Vår i Johannesburg

I morgon börjar jag på mitt nya jobb som Business Director på Ogilvy PR.

Våren har kommit på allvar till Johannesburg och det är soligt varmt på dagarna, uppemot 25-27 grader. Jag har planterat tre lavendelplantor och köpt Sydafrikas nationalfågel, den blå tranan, i pärlor och ståltråd.

Fas 1 av balkongplanteringen. Funderar på om inte en bougainvillea eller ett citronträd är nästa fas.

Home of the affair

Kajsa and I tootled off to the Department of Home Affairs ten days ago for our ”interview” with a department lackey in order to verify and process Kajsa’s application for permanent residence. I use the term "interview" as the process involved noting of the sort. It became a fight for survival against a bureaucratic octopus, that is strangling South Africa’s journey to a brighter future.

The Department of Home Affairs office we visited in Harrison Street reminded me a lot of the South African railways office building I worked in for a short while after leaving school. Ten stories tall, no computers, one photocopying machine, one working lift, large Afrikaners in military style uniforms ( I kid you not. Some of them even seemed to be in charge of stuff), reams of papers and ledgers, wooden benches, plastic seats, and room after room of incompetent, uncaring or just plain angry government officials ( a few managed to tick all boxes).

Not one computer in the permanent residence application office. I was about to say not one person either but we did see three different people so that averages out to about one I suppose.

Everything is written down. It is madness. There is thus no link between the residence and work permit office so one has to give the same documentation twice, hence the copier.

It was two hours into our “interview”, after our second walk down and up four flights of stairs in order to find the lone copier, that Kajsa cracked. I had been looking forward to telling the story of how we met, how excited we were to be back and how keen we were to contribute to a county we left 12 years ago but nobody seemed interested.

I think the catalyst to Kajsa’s rage for that is what it was, came after we were told the permanent residence application would take six-months to process. “What if I want to work, to contribute, and to earn money to survive?” I think it was the empty look from the official, a look that one could see meant she had no concept or understanding of the question that set things off. At one point I honestly suspected that said official might think that white people do not need to work but of course that is crazy talk.

“I want to leave this fucking place. We are going back to Sweden!!” With that we left to wait 30 minutes for a taxi. That’s another thing. Taxis arrive when they can, and charge what they can. Stockholm it aint.

Not that it’s all gone to hell in hand basket. It seems South Africa has realised the importance of harnessing as many of the meagre tax revenues available (5 million registered tax-payers in a country of forty million) Okay I queued for around two hours but got a tax number on the spot. And the office uses the number system familiar to many Swedes. It works. Plus the guy who helped me, Peter, was engaging and helpful. We actually had a chat.

Feel it

The tall thin cop with an automatic rifle strapped across his chest walked towards me with a smile on his face. It was my third police roadblock in as many days and two days to kick-off.

”Can you catch it?” he said, pushing out his right hand and making to catch the air.

“Can you feel it?” he asked rubbing his tummy. He then leaned into the car and still smiling said “Driver’s license please”.

It has been crazy here. This city was crackling on Friday hours before kick-off. Endless streams of VIP’s in siren-blaring convoys filled the roads, helicopters and surveillance aircraft circled overhead and everybody (bar three I reckon) had on a Bafana shirt. Yellow was the colour of the day. It is difficult to explain the palpable sense of hysteria and excitement that enveloped Jozi last Friday. The morning after the opening game and ceremony I was really proud to be a South African and it goes some way to explaining why I spent most of the day drinking steadily. Best opening ceremony ever. Best opening goal ever. Just the best ever.

