The Idiot’s Guide to Gate crashing a Royal garden party

Nick Griffin of the Brutish (British) National Party (BNP) has had an embarrassing episode where he was refused permission to attend a garden party at Buckingham Palace thrown by the Queen quite recently. He then went on television on what the media called a ‘gloating spree’ saying that he deserved to be invited on account of the 1 million people who voted for his party.

BNP's Nick Griffin and his goons (AP)

Pity he had not read my ‘Idiot’s Guide to Gate-crashing a Party,’ not that I am implying that good Ol’ Nick is one, a fool that is, though of course many would violently disagree with that sentiment. I must admit that I am one of those who find what his party stands for quite distasteful. Not the least because I happen to be black and of African descent.

For those who don’t know the chap, he leads the British National Party that seeks to restore the overwhelmingly white ethnicity of Britain that it says existed prior to 1948 through legal means, including "firm but voluntary incentives for immigrants and their descendants to return home", and the repeal of anti-discrimination legislation. He is a Member of the European Parliament.

Don’t get me wrong if I sympathize with people who are denied entry into certain functions through no fault of their own, no matter how stupid that might be. I am motivated by a long career of demanding recognition by those who think is important enough to deny others the right to be invited to their parties.

For all that he is worth, and it’s not much I’m afraid, Nick broke one of the cardinal rules of gate crashing. That is telling all and sundry that he had been denied entry. One never admits failure, especially on television which in this case reaches every nook and cranny of the globe including Francistown where I am holed up. One cannot even begin to calculate the untold damage this has done to his rather dubious reputation.

Buckingham Palace was justified to deny Nick entry because it was their party after all and they can invite and un-invite with equal measure. The trick is how one reacts to the latter. You don’t go shouting to the rooftops but rather you retire to a quiet corner to re-strategize. Desperate situations require desperate measures.

First, I know of no law that makes gate-crashing or ‘crashing’ in short a criminal offence. Sure there might be issues of trespassing here but, unless you kill someone in the process the law is a bit dim on this one. In Africa, we are no strangers to the phenomenon. Since time immemorial we have been pitching up unheralded at the doorsteps of relatives, friends and in a few instances stranger’s houses. This is more likely to be at mealtimes for obvious reasons.

This is unlike in Europe or the UK to be specific where they find it exceedingly irritating if not outright impolite to call on someone without an appointment. In Africa, it is considered back luck to urn away someone at your door. That is part of our culture and what a better excuse to gate-crash those parties during the festive season.

Griffin for all the repugnant things that he stands for would be welcome with open arms like a long lost brother at some homes. A word of caution though for our guest; he is expected to respect the hospitality of his hosts. Throwing a person out head first is not something that is beyond African hosts. There is a very thin line between hospitality and hostility.

Another tactic that Nick should have employed was to know who the host was in advance. The mistake he made was to think that the Queen was the host. Technically, she was, but in reality, it was Buckingham Palace, the institution. Griffin thought that he was going to appeal to Her Majesty’s grace and compassion. Yet the guys who pull the strings behind the scenes are faceless bureaucrats who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at having him thrown out on his bum if it came to that.

This meant that all modesty had to be thrown aside and crude tactics like scaling the palace wall should have been employed. That he would run the risk of being shot in the process, which he surely deserved, would have been neither here nor there. It would have attracted sympathy from an otherwise disgusted public. They are many who believe that Griffin is better off dead by the way. I am a born again Christian whose patience has been stretched too far by this man.

Going back to the range of options Griffin could have used besides pole vaulting over majestic walls, he could have disguised himself as a waiter or better still the chef. We are not aware of any culinary skills that he possesses but once inside, I doubt it if his would have been able to keep his mouth shut. Knowing how bombastic he tends to be at the best of times.

Any party organiser employs elaborate measures to ensure that only those invited get to enjoy. From fancy invitation cards, which Nick was ironically brandishing when he was ‘P.I.’ed (declared a prohibited invitee), to security guards, bouncers, or in the case of Buckingham Palace, the security measures that might have included metal detectors and secret service personnel.

In such a situation, Nick would have to make himself inconspicuous, another golden rule that Griffin defiled. Griffin never moves without a cavalcade of goons (to label them politely) who are not known for their civility. Now if you pitch up at any party with a phalanx of bodyguards and you meet an equally determined posse at the gate isn’t that a recipe for World War III? And do you think any host with his head screwed on straight would allow for that?

Nonetheless, in order to succeed against such odds, a professional gate crasher has to be psychologically and physically prepared. One must always be a step ahead of the measures put up to prevent one from entry. Dress for the occasion which unfortunately is no guarantee for eventual entry as Nick woefully discovered.

He told all and sundry on television that he would have to return his hired morning suit, cravat and waist coat. The unwritten rule that the smartly turned out person is unlikely to cause trouble does not seem to apply to politicians, so Buckingham Palace made us to believe.

Finally, any gate crasher worth his salt should know what the occasion being celebrated is. In Africa, lack of this basic piece of intelligence has led to some people I know gate crashing funeral wakes, tombstone unveilings and prayer meetings. I have to exclude the desperados who actually work the funeral circuit if not for the free meals and refreshments. Nick Griffin, unfortunately enough, knew what the party was for in the first place.

For all his troubles, the leader of Britain’s most reviled political party then ran into Peter Tatchell, the bane of all xenophobes. Tatchell, we are told, called Nick ‘a gutless coward’ and demanded that he apologise for the ‘BNP’s history of anti-Semitism and homophobia.’ It is at this point that Nick’s goons sprang into action. If only they had shown their bravery against the palace guards.

