopping sex, trying to find a tissue and pulling up your pants so you can go save a civilian you don't even know, is not fun. So let's cut 'em a bit of slack. It's not like they were having lunch or anything!
In an interview with the Star newspaper the businessman said: "At the time, I ended up trapped in my car in Benoni when heavy rains caused havoc. I realised I was not going to make it. My car's battery failed and water started pouring in."
According to the report: the dead battery prevented the man from operating the electric windows or opening the doors of his Chrysler. He then used his cellphone to attempt to contact his family, lawyer and the metro police.
"By the time I had finished making the calls, the water level in the car had already reached my neck. I managed to open the sunroof and pulled myself out of the car."
The businessman, now stuck on the roof of his vehicle, contacted ANC ward councillor, Valerie Taylor, asking her to organise to have the metro police sent to assist him.
Taylor and a Community Policing Forum member then walked into the metro police offices, allegedly catching the two officers having sex. The businessman's lawyer later said that the officers "were caught having sexual intercourse in their office by an ANC councillor and a CPF member, after they failed to respond to my client's numerous emergency calls".
Meanwhile, the businessman went about helping another victim of the flooded road just a few metres away.
"I was saying my prayers, crying and shaking," said the second motorist, who was identified as Tanki Rabela.
"God sent this man to help save me," Rabela said, adding that the water had rendered his cellphone unusable.
Metro police and paramedics reportedly only arrived after the pair had made their way to safety.
I contend, when he called he should have said he was a soccer fan in the process of being mugged. That would have brought the cops...fast.

Fast cars

Some may even have raced to his aid as fast as the Limpopo traffic officer who was this week arrested after he was caught driving at 274km/h in his personal vehicle.
Officer Joe Munyai, from Louis Trichardt, reportedly took his Mercedes-Benz C200 Kompressor (I'm not even going to guess how a traffic cop is able to afford that car) to well over double the speed limit of 120km/h on the N1 near Bandelierkop, where two provincial officials recorded his speed.
The section of the N1 where Munyai was caught has only one lane in each direction.
Munyai, who according to a Makhado municipality spokesperson has not been suspended, has since appeared in court and was released on bail of R1000.
It is no doubt purely coincidence that the Ekhurhuleni Metro was, until two years ago, commanded by restaurant-bomber, killer and maimer of ordinary citizens and alleged drunk driver, Robert McBride.
But maybe we shouldn't judge him too harshly, after all, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission let him off but not before they harshly slapped him on the wrist with the stinging admonition that the bombing that killed three women and injured 69 others was a "gross violation of human rights."
Not that it made a jot of difference to the SA Government, as Robbie was awarded the Merit Medal in Silver and the Conspicuous Leadership Star from the South African National Defence Force for his "service and combat leadership in Umkhonto We Sizwe."
(Read Ben Trovato's hilarious open letter to Robert McBride here.)
It sure is a strange and sometimes fucked up country that we live in!

The best choc-chip cookie in the world.

The White House Art Gallery and Coffee Shop in Parys. Home of the world's best choc-chip cookie.

On Sunday I tasted the best choc-chip cookie in the world.
I may be exaggerating, as I obviously have not tasted every choc-chip cookie ever made -- although I've tried hard to reach that lofty goal and have the waist-line to prove it.
Choc-chip cookies are my drug of choice and while Mrs White Ou makes a mean CCC -- maybe the second best in the world now -- I regret to say, I have found biscuit Nirvana.
The biscuit in question, that I came across completely by accident, can be found in Parys, a little town on the banks of the Vaal River, about an hour-and-a-half's drive south of Johannesburg and I came across it completely by accident.
My son and I planned to give our motorcycles a run and Parys sounded like a nice turning point. In years gone by I've passed through the town, on my way to other destinations but never stopped.

Delightful little hamlet

I'm glad I changed that. It is a delightful little hamlet, with streets lined by quaint coffee shops, art galleries and antique shops. We spent a pleasant morning strolling through the down and, in one of the shops, I picked up a pristine Kodak Retina IIc camera, complete with leather case, for R250 (about $30). Made somewhere around 1955, the little gem needs to be serviced and lubricated -- standard procedure for cameras of that vintage -- that will cost another R250.
Once done, I will have a precision German instrument, equipped with one of the finest lenses ever made, that will certainly outlast me. (To read more about my passion for German life-shuttered cameras visit my photographic blog, The Light Stuff.)
But back to the choc-chip cookie.
We pulled into Parys, cold, wind-blown and keen to find a good cup of coffee.
We chose an establishment called "The White House Art Gallery and Coffee Bar", for no reason other than it was close to where we'd parked. It turned out to be a good choice...perhaps it was destiny...because it was there that I found THE cookie.

No fanfare

There was no big fanfare upon arrival at our table and no prior indication of what was to come. We did not order it, it was just part of the package that is a cup of coffee at The White House.
But when I bit into it...!
It's difficult to adequately describe a taste experienced to someone else, but I guess you want me to take a shot.
The biscuit was harder than the usual limp, somewhat soggy, offerings so often encountered in coffee shops. It snapped when bitten, rather than crumbled. It's texture was coarser than expected, sort of like a health biscuit and it was sweet but not overly so.
The embedded choc-chips were large and generous but it was the other flavours that grabbed my attention...pecan nut and a hint of marzipan.
The producer of this sublime confectionery turned out to be the establishment-owner, Annette Dannhauser, an artist whose work adorns the walls. In search of a quieter, more tranquil life, she and accountant husband, Jannie, moved to the village from Johannesburg, although he still commutes to and from the "big smoke" every day.
We spent a very pleasant hour chatting about the town, things to see and life in general and, on their recommendation, I will return to visit the nearby Vredefort Dome, World Heritage site.
I left with two packets of the world's best choc-chip cookies and a promise that I'll be back soon.
I have no doubt this article will get flour up the noses of some bakers, maybe even spark a choc-chip cookie war -- fire away, I can take it -- but until I am proven wrong, Annette Dannhauser's biscuit will hold the position of "best in the world"
...at least in my opinion and on this blog.

Details of the White House Art Gallery and Coffee Shop.
33 Bree Street, Parys. Tel (+27) 056-817-2889
www.annettedannhauser.co.za

Some other views of Parys and the Vaal River:

Renewing my passport

At the beginning of the year I realised my passport had expired and a trip to the local Home Affairs Department was imminent.
Based on previous experiences of inefficiency and unpleasantness, it was not a prospect I relished.
Memories of standing in long lines for an hour or more, only to have the window get shut in my face just as it was my turn to be served, or being told I was in the wrong queue and "should be in that line over there" that hadn't moved for the last two days, are still vivid.
For days I hesitated, trying to find a way around it. Perhaps I should use a service that does the queuing for me, I thought.
"Don't be silly," said Mrs White Ou, always the voice of reason. "We're not millionaires and it's not as though you have much else to do any way."
I couldn't argue on either of those points.
"In any case, I've heard things are a lot better and while you're there, get renewal forms me and also for Kevin (my youngest son.)"
And so it was that I found myself, early on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the year, at the offices of the Department of Home Affairs in Randfontein. The doors had just opened but the queues were already significant.
I joined the line waiting to be served by a man behind the "Enquiries" counter.

Building true unity

It is claimed that the World Cup will turn out to be this country's greatest ever unifying force. While I agree the whole affair put us in party mood and, for a while, we forgot our differences and banded behind the national team, it cannot compete with the unifying experience of visiting a government department.
Now that really builds true unity. People from all levels of society, who normally would not give each other the time of day, become bound by shared suffering, induced by inept officials and a system designed to screw you around.
Linked in our common misery, we individuals rapidly become a common mind, swapping stories of previous experiences at the hands of not-so-civil servants.
It becomes a competition to see who has been screwed-over worst.
A coloured woman with a toddler hanging on her skirts and peering at me from between her legs, struck up conversation.
"How many times have you had to come back?" she asked.
"It's my first, I just have to get some forms for a passport," I replied.
"This is my fourth. They've been fucking me and my husband around every time. First it's this and then it's that. Then they want something else. My husband can't come any more, he's got to work. You know how hard jobs are to find these days..."
By the time my position in the line had advanced two yards I knew pretty all there was to know about her family... how her husband enjoys a drink or six on the weekend, that she'd voted ANC but probably wouldn't do so again in the next elections and a lot more.
If we'd just thought of it, we probably would have exchanged telephone numbers and even ended up going on family outings together. (The last part is not true, I just said that to impress foreign readers.)
She, in turn, knew about my kids, how difficult it was for them to find work and my solutions for South Africa's problems and world hunger.
When it was my turn to be served at the "Enquiries" counter, I felt all warm and cuddly -- new South African!

Can't take them out of the building

"I need three sets of passport application forms, please," I said to the guy manning the counter.
"You'll need to fill them in here," he said. "We no longer allow people to take them out of the building."
I was taken aback. Surely he was joking.
"But I need to get photographs done and I'm sure there are other details that must be filled in," I responded.
He was not joking.
"There's a man outside who'll take the pictures and you only need complete a few details, the rest we'll get from the computer system."
"But what about my wife and son?" I asked.
He stared at me with a look usually reserved for people who've suffered head-traumas. It was just so damn obvious and I couldn't see it.
"They'll have to come in," he sighed.
"But they work and can't take time off."
"We've thought of that too," he replied, "that's why we're open on Saturday mornings."
Behind me the people in the line were growing restless.
But I was not easily swayed.
"This is ridiculous," I huffed. "Tell me why I can't take the forms home, fill them in and bring them back."
"Because people don't bring them back," he replied. "And, because of that, I get given a set number of forms in the morning and a reconciliation is done in the afternoon."
"That is simply nonsense," I said, in the most indignant tone I could muster. "I'm not like that. I will fill them in and be back."
I scooped up the forms and marched defiantly out of the building, expecting any moment to be beaten senseless by the bemused security guards but nothing happened.
Earlier this week, while watching television, Mrs White Ou suddenly turned to me.
"Did you ever get those passport forms?" she asked.
I thought for a moment.
"I did," I replied. "They're sitting on my desk, I just haven't got round to giving them to you yet."
"We really should fill them in," she said, and turned her attention back to the television.

