Far from journeying to the Colombian city of Cartagena De Indias ,seeking a Caribbean utopia (of which there are many) to sun myself upon, I had come in search of the world ,I had previously inhabited through the literature of Nobel Prize winning author Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Gabo (as he is affectionately known in his homeland) in case you were wondering, is Colombia’s most celebrated writer and export beyond its more inglorious industries of cocaine, emeralds and er… Shakira.Choosing to ignore the alarmist Embassy warning’s, the country shifty international rep as the kidnapping capital of the world (clinging to the intrepid: I’m from South Africa, nothing scares me motto) I had set off. My prior research having confirmed that under the leadership of President Alvaro Uribe, the nation’s priorities had turned from terrorism to tourism while travel brochures had all adopted consoling catch phrases like: The only RISK you’ll encounter in Colombia -is never wanting to leave. Read the rest of this entry »

I hold a deep respect but at the same time inherent distrust for horses. The memory of a childhood incident: a mooi river farm, tugging on a pair of reins to no effect until my dad with a gentle pat on the beast’s buttocks had transformed it into two hoofed monster-the straining, wild eyed type you see sculpted into the Trevi Fountain. Needless to say I was flung a few farm fences off and refused the invitation to ever saddle up again.That is until now, only this time I must make do with an ass (and a royal pain in the one at that). Ah the donkey, the horses dim witted (and all together gracious) equestrian cousin. They are as they appear (immortalized by Milne’s Eeo) disgruntled, misanthropic, brazen in their contempt for master and cargo. And so irrespective of how useful they may be in transporting maize sacks across mountain passes their short legs, knobby spines, deficits of attention and direction were simply not built to carry six cumbersome feet of Gringo. Read the rest of this entry »

Tired of trodden trails and keen to start the New year with an experience that might set a precedent of some sort, I endure a turbulent ten hour bus ride deep into the Northern Peruvian mountains to a place known as Hauncabamba. Hauncabamba is a region that ,thankfully, has no river rapids, Irish pubs or overpriced ruins to attract the adrenaline seeking, lonely planet abiding wanderer. Rather its a gloomy misbegotten little mountain town whose only traces of life can be found staring blankly from park benches in the central Plaza. My incongruous presence no doubt a novel (but not necessarily welcome) viewing diversion. 

Hauncabambas reputation (and hence the reason for my visit) resides in its wealth of Curanderos (healers) and Brujos (witchdoctors) who surround the sacred lakes of Las Haringas . Healers and mystics, who for a substantial fee will banish ones demons (or incur them-depending what youre after) while resolving matters relating to the heart, failing finances, fortunes, health, sex drives etc etc. With no immediate ailment, misfortune or penile dysfunction to declare (Though I have always maintained that prevention is better then cure) my purpose and curiousity lies more in sampling the ceremonies obligatory cup of San Pedro. A cactus extract known to offer up intense hallucinatory revelations and insight.

According to Peruvian mythology, San Pedro was an ancient, who through the consuming of the sacred cacti, managed to retrieve the keys to the universe that God had previously concealed from man kind. I like to think then that I come in search of a freshly cut pair. A pair that might unlock the chastity belt to my supressed sub consciouss.

On arrival at the Bus Station, Im ushered into a make -shift office, really just a room with a few laminated Las haringas posters pasted on the walls. A dusty folder featuring the Ciriculum vitaes of over fifty Curanderos is placed before me. While I leaf through the file , the bus station soft drink seller (and sometime tourism lady) babbles on in an incomprehesible stream of Spanish, showering me with maps and brochures (The type of enthusiasm I imagine comes with recieving your first customer in a long long while.).In my wearied state I can only nod and respond to with my staple Si, Si, Si as if I have grasped every word, when if the truth be told I have not the slightest clue what she is on about.

At a glance, the portfolios seem identical:  the Curanderos name, age and years of practise in the esoteric arts listed . Photos pinned to each page depict men (in ponchos and cowboy hats) in their late fifties, weilding objects that look (rather worryingly) like swords. I settle on a reccomendation I was able to come across through some vigirous internet research prior to my arrival. Don Augustin a  Cundero whose business card proclaims him to be the Maestro of Maestros.

So the big Don it is: Wizard of Hauncabamba, demon buster and answering machine to the anscestors. I secure an appointment for the following evening and in the meantime crash in one of the towns dillapidated accommodations that go under the (rather oppurtunistic) banner of hostel.

Four o clock the following day, and the wrap of knuckles sounds on my door. My taxi driver come to escourt me to my Curandero appointment. A boy stands on the other side , half my age and only just surpassing my belt buckle in height. I wonder whether his feet will reach the vehicle peddles and suprisingly they do, though this leaves his eye line barely cresting the wheel. I take a deep breathe and off we scoot.  Leaving behind the hostile plaza onlookers and low lying valleys, ascending into a landscape set in regular motion with mist and rainy season landslides (which explains the locals preferred nickname- la Ciudadque Camina -the mountians that walk). 
 
Cloud capped peaks, damp villages marooned in bannana thickets fly by, while the occasional deranged village mutt attemtps to savage the taxis Wheels. The kid narrowly averts catastrophe by swerving and swearing (Puta Madre!) at pigs and other errant farm obstacles that litter the road. There are moments where I realise my life is in the hands of an adolescent,his need for speed - insatiable, playing the wheel as if it were a play station consol.

Outside the sun is setting and a recent down pour retreating. The wet air caught unawares in the afternoon glow ignites in a techhnicoulour blush. Thick bands of colour arch from the ground up.
Which we way to Don Augustin-the maestro of maestros- I ask the boy?

To which he points a finger to the very spot where the rainbow brands the earth.

Were off to see the wizard (i humm) the wonderful wizard of Oz.

As night settles the taxi finally pulls up outside a rustic wooden settlement. There standing in the dim candle light of a doorway-the imposing shadow of the Maestro waiting to recieve me. 

 (TBC)……………………….