In Africa we have a saying that when relieving oneself, one learns to keep your mouth shut. The sooner Nick Griffin discovers that, the better for all of us.

The Debris the World Cup left behind

The first World Cup staged in Africa is all over bar the shouting. The accolades are still pouring in about how South Africa pulled it off with FIFA boss Sepp Blatter giving them 9 out of ten on his scorecard. This flies in the face of skeptics (in Zimbabwe we call them detractors) who doubted that an African country could successfully host the world’s biggest event.

The question as to whether the hosting the event was worth it or not. The overwhelming result is that it was. Not only is South Africa endowed with world class stadia, there is other infrastructure, roads, the Gautrain and the rapid transit transport system. There is the legacy of all the sports programmes, poverty elevation initiative and education schemes that have been established in the name of soccer. Not to forget very rich sex workers.

The Mexicans and their sombreros, the Ghanaians, Nigerians, Ivoirians with their masks and drums, the Brazilians doing their samba, the Dutch smuggling in German Bavarian beer and the English, well, quaffing it in huge quantities, all added to a colourful event that will take ages to erase from the minds of many.

Vuvuzelas silenced

However, regrettable fallout from Mzansi 2010 is the fact that not many sporting disciplines will tolerate the 127 decibel horn with the persistent drone is to be banned at the Brazil 2014 World Cup. The ubiquitous vuvuzela which has spawned a culture that has changed how the game is supported forever is also to be banned by some English Premier clubs when the new season begins, the first being Tottenham Hotspur.

Arsenal, Birmingham City, Everton, Fulham, Liverpool, West Ham United and Sunderland have followed suit. Oh Bollocks!

Manchester City and Chelsea - though not encouraging their fan – have no plans to ban them. Yay! That explains why I support Chelsea, well sort of. Other sporting events where you are unlikely to hear the vuvuzela include, all golf tournaments, the 2012 London Olympics, Wimbledon tennis tournament, cricket test matches and equestrian events.

Paris blows a cloud

Paris Hilton was arraigned for questioning for dagga possession, twice. Well the second time she was caught could have been was far away from South Africa. On both occasions she has denied culpability and has got away with it. Well, even former American president admitted that he smoked grass but incredibly did not inhale.

This is indicative of two glaring facts: It seems the drug has a liking for the hotel heiress and keeps popping up wherever she is, and secondly, something strange happens to the arresting officers to the extent that they are obliged to release her.

I am sure it has nothing to do with fact that she is the daughter of one of the richest people on the planet. It’s just a coincidence. In Zimbabwe it’s called chioko muhomwe literally meaning ‘hand in the pocket.’ But I can bet that if she had been caught in Zim, she would be singing the blues at Chikurubi as we speak. If there is one thing our cops are efficient in, it’s busting people for dagga possession.

New English word Introduced - SUAREZ

As a direct result of the game between Ghana and Uruguay, and the ‘goal’ (that would have been and never was) that could have meant Africa’s only hope for World Cup Glory, a new word has been introduced in the English language.

SUAREZ (Verb) (a) To viciously and proactively inhibit or halt the progress of a person, an establishment or a nation. For example, ‘The team’s opportunity to score was SUAREZed by a member of the opposing team.’

(b) To act in a way that is deliberate and intentional, though spontaneous, yet calculated to frustrate the advancement of an adversary. For example, ‘As pressure built up in the dying moments of the game, a shot at goal was SUAREZed by an opponent standing next to the goal post.’

(Noun) (a) A state of being, where all your efforts are visibly and overtly being frustrated and impeded. For example, ‘I am in a state of SUAREZ, please don’t stress me further.’

(b) A purposeful behavior intended to disregard rules or engagement so as to prevent an opponent from eminent victory. For example, ‘The first thought that came to Fernando’s mind was to cause SUAREZ in order to save the day.’

(Adverb) Describing a frustrated state of mind where force is directed, deliberately and intentionally. For example, ‘The Uruguayan SUAREZedly prevented the ball from entering the goal posts.’

SYNONYMS; frustrate, prevent, stress, halt, oppose, challenge, resist.

ORIGIN - Root word is from the extinct Inca language meaning “an erratic young man with the tendency to frustrate the effort of all those who deal with him whether in peacetime or wartime”.

Since that time SUAREZ, the entity otherwise known as Lius, so popularly called in Ghana because of the inscription on the back of his jersey has become a household name in Ghana. Ghanaians have not been economical with their curses on him. They sleep cursing, eat cursing, walk cursing and… well.

Paul the Octopus steals the show

Who will forget the antics of Paul, the octopus that predicted the results of World Cup matches the Germans won and lost, and of course that of the final. He beat several pretenders to the throne that included an Elephant and some other creature. Well news is that the Spanish town of Carballino has given Paul the honorary citizenship. Carlos Montes, the mayor of the north-western Spanish town visited Germany to bestow the honour to the octopus.

I know what you are thinking. How can some fish get all the luck? In fact, the Germans have so jealously guarded their octopus that they have decided to retire him. Let’s hope he is not destined for some restaurant somewhere. Otherwise, the outcry would be deafening.

In Zim, we do not have octopuses. But we do have little supernatural bearded men well known for their extraordinary strength and virility. We call them ondofa or tikoloshe (goblin) to you. They will put Paul to shame any day. This however is the subject of another article.

New word introduced into English language

SUAREZ
 
(Verb). a. To viciously and proactively inhibit or halt the progress of a person, an establishment or a nation. Eg. The team’s opportunity to score was SUAREZed by a member of the opposing team.
 