South Africa's World Cup folly

A few nights ago I engaged in a heated internet discussion about the merits or otherwise of staging the World Cup in South Africa.
I was called unpatriotic because I feel this is one of the most stupid things this country has ever done. A well-known motivational speaker asked why I simply didn't pack up and leave but then he would -- he makes a living peddling bullshit and getting people to hug each other and pretend all is well in the land of candy and rose-coloured glasses.
Make no mistake, the scenes of South Africans of all races and persuasions hugging in an orgy of glee are real -- for the moment. But what happens after FIFA, the current de-facto government of this country, packs up their R25 billion tax-free windfall and leaves us with the bill and the hangover?

Emporer's clothes

This is a classic case of "the Emporer's clothes" only, this time, it is "only true patriots who can see the finery." Anyone who does not buy into FIFA and government spin-doctoring is automatically labeled as negative and unpatriotic.
But let's consider the facts.
Visitors come to our country and find the picture painted by the media and we "white ous" is completely false. The reactionaries are lying!
There is almost no crime. The airport is quick and efficient, roads into the city are beautiful, with little traffic and the countryside they see from their tour-bus windows is as clean and litter-free as a Swiss chocolate box picture.
Well yeah! That's because hundreds of police officials suddenly miraculously appeared from God knows where they've been hiding since 1994. Those foreigners who became crime-victims saw the suspects arrested, tried in special courts and packed off to jail within a couple of days. (Begs the question of allowing enough time to mount a proper defence -- but let's forget about that.) It's quick, efficient justice, run with Swiss-German precision. It's good pr..."...and you sceptics and afro-pessimists believed all that stuff written about the South African Police and legal system. Shame on you!"
But the truth is, it's all bullshit, a carefully choreographed facade there while the eyes of the world are upon us. The reality, for we ordinary ous of all colours and persuasions, is a lot different.
Farmers, now numbering in the thousands, continue to be murdered. My mate, who was shot in a hijacking attempt seven years ago, still waits for the police to interview him. Next month, after seven and a half years, I finally get my day in court for a Road Accident Fund claim that the government-run body has delayed in every way possible, no doubt hoping I will die in the interim. I am not holding my breath that the matter will be settled.
According to some newspaper reports fewer than 10% of murderers are caught and sentenced. The list goes on and on. The truth is, justice experienced by ordinary South Africans is a whole lot different to that being displayed to the world.

Not our normal experience

There is no doubt the airport experience for football fans is wonderful. That's because access roads in the complex are closed to South African citizens so visitors can be whisked through with a minimum of fuss.
The main routes have been cleaned up and are pristine but again that's not our normal experience.
It's all a carefully-created facade. The Adidas infomercial flighted on the afternoon of the opening World Cup ceremony is a good example. In the programme, a giant truck drives around the country, getting people to sign a giant Bafana Bafana journey. It was wonderful viewing but not the country we see. There were no plastic bags hooked on barbed-wire fences, no empty beer-cans lying around, no mangy dogs or shitty squatter camps and no dirty kids with snotty noses and grimy, outstretched begging hands. There was no raw sewage floating in the streams, just shiny, happy, freshly-washed people in beautiful, pristine surroundings, all happily part of the Rainbow Nation.
But beyond all of this lies the irrefutable fact that this country simply cannot afford to run this event. The roads that so impress the fans now, will be tolled by next year and it will reportedly cost motorists 50c per kilometre to use them.
The stadiums, according to a number of news reports, will each cost in excess of R10 million per month to maintain, a cost that undoubtedly will be passed on to the rate-payers of the municipal areas in which they are located. Whether these, admittedly world-class, facilities will become white elephants or not remains to be seen.

No money for power-stations

But what really sticks in my craw is the fact that the stadiums cost well in excess of R12 billion and the newly-commissioned Gautrain will end up costing over R20 billion yet government tells us there is no money to build power-stations. Few will forget the rolling-blackouts and the writing is on the wall that in the near future we can expect more of the same. So consumers will have to pay annual electricity price increases of around 40% p.a. for many years to come.
Then there is the small matter of closing the country's schools for five weeks, to allow a bunch of overpaid primadonnas to kick a modern pig's bladder around a field. Even in normal years South Africa's matric results can at best be described as "dismal".
Somehow the priorities have gotten screwed up and the final cost of "putting South Africa on the world map" will bankrupt us.
But what the hell. Don't worry about the future. Eat drink and be merry. Enjoy the fantasy love-fest and show your support and patriotism by buying official supporter-clothing. Be patriotic and forget that by doing so, you make FIFA, the Local Organising Committee, elite government cronies and global companies like Adidas even richer.
Heck let's replace the Blue Crane with the ostrich as our national bird. After all we are currently a nation with its head in the sand and backside in the air, ready to be bum-raped.

Read Mandy de Waal's brilliant Daily Maverick article on Sepp Blatter's Twitter debut and what many people think of him.

Hester Green – working for seat in heaven

Over the weekned I became engaged in a robust and at times heated internet forum discussion about the merits or otherwise of South Africa hosting the Soccer World Cup. I intend to write about why I think we're all being taken for a ride and are burying our heads in the sand in a later posting but was struck by a point made by one of the contributors. He said he is sure God is really to be found, not in the Jacob Zumas, Julius Malemas or Sepp Blatters of the world but rather in ordinary people few of us will ever hear about.
It was a profound statement that increasingly made sense the more I thought about it.
Coincidently, just last week I met one such person in Toekomsrus, a predominantly coloured area in Randfontein. I thought I'd share her story. She is a nominee in the Randfontein Publicity Association's "We Salute You" campaign.

Toekomsrus resident, Hester Green (59) is working for a place in heaven.
Every year the former teacher, mother of three and founder of Women Against Women Abuse (WAWA) helps around 3 000 desperate people save their families and marriages -- and she has done so for the past 11 years, with very little financial support.
Born and raised in the Eastern Cape, she came to Randfontein in 1977 where she worked as a teacher at the Toekomsrus Primary School. In 1998 she was medically boarded and has since lived on the modest pension she receives.
“I soon saw the effects of alcohol in my community and how it led to the abuse of women and children,” she says.
“I saw the impact it had on the kids at school and their families and knew I had to do something.”
At her own expense, she signed up and went for training with a number of counselling organisations.
“Once I had the training I needed, I opened my home in Arrie Street to women in need,” she says.

People came

She spoke to groups of women at the library, visited churches and schools and spread the message and, as the word got, out people came.
Little did she know what she’d let herself in for.
“They came at any time of the day or night,” Green says. “It was a huge adjustment for my family and, without them, I could never have done it.
“On occasions, just as we sat down together for a family meal or to watch television, there’d be a woman running and screaming for my help in the front yard.
“That meant the family had to retreat to their bedrooms so I could counsel and comfort the scared woman. It was very difficult for them but they stood by me through it all.”
And all the time more and more people came.
“In 2002 WAWA had to find other premises,” she says. “My furniture was broken and worn out from all the traffic in my home. I couldn’t use many of my dining-room chairs – I still can’t.
“I knew there was a disused building at the back of the Toekomsrus police station and approached the station commander who gave us permission to use it.
“We moved in with two chairs. There were no tables, filing cabinets or anything -- just those two chairs.”
But that was not going to stop Hester and her small team of volunteers.
“Although we got absolutely no financial assistance at all, we somehow, with God’s help, kept the work going.”

Jackie Selebi

Later that year, the then Police Commissioner, Jackie Selebi visited the station and asked how he could help.
“He organised furniture, cupboards and beds that allowed us to set up a shelter,” Green says.
It’s been a long hard road.
“Men in particular were suspicious,” says Green. “They thought we would automatically take the woman’s side and get them thrown in jail.
“But that is the last thing we want. We believe in rehabilitation and keeping families together where ever possible. Our approach is to get the woman and children out of immediate danger and to allow the situation to calm.
“Then we work on getting the family members together to talk, work through their problems and find lasting solutions. We are there to save relationships and marriages, not break them up.”
Although based in Toekomsrus, WAWA serves all communities of Randfontein and the current economic downturn has seen dramatically increased demand for their services.
“Many men find it difficult to come to terms with the fact they are no longer able to provide for their families,” Green says, “and their frustration and anger easily boils over.”
Nowadays WAWA receives a small stipend from government but it is not nearly enough to meet expenses.
Green’s own husband and children are out of work. Her dining-room chairs are still broken and she has to find ways to stretch her meagre pension even further. There are attempts by some political factions to hijack the project she started more than ten years ago.
But in the face of this, the ex-teacher from Toekies, simply sighs and shrugs her shoulders.
“You’ve got to have hair on your teeth to do this work,” she says.
“At least I can still help someone and maybe God will have a nice velvet chair for me to sit on at his dining-room table in heaven!”