Interview with MC- Iain Robinson about his show “SpitFire’

Iain Robinson aka Ewok Baggends asks a lot of questions. He opens our interview with a question. ‘I want to know,’ he smirks ‘why, when I’ve launched two successful shows, am getting an anthology of my poetry published this year by Echoing Green, releasing a solo album ‘Higher Flier for Hire’ in conjunction with Ruffinery records and in the coming months taking part in a major Graffiti art exhibition in Kimberly. Why, with all these things on the go, can I still not cover my monthly rent?’

Anyone present at the recent Musho festival to witness Robinson’s new piece ‘Spitfire’ would no doubt find it difficult question to answer. It’s a testimony to his talents’ that despite the broken air conditioner, the sweltering mid January heat, Robinsons audience barely paused to breathe, let alone fidget or fan themselves with festival programs. To watch Robinson perform, is to watch a man in command, in charge- possessed. No discomfort index can take that away from him To bare witness to such a force, is to be shaken, devastated, enlightened, elated.

Daily News critic Gisele Turner nailed it when she labeled him ‘A dangerous talent’ –‘No mealie mouthed sex boy rubbing himself up against bad boy pleasures, but a passionate voice hitched to a genuine conscience. Robinson will change opinions, form new thought patterns , mission in trackless jungles, forge treaties with fiery lashings of his tongue and the innocence of his truth.’

There should be no reason why such a talent is not gracing international stages, being snapped up by hot shot publishers, playing to packed theatres’ across the globe! Robinson has worked hard enough to be tackling bigger issues, raising questions more pressing then those concerning his monthly rent. It’s not that he’s complaining, rather, understandably, remains a little bemused.

This is after all a passion he’s been nurturing for some time. ‘In the early days at school I just wanted to rhyme, to rap.’ he explains ‘Poetry Africa’ were the first people in this town to turn around to me and invite me to perform under the banner of poet. With that title came a whole new understanding ,a responsibility behind what I was saying.’

It’s an art form Robinson claims his to have existed since time immemorial. ‘What I do is connected to something that goes beyond the written word’ he says ‘When they talk about the Minstrels and Greek story tellers, the guys that memorized and told their societies histories. This has been something that has been around for centuries. The spoken word artists, the poets, the M.C’s they’re still fulfilling those roles. They are the speakers for the people, trying to translate what’s going on in the world, commenting on a changing society and recording a new history.’

I mention that I found ‘Spitfire’ to be a much rawer, edgier piece then its predecessor ‘One Mind, One Mouth ,One Microphone’. Where as before Robinson was brimming with an exuberant optimism for South Africa, the world around him, ‘Spitfire’ features him asking dangerous questions, wrestling bigger issues, unearthing frustrations only touched on previously.

‘These shows are a natural evolution for me. I’m learning with each one. ‘One Mind’ focused on the Hip –Hop aspect of what I do. There’s a lot of misconceptions surrounding Hip- Hop. So Libby Allen (Robinson’s director) and I used the first show to dispel certain myths surrounding the genre. Bring people closer to where we eventually wanted to go with it.’

Using ‘One Mind’ as a type of Hip- Hop 101 instilled in Robinson and his director Allen, the confidence to push further boundaries. With ‘Spitfire’ he seldom relies on the microphone (a permanent feature in the last) or those impressive ‘wicky wicky’ vocal tricks, rather Robinson and his director trust implicitly in their material- the dexterity and weight of his finely tuned and rapidly fired words. Gone is the baggy hoody, any remnants of bling or artifice. The MC Guise now relinquished to reveal a sublimely talented and assured young poet. ‘Spitfire’ tells it like it is.

‘I have grown more confident to trust the words and not just the medium’ Robinson explains. ‘The poet is more the everyman while the MC from the first show was the showman. This is the natural evolution of what I’m doing.’

Which is not to say ‘Spitfire’ sacrifices the theatricality that Robison and Allen’s collaborations have become renowned for. If anything , Robinson’s pieces are distinctive in their blurring of boundaries, fusing of genres, uniting and appealing to both hip hop and theatre audiences.

‘There’s definitely a theatricality to it.’ he explains ‘You have to be sensitive to the fact that not many people can sit and listen to someone slamming or talking for an hour. With ‘Spitfire’ Libby and I took our cue from comic books. It’s an alter ego thing as Clark Kent is to Superman , Bruce Wayne to Batman , the hustler character is to the poet ‘Spitfire’. The hustler character is trying to understand what his purpose is, trying to make sense of the world, finding that idea worth selling. No one should be allowed to just pick up a microphone, they must first learn to understand the responsibility that comes with that.’

No stranger to the local theatre scene, Robinson has appeared in productions ranging from the annual Actor’s Co -Op Shakespeare set work (Macbeth, King Lear) to the Playhouse Company’s festive season musical ‘My Fair Lady’.

‘My Fair Lady?’ I laugh, ‘I never thought I would see the day- M.C extraordinaire- Ewok Baggends, box steps his way through a Learner Lowe musical!’

‘That’s the beauty of this town,’ he grins ‘Durban forces one to diversify to survive-as a result you end up having more extreme experiences then you would usually have. This helps in the merging of my styles .Durban is a ‘live’ city, everything here hinges on live performance. Being on so many different stages allows for a pretty holistic training and you ultimately end up bringing all those influences back to your craft.

When I mention the word activism in ‘Spitfire’, Robinson looks slightly perplexed. When do we stop saying and start doing? Practicing what we preach? What are the responsibilities that come with spitting fire?

‘This is a constant question for me.’ he replies ‘I’m standing up there and saying all these things but what am I actually doing about it? My dilemma at the moment is that I don’t have all the answers to these questions I’m asking. I’m too caught up in thinking about the questions. That’s all I can do right now. There’s a definite frustration of not been able to solve or answer things. It’s something Libby cautioned me about –using clever words to disguise one’s own apathy. In the shows I don’t pretend to know all the answers. As I develop it, grow it, it will become clearer. I can start sharpening my delivery to a needle point. Right now It might seem that I’m smacking people on the head to give them a jolt but hopefully by the third show it’s going to be honed to the point of a hypodermic needle to the vein.’