(b). To act in a way that is deliberate and intentional, though spontaneous, yet calculated to frustrate the advancement of an adversary. Eg. As pressure built up in the dying moment of the game, a shot at goal was SUAREZed by an opponent standing next to the goal post.
 
(Noun). a. A state of being where all your effort are visibly and overtly being frustrated and impeded. Eg. I am in a state of SUAREZ, please don’t stress me further.
(b) A purposeful behavior intended to disregard rules or engagement so as to prevent an opponent from eminent victory. Eg. The first thought that came to Fernando’s mind was to cause SUAREZ in order to save the day.
 
(Adverb) Describing a frustrated state of mind where force is directed, deliberately and intentional. Eg. The Uruguayan SUAREZedly prevented the ball from entering the post.
 
SYNONYMS
Frustrate, prevent, stress, halt, oppose, challenge, resist.
 
Origin-Root word is from the extinct Inca language meaning “an erratic young man with the tendency to frustrate the effort of all those who deal with him whether in peacetime or wartime”.
 
Since that time SUAREZ, as the entity otherwise known as Luis is popularly called in Ghana because of the inscription at the back of his jersey, has  become a household name in Ghana and Ghanaians have not been economical with their curses on him. People sleep cursing, eat cursing, walk cursing and ….all the motion curses you can think of.

Zim style coalition in new UK government?

As much as I hate them, politicians run the world and worse still, make the decisions that make living such a pain sometimes. We are forced to keep a close watch on their antics and weep at their mistakes which invariably result in disastrous consequences. We take the brunt and wish for an early election to clean up the mess. However, elections do not always come up with the solutions that we yearn for.

Take those held in Zimbabwe as an example. The government prides itself with holding timely elections. It’s an achievement that has been touted by the former ruling Zanu PF to demonstrate that they were truly democratic. Bar the fact that all these so called democratic elections were seriously flawed. The playing field has never been level, and the party in question has so perfected the art of rigging that the people wonder whether any truly free and fair elections were possible in the Southern African country.

On the few occasions when the elections nearly returned an unanticipated result for the ruling party of course, the authorities defied any pretence of shame by ensuring that the will of the people never saw the light of day. On one notable occasion in 2008, the person charged with running the elections to the results and literally ran for the hills with them. What was later revealed to a patient, expectant and obviously cheated electorate was an electoral dish of epicurean proportions.

Fast forward a couple of years and we have a government that is a curious contraption borne out of insidious compromise. Totally ignoring the will of the people, marathon negotiations concocted a witch’s brew of the stale variety. How true the adage that we get the leaders we deserve rings. The half-baked administration that is running Zimbabwe, if we may call it that, has been misfiring on all cylinders.

It is in this regard that the Zimbabwean experience should hold lessons for the incoming coalition government of the Conservatives and the Liberal Democrats. It has all the trappings of Zimbabwe’s Government of National Unity (GNU) or ‘Inclusive Government’ as they choose to call it. It is a product of a political crisis and is therefore a marriage of convenience.

If you look at it from all angles, it is an awkward, to quote Professor Welshman Ncube, ‘half human, half beast.’ You have on the one hand the Movement for Democratic Change - Tsvangirayi which won an election but not enough for it to control government, and Zanu PF, the former ruling party that gate-crashed after losing the elections. Then of course the MDC Mutambara faction that could not even dream of being at the table. There are no prizes for guessing which one of these is the beast.

The gist of the questions at the Cameron-Clegg press conference on the lawns of Downing Street clearly showed this. Who would field question time, chair cabinet meetings etcetera. They should ask how Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirayi has fared against a belligerent President Robert Mugabe who will not hesitate to remind everyone within earshot who is in charge. His Excellency the President, Head of State and Commander of the Defence Forces runs the country and the rest of you can frankly go to hell.

Another interesting result of the ‘historic’ coalition in the UK is the fact that a whole host of politicians who previously could only dream of being in government were thrown in at the deep end. The Liberal Democrats managed to get 5 seniors cabinet posts and at least 15 as junior ministers. The question is whether they could swim. In Zimbabwe, senior members from both factions of the former opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) found themselves in ministerial positions that seemed more of largesse that deserved.

The obvious result has been the preponderance of lame duck cabinet ministers whose claim to fame is being at the right time at the right place with the right people. I’m afraid there is little here worth writing home about except perhaps Finance minister Tendai Biti and State Enterprises and Parastatals’ Gorden Moyo who apart from standing their ground evidently know how a government should be run. The net result was gross incompetence among those who could not fit the bill and were booted out in a ‘reshuffle’ by the Prime Minister Tsvangirayi recently.

While the Lib Dems are still pinching themselves, the question that Britons should be asking is whether they have the right people for the complex job of steering the country from economic disaster and a war they were not supposed to be involved in? Soon, just like a wedding, the novelty of union will soon wear off as it did in Zimbabwe a year ago. When reality sinks in that is when the dirt hits the fan. I suppose Britain has better prospects at calling for early elections than Zimbabwe.

As we speak, the tone coming from Harare on both sides of the political divide, and so eloquently and loudly pronounced by Deputy Prime Minister Prof Arthur Mutambara, is that there won’t be elections in Zimbabwe any time soon. Not if the MDC guys comfortably ensconced on the gravy train can help it. While the Britons are admiring their new toy, Zimbabweans both at home and abroad have to face some hard truths about a Lib Dem-Conservative coalition government, what one UK paper called brilliantly dubbed, Con-Dem-nation.