Living with scary critters in Randfontein

When you move to the countryside -- even though my piece of countryside is only 11 kilometres out of town and not a very attractive town at that -- you end up sharing your life, space and home with all sorts of critters.
Some are nice, like the hedgehogs that make occasional rare appearances in our garden. Or the chameleons that take up residence in the trees from time to time.
There are many birds out here -- I counted 28 different species in the space of an hour on one occasion.
And on sometimes at night we hear the call of jackals or the hoot of owls.
It sounds as though I live a little corner of paradise. My own private game reserve.
My northern suburbs friends become all misty eyed when they look across my 21-acre estate, watching the sun set and then, right on cue, the dogs spook a rabbit and go whooping after it across the gold-smeared fields.
"Oh this is just so wonderful," I remember one particular Sandton resident saying. "I'd move here in a shot, if I had the chance."
Of course she'd do no such thing. Living in a gated-community on a golf estate allows her to do the important things in life -- like playing golf and bridge with her girlfriends and lazing by her pool to tune up her tan before the annual Plett holiday.
She does like wildlife. Hell she and hubby have a Pajero and go to a lodge in Botswana every year. But she likes it at a distance, preferably with a tall, ice-frosted glass clasped in one of her well-manicured hands.
And she likes only cute critters.

Life's not like that

But that's not the way life is out here.
When you live on a farm -- I like to call it a farm. It sounds more posh than telling people I live on a plot -- you share your space with more varieties of bugs and biting insects than you knew existed. Rats, in particular, find your home and ceiling especially attractive.
They seek warmth wherever they can find it, sometime taking that quest to ridiculous levels.
Like the time Mrs White Ou asked me what I wanted for breakfast.
"Just a slice or two of toast, please Dear," I replied.
From the lounge I could hear her open the bread bin and a few seconds later yelp as a loud explosive, electrical flash took place in the kitchen, tripping all the power in the house.
"I'll check the breaker outside," I said.
I reset it and she switched the toaster on again.
The blue flash that arced from the toaster to the plug was mighty impressive, as was the gunshot-like crack when the power tripped again. This time it was accompanied by a strange smell -- a cross between hair burning and chicken cooking.
"I think there is something wrong with the toaster," she said, peering into it a moment before she let out a shriek I'm sure the neighbour on the next "farm" heard.
There, in the bottom of the toaster, wedged between the heating elements, eyes popped with smoke emitting from its mouth and twitching like an inmate strapped to an electric-chair, was a large, grey, Norwegian Rat.
Lest I convey the impression that Mrs White Ou is afraid of scary critters let me place on record, she is not.
For example, the colony of bats that has set up home in an air-brick in my office scares me shitless but, for some unexplained reason, my dear wife finds them cute -- especially when they fly in tight formation around her broom.

Snakes

Even snakes do not bother her much and, over the years, we have had our share of encounters with those creatures!
The two types most come across are the puff adder and the rinkhals, neither of which you want to meet in a dark alley, or anywhere else for that matter. Yeah, I know the "they're more scared of you crap..." that gets spouted by greenies who only ever encounter them on the National Geographic Channel, but when you have a metre-long, seriously pissed-off, puff adder in your kitchen, you tend to be less sanguine and understanding.
Which is exactly what happened on one occasion.
Both Mrs White Ou and I were away from home but at different places. When Mrs White Ou returned she found the Maid standing outside, acting more weird than usual.
It seems a puff adder had crawled into the kitchen alcove and she'd pushed the pet bull terrier in with it and locked the door.
Fortunately, both the maid and the bull terrier were blessed with the same level of intelligence, which is to say, almost none.
I don't think the dog even knew the snake was there and the reptile slithered into a corner from where it spent the next hour hissing at the none-the-wiser dog.
Mrs White Ou was faced with a dilemma. In previous snake-encounters she simply used her broom to sweep the serpent into a box and then released the critter in the veld "so it can help keep the rat population down and not upset the delicate balance of nature." (Funny how there's never a snake around when you really need it -- like when a rat tries to warm itself in your toaster!)
But this puff adder wasn't of a mind to simply be swept aside.
There was no alternative but to shoot it, which was easier said than done considering its foul mood and the fact it was hiding in a small room.
Then there was the small issue that the only firearm almost suited to the task was a single-shot, target .22 pistol.
But Mrs White Ou was not to be deterred. Twelve shots later, along with a number of bullet holes in the wall, a punctured dog's food-bowl and gooey bits of puff adder liberally scattered about, the job was done.
It might have been dirty -- nothing like a hit by the Calzone Crew -- but it was impressive and didn't go unnoticed by the dim-witted maid whose productivity suddenly doubled.
I too took note. She's scary. I mean... if she could do that to a critter she actually thought was important in the greater scale of things...

Finally, a brilliant email!

There is a lot of rubbish floating around in cyberspace.
Much of it, it would seem, ends up in my inbox. It seems email marketers know nothing about their their prospective clients.
Let me give you an example.
Mrs White Ou promises, with her hand on her heart, that that she no longer sends my name to Internet mailing lists and I think I believe her. Yet despite this assurance, I continue to get at least 10 offers per day for products that promise to make my penis even larger – and that does not include the pile of emails for pharmaceuticals that are a hard sell.
Where on earth do they get the idea I need their products? I’m not old or dead – I just like to lie down a lot.
But every now and again there is something useful.

My luck has turned

My luck has turned! I am delighted to tell you, this week I won the UK Lottery (£80 million), was drawn as the lucky winner of a Coca Cola-sponsored competition with a $120 000 prize...but that’s not all...if I reply within the next 30 minutes ...
...my cellphone number was chosen in a sweepstakes draw run by an American mobile telephone operator and I am $325 000 richer.
I am so excited I can barely breathe and I’ve spent most of the morning checking out the prices of Ferraris and now have my eye on a wine farm near Cape Town.
I’ve been forced to change the plans I had for the weekend. I’m going to be spending much of it sending my personal and banking details -- including my secret PIN -- to the competition organisers so they can pay the winnings into my account!
In addition, I also need time to tie up some few loose ends with a Nigerian prince I’ve been corresponding with.
He wrote to me (yes ‘Dear Gmail adres holder’ is me) to tell me the tragic story of how his entire family was murdered by government agents. As the only survivor he is sole heir to his father’s fortune of around $9 million. The problem is, it is sitting in a secret Swiss bank account and, as he he does not have a bank account, he needs someone outside the country, (with a bank account) to help.
That is where I come in. The cash in Switzerland will be transferred to my bank account. There are a couple of details I finalise this weekend but, in a nutshell, he needs me to front him some cash so his uncle (or maybe it isn’t his uncle if the whole family was slaughtered...I’ll have to ask him about that) can slip out of the country and organise the funds-transfer to my account. His uncle apparently needs the cash for airfares and hotel accommodation in Geneva and also some to grease the palms of some bank officials. The prince assures me this is the standard operating procedure and I have nothing to worry about as he’s done it before.
I get keep 40% or around $4 million to compensate me for my troubles and efforts. So this weekend I need to get the details about where I must send the cash so the wheels can start rolling. It’s a great investment and I’m glad, out of the other 6,5 billion people on the planet the prince chose me!

Share with you

But I want to share my good fortune with you. I am happy to let you participate in the Royal Nigerian deal. If you’re interested, drop me a line and I’ll send you my bank details and PIN so you can make a cash deposit and get a piece of the action.
Every now and then something amazing does land in your inbox. This is an example.
I do not know who Jonathon Reed, the author is, but it is a brilliant piece of writing and craftsmanship.

Read this from top to bottom and it is depressing. Then read it from bottom to top and its meaning inverts.
Please excuse me while you do that. I’ve got something I must do before Mrs White Ou gets home. There is a particular ointment and a box of blue tablets I must order from a pharmacy in Mexico!

Lost Generation by Jonathan Reed

I am part of a lost generation
and I refuse to believe that
I can change the world
I realize this may be a shock but
“Happiness comes from within.”
is a lie, and
“Money will make me happy.”
So in 30 years I will tell my children
they are not the most important thing in my life
My employer will know that
I have my priorities straight because
work
is more important than
family
I tell you this
Once upon a time
Families stayed together
but this will not be true in my era
This is a quick fix society
Experts tell me
30 years from now, I will be celebrating the 10th anniversary of my divorce
I do not concede that
I will live in a country of my own making
In the future
Environmental destruction will be the norm
No longer can it be said that
My peers and I care about this earth
It will be evident that
My generation is apathetic and lethargic
It is foolish to presume that
There is hope.

Now read it from the bottom to the top

Combat notes from the Heartland

I've been asked why I live in Randfontein, a place I've at times described as "the armpit of the world", "God's worst practical joke" and "the pimple on the devil's hairy butt". As Bill Bryson said of Des Moines: somebody had to.

This story explains it. It was published in Living Africa in the early 90s, a couple of years after I moved here.


How to get ahead in the world of Dude-farming.


Ask people what impressed them most about Woodstock and they will tell you it was the sight of Country Joe MacDonald teaching 300 000 wiped-out, rain-sodden, muddied hippies to spell the word "fuck". For me it was different. I already knew the spelling. But I was moved when Max Yaeger brought the hippies to their feet with those immortal words; "I'm a Farmer."
Somehow I always knew I was destined to be a farmer. But the final decision was made after a weekend my wife and I spent with friends who farm in the Dundee district. This was how life should be - earning a living from the earth, space for our kids and clean air to breathe.
In short order we decided to lift anchor from our firmly-embedded suburban life-styles and set sail for greener pastures, so to speak. The fact that my experience of farming was confined to paging through old Farmers' Weeklys in a doctor's waiting room seemed irrelevant.
Our little slice of Agro-Eden turned out to be about eight hectares on the border of Randfontein, a town not known for its tourism potential or liberal ideals, and where the air is fresh - except on days when a nearby factory makes dog food or peanut butter. Then the air either smells like a wet Labrador or a pre-school snack break.