So what keeps such a talent fighting the good fight in what many deem the artistic backwaters of the country? Had Robinson taken his talents to Jozi, there is no question they would have been promptly snapped up, wrapped up and released to the hip hopping masses.

‘Fame like that feeds you, you can escape yourself through that shit.’ he says ‘You have to ask yourself what is it you really looking for when you do this stuff? I have no ambition to be the next Eminem. Just because I connect with this culture doesn’t mean I have to champion the stereotypes surrounding it. I’m on the edge of making what I do live. I can feel that potential here in Durban. I’ve tasted the possibilities, that’s got me locked into working out how to make it work.’

Despite the general lack of funding and support, Robinson remains upbeat toward his home town. ‘Durban,’ he sighs ‘It’s a factory man, it produces some of the most insane talent but local talents need to learn how to create their own opportunities. This generation is a pioneering one. The foundation has been laid. It’s up to us to keep building. In my opinion there’s not even a first story to this house we building. So far no one has been willing to take the risks to go higher. Still no ones prepared to build something worth living in.’

Once again attempting to find answers leads us back to the big question. ‘So what’s the answer ?’ I ask, and for once it seems Robinson might just have one. He explains the negations underway with Themi Ventures to turn the Kwa-Suka into an independent music, film and theatre venue.

‘Take somewhere like Bean Bag Bohemia,’ he says ‘cross it with an independent cinema and theatre and put it one place. It’s a place where fresh ideas will get generated, where there’s an influx of new shit happening all the time. Its cutting edge and by that, I don’t mean people walking on stage and shitting in a jar. We want audiences to be able to turn around, and say I saw the beginning of that. I was present at the birth of that work, or that talent, before it rocked the world. We want to put an end to this idea that local audiences should feel obliged to support young artists and new work.’ It’s a case of ‘must see’ over ‘charity’.

No one wants to shit on the Springboks parade. Only cynical idiots might dare to do such a thing at such a time and thereby risk the wrath of a nation (or rather national minority). Yes it is a welcome victory, in my limited understanding of the Game-a well fought or mauled one. However no blood, testosterone and tears, no Boerewors bravado can conceal the discrepancies that arise when the Sunday Tribune prints the front page title ‘WE DID IT’ above picture of the glowing Bok’s and opportunistic Mbeki. A collective all inclusive pronoun, ‘OUR’ united nation, yes ‘WE’ (supposedly) collectively did it.

There is nothing in itself wrong with ‘WE’: the combined support of fans, the tenacity and skill of the Boks’ through four years of trail and tribulation, no doubt all contribute and culminate in much deserved victory. Where ‘We’ and the ultimately useless ideology of national association and pride come into play is that if ‘WE’ as a nation are accepting responsibility for a South Africa’s victories (Hence elevating its president on their shoulders) then so to must WE ‘face up’ and associate ourselves with its losses, its blunders, it multitude of cock up’s.

Boring! You yawn and turn the page. Well try turn the same page of the newspaper-see the glaring image of tragically slain reggae icon Lucky Dube. Try put the title ‘We did it’ over that. No rather ‘THEY’ did it. ‘THEY’ of course being the government, the criminals, the destitute, the down trodden- the everyone else- the others, no not ‘I’ and most certainly not “WE!’. This can be applied to just about every other article that expounds on about the deceit, corruption, avarice of our ailing nation. And yes ‘WE’ deserve the transitory escapism of the moment. Admittedly ‘glory’, ‘relief’ is hard to come by, euphoria of this nature all too fleeting and ephemeral. So yes, let’s loose our heads and enjoy it while it lasts cause come next Sunday there will be no ‘WE’s only ‘YOU’S and THEM’S.

Again I reiterate my disdain is not over the Bok’s ‘Victory’- hardly, rather in
the blaring contradiction that is Mbeki being raised on the shoulders of hulking green men, grasping the slippery gold cup in his palm for a quick photoop (Enjoy it while you can some might say). ‘Ah Solidarity’ the world coos, isn’t that nice. Solidarity, I say and so the whole world comes to a stand still.

Here is a team who nobly refuse to wear blazers in act of defiance over on of
their coaches not been granted the right to wear one too (due to his non Serf–Efricaness) but in the same panting breath bare a incompetent, dangerous, deceitful dare I say negligent ‘dictator’ high on their shoulders. A crowning glory or humiliation? You decide. Politics is not so easily washed away, rather it remains an indelible grass skid mark/shit stain on the Omo washed white pants of the players. This is after all a world wide acknowledgement, a statement, a dishonest symbol of unity. Immortalized now (At the regret and mercy of histories photo shop erasing skills) in news papers, news casts across the globe. ‘WE’ as a nation salute you Mr Mbeki, all is forgotten while we hold and carry you (messiah like) above the roaring masses. All is forgotten while we drink ourselves into oblivion and party like its 1999. As for the hoards of exiled Saffers bellowing in London pubs do they stand as ‘We’? Perhaps ,for remember in this case all that matters (racial slurs, South Africa bashing aside) is that it is ‘OUR’ nation’s victory, ‘OUR’ nation’s pride and you Mr Mbeki (just for the moment) OUR nations ever benevolent Granddaddy. Does this mean next week we may return to reviling you, criticizing, scorning you. Writing bleeding heart (and ultimately ignored)letters’ to your office about the escalating crime/aids/corruption (you name it) rates, once again pit ‘WE’ against ‘THEM’ when we realize the futility/stupidity of our collaboration, of foolishly having let down our guard.

Must we be so fickle as too forget the accumulated insanity of his government in the name of a one night stand. No this is not Mr Mandela, nor post 1994 euphoria. As Mr Dyaln once sung - the times they have a changed.

Mbeki stood incongruous -an awkward and unwanted accessory in the good o’l name of international rep and nation building. Politics and Sports sadly inexorably wound into one. ‘Go Bokke’ I say- as a pride of devoted, skilled, world champions but lets just bare in mind that in the selective context and memory of our country ‘WE’ did and continue to do nothing except complain.

