Coping with no-berry

I was off on the day it happened. So I hoped for, and thought, that my wish was being granted. Very few e-mails came through on my blackberry. I received less than 10 calls that day.



I only became aware that something's wrong when I tried accessing a few sites from my phone. And when I couldn't I assumed it was the network (nothing new). So I did what I needed to do from my laptop.

The next morning, however, I tried to BBM a few mates. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Tried to check on my peeps on facebook. Couldn't. Twitter. Aikona.



The only thing I could do was sms or phone! That is so last century! I wanted to voice my frustration and tried to log on to facebook... OK, forgot...

So I had to go back to basic and went to look for my old Nokia, charge it and then go to facebook... by then I wasn't that frustrated anymore...

 

What bothers me is how long it's taking BB to sort this mess out. It's been like, two days, dudes. That's like forever. So what's the problem?

Blackberry is very popular, but I think over-subscription is sinking it at the moment. So please bras van die Blackberry, please fix your nonsense. The world without technology at your fingertips is not cool, my bra.

Censeless… you can count on it!

The guy in the blinding yellow knock on your door, asks to come in. You check his credentials, and do as requested.

You offer coffee – the visit is going to take more than 10 minutes, afterall. He’s nice, this man, that you have to let into your house. Immaculate manner, soft spoken, you somehow can’t help but trust him.

His pulls out his papers, as you fills the cup with steaming coffee. He pulls his sleeves up and then you see it. A Tatoe – not the artistic one of a little dolphin or a Chinese word meaning something nice translated. No, it’s that crude green-only ones, made in an overpopulated prison somewhere in South Africa.

You mind flies to newspaper articles, written a week or so ago, about this armed robber who missed his court date because he was on training do to census. Is it him? Is he violent? Are you going to survive this count?

 

Don’t worry says, Statistician General Pali Lohahla,  a week after the story broke, we have checked the background of all the people who will come into your homes. Last count those numbered more than 150-thousand. Whoa, that was fast.

I was going to allow the counters to come into my home, tick me and my family off, so that government can make decisions on how to better service delivery.

I’m hoping the guy comes on a nice Spring Day, cause he’s not getting past my security gates. I answer all his questions, but the coffee, biscuit and some HD TV watching while I look for some documents for him, is out.

Sorry bro, but my fears have to count.

Bumming it - Madiba style!!!

The view from the Nelson Mandela museum at Qunu in the Transkei is breathtaking. From the hill, where it’s situated, you have a panoramic view of the rolling hills of the Transkei.

If you stand at a particular angle, you can also see the Mandela house, where the elder statesman is currently enjoying time.

There’s off course lots of history here in this place where Mandela grew up. The people from the museum – infact everyone in Qunu - can tell you something about Mandela.



A nice thing that they’re doing at the museum is that visitors can follow the footstep of Mandela – visiting sites that he used frequent as a young man.

A Day before our broadcast from there last week, we were taken to the stone slide where he and his tjommies played.

We were literally walking in his footsteps. The slide though is a slippery stone, bumpy and very steep.

The seven of us all stared at the slide – two taking photo’s. And then, I threw caution at the wind. I sat on my bum – and wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee….

I went down on my bum… all the way to the end of the rock. I was exhilarating… I can imagine why Mandela and his mates walked up that steep hills and rocks to come here over and over again.

Then, my colleague asked me to do it again (to take a few photo’s), and I obliged – my bum sliding where Madiba’s once was. Now how many people can say that!

I heart you, Dr. Death

It strikes while you walk in Cape Town, smoking your cigar, after having the greasiest, cholesterol-filled food ever imagined. 

A pain shoots through your chest, you are short of breath – the literature that you were once forced to read while you were waiting for some sort of service – tells you are having a heart attack.

You start coughing – deep throaty once – that the magazine article told you might buy you time while you experience cardiac arrest.

Someone helps you – you get to a hospital and they get you stable – but you are in need of a doctor. “The best cardiologist in this town, please,” you tell them.

“That’ll be dr. Basson,” they tell you. You nod and doze off.

You wake up a day later. Dr. Basson had done something to you arteries and you should be able to live another three or four decades, if you watch your diet etc etc etc…

Dr. Basson comes in. He looks familiar, but you are so grateful, you thanks him, saying his name over and over again.

“Ag, call me Wouter,” he says. 

I heard the other day that Dr. Death is still practicing in Cape Town. I must admit that the man is brilliant, but I really don’t know if I’ll let him treat me and I’m almost certain I’ll get a second and third and fourth opinion if I’ve been unconscious in his presence for more than 10 seconds.