Recruiting staff

First item on the agenda was recruiting staff for the chicken and strawberry farming operation we planned to start. Word that we were hiring soon brought a motley crew of locals, all with an impressive list of credentials. How fortunate it was that all these people were available and ready to start work immediately. I later found that, Mieta a woman employed to work in the house, had spent a few years locked up in Krugersdorp Prison on a murder rap. She cleaned and polished well, perhaps the result of good training by the Department of Corrections.
"It'll never work," said a neighbour, when I told him I intended to set up incentive schemes based on production levels. He is a staunch conservative - he makes Eugene Terreblanche look like Jane Fonda, in political terms of course.
My neighbour's abiding, over-the-fence mantra was: "The only thing they understand is a good thrashing..."
What did he know? I thought, ready to prove him wrong and show Randfontein what progressive farming was all about.
Chicken farming has absolutely nothing to do with the Farmer Brown ads we used to see on TV. That jolly chap in the sterile barn with the happy hens, who ho-ho-hoed about the chickens tasting "so good 'cos they eat so good" is a fraud. Poultry farming is about chicken shit that sticks to your boots like epoxy and about theft and rising feed bills. Whoever coined the phrase, "chicken feed" obviously never had to buy the stuff.
But we persevered, chicken guano and all. The first batch of cockerels we laid in really didn't eat that much. But they took seventeen weeks before they were big enough to slaughter. Then, one mild spring afternoon their intense cannibalistic tendencies were brought to my attention.
I saw a runty looking cockerel wandering around his coop space, mindlessly minding his own business and pecking at the dirt. Meanwhile his fellow fowl had organised a mob hit on him. They attacked in pincer formation, surrounding him until he was carefully edged into a corner. Then they simply pecked him to pieces. They surgically broke him up into a Kentucky Fiver.
"You chose the wrong strain," my father advised. "Get one of the new hybrids that grow much faster."
I did and they do grow faster. In fact in six weeks most were so heavy their legs could not carry them. They would have won medals in the Pig-Out Poultry section of anybody's county fair.
These little beauties ate five times (in six weeks) more than the others had done in seventeen.
In terms of personal gain, my poultry production was nothing to crow about. But my farm labourer was smiling - when I worked out my losses due to theft, he'd made four and a half times as much as me.

Labour relations

It was, however, in the area of rural labour relations that I really shone...
I had this vision of happy little Trojans busily working away like kibbutzniks, with productivity the only thought in their minds.
Instead I ended up living on the set of an Alcoholics Anonymous 'before' advert. Weekends were the worst. I watched in fascination as the kitchen maid murderess - whose job included chopping up vegetables in my kitchen with a large carving knife - went after her brother's wife with an axe. When the dust settled and everyone was disarmed, the dispute turned out to be centered around a single box of Lion matches.
I took a knife off a visitor who had come to the farm to embed it in the chest of my labourer, and I watched some pretty impressive fights.
"Please guys," I begged the labour force, "let's make this thing work so we can all earn some money and live together in peace."
"Yes, Baas," said the Chief Shepherd and belched some beer fumes into my face.
"It'll never work," said my AWB neighbour, shaking his head and chins sadly. "All they understand is the whip..." - the mantra again.
My Damascus Road conversion came one Friday evening when I returned home just before midnight. The locals were in full swing with another party and by the sounds of breaking glass and blood-curdling screams, a gracious good time was being had by all.
"The natives are restless tonight," I said to my wife Joy. I took a less than sanguine approach to the disturbance. One of the main reasons I'd moved out to the country was to get away from the 365-day-a-year bash the next door commune held in my old city neighbourhood. I have a natural intolerance for 'neighbour noise', and this party was the last straw.
"To hell with it," I thought. "This will never work. Perhaps all they do understand is the sjambok."
Now, one thing I pride myself with not being, is stupid. If I went in with only a whip against that bunch, there could be only one result - my delicate, wrinkle-free features would be rearranged. So I did what any self-respecting, white conservative farmer living in the Wilde Weste would do. I pulled on my boots, kissed my wife and armed with righteous thoughts, a biblical passage and a Colt 45 with two spare clips of ammo, I took to the trail.
In the dim light of one of the rooms I could see Mieta - the maid with occasional murder on her mind - playing host to a bunch of guys arguing the merits of her charms. At the sight of my Snake Slayer and furious face, they left the room. At speed. Kind of like a six-pack of rats with a ferret on their tails.
"Shoot him, Baas! He's a rubbish!" screamed Mieta (she is a fine connoisseur of crooks, you understand and knows when to cross the floor) as one of the shebeen patrons flew over the adjoining barbed-wire fence and took off at an easy lope across the eragrostis-sown field, confident that the "mhlunghu" wouldn't catch him.
I banged off three .45 slugs over his head and he flattened out and hit somewhere near 45 km/h at the other end of the field. I had a momentary pang of worry at the prospect of three heavy-calibre bullets ending up in my neighbour's sitting room.
"I'll sort you lot out later," I yelled to Mieta and her party, who at this point had all sobered up. I jumped into my car and sped off down the road, knowing I would catch the fleeing man when he crossed the fence.
I caught him, and limbered up for the reading of Big Hilt's Riot Act Class One, when my car stalled and absolutely refused to start again.
"It's okay Boss, I'll push you back."
Somehow, I find it extremely impolite to chastise a guy who pushes your car a kilometer on a dark farm road after midnight on a Saturday morning...

Sheep farming

When it was becoming clear I was not going to become rich from chicken farming I decided to have a go with sheep and bought a small flock from a breeder who lives nearby. This was where my hard-honed streetwise negotiating skills would come into their own. Maybe I was a bum chicken breeder, but I knew I had championship potential when it came to haggling.
And boy did I teach that country bumpkin a thing or two! He didn't know what hit him. I beat him down to R300 a sheep. I left the site of the transaction satisfied, paying little heed to the faint strains of laughter from the neighbours. It was only later - after my cheque had been cashed that I discovered the going rate for my sheep was R140 a head.
But for a while, things seemed to be going well. The ram appeared to be keeping the ewes happy. We discussed playing soft mood music in the sheep shed at night, but we never moved past the stage of punning about "sheep music" written by "Baach". In fact there's probably more bucks to be had in publishing '1 000 World Famous Sheep Jokes' than in farming the damned things. But, it was nearly Christmas and the arrival of a batch of lambs was imminent - it would be perfect for our Randfontein Nativity Scene down on the farm.
"Come quickly!" yelled Joy, one Saturday afternoon. "I think one of the sheep is giving birth."
I rushed outside to where a ewe was lying on her side, eyes wide and staring. For a while we stood around waiting for the miracle of life to happen.
"I'm not sure this is right," I said. "Do they give birth with all four legs in the air?"
We lost a lot of sheep after that. They would appear fit and healthy, but suddenly keel over and be dead in less than thirty seconds. Plummeting sheep may be great for a Monty Python skit, but it's real farmer-nightmare stuff.
The vets postulated about the cause and asked that we bring in a carcass when the next one died. This happened on a Monday morning just as I was leaving for an appointment in town. I was already dressed in a suit and tie and running late. I was in no mood to carry a snuffed bit of mutton around.
"You'd better take care of it," I said to Joy and left in a hurry.
Randfontein is a small town with a rural atmosphere. It has probably seen some unusual sights before, but I am told that a woman driving a Renault down the main street with a dead sheep hanging out of the boot still turns heads.

Innoculations

The cause of death was eventually diagnosed after a pathological sample was sent to Onderstepoort, the University of Pretoria's Veterinary Faculty, for testing. They prescribed an inoculation programme.
"Inject the sheep with this and your problems will be over," said the vet.
And so, one fine summer's morning, Joy and I set about vaccinating the sheep. The idea was I would catch and hold them and she would inject them in the hip.
Simple. I caught the first ewe and held it firmly while Joy jabbed the needle into its rump and pressed the plunger down, forcing the serum into the animal's body. The sheep looked at me with those big, sheep-like eyes only sheep seem to have, shuddered once and fell over dead at my feet.
Experts figure that one pair of amorous houseflies can produce nearly 400 billion offspring in a single sultry season. I reckon that Randfontein is the Love Boat of the housefly world, and that my farm is where all their children come to live.
Experience has taught us the best method of controlling the insects is with a fly trap that uses a disgustingly obnoxious protein to entice the pesky creatures into a container from which there is no escape. The little bastards, once in the trap do not simply die with a modicum of dignity. No, they take literally the instruction: "eat drink and be merry for tomorrow we die." They see it as an opportunity for further sexual dalliances and soon the container is swarming with maggots that feed on the bodies of their deceased parents.
At first the fly trap hung in a tree some thirty meters from the house. For days my family and our pack of Rhodesian Ridgebacks gave each other those well-known "you've just farted" looks. Then the fly trap was moved to the sheep shed and all was fine for a while.
A few days later in a rush to get to an editorial meeting, I walked into the sheep shed to take a quick peek at the new lambs. As I turned around my head bumped the bottom of the fly trap, spilling its loathsome contents over my hair and down my shoulders. I can vouch for the efficacy of the muti in the trap. In seconds, every fly in the known world was onto me...
Farming is not what I thought it would be. I didn't get rich. Hell, I didn't even qualify for government drought-relief aid and I'm poorer now than ever I was.
But I've got open space, my kids can breathe clean (if a little scented) air, we often have rabbits and owls popping in for visits and there's a pioneering spirit you won't get in a Brixton semi. I've learnt skills that would look good an any CV - I can now castrate a ram and dock a sheep's tail along with the best of them. I've learned how to plough.
Maybe next year I'll figure out what the devil I should plant in those fields I've harrowed...