Neil Coppen flies into London to attend a screenwriting Seminar by one the world’s most revered and feared mentor’s -Robert MacKee.

In a lecture hall in down town London, I take my seat in room full of fidgeting writers. Together we wait for ‘the man’ to step forth and expound his infinite wisdoms. At 9 am, the man, in question, takes his place centre stage. He sips nonchalantly from a steaming cuppa coffee, his trademark caterpillar eye brows scowling into the stage lights. Standing before us, looking suitably unimpressed is the godfather of screenwriting. A formidable and imposing legend, who, in his sardonic New York drawl, kicks off his three day Seminar by proclaiming ‘Writing a screenplay is not brain surgery or rocket science, its harder! Writing is the hardest and loneliest profession you will ever know.’

The man, Robert MacKee, seems to know what he’s talking about. To date MacKee’s former students have won 17 Oscars, 20 golden globes, 11 writers guild of America Awards and 91 Emmies. With sell out tours across the globe: Hollywood, New York, London and Rome and a bestselling screenwriting bible ‘Story’ under his belt. Robert MacKee is the guru most turn to in their time of creative need.

It’s a well known fact that when MacKee talks, Hollywood listens. Just glance across his book sleeve, peppered with luminous quotes from past students: Akiva Goldsmith (A beautiful mind), Peter Jackson, John Cleese and Jane Campion to name but a few (In fact it is said that the only notable person in Hollywood to have not yet attended the seminar is a certain Mr Spielberg)

MacKee however remains aware that ninety percent of his audience are not necessarily writers by profession, nor will they ever be. Rather dabblers, aspirants, avid cinema goers like myself, mobilized into writing by their frequent and mostly unfulfilling outings to the cinema. People who believe themselves to be in the rare possession of an idea that might transform the face of film making. How difficult could it be? Everyone has a story worth telling. Right? Wrong!

Cut to: a few years later. Close up: on desk of overflowing ashtrays, empty bottles. The disheveled writer slumped over a hundred unsalvageable drafts, each as unsuccessful and incoherent as the last. The indifferent blink of a lap top cursor failing to collaborate, let alone assist in unearthing the writer’s alleged genius.

At this point many might do as Nicholas Cage’s struggling writer character did in Charlie Kaufman’s film ‘Adaptation’- cough up the hefty sum (360 pounds in this case), to attend a screenwriting boot camp by the revered- Mr MacKee.
In Kaufman’s film, MacKee was portrayed by a suitably gruff and tyrannical Bryan Cox but after attending the three day seminar it would be fair to say the man is more deserving of a one man epic then a mere cameo. A masterful and compelling story teller in his own right, MacKee not only offers valuable insight into the elusive art of screenwriting but somehow manages to include an enlightening and comprehensive post mortem on pretty much everything that’s wrong with humanity and the world today.

So engrossing are his methods, so imposing his stature and delivery, that it’s no wonder the man has gone on to become the most celebrated and feared Screenwriting lecturer working in the world today . From his opening spiel, where he lays down the MacKee law, its clear how things are going to proceed: ‘There will be three fifteen minute breaks and a one hour lunch break over the course of each daily session. During the course of each day I ask that you don’t correct me, don’t correct my pronunciation and don’t interrupt me. If a cell phone goes off or a lap top pings it’s a ten dollar fine. If you happen to have a problem with my profanity, then there’s the fucking door.’

The room hangs on his every world. We sit scribbling in note pads , nodding like an obsequious bunch of school kids in the presence of their most feared Principal. Over the next three days, from 9 am to 8:30pm there will much scribbling and nodding, perched on the edge of our seats as the bullish Guru paces the stage, only ever pausing to refuel his bottomless mug. As with an immaculately structured screenplay, MacKee uses every minute of his Seminar to enthrall, provoke, impress and depress the audience of sometime and would be writers. Never once stooping to nurture the room’s collective insecurities, the writer’s famed and fragile ego. ‘I will not Patronize you,’ he reiterates ‘I can’t turn you into a writer, and while I may be a script doctor I can’t resurrect the dead’.

He’s brutally frank in pointing out, that out of the two hundred or so writers attending the seminar, it’s unlikely any will ever see their scripts enter the green lit phase. ‘Everyone thinks they can write,’ he cautions “that they have a story worth telling, that’s why there’s no smog in L.A, only the stench of rotting screenplays.’

The first day of the course proceeds with little interruption until an audience member, seduced by her teacher’s conversational charm, attempts to hijack one of his punch lines. This proves to be a fatal error. A silence ensues as he eye balls the culprit, a single accusatory brow arched. ‘Listen lady’ MacKee barks ‘This is my show, best leave the schtick to me’ He lets the silence linger, fixes his gaze on her for what feels like minutes. The audience fidgets nervously while the offender shrinks into the upholstery.

MacKee is no stranger to conflict in fact he embraces it as one of the Screen Writer’s most valuable tools. “If all human beings got everything out of life,’ he explains ‘then we would be no more interesting then a shrub. It’s the negative forces that allow people to prosper. ‘Conflict’ is to story what sound is to music. The conflict quantity in life is constant, it’s the quality that changes. The only way to live…. is in perpetual conflict.’

Wielding a barbarous and unpredictable wit, Mackee is able to transform his audiences’ giggles just as easily to horrified gasps. ‘You British I love you.’ he says in a rare moment of endearment ‘You fucked up this planet but I love you. You ripped the skins off every black, yellow and brown race that walked the face of this earth, but I love you…. you do great parades.”

It is with this type of irreverence, that he veers off on seemingly unrelated tangents. Debating the lack of meaning in modern life, satirizing everything from the Bush administration to the British empire. This is how a conversation on arch plot, mini plot and anti plot evolves into a pro abortion rant, and an analysis on story substance, structure and style merges into a bleakly funny investigation on deviant sexuality. ‘Ya know’ he smirks ’seventy percent of people who work in morgues in the USA have some sort of affiliation with necrophilia. It’s enough to make you not want to die. It’s enough to make you want to cremate your arse before any one decides to use it.’