The views of both parties on immigration are well known. While the Conservatives (and Labour) advocated for the deportation of illegal immigrants and putting a cap on non-EU immigrants because they felt that they are swamping the country’s services, the Liberal Democrats pledged to offer illegal immigrants a lifeline in the form of an amnesty. This explains why a lot of Zimbabweans and other immigrants in the UK backed the Lib Dems.

However, the coalition agreement seems to reflect the conservative position of limiting non-EU immigrants although it puts an end to child detention in immigration centres. It goes without saying therefore, that the new government is likely to get tough on asylum seekers. This would be bad news to the thousands of illegal immigrants who have been in the UK for years. Whether it was time for our relatives to start packing their bags or not, it’s all up to fate.

It has come to my notice that there is a discernable level of excitement among Zimbabwean politicians each time there are elections in the UK. The hope, particularly within Zanu PF, is that it might bring a shift in foreign policy and a possible lifting of the ‘Harrods shopping spree’ ban they are labouring under. If there is one thing blacklisted Zanu PF politicians hate is cooling their heels at Heathrow Airport departure lounge on transit while their MDC counterparts paint London red.

With William Hague heading the foreign ministry I suggest they look elsewhere for relief in this regard. The Conservatives might have given us our independence all those years back, but these Conservatives of today are a different kettle of fish. Hague has not hidden his apparent distaste for Zanu PF as are many of his compatriots. For those with short memories, he is the one who advocated for the evacuation of British kith and kin from Zimbabwe at the height of the disastrous land invasions.

As for Zimbabweans who had found sanctuary with their former colonial masters, the signs are there that the coalition government is not what they expected. Not that they are packing their bags and rushing for the border. The climate of unease is shown by the growing number of enquiries about opportunities in Botswana, Swaziland, Namibia or even, God-forbid, South Africa. Some are talking investment while others are preparing to make a move.

Only time will tell as to where the policies of new occupants of Whitehall will trigger a mass exodus of Babylonian proportions by Zimbabweans ensconced there. Though the rumblings are becoming audible, the vast majority are sure to give their forsaken homeland a wide berth. Not at moment when the inclusive government is still clutching at empty straws as far as finding solid financial backing for their experiment is concerned.

One thing that Zimbabwean diasporians are unanimous about though is the fact that only free and fair elections will bring about finality to the crisis that is there. The challenge is that of politicians, ideologues and indeed demagogues who would like the status quo to prevail. Because any other arrangement would mean a sure end to their access to the largesse associated with political power. In the meantime, the Lib Dem-Conservative coalition is not offering any better options either.

Gizmo soccer ball to replace the Jabulani

Mexican scientists (of all people) are working on a new ball that will beam out TV replays and light up in bright colours when it crosses the line. There is no guessing what has motivated these designers based in Mexico City.

The ball, to be packed with cameras,  lights and a GPS chip but still weigh the same, is sure to clear up refereeing gaffes like the one that cost England a goal when they went down 4-1 against Germany.

For Alberto Vilarreal, an industrial engineer leading the project, a groveling apology by FIFA chief Sepp Blatter won’t be necessary with his contraption.

“What we wanted to do with this ball is to demonstrate how a product that historically has not changed can be innovated and taken in a new and completely different direction,” he said.

Well that sounds more wayward than the official Jabulani ball itself which has been criticised by players at the 2010 World Cup for being ‘unpredictable.’

The designers  accept that conservative FIFA will reject the ball outright . That won’t stop the creative mad scientists from being touted as the first to invent a soccer ball with all the bells and whistles. This can't be real... is it?

I Was At the 2010 World Cup

The World Cup is now approaching its climax. And who would have thought that Brazil, France, Italy and Argentina would bite the dust? In fact who would have thought that South Africa would pull it off? As for Brazil I thought they were just too full of themselves and deserved everything that was coming to them. Ghana on the other hand did us proud even though they left the stage rather unfairly.

Incredibly, I found myself in the midst of it all, driving all the way from Francistown to Rustenburg if not just to smell it. Well I did and saw it too besides feeling it. This came courtesy of a friend from Sweden who landed at the reconstructed Sir Seretse Khama International Airport to watch some of the games even though his home country wasn’t in the thick of it. That is what I call a football fanatic.

Leif Lindström is no ordinary soccer fan. For one he is 60 years old but does not look his age. He has been involved with Orebrö SK, the big team in his native city of in the region of Nårike. So much about geography and to cut a long story short, I find myself in Rustenburg and the World Cup hits me full in the face. It’s the afternoon of the match between Mexico and Uruguay and this little Afrikaner town is abuzz. I can’t imagine how it was like when the English were here.

Reminds me so much of Bulawayo, only that they are more white faces I meet than black. The roads are jam packed and our guest had to fetch his ticket from some centre before working his way to the park and ride from where he was to board a bus to the Royal Bafokeng Stadium. I have to hand it to these forward thinking Bafokeng tribesmen.

Kgosi August Mokgatle, who reigned from 1834 to 1891 started buying land his people had occupied for centuries and 33 years after his death, the world's largest deposits of platinum group metals were discovered under Bafokeng land! They were then able to lease their mineral rights and eventually to claim royalties which they used to build a stadium way before South Africa won the bid to host the world’s greatest showcase.

Now, their investment has brought the world’s soccer stars right to their doorstep and dignitaries such as Bill Clinton and Mick Jagger (know the guy don’t you?) It’s like having Barack Obama at Barbourfields Stadium a stone’s throw from Makokoba! Now who can beat that for planning? Fast forward to Tuesday 22 June and I discovered that there was no way I could drive to marvel at this wonder. It seemed as if everyone and their grandmothers were driving there.