The spirit of PJ van der Bergh finally dies in Randfontein

I live in Randfontein, a town that during the apartheid-era was a bastion of conservatism.
The town owes its existence to gold mining although nowadays, most of the mines have shut down, leaving abandoned offices and buildings, many of which are occupied by squatters.
The mines may be closed, but a rough, mining spirit still lives on in some quarters.
The white miners that lived and worked in this town in the 60s, 70s and to some extent 80s had a reputation for being hard-drinking, quick-fisted, fiercely conservative characters, who punched first and asked questions later.
Predominantly Afrikaans-speaking, most belonged to the Mine Workers Union, headed by the neo-Nazi-like, Arrie Paulus whose dream was to unite all white South African wage-earners and to do everything possible to keep non-whites isolated and out of the mainstream.
"You have to know a Black to realise that he wants someone to be his boss. They can't think quickly. You can take a baboon and teach him to play a tune on a piano. But it's impossible for himself to use his own mind to the next step. Here it's exactly the same," he told the New York Times, of 3 June 1979.

PJ van der Bergh

Apartheid and white supremacy was deeply-rooted in this community as illustrated by an incident that took place deep underground in the workings of Randfontein Estates Gold Mine in December 1962.
A shaft timberman, PJ van der Bergh, was working in a blocked orepass. He was attaching cord to a fuse when the plank he stood on dislodged, sending him tumbling 60 metres down the orepass where he ended up on a pile of rocks on the level below.
Van der Bergh's boss boy, a Shangaan man named Gaumine Quibe, without hesitation, climbed down a rope and helped van der Bergh reach the level above. He knew that, at any stage, new rock could be dropped down the orepass from the levels above that would instantly kill both of them. For this Quibe was awarded the Chamber of Mines Golden Hat Award for bravery, as well as a gold watch.
But, at the ceremony, van der Bergh, who owed the man his life, refused to shake hands with his boss boy, while posing for a photograph. He said 'it was against his principles!'
There are many of PJ van der Bergh's ilk still in Randfontein and I thought I had come face-to-face with one recently.
I was in the bank, standing in a line, waiting to be served, when a giant of a man came in and stood behind me. He was the living version of what I imagined PJ van der Bergh must have looked like...a real-life, cartoon character of a racist, conservative Boer.
He probably stood around 6' 5", sported a moustache, had nicotine-stained fingers, wore white PT shorts, rugby socks and velskoens and had on a faded, slightly tatty, red T-shirt with a white slogan on the front that read:

Fuck the Rhino
save
The White Ou

I couldn't believe it, it was as though I'd been sucked back into South Africa 1972 except, back then, he would probably have been arrested for sporting a T-shirt with the "F-word" on it.
I tried, with some difficulty, not to stare at him and noticed some of the black customers and tellers were decidedly uneasy.
Then his wife came in. She too fitted the image perfectly. She was fat and her old-fashioned floral dress did little to hide the two rolls of blubber surrounding her midriff. These were poor Afrikaners, no doubt about it. Conservative, nigger-hating Afrikaners.
But what made the whole incident bizarre and surreal was, hung over her left shoulder was a large, pink, diaper-bag and on her right hip she held a baby. A black baby!
The youngster must have been about six months old.
She passed the child to her husband while searching for something in the diaper-bag.
And, this giant of a man held the little girl gently in his arms then kissed her on the cheek and tickled her with his sausage-like fingers.
Her squeals of delight and giggles produced another flurry of kisses from him.
At that point his wife took his position in the queue and he went and to sit on a chair where he cradled the child while she hungrily sucked on a bottle.
That's the thing about South Africa. Every time you think you have it sussed, it does something to surprise and astound you. It has a way of shattering long-held prejudices and beliefs. Here, truth, really is, often stranger than fiction.
The fact is, if government and sleazeball politicians would just fuck off and leave us ordinary folks alone, this country probably would truly become the Rainbow Nation and the spirit of PJ van der Bergh would finally die.

I've been asked if this story is true. Yes! Absolutely! 100%! The people are described exactly as they were on that day -- that is what made it so noticeable.

The Shocking Malema Cover-up!

I have just received some startling news about an ANC cover-up regarding Julius Malema's well-publicised outburst to the BBC journalist.
It seems -- according my source who comes with impeccable credentials -- it was in fact not an outburst at all. But before I explain what the fuss within the party is all about, let me, right from the get-go, tell the many government agents who've bookmarked this seditious blog, that no matter how much you may torture me, I will never break my promise to Phineas, the barman at the golf club and reveal that he is "deep throat."
I am after all a professional (albeit unemployed) journalist.
Some background to the story, for the benefit of my three foreign readers, one of whom is my sister.

Telly Tubby

Julius Malema is the leader of the radical ANC Youth League in South Africa. He looks a bit like a black Telly Tubby but is not nearly as friendly, nice or, some would claim, intelligent.
Jellybaby Julie took seven years to complete his five year high-school programme. You'd think those extra two years would have given him more than enough time to thoroughly familiarise himself with his school subjects. Nope. Big J did not cover himself in academic glory. In his final exam, for example, he scored a GG for standard grade woodworking and an H for standard grade mathematics. (A copy of his official matric results can be seen here.)
What is ironic is, at the time, he was the President of the Congress of SA Students which probably explains the current academic abilities of this country's youngsters -- 85% of whom (that's about half Julie) believe wanking is the old capital of China.
But I digress. Back to the cover-up, put in place to prevent extreme embarrassment within the ANC.

Sandton

In April, Julius Malema held a press conference at the ANC headquarters in Johannesburg. Amongst the pearls of wisdom he cast before the trotters of the assembled media contingent, was praise for Robert Mugabe's Zanu-PF party. At the same time he poured scorn on the "Mickey Mouse" opposition. He mocked exiles linked to the Movement for Democratic Change, led by Zimbabwe's prime minister, Morgan Tsvangirai, for using offices in Sandton, a wealthy suburb of Johannesburg.
"They can insult us here from air conditioned offices of Sandton," Malema told journalists at Luthuli House. "We are unshaken. They must stop shouting at us. They must go and fight for their battle in Zimbabwe and win … why are they speaking in Sandton and not Mashonaland or Matabeleland?"
As Malema foamed and frothed, BBC journalist, Jonah Fisher interjected: "You live in Sandton."
The comment rattled Malema and the UK Guardian newspaper reported:

Malema replied: "Let me tell you, this is a building of a revolutionary party and you know nothing about the revolution."
Fisher pressed: "So they're not welcome in Sandton but you are?"
Malema snapped: "Here you behave or else you jump."
This prompted laughter from Fisher and others.
"Don't laugh," Malema growled.
Fisher commented that the situation had become a "joke".
Malema then erupted, asking for a security guard to eject Fisher and telling him: "If you're not going to behave, you're [sic] going to call security to take you out. This is not a newsroom, this is a revolutionary house and you don't come here with that tendency.
"Don't come here with that white tendency. Not here. You can do it somewhere else. Not here. If you've got a tendency of undermining blacks, even where you work, you are in the wrong place. Here you are in the wrong place."
Fisher responded: "That's rubbish. That's absolute rubbish."
Malema continued: "You can go out. Rubbish is what you have covered in that trouser. That is rubbish. You are a small boy, you can't do anything."
Collecting his dictaphone and walking out, Fisher said: "I didn't come here to be insulted."
Malema bellowed after him: "Go out. Go out. Bastard! Go out. You bloody agent!"

Cover-up

The Jellybaby was later hauled before an ANC disciplinary committee and grilled.
My source -- who heard it from someone who has a friend who knows someone who says he is distantly related to one of the committee members -- says Malema turned the proceedings upside down when he dropped a bombshell which, if it had become public, would have shaken the ANC and its support-base to its core. It would have undermined all of Mbeki's years of attempts to emasculate white South Africans.
In the end, in the interests of the country and the party the truth was swept under the carpet as it was deemed the lesser of two evils and better for his future presidential ambitions if JJ was only seen as a raving buffoon.
It seems, my source says, when asked why he had yelled "Bastard" (pronounced "barsted") Malema stated that was not what he had said. He said that while the attention was focussed on the Brit journo, he'd asked his right-hand person what the guy's name was.
"He incorrectly told me it was Edward something-or-other," Malema reportedly told the committee.
"What I actually called him was 'Boss Ted'."

In case you're reading this -- or having it read to you -- Julie this is called "satire".

Police dealings

Around three weeks ago my small pick-up truck -- the vehicle I use to earn my living -- was stolen.
It was parked behind a pallisade fence with a locked gate that can only be opened with a remote gate-opener. In addition a gear-lock was attached, as was an AA-approved steering lock.
That apparently meant jack-shit to the sleazeballs who stole it. They were obviously pros. It was as though the car had never been there. There was no sign of glass from a broken window, no marks on the gate...nothing!
Welcome to South Africa! I became just another crime statistic.
The theft was reported to the police but the fact is, in this country, you do not make a statement to the cops to give them details they need to investigate and recover your stolen property, you do it so they can give you a case number to fill in on the insurance claim-form.
The only way my bakkie will ever be found is if it miraculously gets pulled over in a random roadblock.
The detective has not yet visited the crime scene, but I hardly expected him to, if past police performance is anything to go by. Seven years ago, a friend was shot in the face, neck and arms, in what appeared to be a carjacking attempt. He spent over a month in hospital and is still waiting for a detective to take his statement.
But we haven't yet given up hope. The wheels of justice turn slowly in South Africa and I am confident, as soon as they have taken his statement, they'll turn their attention to recovering my car.