It’s this ‘dark side’,MacKee deems crucial to the art of writing and something he elaborates further in his book. ‘A good writer has to have a love of humanity, a willingness to empathize with suffering souls, to crawl inside their skins, see the world through their eyes. Writers need to deal with their own inner lunatic.’ he says, in-between recalling a failed suicide attempt, his various brushes with insanity. ‘It’s a miracle I never hurt anybody, I was certifiable.’

Understandably MacKee is less than enthused by the current state of story telling, labeling it ‘a worldwide cross-media crises.’ Much of his seminar is devoted to raging against the film making sausage factory. Hollywood, while certainly a culprit is not solely to blame. “In France the smaller their audience is,’ he huffs ‘the better the film …If the film is empty and even the projectionist has walked out, then it’s declared a masterpiece.’

He goes on to dismiss the Indie movement as a “A load of Sundance wank’ and rolls his eyes at the current spate of story telling ‘gimmicks’ and ‘mind fuck’ endings creeping into the craft -M .Night Shyamalan of ‘The Sixth Sense’ fame would you please stand up.

When requiring film fodder to illustrate his theory on story been sacrificed at the expense of spectacle, MacKee turns his scalpel to ‘The English Patient’ and ‘Titanic’ ,dismissing them both as suck awful films. ‘If I had to watch another bi plane fly over a dessert in ‘The English Patient’, I would have set myself on fire’. As for Titanic, ‘Titanic,’ he groans ‘they should have just hung signs round the actors’ necks’ , saying ‘poor rich girl’, ‘abusive fiancé’, ‘oppressive mother’.”

As if attacking two of the world’s most beloved modern classics wasn’t enough, he proceeds to take liberal swipes at the two bastions of American cinema. Here Martin Scorsese is referred to as a sloppy and self indulgent story teller while Orson Welles masterpiece ‘Citizen Cane’ is shrugged off as an over produced, over bloated, hollow at the heart, empty exercise in film making. Refreshingly, there are no sacred cows in MacKee land. Popular opinion, or more often then not mediocrity, is clearly a tide worth scrutinizing. This is not to say he expects his audience to agree with his every contention, but so impassioned are his rants, that it’s impossible not to find certain irrevocable truths worth applauding.

‘With writing comes responsibility.’ he reiterates ‘Writers express meaning in an emotional way .It’s why Plato threw out the poets from Athens. Political powers are not troubled by ideas, it’s emotions that are dangerous. The one responsibility of the writer is to tell the truth, at the end he must be able to look down and ask: do I believe that? In a world populated with lies, we don’t need further writers adding to them.’

The final day of the Seminar concludes with an in depth analysis of the classic ‘Casablanca’. A story MacKee believes to be about faith in human beings. Structurally, he deems it to be one of the finest examples of cinematic story telling. ‘There are few films that have the ability to transcend time. Why is it then that nearly seventy years down the line, ‘Casablanca’ still rings true?’

It would be tough to find a writer that leaves the Story Seminar’s without a restored faith and reinvigorated pen. McKee’s overriding sentiment: ‘That good story telling is worth agonizing over, that story can make difference, resonate in the hearts and souls of human beings’ is a deeply affecting one. Thankfully the cinema canon is not entirely devoid of such examples. “Good writing makes an audience sympathize with someone as diabolical and Hannibal Lector in ‘Silence of the Lambs,’ beams MacKee ‘or Jack Nicholson’s character in ‘As Good As It Gets’, I mean how does a man throw a cute little dog down a chute and still manage to retain our sympathy, now that’s good writing!’

For more information of the Seminars visit www.mckeestory.com

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I consider myself a vaguely intelligent person, one who is able to exert a healthy degree of self control and discipline but why then, after swearing, vowing to never return, too resist at all costs, do I find a stray finger worming itself toward the remote control, zapping- the dormant beast nightly into hideous animation. Curious I tell myself, yes curious to learn what level’s society is prepared to stoop toward, by keeping my finger on the remote I keep it on the pulse. Sadly I’ve run out of excuses now, can no longer justify the senseless rubber necking T.V induces. Plagued with the curiosity to discover what unsavory servings of perversion, distortion, flesh contortion, television might wreck upon me, I find myself returning to it night after night. I have come to recognize this as a problem, even addiction, one that has been growing worse over the years, surreptitiously creeping up on me and stealing my hours, numbing my brain and cramping my remote control finger. As with most addictions it is wise to journey to the source, weed out the perpetrator responsible for its very origins. My findings lead me to learn that the culprit in question’s name was Philo Farnsworth, a seventeen year up start ,who came up with the idea for the world’s first t.v -whilst idly gazing out over a bucolic setting of his hometown fields in Utah. What connection young Farnsworth found between T.V, tractors and undulating grass (he may just have been smoking it) we will never know but he went on to prophesize that his proposed box of image and sound, might just bring an end to all the world’s wars’- that once people from around the world could see how similar they all were, there would be no desire to fight against or hurt one another. One thanks god then that Farnie did not live to see such a desecration, how hastily is utopian brain wave mutated into humanity’s brain drain. In fact, were he still around today, Farnie might very well find himself a reluctant contestant on one of those show’s titled ‘When good ideas go bad! It’s hard to imagine how he might respond to a leisurely evenings channel surfing in our current age. What he would make of the wrestling barbarians, ingratiating game show hosts and inane soap operatic’s. The slew of ignoramuses clamoring for their precious fifteen minutes of immortality/immorality.The glycerin stained cheeks and quivering bo-toxed lips – re enacting out the days of their lives (or rather the small lives in their days.) One can only hope he would weep before laughing alongside the canned sitcom hysterics? The guffawing recordings’- consistent and convincing as a wash of ‘Lost City’ waves. Laughing at what? As they strive to ‘out do’, ‘out perform’, ‘out rage’ one another. Gawking as they slash, lacerate- lipo suck and silicone stuff one another into obscurity. Camera salivating, toddlers wailing as their once dowdy now unrecognizable Benoni mummy returns home (mummified) a bandaged beauty queen, soon to be reborn butterfly- only this time more buoyant, and sporting more plastic then the pool lilo. As for the violent veneer of Television advertising, credit card fraternizing? The flashes of ivory teeth, sparkling behind sinister ‘This product will change your life’ smiles. Spoon feeding and spilling on our bibs, seen we’ve forgotten to open our mouths- rather minds, then wallets, a reflex action as elementary as the knee jerk. Inciting the masses to munch on what Frank Loyd Wright very rightly dismissed as ‘bubblegum for the brain’.