Perish the thought; I did not have a ticket for the game anyway. So my next best hope was to look for the nearest fan pack a catch the Bafana Bafana game against France. The proverbial last kick of a dying horse I presumed right. First, we have to drive Leif to the ticket centre and his hosts in Rustenberg and to think that I had not learnt my lesson in Joburg! Without that ingenious gadget called the GPS we got lost again.

Waterfalls Mall is known to all in this town but none was able to guide us straight to the darned place. It took us another agonising 30 minutes to get there if you take the fact that it was already 20 minutes to the start of the game. Don’t even ask me what hue Leif had taken on for a complexion. Let’s just say flaming red to be conservative. As an African, I was satisfied with getting to Rustenburg in one piece.

If we had not been delayed at the Tlokweng border post because Leif had two passports (in Sweden they are super efficient by the way) and the fact that we had to endure two super roadblocks were the cops searched for ‘firearms’ we would have made it with enough time for an African bath for our visitor. But we all have to thank the World Cup and Bheki Cele, police commissioner, and his storm-troopers that we were not carjacked instead! If only these guys could sustain such enthusiasm after the soccer spectacle.

We eventually dropped off our guest at the Waterfall mall and later got it from him that he got into the stadium 20 minutes into the game. He should have been glad to have watched the game alive at least! So off us plebeians went to look for the fan park were the rest of mankind in Rustenburg were watching their heroes. We got there after driving around aimlessly and by the grace of God bumping into the place.

I should mention that South Africa scored both their goals while we were still looking for our bearings. At least the radio was on and we enjoyed the spectacle of those locals who were unfortunate enough to be at work making fools of themselves, jumping up and down with delight. That was the time I wished I was a South African, because the feeling must have been something else. At that point I wondered whether that is how I behaved when my team Highlanders score.

The Fan Park was located at Fields School and we were made to park our car some kilometres from the venue. It weren’t for the colourful characters that were rushing to the place because the home team scored, I would have given up and driven to Hartbeespoort were we were to retire for the night. But what we found there was incredible. A sea of people of all races, colours and stations in life were brought together in the ecstasy of victory.

The fact that the South African team was knocked out was lost on this crowd. As I have stated elsewhere, that this World Cup has not just been another sporting event. It has changed this blessed country for ever. Blessed in the sense that they had such leaders as Nelson Mandela, whose countenance and very act of reconciliation softened the hearts of his former oppressors.

Well, I saw nothing of those hard hearts here. What I witnessed were whites whose cars were festooned with the national flag and wearing the South African team jersey. When Bafana Bafana scored, they celebrated and hugged their black compatriots. It was hard not to be patriotic during an event were so many nationalities flaunted their national identities with such passion and aplomb.

The Mexicans had their sombreros, the English, well, quaffed their beer, The Ghanains, Nigerians, Ivorians had their masks and drums, the Brazilians had their samba and the Dutch stole in strangely smuggled in German Bavarian beer. They could have used some timely advice from Highlanders supporters on this. And of course, AbeZansi had the ubiquitous vuvuzela which has spawned a culture that is sure to change the culture of the game.

If this World Cup has not done anything significant for the locals as some critics would want us to believe, I can be witness to the glaring fact that the world’s most beautiful game has brought the people of South Africa together. I was there and I felt it!

Stupid answers to stupid World Cup Questions

These questions about South Africa were posted on a South African Tourism Website and were answered by the website owner who, one must agree, has a great sense of humour!

Q: Does it ever get windy in South Africa? I have never seen it rain on TV, so how do the plants grow? (UK)
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.


Q: Will I be able to see elephants in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.

Q: I want to walk from Durban to Cape Town - can I follow the railroad tracks? (Sweden)
A: Sure, it's only two thousand kilometres take lots of water...

Q: Is it safe to run around in the bushes in South Africa? (Sweden)
A: So it's true what they say about Swedes..

Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in South Africa? Can you send me a list of them in JHB, Cape Town, Knysna and Jeffrey's Bay? (UK)
A: What did your last slave die of?

Q: Can you give me some information about Koala Bear racing in South Africa? (USA)
A: Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the pacific. A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe which does not...oh forget it. Sure, the Koala Bear racing is every Tuesday night in Hillbrow. Come naked.

Q: Which direction is north in South Africa? (USA)
A: Face south and then turn 90 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we'll send the rest of the directions.

Q: Can I bring cutlery into South Africa? (UK)
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.

Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is...oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Hillbrow, straight after the Koala Bear races. Come naked.

Q: Do you have perfume in South Africa? (France)
A: No, WE don't stink.

Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in South Africa ? (USA)
A: Anywhere where a significant number of Americans gather.

Q: Can you tell me the regions in South Africa where the female population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay nightclubs.

Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in South Africa? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.

Q: Are there killer bees in South Africa? (Germany)
A: Not yet, but for you, we'll import them.

Q: Are there supermarkets in Cape Town and is milk available all year round?
A: No, we are a peaceful civilisation of vegan hunter-gatherers. Milk is illegal.

Q: Please send a list of all doctors in South Africa who can dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-meri-ca, which is where YOU come from. All South African snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.

Q: I was in South Africa in 1969 and I want to contact the girl I dated while I was staying in Hillbrow. Can you help? (USA)
A: Yes, but you will probably still have to pay her by the hour... if she is still alive.

Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first.