Being unfair

Perhaps I'm being unfair. In the nightmare that is getting all the documentation needed by the insurance company and having the stolen car removed from the provincial vehicle-register, I had to obtain a copy of the police statement.
I first accompanied an officer to the docket-storage room, where, together, we searched through the files of crimes listed during the month of May. My case was reported at around 08h30 on 1 May and was logged as "case number 16 of May 2010".
Now to put this in perspective, it was 10 days later that I was at the police station searching for my case docket and I was then already sifting through May cases numbered in the 600s. We had no luck finding the docket there, so next step was to see the detective assigned to the case. He was out -- hopefully investigating -- but we rifled through around 20 piles of dockets, each containing about 20 files that were piled on his desk as well as on the floor.
A quick mental calculation showed the man is investigating at least 400 cases!
Maybe the cops at the coal-face aren't completely inept. Perhaps the reason so few crimes are solved in South Africa is the investigators are drowning under a tidal-wave of crime and an avalanche of dockets.
And the situation is never going to improve, no matter what the smarmy Minister of Police and his equally slippery cronies say, or how vigourously they massage the crime figures they issue once a year.

Gravy Train

There appears to be no support from the upper levels of the police food-chain. The Gravy Train has left the station and the workers behind!
A case in point (that is absolutely true) is an incident where a friend, a few months ago, went to report a case of theft at a police station on the West Rand.
"The officers in the charge office were actually quite helpful and sympathetic," he says. "But they told me they were unable to take my statement, as nobody had a pen.
"There are no pens in the charge office at all? How do you take a statement then?"
"We borrow the complainant's pen -- if he has one."
"I couldn't believe what I heard," my friend says.
"In the end I went to a nearby stationary shop and bought a box of pens that I donated to the charge office. It was the only way I could get them to take my statement."
To some, that may appear a drastic course of action but in the scheme of things, the effort was worth it. He got his case number, listed it on the claim form and the insurance paid out.
So what that spiralling crime is causing insurance premiums to sky-rocket? That's the way it works in this fucked up country. Thinking about it will just make our heads hurt and cause our eyeballs to pop out. Much better we should continue to jam our heads up our butts and pretend the Soccer World Cup will benefit anyone other than the cronies and the chumwallies!
I won't be attending any World Cup games. I will be home, waiting for a call from the detective. I have it on good authority he's working on case 289 of June 2003 and plans to call me soon.

Lion Lust

Perhaps it was because I was so excited I'd finally succeeded in being allowed into one of the South African Defence Force's most secret bases that I did not notice the knowing smiles and surreptitious winking of the inmates.
If I had, I'd have recognised it for what it was - a conspiracy against the new boy. Hell, at that stage I was too hyped to see anything except the honour and glory sure to come my way as my articles and photographs of the South African Reconnaissance Commandos were circulated to some 50 countries. This was going to be a good, old-fashioned scoop!
Some background is in order. I'd spent months trying to set up the story. I sent faxes, made countless phone calls and wined and dined countless generals and senior defence force officers.
"Nee, Boet (no ,Son)," I was initially told. "You've seen too many movies. There are no recces. That's just something the media created...or was it something we made up to scare the shit out of the Cubans and SWAPO. Actually I can't remember, but I can assure you categorically they don't exist."
Eventually, however, after buying enough beer to float a frigate, not to mention some serious brown-nosing, even the most stoic of military officials were forced to admit the recces did exist - a fact the rest of the world was aware of from the time of the unit's founding in the mid 1970s.

Fort Doppies

"But there is no way you can get up there to see them," I was told. I'm not too proud to be above begging and bribery, and so, a couple of months later I found myself at Fort Doppies, what was then the Reconnaissance Commando's base in Namibia's Caprivi Strip.
Fort Doppies was a beautiful place. A lush tract of ground through which a river flowed that was home to large herds of elephant and hippo. It could have been a nature reserve. I'd marveled at the vast numbers of buffalo and antelope that stared at us as we drove along the dusty road from Mpacha to Doppies.
Yep, it was beautiful, but I suppose the trainees who ran, lugging heavy kit with instructors screaming abuse might have thought otherwise. I arrived at Fort Doppies just before lunch.
"Find a basha," the liaison officer, a captain, told me. "Then stow your kit and come through to the dining tent."
In those days everyone slept in a basha, a small shelter made of timber cut from local trees and with a grass or reed roof. If there was no spare shelter, you were expected to construct your own - these were, after all, recces. The entire structure stood about chest high and contained two beds also fabricated from available materials. In a basha you could sit or kneel but not stand.
Much to my relief, I found an empty basha, stowed my kit and after lunch spent the rest of the afternoon acquainting myself with the lie of the land, the workings of the unit, and generally looking like a big-time war correspondent. I wandered around the camp with an air of superiority, complete with Ray Bans and compulsory foreign correspondent's flack jacket - though mine was made for trout fishing. Hell, I looked good!
That evening I bought drinks for everyone in the bar (I was on an expense account) and made sure I was the centre of attraction. At around 10.30, the party began to die.

Sniggers

"I'm going to turn in," said the Liaison Officer.
"Yeah, don't let the bugs bite," said another soldier. I was too drunk to hear the sniggers.
I staggered back to my basha, kicked off my boots, flung my clothes into the corner and collapsed on top of my sleeping bag wearing just a pair of underpants. It was too hot to sleep under any sort of covers. After smearing my body with mosquito repellant, I lay back and listened to the sounds of the Namibian night.
In the distance I could hear hyenas; nearer a par of jackals called to each other. Through the open door of the basha the sky and stars were clear as crystal. The moon was full and so bright you could almost read by it.
This is as good as it gets, I thought as I drifted off into a peaceful, alcohol-induced sleep.
That is until I was woken by a male lion attempting to have conjugal relations with me.
I woke with a start as the creature jumped onto the bed on top of me. Waking up and smelling a lion's breath is not good for one's health, but when said lion attempts to have sex with you, its far worse than waking up with an ugly woman you can't remember meeting in the bar last night.
I did the only thing I imagined to be appropriate at that moment - I faked an orgasm and then began to scream. The more I screamed the more amorous the lion seemed to become. Hell, I was turning the bastard on! Finally with a grunt and a look of satisfaction on his face, he left, wandering out of the basha.
Gingerly I felt to see if I still possessed all of my limbs. Then the shock of what had just happened hit me and I wanted to vomit and release my bowels at the same time.
And then I heard those recce bastards, laughing worse than the hyenas I'd heard earlier and the bloody lion was standing there amongst them, being petted.
"I see you've met Terry," said the RSM.
"Ja, he really seems to like you," said someone else said and they all collapsed and fell about on the ground screeching.
It seems that Terry, the amorous lion, was found as a cub. I'm not sure of the circumstances, but he was brought to Fort Doppies where he was raised as though he was a house pet. He was fed from the kitchen, given beer from the bar and generally became one of the manne. He was never caged and was free to wander as he pleased. As he grew older he developed the habit of roaming during the day and returning to the base at night where he would search for a basha whose occupant had forgotten to set up a barricade, Then he would proceed to show his affection in that special kitty kinda way.
Sometimes Terry would disappear for a week or two at a time as he lived a schizophrenic existence of tame and wild lion.
"Ag, no man, I'm sorry we forgot to tell you to put your kit across the entrance of the basha," said the RSM and everyone collapsed again.
Though we'd shared a special moment, I still hated that lion. I was scared as hell of him. The power of that beast was phenomenal and sometimes as I watched him rough and tumble with some of the troops, I wondered when he'd cross the line and it would no longer be a game.

Cabinet Minister

But Terry eventually got his come-uppance though I was not there to see it. Apparently a year or two later a terribly prominent South African cabinet minister visited Fort Doppies on a sort of fact-finding-funded-by-the-tax-payers mission.
I am told that in all the excitement, no one remembered to tell him about Terry. At that point the base had seen considerable development and the bashas were replaced with bungalows equipped with doors that could now be closed.
However, the latrines remained pit toilets consisting of a series of "go-carts" set out in rows and surrounded by hessian walls. The long drops could accommodate around eight people, all of whom could sit next to each other in a row. Daily bowel movements became quite a sociable event, as it was the one time the troops could sit, relax and chat.
The cabinet minister arrived with a small entourage in tow. He was wined and dined and by all accounts had a jolly time. Things were going swimmingly until nature called the great man to rev up the go-carts. In the spirit of diplomacy and decorum, no one else needed to go and the politician retired to put the cherry on top of a fine meal.
As he sat, with his trousers around his ankles, Terry made his grand entrance. I am told it's hard to reassert your authority once you've been seen running around bare-arsed and screaming.
Two days later a signal came from Pretoria. "Get rid of the lion!"
Terry disappeared shortly afterwards. I'm still bitter about it and I'm angry with him. Though it's years later I'm still trying to work through my animosity and resentment - but it's difficult. I mean, he doesn't write, he doesn't phone, he doesn't send flowers or anything!



Note: The official story is Terry was darted and relocated to a game park somewhere in Namibia. Whether that is true or not, I don't know.

This story was published in the now defunct Southside Online Magazine in 2001

Is flatulence ruining your sex life?

Throughout history there have been some discoveries and inventions that have changed truly changed our lives.
Fire, the wheel, the printing press, the steam engine, the telephone and internet spring to mind.
But now there is something even more profound and earth shattering.
It has come about because there is a problem in the marriage bed that no-one wants to talk about. It is a problem that is sometimes silent but almost always, deadly. But fear not, the solution has arrived.
No longer need you tremble in your jammies, worried you may cause a stink. This is a truly mind-boggling invention that uses cutting-edge military technology to promise to restore marriages and at the same time fire up stagnant, rotten, sex-lives.
And, judging by the fact that almost 1,3 million people have viewed the advert on You Tube, there can be no doubt, there is a need for the Better Marriage Blanket.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, for less than $60, excluding postage, you will no longer have to answer "yes" to the age-old question: "Is flatulence ruining your love-life?"
I don't know about you, but it's a topic that comes up regularly at our dinner parties and, no doubt, you too have likely spent many hours discussing the problem with family, friends and work colleagues.
But now, with the arrival of the Better Marriage Blanket, the acrid, foetid smell of your bed-partner's farts will no longer leave you gasping for air, like a landed mackerel, while you desperately flap the sheets and struggle to open the window.
According to the manufacturer, "flatulence molecules pass through a cotton layer and get absorbed by the carbon layer, leaving you to experience fresh air and added under-blanket warmth!" Actually I added the bit about the warmth -- it's a selling feature they probably didn't think of.
Available in different sizes, the Better Marriage Blanket is said to contain the same type of fabric used by the military to protect against chemical weapons.
It's also touted as a "great wedding or anniversary gift too."