 

Dr. Wouter Basson was involved in the apartheid government’s Project Coast, which produced various drug, teargas and other chemical agents used in crowd control and against enemies in the Border War during the 80’s.

An never-to-be confirmed rumour that he engineered the Aids virus was also circulating a decade or so ago.

He was tried on a few dozen charges and found not guilty. 

 

I wonder who seeks him out for treatment – how many patients he has – who they are. Are there black and coloured people sitting in his waiting room and what goes through their minds as he’s alone with them with so many chemicals and other medical things.

Do they trust him to cut them open? I need to trust me doctor, and with one nicknamed Dr. Death, not sure he cuts it.

That place across the Kei, I love to hate...

A Trip across the Kei normally fills me with excitement, but also with dread. I have to take the N2 to that part of the world at least three times a year, but mostly more.

The excitement is seeing the beautiful scenery the Transkei has to offer. Damn, that place is beautiful. Then of course its hills, the river, the valley and the people.

The dread of course is its capital, Mthatha. That city is an assault on all of one’s sense, leaving me senseless. Too much noise, too many smells, too many people, cars… And those potholes! The list goes on.

It’s like I’m unable to function properly while I’m in the city. And don’t get me started on their animals. Strays in the city; cows, donkey and horses on the main roads. Transkei robots, they call them. Drive slow – accidents aplenty in that part of the world. 

But drive out of the city, less than 10 km’s and it all becomes worth it. Those rolling hills, dotted with the colorful houses. Rural life – friendly people – typically South African.

The Mbashe river cutting through the hills – a photographer or artist’s paradise.

I understand  why Nelson Mandela and Bantu Holomisa love this place. 

I’ve travelled most of this country of our – along the west and east coast – in the interior, the Namaqualand. I’ve seen the Augrabies in flood and the majestic Drakensberg. The Orange river mouth and Richtersveld - all silently boasting their own beauty – and the Transkei, which I love to hate is among my top ten.

The beautiful game, minus the main ingredient...

If it was in the afternoon, we would have started a fire about an hour early. We would have talked about the event that was due to start. Some would’ve argued, others would’ve talk about the meat, the marinate, the weather. But we’d all be worried and, of course, hopeful.

We’d open a few beers and have some biltong. Some of the okes would’ve started making jokes about others’ choice of brand. But it’ll be all just for fun.

Then we’d listen to the experts as they talk – and we’d brand them as hasbeen, wannabees, but still listen and agree with what they say.

Then we’d be glued to the screen for almost two hours – shouting, screaming even, and coming within an inche of a heart attack. I would’ve personally smoked double the amount of cigarettes I normally do.

That’s the lekkerte of a “normal” rugby world cup. Unfortunately, we don’t have that this year. We have to wake up, get some coffee going and sit alone and watch the game. Don’t get too excited, because loud screaming will wake up the baby. 

And beer is out at that time of the morning – unless you’re an alcoholic or a badass babelas from the night before. I don’t know about you, but a rugby match without a cold one, just isn’t the same.

So what to do? Could record it on the PVR, invite some bro’s and watch the match at a decent hour. But then, how to avoid being told the score by some or the other idiot? 

Because rowdy celebrations by the neighbours will tell you who scored. And facebook friends will vent their disappointment or celebrate their excitement.

Nah, don’t see a way out of this one – back to waking up and watching the game alone with some coffee and biscuit.  

Stalkers paradise...

He breaths heavy as he sees her undressing. First the top goes, revealing a sexy bra. Then the pants and she stands in a matching panties. She looks good, just the way he had always imagined she would.

He's been waiting for this moment for more than a year now. He met her in a bar one evening, approached her and when she had told him to bugger off, he felt angry, vengeful and started following her. He followed her home. The next day, he followed her to work, gym, to the bar where she goes.
He had tried many times to try to ask her out again, but the shame of being told off in a busy bar was still vivid in his mind.
And so she became alive in his fantasy. There she doesn't say no to anything he asks, infact she offers to do to him all the things he likes and more...


Tonight, after a year, he had finally gotten into her apartment. He was waiting for her wardrobe, watching as she was preparing for him...
I've been watching with interest, the new application on facebook and people's excitement in using it. I'm talking about the checking in tool. Whoever has checked in wherever.
Call me negative, but can't help thinking how easy it becomes for stalker to check out their prey. No need to sit things out anymore. Missed her/him while you had to go take a wee - don't worry, check their facebook profile.


Want to quickly break into their apartment to get your hands on some undies and need to check if your okay with time, check facebook.
Need to get her while she's nice and drunk. Just wait for the check-in at the local watering hole and your good, buddy.
So keep on checking in, people and welcome to the Stalker's paradise...