Certainly not the window on the worldthat our misunderstood Philo had hoped for but an engrossing beast nevertheless. Were he still around would he be able to tear himself away from the catastrophe in the living room? gooi the remains of his tarnished creation out the window? Summon up the courage to wish his divine inspiration had never amounted to more then a few hazy summer day dreams back in the fields of o’l ? Surely we’d all be better off watching a few hours of undulating grass each evening and something tells me that poor Philo, moaning from the grave, would not hesitate in agreeing with me.

As the first gun shots ring out a traumatized toddler wails from the stands. An Impi advancing, palms thundering on cow hide shields. ‘Bags’ the General yells ‘We need more sand bags Sergeant!’. The Red Coat ant colony busies themselves, frantically packing a peanut shell fortress while the Zulu’s edge perilously closer. “Hold your fire, gentleman. Hold your fire!” Nee man ,Skiet hom! skiet hom!’ yells a supporter from the side lines. ‘Fire’ bellows the Sergeant. Whips of smoke rising from Martini Henry’s, rubber assegais’ jabbing at the breasts of resilient red coats (they don’t call them the Die Hard’s for nothing). Soldiers and warriors engage in cautious combat before set dressing the battle field with their heaving corpses. Then, as if the director on a film set has yelled Cut! The carnage rises, dusting one another off and gallantly shaking hands. Band stand music blares as a bemused bunch of onlooker’s filter into the beer tent.

I arrive in Dundee for the annual ‘History in Action’ weekend’, meeting Gavin Slater and Peter Jones, two of the core Die Hard’s’ (South Africa’s most prolific historical reenactment group) amidst frantic preparations for the following days battles . Gavin, who runs a washing machine repair company in Dundee, is one of the younger team members and has recently been promoted to the position of Sergeant. Slater tells me that they are preparing to reenact two of the major Red Coat battles’ - The Battle of Rorkes Drift and Isandlwana. The setting for this year’s popular heritage day festival is the Talana museum. I ask museum curator Pam Macfadden how she feels about the ‘Die Hard’s activities. “I don’t care what they do,” she huffs, watching Gavin’s Bakkie wheel tearing up her historic lawn “I’m just here today to make sure they don’t mess up my property”

As far back as 1895 reenactments of the Anglo Boer wars have been recorded. 18 years after the Defense of Rorkes Drift, members of the Gloucestershire engineer volunteers took it upon themselves to recreate the battle as part of a military fete. Less politically correct but none the less rather amusing, are old post cards showing re-enactments in the U.K with Sqauddies doubling as Zulu’s, swathed head to foot in ill fitting black stockings. Reenactments were supposedly carried out in the name of reconciliation, with veterans from alternate sides restaging battles without harboring animosity towards their dead enemies.

I watch Peter and Gavin pacing through the choreography of the battle, getting into character by calling each other by the names of ‘Corporal’ and ‘Sergeant’ There’s something endearing, even childlike about their absolute, unflinching commitment. Jones’ oversees the erection of the Red Cross medical tents while Slater reshuffles sand bags- in this case, bails of peanut shells supplied by a local farmer for the exchange of two tickets to the much anticipated Blarney Brothers concert. Peter seems irked that Rorke’s Drift is coming before Isandlwana in the program. “It’s inaccurate!” he protests “We don’t like to be seen to be rewriting history”. Jones, one of the DDH founding members, is a brash yet efficient military man, billowing with old school bravado. Since 1999 he has taken the part of Major General Penn Symons in the battle of Talana and like so many of Dundee’s history junkies, he bristles with emotion when recalling his character’s story. “Can you believe it, after been shot in the groin with a forty five bullet, Penn Symons got back on his horse and rode to the hospital, in those days it simply wasn’t done for a British officer to fall in front of his men, it would have set a bad example.”
“So how did all this start?” I ask, anxious to discover what incited this motley crew of grown men into dressing up and firing blanks at one another?

Jones takes me back to January 1999 when a group of the British Die Hard’s came out to Dundee to re-enact the battle of Isandlwana. “After watching them we were inspired to form our own re-enactment team. We discussed it with them and they agreed to come back to South Africa to train our army. In the mean time we got busy and sourced people from all over the town. We put notices in the local newspaper saying ‘Your town needs you!’ and ended up recruiting over sixty soldiers. We got a huge bolt of khaki material and the uniforms were cut out by the ladies of the town who sat for weeks sowing on buttons and badges. Three of the ‘Die Hard’s’ came out from England to train our team in the old fashioned military drill and the rest” he says grinning…. “is history”
Jones wife Decima, who heads the Dundee Tourism Information centre, claims the ‘Die Hards’ have managed to attract thousands of tourists to their yearly reenactments. With the battle field route opening up fifteen years ago and the opening of David Rattaray’s popular Fugitive Drifts lodge, interest in the areas history began to blossom again. “The Die Hard’s,” Decima explains “have become great Ambassadors for our town”

Although I soon discover some locals are less than enthused by what they see as ‘an excuse for yet another old boys club’. A woman who runs a Dundee coffee shop scoffs when I mention the name. “The Die Hards” she says, rolling her eyes, “don’t talk to me about those Die Hards. Once they put on those bloody uniforms , they become impossible to deal with, traipsing through my coffee shop in their muddy boots, calling each other General this or Sergeant that, No man. Once upon a time there used to be hundreds of them and now their membership has petered out something terrible”
“Why’s that” I ask?
She leans over and raises a suspicious brow – “ internal politics”