Farts are funny!

I wish it had been around when Mrs White Ou and I tied the knot 31 years ago. That way we'd probably still be sleeping in same the room -- and maybe even in the same bed.
She's a strange girl, my dear wife. She's not amused by the same things I am. For example, I find it difficult to get her to crack even the smallest of a smiles when, lying together, I trap her head under the blankets and fart.
What can I say, I find farts -- particularly mine -- funny. I laugh so much I can hardly breathe, yet strangely she fails to see the comedy.
That, and my snoring, has seen me moved to a room down the passage and now I am forced to keep the clouds of gas I emit from my bottom trapped firmly beneath the blankets until she comes into my room in the morning with a cup of coffee.
Then, with a flourish, I'll fling back the bed-clothes and hope for the best. Once I got lucky. She dropped the cup in the middle of a choking fit but, in truth, it's just not the same. It's a poor substitute for the genuine "Dutch Oven" or "Covered Wagon."
That, I think is one of the drawbacks of the Better Marriage Blanket. It will do away with those intimate, fun-filled moments that couples, enjoy in bed and have so much fun remembering. It's also going to make Two-and-a-half-Men a lot less funny.
I am also afraid, if they ever start making baby diapers from the new wunder-fabric, it's going to mean the end of that endearing Mommy ritual where -- usually in a restaurant -- some mum sticks her nose against her little-one's butt, takes a lung-filled sniff and loudly announces "someone's made a stinky poopie!". But at least the old finger up the diaper's leg-hole is likely to remain.
Before anyone gets the wrong impression, let me place on record that I am not solely responsible for producing noxious odours in my home.
My dear wife must also bear some responsibility. Consequently, a nice pair of sweat pants in activated-carbon fabric in her size would indeed be welcome.
When it comes to rear emissions I tend to be noisy -- and, if I may be so bold as to say, quite musical.
Mrs White Ou, on the other, hand is covert and sneaky. The first indication that something is horribly amiss comes from the dogs.
When they are suddenly startled from their slumbers on the TV-room carpet and slink away, you know what's coming.
You see, my dear wife, kind and sweet as she may be, is by no means above blaming the dogs for her odouriferous indiscretions. With noses (thankfully) hundreds of times more sensitive than mine, they know an undeserved scolding is only seconds away, so they get the hell outta Dodge.
"Blah, blah, blah," Mrs White Ou has just said, while reading over my shoulder.
"No one will believe you because everyone knows women don't fart."
"Yes, Dear," I replied meekly.
I didn't have the guts to show her the comment from someone called PyroRob69 who recently wrote about the Better Marriage Blanket on a chat forum. I think he summed it up quite nicely when he said:
"Women don't fart because they can't keep their mouths shut long enough to build up any back pressure."

P.S. Yes, the Better Marriage Blanket is a real product!

The Middle Age Malady

It was obviously some dumb youngster who first said 'age is just a number'.
Anyone with more than two brain cells knows that is nonsense.
As you first edge towards, then reluctantly embrace middle-age, things happen. Bad things!...that creep up on you unnoticed, like the mould behind the basin that your wife nags you to sort out -- but I digress.
Let me give you an example.
Some parts of my memory are starting to fade. I can't remember how many times (see what I mean?) I find myself standing in a room in my home, wondering why the hell I went there in the first place. I know there is some reason but I can't remember what it is.
My head starts to throb and often I have to sit down, as I rack my brain, trying to recall but, inevitably, it's a lost cause and I will be forced to retrace my steps in the hope something along the way will jog my memory.
It could be that I am easily distracted, cursed with uncontrolable thoughts that flit from stimulus to stimulus. For example, I'll be standing empty-headed and bemused in the kitchen and decide I need to go back and start again but then I spot the kettle and decide I should make a cup of tea and a snack first.
That is immediately followed by the idea that I should find and read the newspaper while I wait for the water to boil which sends me off to the lounge.
An hour and thousands of jumbled thoughts later, Mrs White Ou, my dear, long-suffering wife of thirty-plus years, will come looking for me and ask: "Why is there no water in the kettle and a mug with only a teabag on the counter?"
Of course I'll have absolutely no idea.
She'll shake her head sadly, like a school teacher who knows the very best the slow kid at the back of the class can hope for, is to some day earn a living as a car-guard.
In my defence I have at times found her alone, wild-eyed and confused, muttering: "What the hell am I doing here?" But perhaps she's questioning her life with me rather than grasping for a memory-trigger.
If I can remember, I'll ask her.

Compensations

However, there are some compensations, as I age, my long-term memory seems to improve and I get many opportunities to bore people with it.
A rare and simple pleasure in middle -- and I am sure old -- age is, absolutely every story you tell, need ever be simple or brief.
Let's be honest, it is an intoxicating rush to see the growing fear and panic in victims' eyes as they realise there is no escape and you are going to make sure you prove there 'ain't nothing wrong with my memory'.
It usually goes something like this:
To keep the conversation going all I need to say is: "I too, once owned a Renault motorcar."
That's it, seven words that say it all and it's all I would have said 20 years ago.
But not now, oh no:
"Yeah a Renault is a nice car. I had one too. It was back in 1975. I bought it with my army danger pay.
"Jeesh can you believe all we got paid was 97c a day and R5.50 a day danger pay but I saved up and paid cash for the car...a white one with an engine in the back.
"In those days, we more frugal and careful with our money. Not like people today where everything is bought on credit and no-one wants to save. Easy credit is the reason we're all in the situation we are today.
"The banks are out to screw us. When I was a youngster, banking, and life in general, was much simpler. They used to hand out piggy banks to kids. I got a black one in 1969. The black ones were more stylish but they also had silver and gold.
"I remember it was 1969 because my teacher was a Miss Thompson, although maybe I'm wrong...maybe it was 1968 and, come to think of it, it wasn't Miss Thompson, she was a teacher at high-school. She was the hot one that we guys all had a crush on. That reminds me of my first girlfriend...
"Gee, we had some fun in my first car. It was a Renault. A white one, with the engine in the back..."

Honour, Glory and Safe Sex in Durban

(This article was published in 1994 in Living Africa Magazine. It evoked a flood of letters. Many guys enjoyed it but a lot of women were offended and couldn't understand how my wife could continue to stay with me. I sometimes wonder about that as well -- we've been married for over 30 years -- but I've come to realise it's probably all due to my boyish good looks.)

"This is serious stuff," I said. My pep talks to the team always start like that. "No messing around. We've got one and only one objective: to come back covered in glory!"
A little background. There are four of us involved in a sport that takes us around the country to various provincial championships. I am nearer 40 than 30, write and do training for a living and am a reasonably big guy. For that matter we're all pretty big guys, in fact you could say we're under-tall - except Dudley, but more about him later. Then there is Andy, younger than me by a year or two but considerably heavier, with a big belly. Harry is the third of the disciples, an ex-policeman, with an old time apartheid cop's temper and disposition. Though not as big as Andy, he too is no jockey, with a third trimester tum.
And then we come to Dudley. Studley Dudley, the youngest of our crew, having just turned 27. He comes from an obscenely wealthy family and is the general manger of one of the family companies. His parents are conservative in their outlook so I guess it is possible the cradles could have been switched in the nursery all those years ago. By day Dudley is a hard worker in Dad's factory, slaving away diligently, but at night he is a male stripper with horny housewives rubbing oil on his body and pushing fistfuls of lolly and phone numbers into his G-string.

Tupperware parties

Dudley works the Tupperware party circuit. The "yes darling, Lynette and I are just going to another Tupperware party"..."Oh my Denise, who needs a man when you can have Danny the Dolphin!" scene.
By all accounts the women love Dudley. He gets to see and examine more married women than the local gynaecologist. He's built like a brick outhouse... a Chippendale. He can genuinely do 70 press-ups in a minute and like Sam Malone of Cheers, he does not drink.
So there we are, a strange team: three outta shape barflies with Penthouse-like fantasies that never come true and a Mr Universe who has to beat off women with a club.
And so the games began. We set off to take part in the Natal championships, a serious event with reputations and prestige at stake. Hell, we had good intentions: no mucking about, just serious competition. That lasted all of 15 minutes and then the war stories started and the hairier they got the hornier we got.
We were booked into a little hotel in the Natal midlands that the proprietor had assured me was very nice and cosy. It sounded idyllic, a little romantic getaway where we could mentally tune up for the challenges that lay ahead.
That is until we told others of our intended place of accommodation.
"You've gotta be out of your skulls!" was perhaps the gentlest of the warnings. "You'll be up all night trying to repel boarders!"
Of course we didn't believe any of that. Gee the guy on the phone told us it was nice and cosy and he wouldn't lie to us.