Zimbabwe Monopoly

This one really cracked me up. I hope it will tickle your funny bone as much as it did mine!

Getting lost in Jozi and all the Jazz

So we got lost in Gauteng and I said who wouldn’t. Then some clever dick pointed out to me that he never did. What’s the big deal, I wondered. Then I recalled as I drove from petrol station to petrol station asking for directions, that I must have been barking up the wrong tree. These were ‘pedestrians’ giving directions to a ‘driver.’

There is a world of difference between driving in that maze and riding in a kombi. Never mind the fact that it was already dark and there was a lot of construction and detours everywhere. This was my first time driving in Jozi, the last time I was here we were being chauffeur driven courtesy of Mayor Amos Masondo’s office celebrity style.

Not one of those petrol attendants knew where Hartbeespoort was, let alone the shortest route to Lenasia, from where we could easily get to our destination. Then it struck me; this guy who responded on Facebook boasting that he (it must have been a he) ‘never’ got lost in Joburg was a pedestrian in the best sense of the word. I know, full bloodied men do not admit to such things as losing directions, let alone admit that they take a taxi to work.

But then it was through such peculiar circumstances that we managed to get to reach those places they keep warning you about, albeit unknowingly. It was all because we took a wrong off-ramp and we could have as well ended up in cuckoo land. As we drove around in circles for what seemed like ages (in fact it was about four hours) looking for a way out, it also became a life changing moment for my wife Nomusa.

Joel Osteen described a similar situation in his book Become A Better You. It was as if he was there. Nomusa and I were coming from Emperor’s Palace after a very successful business meeting on our way back to the Dlamini’s our hosts. Osteen takes it from here in his version: “I asked Victoria whether I should turn right or left and she said we need to turn right. I looked up and down the street, and didn’t recognise anything to the right, so I said, no, I think we should turn left. Victoria looked in every direction, and said, No Joel, I know we need to go right.”

It is at this point that the man totally loses all reason and asserts himself, which regrettably happened in our case as well. We go back to the Olsen case; “Victoria (Nomusa) our house (Hartbeespoort) is that way, I said, pointing to the left. I know we need to go in that direction. I pulled out and drove in that direction. She said, Well that’s fine, but we are going in the wrong way.”

Now at this point after such a wonderful experience at the meeting, networking and getting motivated, this is when the atmosphere in the car changes. We are uptight and on edge, so were Joel and Victoria.

Joel: “We were hardly talking to each other over something so insignificant. If I would have just swallowed my pride and gone her way, what’s ten minutes going to matter?”

But no, Lenox had to show Nomusa who was right. I had to prove my point. So I started driving...and driving...and driving all over Jozi.

“I was trying my best to act as if I knew where I was going, but I might as well have been in Japan! I had no idea where we were,” continues Joel.

Similarly, we could see the freeway but had no clue as to how we would get on it.

“Every time I looked at Victoria, she’d just smile and say, “Well you should have listened to me, maybe we’ll get home by this time tomorrow.’’ The more she rubbed it in, the more aggravated I became.”

It was after wandering around for thirty minutes that Joel gave in and suggested that they go back and starting afresh.

In our case, Nomusa suggested that we go back to OR Tambo International airport and retrace our tracks. You guessed right, she was overruled. If only I had listened to her, it would have taken us exactly forty minutes to find our way home. But not according to this obstinate clever dick.

We ended up at some restaurant called Jimmy’s somewhere around Eastgate where I stopped to ask for directions. Two chaps who had just knocked off work there offered to direct us to the best point from where we could rejoin the bypass. I told them we wanted to get to Lenasia which they said was on their way home and we drove off with our passengers talking animatedly at the back.

Now there are a few golden rules you just don’t break when in Jozi. One of them is to never give lifts to strangers and the other is not to ask for directions from the same. I broke both. Somehow in the worst of situations, one tends to believe in the innate goodness of man. Judging by the accent of the two, I concluded that they were fellow Zimbabweans, breaking another rule to never trust homeboys. Add that to the fact that 99.9 percent of crime in the Inner Johannesburg area is committed by foreigners, that is if you believe in statistics.

They introduced themselves as Moyo and Dube from the Plumtree area of Southern Zimbabwe. If you are the suspicious type, Moyo and Dube are the two most common surnames in that area. As they directed us through unfamiliar territory we casually broached the subject of crime. It seems uCele (Bheki Cele the Police Chief) was a no-nonsense man and on top of the situation as if that was any comfort to us.

“The cops just shoot your nuts off,” Dube said matter-of-factly as he tried to open the bottle of port he must have lifted from his workplace. Apparently, crime had generally gone down in the inner city and hopefully it isn’t just for the World Cup. In spite of our apprehension these two looked like genuinely concerned yet relieved citizens who were glad that something was working in Mzansi.

Lost in our conversation, Moyo suddenly announced that we were entering Berea. We were passing under the shadow of the Hillbrow Tower with its huge soccer ball and the landscape had suddenly changed. Nomusa had gone deathly quiet as we drove through streets swarming with humanity. This was Jozi’s crime capital and here we were in a nice shiny car, displaying foreign number plates, driving smack right through it with two strangers in the back seat!

Were we another crime statistic waiting to be recorded? The men from Plumtree sensed our apprehension as we drove into yet another dark street telling us “we’d find the lights again”. We later dropped them off along the way to the Helen Joseph Hospital where they told us to ‘drive straight and not to turn’. Relieved yet without much to work with, we realised that our situation was no better that we picked up the guys from Plumtree and that we had just given them a free lift. So it was back to square one and it was time to admit defeat.

