The vagina used to be a conversational no no, that was until playwright and activist Eve Ensler’s long- running stage play The Vagina Monologues managed to wrench open the flood gates of discourse surrounding female genitalia. So what theatrical equivalent or global phenomena does the male appendage have to rival Ensler’s? Read the rest of this entry »

What do a philosophising frog farmer, a ropey plastic surgeon, a fat-cat politician and a professional kidnapper all have in common? You might be forgiven for thinking they are the odd ball line up of characters constituting the cast- list for the next Coen brothers film. These are however all too real people–each of whom plays a crucial role in the sprawling cycle of violence and corruption currently plaguing modern Brazil.

Read the rest of this entry »

We could of course blame it all on the moon– this insanity. Last nights orb more ominous, potent, pregnant then ever. Such a force has been known to drive men to distraction, senses to senselessness, ocean’s into significant frenzy. Read the rest of this entry »

With the power and water stations long collapsed and no diesel left to fuel their stagnant SUV’s (let alone the standby generators) life had become near unbearable for the powerless Houton couple– Ned and Nancy Van Der Spuy. Shacked up in their three story mansion in a once plush and functioning suburb they were left with little option but to wait, wait until their number (sixty- five thousand) on the immigration list to Aus would be called. Read the rest of this entry »

On my recent three month travels in South America, I picked up a book
by Nobel Prize winner Doris Lessing titled ‘The Prisons We Choose to
Live Inside’. In one of its chapters Lessing writes…..

‘We are all of us, to some degree or another brainwashed by the
society we live in. We are able to see his when we travel to another
country, and are able to catch a glimpse of our own country with
foreign eyes. There is nothing much we can do about this except
remember that it is so. Every one of us is part of the great
comforting illusions, and part illusions, which every society uses to
keep up its confidence in itself. These are hard to examine, and the
best we can hope for is that a kindly friend from another culture will
enable us to look at our culture with dispassionate eyes.’ Read the rest of this entry »

A visit to the Patosi Silver Mines in Bolivia, to get an alternative view of the state of things, proves both frightening and enlightening. A descent deep in the bowels of the hellish Cerro Rico mountain which looms over the the city as lugubrious monument and Colonial shit pile. I take a tour with an ex- miner, who on our way up, stops our vehicle outside the Miners Market, insisting that Gringos will only be welcome should they arrive baring gifts. I oblige, purchase a packet of coca leaves, some soft drinks and for good measure, a few sticks of dynamite (bound to endear me instantly I’m told). That’s right, perfectly legal, sitting there amongst the cigarettes, candy, toilet paper in the local Cafeteria´- a wad of explosives (extra mild). Can anyone pop in and buy a pack of Dynamite? I ask, a little perplexed to which my host merely shrugs- Porque no? (Why not). I hope it isn’t on sale to kids, you know to minors ( pun unintentional -honest) or revolutionaries for that matter. Its a question which before I have time to ask, before my very eyes, a boy not past ten ambles in and leaves with two sticks wedged firmly in belt.

From the market one ascends to the crest of the gloomy mount,-lightening and lashings of rain only adding to the Hellish apparition, my mounting apprehension. This is after all the most medieval of mines functioning in the world today- the kind of death toll where authorities have grown bored with counting. Workers must make do without illuminated shafts, lifts or machinery- a far cry from the comparatively cushy Gold Reef City tour (No Toto we are not in Egoli anymore) .Here locals employ ancient push carts, poorly supported tunnels and rickety wooden ladders which plummet into those forsaken depths. As we move deeper the walls begin to tremble with the dull thud of dynamite. Air filling with acrid smoke causing, what little light the feeble head lamp offers, to vanishes instantly.

As for the Silver, for which the very foundations of Patosi are built upon?-nada. The Spanish Conquistadors, back in the day made quick work of that, exploiting every indigenous bloke who happened to wonder into view. Expanding empires, decking crowns and no doubt toilet seats with the ample takings. Sadly the modern day Patosian is left to suffer and scrape by one the remaining (and hardly lucrative) zinc deposits, burying it seems to the very core of the earth to retrieve them. I meet a gang of miners in one of these pits, swerving, slurring and wreaking of booze. What concerns me more is that they happen to be chugging on cigarettes when I extend my dynamite stick offerings. They respond by tugging me by the sleeve to meet the master and cause of their subterranean revelry.