In search of adventure

And so with pure thoughts, resolve in our hearts and a boot-load of beers (mineral water for Dudley, "my body is a temple") we sallied forth in search of cosy accommodation and adventure.
Andy drove. It was his car and he wasn't taking any chances with us, while we (excluding Dudley) quietly got plastered and lied about how many women we'd laid.
"Wadda ya mean I can't drive?" belched Harry, enveloping us in beery fumes. "I drove when I was in the police.
He made a grab for the steering wheel but was pulled off by Dudley as the car veered across the road.
"Well screw you too," he mumbled and sat in the corner sulking and burping like a bullfrog that had OD'd on liver salts.
We ran out of beer just as we began the long, downhill swoop into Pietermaritzburg.
"I told you we should have packed in more," grumbled Harry. He was beginning to look ragged now. Five o'clock shadow beginning to look like night. "But does anybody listen to me? Nooo!" He laced the negative with heavy inflexion. "What do I know...I'm just an ex-cop."
"Stop the car!" I yelled.
Andy jammed the brakes and we slid sideways onto the verge of the highway, scoring rubber skidlines onto the asphalt.
"What the hell!" he shouted, struggling to keep control of the vehicle. "Don't tell me Harry's going to puke."
"No, I just have to pee," I said somewhat sheepishly. The sage spoke the truth when he said man does not buy beer he just rents it.
"Dammit man, you can't stop here," said Dudley, his voice a little anxious. He was new to the game and this was his first trip with the rest of us.
"It's either that or pee in the car," I said, already out and unzipping my fly.
"Just get done so we can get out of here and check in at the hotel," snapped Andy. Always the father figure and the voice of reason he was beginning to feel the heat from the crazies in the back.
"We've got to get more beer first," slurred Harry.
We had our first feelings of foreboding when we drove into the little town in the Natal midlands. (It shall remain nameless for fear of legal consequences and letters from an irate mayor.) There were only two other white faces to be seen. An old wrinkled crone with a face like an albino prune and the other, a guy on crutches. (Obviously too old and too crippled to get out.)
Now this isn't a racist thing. Let's put the time into perspective. It was four months before South Africa's first all-party general elections. The battle between the ANC and Inkatha was going full-tilt and a State of Emergency had been declared in Kwa Zulu/Natal. Having a white skin counted for beans. For that matter, having a black skin counted even less.
We took one look at the motel, turned our noses at the stale smell of urine in the lobby, made a quick stop at the off-sales and beat a track to Durban. It meant a round trip of about 140-km a day but what the hell? We were in civilization. We checked into the Holiday Inn and were allocated one of those one-room, two double beds, four-guys-in-a-room, rooms. But we didn't care. We were saving money and we were going to party until the blood vessels in our eyes popped.

Sleeping arrangements

I ordered up a couple of beers for supper and we discussed sleeping arrangements.
I don't care what anyone says; being in a double bed with another guy just doesn't feel natural. I guess we're all afraid that somewhere within us may lurk a little latent homosexuality.
"I don't care who I sleep with," said Harry. He'd hit his second wind and was well into party mode.
"Yaaaaah!" he screamed in a wild shriek as he dived across the bed onto Andy and began planting wet kisses on his cheeks. "I want to sleep with Andy baby!"
"Get away you pig!" screamed Andy, in a volume I was sure would bring the manager.
"Keep it down guys," I pleaded in a kind of half-whisper. "You'll get us thrown out of here!"
"Turn the TV up then," said Harry as he sat on top of Andy. "That way they won't hear us shout and they won't hear little Andy squeal."
He rubbed his rough, sandpapery cheeks against Andy then bit him on the butt.
Yep, no doubt about it, Harry was flying.
"Don't talk to me, talk to my lawyer," Harry sang as he wandered around in a pair of underpants, his hairy belly bulging over the waistband. "I gotta unload."
"Well close the bloody door this time," shouted Dudley. "I'm going to have eat just now."
I was restless that night. I suppose that's always the case when you sleep with a strange man for the first time. We tossed a coin and I got to sleep in the same bed as Dudley, who first had to do push-ups and sit-ups before we retired. I woke often, afraid to turn over normally in case I brushed up against him and he thought I was queer or something.
In the next bed Harry snored while Andy had gas. Eventually I must have fallen asleep for I woke with a start. An arm slipped around me and an unshaven face nuzzled up against my back. I lay there, too terrified to move. My worst nightmare had become a reality - Dudley was a fag! Every fibre in my body was taut as a banjo string and my mind whirled in confusion. What to do?
I lay there waiting for the hand to move or for the little kisses to be planted on the back of my neck. At least his breath wouldn't reek of booze, I thought. But nothing happened. He lay still, obviously dreaming he was back home.
"Dudley! It's me," I yelled as I leapt out of bed and switched on the lights. The others woke and stared at me bleary-eyed.
"What's going on?"
"Dudley's trying to fondle me."
"Ag no, never!" You're kidding. You must be dreaming. Turn the lights off and go back to sleep"
"Not before..." I said, as I ripped the top blanket off the bed and rolled it into a long, thin sausage, "I do this!"
With a flourish I laid it in the bed between us.
I pointed to his side: "That's yours and this is mine. Any bit of you that comes onto my side will be ripped off!"

Let's go whoring!

Over dinner the next evening we discussed our options.
"Competition starts early tomorrow so we'd better be fresh," said Andy as he tackled a monkey-gland steak with relish.
"Stuff that, I vote we go whoring," suggested Harry.
"Let's be democratic," I suggested. I wanted to get out of the restaurant. Harry was demanding a balloon from the waitress.
"All in favour of going to bed early to be fresh for the competition tomorrow, raise your hand."
Andy lifted his right hand and waved his fork in the air.
"Right, all in favour of whoring, raise your hand."
Four hands went up.
"I thought you wanted to go to bed early," Dudley accused Andy. We all stared at him.
"What can I say?" he asked sheepishly. "I guess I changed my mind."
"Yep," I said, "these are my principles and if you don't like them I have another set."

Sources

Harry knew all the places and a whole bunch of whores in Durban. "When you're a cop you've got to have sources," he explained. "I just kept mine.
To cut a long story short we ended up at a massage parlor sited on the way to the harbor. In the pile of slags standing at the bar, smiling at us and trying to look like Kim Basingers, were two that actually were not bad. We sidled over, gunslingers from outta town, ready to sow some serious wild oats. Our choice made, the other whores went back to watching a video playing at maximum decibels on a battered Blaupunkt television.
"So what do you boys do?" asked Bambi or Fifi (she had a name that had something to do with an animal).
"Er...um...well we're down here for...." before I could finish explaining about the provincial championships, Dudley jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow with such force it left me gasping for air like a beached mackerel.
"We're game farmers down for a tourism conference," he butted in.
The whores' eyes lit up, the smell of big money and horny hayseeds obviously intoxicating.
"Really? Well yes, now that I look at you, you do look kind of rugged." She paused as she took a swig of her drink, trying not altogether successfully to look seductive as she peered over a Klipdrift Brandy and Coke.
"Where are your farms and are they big?"
"In the northern Transvaal, up against the Limpopo (river), " said Dudley, "and no they're not all that big although one does take four days to drive across from edge to edge."
"Jeez," she said, her voice breathless. She put her hand onto his upper thigh. "You married?"
Dudley shook his head and you could almost see the possibilities as they flashed through her mind.

Be gentle

Harry pulled her into his lap, running his hands up under her skirt.
"It's very sad. Be gentle and kind to him," he whispered. He indicated to Dudley. "His wife recently died while giving birth to their first child - a son who was to take over the farms. Little Frikkie was stillborn so now there's no heir and he's vulnerable and looking for a wife.
"Ag shame," she said and I could have sworn I saw a tear in the corner of her eye, though I guess that could have been a trick of the ultra-violet light.
In the meantime Andy and I were in the process of seducing - if you consider haggling over a price as seducing - the other whore. She was small and girlish, through close scrutiny revealed she obviously had a few miles on the old odometer. Yet, like 65 Mustang she could still get your revs up. Jet-black hair stretched down her back to where it just kissed the tight little buns, wrapped in gold spandex ski-pants.
"You've got to be kidding," I said. "We don't want to buy you. We just want to rent you."
The massage rooms were upstairs, above the main lounge area. Entry was via a dingy passage with a heavy steel security gate, and a particularly large Zulu cradling a pick-handle acted as bastion.'
"To keep the police out," said Bambi or Fifi, but I could not help wondering if it was not also to keep the steamers in and prevent them from leaving without paying.

Cubicles

To call them rooms was generous. They were little cubicles with a single waist-high massage bed in the middle. You could touch both sidewalls while sitting on the bed. But then they weren't really walls either. Rather hardboard partitions that, if you stood on your tiptoes, could be peered over. You didn't even have to keep quiet to hear the guy next door.
"I've just had a lekker garlic steak," I heard some guy tell a girl next door.
"Well I'm definitely not going to kiss you then," replied a woman's voice. "But I'll do oral for a hundred."
Next to the bed was the customary Johnson's baby oil, talcum powder, tissues, towel and deodorant.
"Okay baby, what's it going to be?" Bambi or Fifi asked me. She'd undressed by now and though her body was beginning to show signs of wear from almost 10 years in the game she was still a handsome woman.
"I don't do anything kinky and I don't kiss on the mouth. You can't hit me but for an extra two hundred, I'll spank you."
"I'll take the chef's special," I replied, trying to act cool. It flashed over the top of her head.
"Huh?"
"The full-house, the Dagwood, balls to the wall, pedal to the metal, the big cahunah."
"Huh?"
"I want to..." I whispered so the guy next door would not hear me.
"Okay, well why didn't you say so?"
"What's that?"
"A condom."
I knew I was screwed. That was me. Blown out of the water, Gone. A has-been. I just have to hear the word 'condom' and the flag won't fly.
She was obviously a pro, but even with her best ministrations it was no use. Mr. Happy had died and it was going to take a crane to raise him from the dead. It's a real bummer when every time you close your eyes your wife and kids are standing in the room wagging accusing fingers at you while thousands of Pacman-like AIDS spores snap at your crotch.
"You're still going to have to pay," she said, finally giving up.
"That's okay, but please don't tell the other guys."
"For an extra hundred I'll walk out of here bow-legged and panting," she said.