“Let us drive back to OR Tambo and start again.” As I retrieved my tail from between my legs Nomusa said something to the effect that Hillbrow wasn’t “such a bad place after all.” Of course she could say that because had driven through it and emerged alive with our car intact!

As we philosophised over our involuntary visit to Zimbrow we realised we that as this drama played itself out we had forgotten all about God, the ultimate giver of all directions. It was that thought alone that led to a major miracle. Four hours later and to the minute, a sign pointing to Lenasia stood right there in front of us and we were no longer lost in Jozi... officially.

When queuing became a pastime

ONE thing we Zimbabweans miss about the days when the bottom fell out of our economy are the queues. The country broke every conceivable record even that of the legendary Weimer Republic leading!

We had to queue just about for everything because things were scarce. When one encountered a queue, you never asked what it was for because it was obviously for an item that had disappeared from the shelves. Be it sugar, bread, salt, matches, gas – nothing could be obtained without queuing.

A lot of production time was lost in hunting for scarce goods or simply queuing. Did I say production time? There was hardly any economic activity taking place in the country anyway. So bad was the situation that the government even announced that it would crack down on professional ‘queuers.’ These were blamed for the emergence of a black market in scant grocery items and were labelled economic saboteurs by a subservient state media which was never short of nasty titles for perceived enemies of progress.

As queuing became part of the culture, some unwritten ground rules emerged. This ‘queue-tiquette’ was a form of survival guide that one had to follow if they had hope of ever getting anything, let alone surviving. One’s chances ranged from slim to none unless one was a member of the uniformed forces (for obvious reasons), or you dutifully stuck to the ‘rules.’ In case your own country fell into the same cesspit we dug ourselves from, here are tips on surviving a queue referred to below as the Q. Let us call it the psychology of the Q.

It was mandatory that you be friendly. It was always advisable to greet the person at the end of the Q. One had to resist the urge to immediately ask what the Q was for. The advice was to catch your breath first, and then say, “So when is the supply of sugar coming?” This is called fishing. They will look at you and if you were lucky, give you two liners to your question. “This is the bread Q. They said they will begin selling at 10 o’clock”. If it’s 7 o’clock, you decide whether it will be worth it to stay in the bread queue or maybe you do not have the three hours to kill, or alternatively you starved.

Drinking lots of water before joining a Q was not advisable. You would lose your place when you left temporarily to answer the call of nature, worse still if you happened to have bladder problems. Often, chaos would reign when you tried to reclaim your place and the Q had to be re-ordered, usually with brute force by overzealous riot police. It is advisable that you eat a couple bananas (which were abundant then at Z$20,000 each!) instead. That way, there would be no urge to go either for the number 1 or number 2 calls of nature.

Never discuss politics in a Q. These are strangers, and you dared not divulge your political opinions by complaining. Talk was in general terms about “our government”, so never, ever mention names for any reason. Talk about the coming rains, the harsh winter, anything else. We went by the motto: “If you have you have nothing to say, please do not say it here!”

Being aware of toxic emissions (bad breath) from the guy behind you in the Q was critical, since toothpaste and expensive mouthwashes had fallen from the “essentials” list in those days. When one’s priority was fending for a hungry brood, issues of oral hygiene became blasé. People no longer used toothpaste because it simply wasn’t there! The solution was to angle one’s head sideways and downwards, so as not to be in the line of fire of any of the halitosis.

If one would rather not talk in a Q, clutching the jaw to indicate a tooth ache or sore gums or mouth sores or better still a sore throat would do the trick.

If the person in front of you in the Q happened to be a lady, it was wise for the sake of one’s health and welfare to leave a discreet gap between the two of you. You are advised not to get too animated in any conversation with her, lest her husband is not the least jealous person in the world. Showing public respect and, depending on her age, addressing her as “granny”, would probably prevent the following from happening:

a. She could look at you accusingly and speak loud enough for all to hear that you are, eh, standing too close to her. That could be a death sentence with any hungry and angry crowd particularly in a Q.

b. The husband could be a few places behind you in the same Q and would be none too pleased to see you sneaking some precious warmth from his wife … especially if he were the bodybuilding kind.

c. Before you knew it, you would be walking away from the Q with your precious loaf of bread plus an unplanned for “small house” (read girlfriend). Some of our sisters really got desperate in those days.

Pushing and shoving in the Q would not lead to a reduction in waiting time by any measure. It would only serve to annoy the person in front of you and create the inevitable chaos that could lead to the queue being dispersed. And this happened very often when members of the uniformed forces felt that order worked against them getting the extra loaf.

If you were a student, carrying voluminous literature or text books would ensure that one used the time in a Q productively. This also discouraged nosy people from starting pointless conversations with you. A simple, “I am writing my O’ Level exams this year and I don’t have time to waste” would sure fob them off.

Always approaching the Q from the rear, not midway or the front, is another handy tip. Or else all those bored individuals would suddenly find a welcome subject of verbal abuse since your move could be misconstrued for ‘cutting in’. In fact, since entertainment was scarce, you ran the danger of being the talk of the town, for the wrong reasons too.

Once you got what you were so agonisingly waiting for in a Q, walking away briskly and with purpose would ensure you did not become a crime statistic. Muggings for food were common as desperados took a seemingly easy way out of hunger, or so they thought.

One should also acknowledge that queues became venues where people could socialise short of the barbecues and shebeens that previously were a sign of the good times. Conversations would begin with the phrase; “While I was at the fuel queue …” as a way of showing off that one could afford to purchase whatever was scarce. Indeed some had become veritable show-offs as a result.