Alex Donalson, the ‘Die Hard’ secretary is quick to dismiss the claims “There’s a great camaraderie amongst our members. “I’ve got both Boer and English blood in me. My one grandfather fought against the other grandfather in the war, so I’m sitting on the fence, I don’t know if I’m British or Boer, but it doesn’t worry me, I’m not interested in Politics. There’s no politics in the Die Hards. We have Afrikaans, German and English people playing Red Coats. It’s just a game that we play”

Understandably the games grown men play are bound to stir up certain sensitivities and this year is no exception. Decima tells me the Boer’s have been excluded from the re-enactment after it was decided to stick to the more popular Red Coat battles. “Now it looks like none of them will be coming out to support the event’ she says sadly, “It’s impossible to please everyone”
Slater shakes his head when I mention the inevitable consequences of waking histories ghosts. “Sometimes it seems the Zulus are still fighting that war” he says shaking his head “We are still sitting with the problem of colonialism. That’s why political parties are like they are. They are still fighting wars from long ago. Every year when we get to the Isandlwana re-enactment, we tell the Zulu re-enactors, we know you guys win, but attack us and fall back, at least let the battle last twenty minutes to half an hour. The first year I joined, that battle took sixteen seconds. We were still marching a picket line to go stand duty when the Zulu’s began to moer us already. I think two guys made it back to the flag and they were sprinting to get there. They couldn’t even do a fight and retreat, they just had to run for their lives to get there”
“We’ve been existence for eight years,” confirms Peter “and I’m relieved to tell you that in all that time we have never had a serious or fatal injury, but you’ve got to remember that when the Zulu’s are re-enacting they get very worked up and more often then not its almost like a blood lust, and even although we have enforced the use of rubber spears, you’d be surprised when they get carried away the damage they can do!”

I leave the ‘Die Hard’s’ that afternoon, to attend a Potjie and Sing Along at the Moth Shellhole –War Memorial Hall. A quaint bar nestled in amongst an eclectic array of war souvenirs. “There’s a few million Rand’s worth in this room” Mrytle tells me. Myrtle is a member of the moths and wife of Andre- a sometime Die Hard and practicing priest at the St James Anglican church. Myrtle clutches my arm and takes me on an impromptu tour of the hall. She delights in pointing out such historical oddities as a Nazi helmet still wearing the skull of its soldier, an old chair with the signature of General Smuts scrawled on one side, a bugle bent out of recognition from the fields of Isandlwana. “See that coin with the bullet pierced through the centre,” she says excitedly “that coin saved a soldiers life”
In Dundee history can be a little overwhelming. Travel in any direction and you’re likely to stumble upon the site of Blood River, Talana, Isandlwana or Rorkes Drift. It’s the type of town where an anthill, more often then not, turns out to be a landmark, every park bench- a memorial. Here history is the currency of conversation, the centre of drunken debate, both a binding and dividing force. It’s hard not to meet someone who doesn’t claim to be the descendent of some famous General or fallen soldier. My evening at the moth hall takes a surreal turn when a drunken war time ‘sing along’ begins. I stumble to my car at two o’clock in the morning pursued by the discordant strains of ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag’
The following morning I meet Gavin and the DDH team on the battle grounds of Talana. They are busy kitting up in their red coats, water bottles and pith helmets. Surrounding them are the usual array of small town fete stalls- a church tea garden, Boerewors sizzling on open skottels, ouma’s engaged in marathon pancake cook offs. Incongruous (but not at all out of place) is a pot bellied man pawning off an impressive range of authentic rifles, assegais, bugles and bullet shells. It’s a veritable toy store to the avid battle heads, who congregate around him like pocky faced kids at a comic convention.
While waiting for the battle to begin I strike up a conversation with a young guy, dressed in period Boer attire. “We’re from the Oranje Vrijstaat Artillire Corps,” he proudly declares “We are here to show people in a living format how the Boers lived during the war, what they ate, what their rifles looked like. We take it as far as actually living like the Boers did. It’s good to experience what our forefathers went through in those days”
You’ve got admire these guys, resurrecting a history that would otherwise lie dormant in apartheid text books.
“Where did you find your costume?” I ask
“The back of my grandpa’s cupboard” he smirks, dunking a rusk into enamel mug while next to him a bunch of similarly dressed boers, obsess over a magnifying instrument.
“That’s called a heleograph” he says
“A what?”
“A Heleograph, it was used during the Boers and the English in the war as a form of Morse code, reflecting flashes of sunlight to soldiers camping out on nearby hills”
“Still I can’t understand why any one choose to endure a staple diet of bully beef in the name of recreation?” “We started this group, to show young people how it all worked. People usually walk past an old field gun without even looking at it, but as soon as it’s fired they suddenly become interested, because it’s now a living thing. They can smell it, they can see it, they can touch it. It’s not something in a book, its not boring anymore”
“What about your girl friends, what do they think of your hobby?”
“Oh they love it” he grins “most of the time they dress up and join in”
Back at camp Die Hard, Gavin is addressing his regiment in preparation for the Rorkes Drift reenactment. He carefully works through the logistics of each soldier’s death, generally knocking out the soldiers over seventy first. Slater emphasizes the importance of allowing the younger more agile guys to survive a bit longer. “We’ve got to do a lot more theatrics: dive off the roofs of buildings, fall off the wagons, get slaughtered and so on. In the past our reenactments have been criticized for being too static, so this year we are trying to introduce a bit more action”
I glance around the team and joke that if that was the case most of his team will be obliterated within the first few minutes. As with Peter Jones most of the ‘Die Hards’ are members of the ‘old guard’ –a benign military euphemism for pensioners. It’s why Jones keeps emphasizing the need for things to be handed down to a younger guard and hence the recent appointment of more able bodied Gavin. “If we don’t continue to bring in younger members then we could have a situation, where to coin a phrase, it would die out ,but that’s not going to happen” Jones assures me “As the older soldiers retire we are making sure the younger one’s are coming in”

