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...