One cannot deny the fact that many a relationship developed out of the queue. Some found future wives, business acquaintances, friends or victims. And in case you thought such things could only happen in Zimbabwe, take my advice. You could well be next!

There is a Zulu in my soup

BY THE time you read this, the High Court in Durban would have decided on a landmark case. Animal Rights Africa took the Zulu King to court over an aspect of a ceremony called ukweshwama.

The ceremony is conducted in December to thank God and the ancestors for the first fruits. It involves a ritual where a group of young men kill a bull with their bare hands. The activists say this is barbaric.

Obviously, none of those in the ARA are Zulu. Otherwise they would have known this has been done for more than a century. The animal rights activists say that animals have feelings too and have a right to be slaughtered humanely. Why now, or am I missing something here? The bull still dies whether it’s strung by its balls, or serenaded to death.

What offends many traditionalists is that this is the same argument that was used when Europeans colonised Africa. Seeing that as long as they stuck to their traditional ways, there was no way they could be defeated. So a concerted strategy was employed to eat away at the base of their power which was their culture and tradition. These were labelled as “barbaric”. Haven’t we been here before?

God created people in their diversity so as to eliminate monotony. Imagine how colourless and boring it would be if we all thought alike, behaved and dressed the same or even ate the same food?

The word exotic would not be part of the dictionary and the variety that languages bring would not be there. There is nothing more entertaining than watching people speaking in a strange language, and doing things differently.

Now let us cut to the chase, what is more barbaric, bullfighting in Pamplona Spain or what happens in this other South American backwater where 3,000 beasts are slaughtered in a single festival?

The Romans tossed people among lions for entertainment. There other examples too numerous to mention that I can quote from the western “civilisations”. I can hear those who are pro-ARA saying that a bad practice cannot be defended, just because it’s been done for centuries.

The problem is that they don’t get it. It’s not about putting a bull out of its misery for the braai stand but it’s about the Zulu identity as much as it would be for the Scots if haggis were banned because it made them appear like vampires!

This whole issue points to one thing: ignorance. The people at Animal Rights Africa, who I presume are white, should have sat down with Inkosi yamakhosi and learnt a bit about the origins and the significance of ukweshwama.

But no, what do they do? They rush to the courts before you can spell “court injunction” if only to gain maximum mileage for their funders and make the barbarians appear, eh, more barbaric.

By the look of things, it seems that the High Court is in a dilemma of sorts. It reserved its judgement at the first hearing because it felt that ARA had not exhausted all the channels before coming to court.

There was the Council of Traditional Affairs to consult and maybe the Cow Rights Commission. Such is the make-up of a democratic state. Even cockroaches have rights mind you, not to mention those representing the poor youth who would have to conduct the ghastly deed. No-one asked their opinion in all this.

One is even tempted to think that the activists would have preferred the studs to go for a full grown male lion if it was a case of displaying bravery.

Taken in another context, I must confess that I enjoy my traditional plate of steaming mangqina or mazondo (cow hooves.) If I cook the horns and the hide as a side dish, that is my damn business.

Who am I to make noise over the Chinese relishing marinated dog and or grilled snake or the French having a thing for snail soup or fried frog’s legs? One man’s meat is another man’s poison. It’s called culture and let sleeping bulls die, to be eaten futhi.

Will lunch break be history?

Talking about issues related to eating, an Italian government minister has proposed that lunch break be banned. I know that politicians have very little to do, but what beats me is that it had to come to this.

Wait for it, he even goes on to say that the reason behind this breathtakingly stupid suggestion is that it reduces productivity and that “the whole country comes to a standstill”!

Methinks it’s his brain functions that have come to a standstill.

I laughed so loud when I came across this until I realised that that this guy was serious and that he could dredge along a sizeable number of likeminded (read dim-witted) sympathisers in governments across the globe. The reaction from the Italian trade union was telling when they wondered whether the minister ever worked in his life.

Those of us who have put in more than our share of sweat in salt mines across the world will attest to the importance of the lunch break. After being overworked, terrorised, humiliated, abused and battered for the better part of the morning, we need to be given time out to collect ourselves together as it were.

What will be illustrative is the fact that the very people who put us through hell (read bosses) are the ones that abuse lunch breaks. They will take extended versions of the break to indulge in what we call the liquid lunch. Chances are high that they are unlikely to return to work, leaving some poor serf to take the boss’s jacket to the club where he would way past round ten.

What will become of the infamous office quickie? Let me not go there suffice to say that it would force some Casanovas to opt for unsavoury venues for their sordid trysts. The office toilet comes to mind, what of the broom cupboard or worse still the car parked in some foreboding thicket?

We would also see a reduction of office babies carrying such ridiculous names such as Desktop, Clipper Copier or even carpet! I have already said too much.

Banning lunch break will help reduce the number of people we see sprawled on park lawns. Contrary to popular belief, they are not the unemployed passing the day by snoozing on the grass. They are actually workers catching up on sleeping opportunities denied at the office.

Show me a sleeping pill that surpasses a staff meeting? If the persistent drone of the boss praising himself doesn’t lull you to slumber, the agenda certainly will knock you out!

However, if you treasure your job, you wouldn’t want to be caught catching forty winks, would you? So lunch hour is a Godsend in this regard.

Back in Italy, the leader of the trade union had the last word. He was quoted as saying that if the government were considering doing away with lunch breaks, while they were at it, why don’t they ban the annoying habit of sleep?