There in a damp cavern, he sits. TIO. A life size replica of the miners revered devil (of which there are over 800 similar idols all over the mine) Carved from rock and clay, decked in traditional regalia, his eyes open, mouth agape. More famed (amongst giggling tourists) for his more than prodigious photo op appendage. A cock one might say as hard and prominent as the rock he has been shaped from. Here the miners proceed to fill his mouth with lit cigarettes, burn coca leaves at his feet and drink themselves to further stupor.According to the legend, TIO is the roving bachelor and veritable party monster of the mount. At the end of each day the men must incite him with an assortment of cocoa, tobacco and booze. Only once they have left does TIO wake, stammer to his feet, stalk the midnight corridors (minus hard hat, but certainly not hard on.)It is said he goes in search of Apache Mama ( Mother Earth- here symbolised by the whole of Mine) where, if i am to understand correctly, he is to give her a rogering to remember. Their vigorous love making of course proliferating the mountains depleted mineral resources.

Back on the ground, tensions it seems are running high. Its not hard to note the Bolivian phenomenon known as the daily newspapers.Seldom have I seen a nation or people as obsessed with their daily news. A scene typical to the ubiquitous city Plazas features elderly women, teenagers, business men (smug in shoe shine boy thrones) scanning their morning print. And if they are too young to read them then you can be certain they’re selling them. A politic obviously worth keeping a beady eye on- as volatile and in many ways as farcical as our own. Small cabbies bustle through city streets with over sized speakers attached to roofs. Above pompous band stand static, a voice beckons the public to arms. The same can be said for fish markets, where impassioned citizens(usually fish still flapping in hand) vent frustrations from upturned crates. Their disdain over the increase in food prices. One wonders what might become of this spark, about to ignite candle or keg? only time will tell. The Police forces, despite their daily proliferation, seem unfazed. Rather they slouch against barricades, pruning appearances in the reflection of their glass shields.

One does however pity poor ol TIO then, the miners Devil, despite his nightly philandering, his perpetual readiness, the current state of the countries natural resources seem to render him impotent.The people are hungry, food prices escalating. And if TIO and Apache -the all providing mama, can no longer deliver the goods, one shudders to think how the less benign (though no less omniscient) Bolivian Government plans to?

Finding Atheism a godzillon metres above the ground,on a SAA flight to San Paulo, might not be the most advisable of epiphanies to find yourself having.Best wait, might I advise, till grounded on more substantial terra firma . Such was the lesson I was to learn last week, after reading- mid flight- Richard Dawkins impassioned (if not all together- life changing) ¨”The God Delusion”. So convincing is his polemic :Religion shown up to be the supernatural hoey that deep down our rational minds have always suspected it to be. So irrefutable the evidence ( his Darwin for dummies approach, particularly insighful) that one can only hope that the god fearing nutters, who govern and war beneath the dictates of a dusty volume of out dated fairy tales, would take a good and preferably long, open minded look.As novelist Julian Barnes claims on the overleaf ” This book should be read by everyone from atheist to monk. If its merciless rationalism doesn’t enrage you at some point, you probably aren’t alive.”

Thankfully “The God Delusion” doesn’t express the bleak- well now that gods dead does that mean we are destined to crawl and suffer uselessly across the face of the earth- type existentialism. Rather it provides a ridiculously enlightening and liberating re-education into our scientific (sans the big bearded guy in the sky) world of wonders. A reminder of the here and imminently miraculous “now”. Forging purpose and truth no longer in non -sensical speculation of yester year, relinquishing the terror of past incarnation, the horrific potential of future damnation. In short read it, for its a cause worth believing in. Before attempting to save the whales, the ozone, the decimated rain Forrest’s, we should turn our efforts to salvaging humanity’s logic from its own perilously over excitable and gullible imaginings.

And so it is with this revelation, that upon completing the book (several minutes prior to landing) I exalt- God damn it I’m an atheist! No longer afraid to concede my agnostic indifference . Dawkins encourages us to avoid playing it safe, you know the just in case , cowardly fence sitting stance to which most of us are guilty of. You either in or you out. So yes, I decide I am a full blown, out the closet & proud of it- Atheist. I say it now without a hint of fear. Safe from ever having to dread providing the tortured flesh to Beelzebub’s eternal barbecue. I realise only a moment later that such confidence may have proven, well, a little premature. For just as our flight is coming in to land, the plane suddenly lurches upward, causing horrified gasps from the passengers. A terrific storm has broken and rain begins to lash the aircraft windows. Suspicious engine noises hum below.