An Impi of Zulu re enactors are jogging around the property, roaring fiercely into the lenses of tourists cameras’. Nubile young warriors who when standing next to the ‘Die Hard’s’ draw embarrassing attention to their garish red coats and huffing pink faces. Minutes before the Rorkes Drift re-enactment, I ask Gavin if he’s feeling nervous about the battle but he points out that his apprehension resides more with the stringent new gun laws that threaten to close the event.
“There’s a possibility that the police might raid today’s reenactment and demand to see our gun license’s, this of course would be disastrous for us. The laws originally stated that antique firearms do not require a license, which means that all Martini Henry’s that we have in our possession should not require a permit. Unfortunately re enactment groups are not covered in the new dispensation and this is making things increasingly difficult for us”

I try to imagine what would happen if the new laws made it impossible to use real weapons in reenactments. The prospect of a bunch of elderly men running about creating sound effects for toy guns is a depressing one. Meanwhile I spot Peter scanning the stands on either side of the field, his disappointment palpable. So far only a handful of spectators have arrived, down at the entrance gates there’s little indication of a last minute rush.
The Die Hard’s line up and respond appropriately to their Sergeant’s orders. “Move to the right in two’s, fall in officers, by the left, quick march, left, right, left” A bunch of bemused Zulu warriors traipse behind and secure positions on the field. The Rorke’s Drift re-enactment lasts a good twenty minutes before the men limp’s back into camp and crack open their beers.
Sitting amongst an amusing series of anachronisms I get chatting to one of the eldest members of the team, Denis Holmes. Behind him a Zulu warrior and Die Hard are staging a mock confrontation for photo snappy German’s, next to them a soldier chats on his cell phone while dozing on a stretcher. Holmes has lived in Dundee since 1968 and as far as re-enactment’s go he’s a true veteran. He brims with nostalgia when harking back to the good old days. The days when the DDH were an army of a hundred and twenty men strong and over five thousand spectators pitched up to support them.
“One of the first re-enactments in Feriesbergh turned out to be a very eventful,” he says chuckling “Our blanks set fire to the grass and we had to stop the re-enactment between the Brits and Boers while the fire engines came in to put out the fire, after they managed to put it out, we had this burnt grass between us. We looked like Chimney sweepers after we finished that re-enactment.”
While disappointed at the day’s turn out, Holmes remains upbeat even philosophical about the Die Hard’s contribution to society.
“Inside everybody we know that war is a waste of time, a waste of good life but it seems to be an inevitable part of our history. There will always be war, so if we like it or not we won’t be able to avoid it, all we can try do is educate people”
Another Die Hard elaborates on the senseless killing that occurred over the period. “If you take these wars in Dundee, you’ll find that the night before the Boers and the British were partying together and the next day they were killing each other”. Similarly Peter Jones believes that the Re –actor’s primary purpose is education. “We believe it is right that our youth should admire the bravery of those brave British and Zulu soldiers but we also believe firmly that war is a dreadful waste of time and should be avoided at all costs and if we can get that message across in our re-enacting then we have done our job”

Later that afternoon Gavin gives his men a low down on the Isandlwana Drill. Like a coach prepping his rugby team, a team who cant really be blamed for their obvious despondency. Their fate has long been determined and whether they like it or not they must now fight to loose. Reenacting History I decide is a bit like playing a fixed match- no fun when you’re on the loosing side
A rousing British anthem booms over the speakers. As DDH take their positions on the playing field. Despite the miserable attendance, Jones retains his stiff upper lip, bossing the men around with fitting military fervor. Pat Rungren an ex Die Hard, offers a running commentary over the loud speakers. He tells us he has assumed this role since his prodigious size made re-enacting an impossibility. I grin at the image of two weedy stretcher bearers’ attempting to lug his cumbersome corpse off the field. The battle begins and the red coats set about the motions of defending the colours, surrounding a flag pole positioned at the centre of the field. The Zulus arrive in trademark buffalo horn formation. There’s a scuffle before a young soldier wrenches the flag from the ground and makes an ill fated dash toward freedom. A gargantuan warrior, hot on his heels, intercepts him with a jab of the rubber assegai. Soldier and flag flails to the ground. The Zulu’s commemorate by waving the cloth over the massacred heap of red coats. Once again history has been made or at least replayed. Again the dead rise and shake hands, a meager applause greeting their efforts. An announcement follows over the speakers “For those of you interested the rugby is on in the beer tent. 22 -13 to the Cheetahs” What’s left of the spectators, quickly clears off to witness a more tangible form of confrontation.

“This year’s problem is not the DDH,” grumbles Peter, post Isandlwana, “It’s the audience. You can’t have an event of this magnitude with only a handful of people.”
“I know,” mumbles another “this year you could fit the entire audience inside the beer tent!”
“Even the camp followers didn’t dress up this time round” laments Gavin. The camp followers I learn are the equivalent of historical groupies-soldiers wives who previously entered into the spirit of Re-enactment by dressing up in period costume.
“Hey look on the bright side,” chirps a cocky young soldier “at least the cops stayed away”
“I have my own theory.” says Peter, begrudgingly hanging up his uniform “I think that perhaps after eight years we might just have reached the end of the Dundee publics’ interest.
Alex Donaldson the Die Hard responsible for sourcing the artillery, thinks it all boils down to the big bang factor. He tells me of his plans to introduce an authentic Isandlwana canon into next year’s re-enactments. It appears he might just have a point, skop, skiet and donner is not what it used to be. In an age of interactive video games, over bloated action films, war on television, it’s all about bigger bangs now days

I depart from Dundee a little depressed yet optimistic for the 24th regiment’s reenacting future. Peter Jones the proficient ring master to his military circus, his ‘show must go on’ ‘never say die’ tenacity ensuring that the DDH aren’t committed to the dusty annuls of history just yet. Whether they march proudly or hobble reluctantly into the future, well that’s the responsibility Gavin Slater now has to bare.