At this moment I begin to reconsider (hell even curse) my new found Atheistic leanings. Ones memory has the habit of working in the most torturous of ways, and I find myself recalling the recent slew of South African Airways calamities, ie: a plane engine (Ala Donnie Darko) plunging unexpectedly from aircraft wing mid flight. Then of course there is San Paul- the very wet runway our plane is destined (or not) for, which just three months ago saw a TAM Airlines Air Bus collide, killing all 200 hundred of its passengers.

Now I attempt to swear myself a Mormon, curse Dawkins and his delusions and wonder whether I have packed a high factor sun tan lotion- for my lengthy new vacation in hell.

‘Er..hello God, hi its me again, I’d like to maybe retract one or two of the comments I made earlier, can have ‘un momento’ to rethink my options-yes? NO! The plane shudders, rain pelts, children start to wail. No word of re -assurance comes from the cockpit. I clutch my Saint Christopher, worn under my late grandmothers insistence (but also, if I may confess-for superstitious fence sitting purposes.) Now I mumble the semblance of an apologetic prayer but to what avail? I have willingly, yes even foolishly just expelled the skies of my celestial hearing aid. I’m an atheist remember-and atheism (like Africa I suppose) is not for sissies. There’s no turning back. Despite the separation anxiety, no dialling Nirvana 911 as imminent catastrophe looms. You’re on your own kid and so with no one left to turn to, I contemplate weeping my last rites into the bosom of a Brazilian mama beside me but am thankfully spared that humiliation when rubber bumps tar and an announcement apologises for the turbulence, welcoming us to San Paulo International.

Upon landing I find my Saint Christopher necklace wedged in sweaty palm, a token akin (and about as comforting) to still wearing ones wedding ring after having just undergone a brief but nonetheless very messy divorce.

When I first lay on my bed and slipped in the Jeff Buckley-Live at Sine CD, I found myself submerged in something inexplicable, profound. Yes this was genius, I understood the word and for the first time I could place a sound alongside it. Not refined, produced, tampered with by the machine. Here was Buckley a dead man, live, living, breathing, wailing in my bedroom. Immortal Buckley, one man and his guitar, the sounds of clinking glasses from the bar, casual chatter littering the track. An exiled Lucifer lamenting for a lost paradise, angels powerless against the seduction. Fingers bled on strings.

This is how I come to Gary Thomas- a born bred now living in Cape Town Durbanite-a man who I would go as far to say is master in our midst. There is no niche, no market he panders to. Thankfully his music is far to complex to find its way to mainstream radio stations, the backgrounds of coffee shops and dinner parties. This is music that demands attention. Preferably a dark room, silence, hell a joint if you up for it. To listen is to be lost, transported, shaken. A musician who side steps the futile pursuits of ‘adoration’ rather and wisely so, seeking ‘appreciation’. This is craft, he is a craftsman not a rock star (the world has enough of those)

Thomas is a music addict, a compulsive listener but it’s to his credit that none of the songs are derivative, references only detectable through homage. Once thrown in the Gary blender a sound arises unlike anything one has heard before. One of the rarest things to find, let alone create- a new sound, a sound unlike all the others.

I imagine ‘twenty something’s’ in the future uncovering this early recording. Perhaps Gary is touring the world by now, has several albums under his belt, but this, this one- these mythical, unobtainable Kalk Bay sessions (the signed copies sell for millions on E-bay) the ones that came before the producing giants, the record label vultures swooped in. Before international recognition, acclaim, stardom. Before all that. When life was simple and Thomas was scraping by- an unsuspecting loafer with a supernatural gift.

I imagine one of these twenty something’s shifting through his dad’s old CD collection, pulling out this CD, slipping it in the player, lying back on his bed, eyes closed. What occurs takes the form of revelation. He finds himself drowning, battles to breathe, only once the CD ends does he swim to the surface- gasping. Blessed, now he will not settle for anything less. Anything less is a compromise. He throws out the kak he has been listening to in the past. A bar has been raised, the standard set.

I look forward to the day I can say ‘I told you so”. To own this album is to own a (minor/major- time will tell) piece of history. Not just a necessity then but a wise investment.

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.