Yesterday I felt it properly myself. I went to Soccer city with my mum and a couple of friends to watch Holland play Denmark. It was quite something. The Dutch fans outnumbered the Danes by considerable numbers. There is a group of them here who drove through Africa for ten weeks to enjoy the event. Respect. Many of them were dressed in crazy outfits from body-hugging Day-Glo orange to bright orange fishing waders (huh?) The stadium is vast, spacious and comfortable. Beer, I mean Budweiser, was on sale during the game and despite the constant drone of the vuvuzelas a rousing time was had by all. Although it took three hours in traffic to get there (A train journey to the next game is a definite) the stadium cleared in no time and we were home within an hour and a half of the final whistle.

My World Cup has begun and I am very excited for the next few weeks. Anders and Tommy arrive from Stockholm on Thursday lunch-time and I have a feeling things are going to get turned up a notch. We have tickets for six games including Ivory Coast-Brazil and Germany-Ghana. Boo Selekta! I am looking forward to getting out and about at night to meet visiting fans and we have a number of activities lined up including a visit to Hluhluwe Game Reserve. We hired Prospero’s plane for that one. Once in a lifetime is the slogan for this month. World Cup rules apply. Anything goes.

Hands in the air

Last Saturday I went jorling for the first time since we arrived in Jozi a few months back. It’s not like I haven’t been out to various great restaurants and the three bars (it might actually be two) that cater to the hundreds of thousand, dare I say millions of people who live in the northern suburbs but this was new. This was a trip downtown on a Saturday night to the dark heartland of Jozi, the Newtown Precinct.

Actually the precinct itself buzzed with activity when we arrived at Sophiatown (I think, I was a bit dizzy) around 11.00 at night. The precinct is an urban renewal and regeneration project with a fascinating history. After a turbulent history the area is today host to a mix of bars, restaurants, galleries and museums. Mary Fitzgerald square, the precincts centrepiece is also host to a World Cup fan park and I plan to be there for the opening game.

Mental as anything

It was a mate’s birthday and a few of us had spent the initial part of the evening at a place called The Woods for the clubs “dubmental” night. It wasn’t mental it was terrible. Maybe I am getting old but I was raised on classic Jamaican dub where mix masters like King Tubby, Scientist and Scratch Perry dominated. They produced laidback bass-heavy versions with an emphasis on crucial brass sections and re-mixed voice. Modern dub is a cacophony of electronic hail backed up by a gut-crunching bass that seemed to digest my dinner. The venue itself was like a garage with a light bulb. The owners must have pumped all of a grand into the joint. The best thing about it was the cheap drinks.

The small crowd, all white, was made up of the traditional smattering of waifs, students, extroverts, Goths, hustlers and dirty-old men you find in dimly lit clubs posing as alternative. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. After an hour under low decibel tremble/high decibel electronic screech assault we decided to move on down to Newtown proper. Steve and I decided to walk the four-hundred meters or so to the bar Sophiatown. The others pleaded with us to drive, that we were taking our lives in our hands and that we should be very careful.

Hippity hop

Apart from a few homeless people and a couple of car guards clustered around an open fire on the pavement, the streets were empty until we entered Mary Fitzgerald Square. People hustling and bustling between bar and car, street and club. The place was hopping. At one point I was the only whitey in the joint as the crowd sang along to Li’l Wayne’s Lollipop. At some point I battled to the DJ booth and asked for the Dre/Tupac hopper California Love but no luck. I am not saying I recognised every tune but there was some Jay-Z, some Ice-Cube and some whining R&B rubbish.

Idiots

The vibe was relaxed and I was getting the odd flirtatious glance from the girls and a nod or a thumbs up from the guys. Most of the guys anyway. There was a knee-high Rasta who kept on telling me he got my back, but I told him my back was cool. I think he was running a scam where he has mates who cause shit and then he comes to the rescue for a small fee. Then some other guys started harassing the girls in our crowd and things went a bit south. Grabbing them and insisting on a dance, standing all over them and generally acting like assholes. The girls with us are gay and there have been a string of “corrective” rapes in South Africa recently, the most horrific involving the rape and murder of the captain of the South African women’s football team.

The situation got a little unpleasant without getting violent but did leave an unpleasant taste. At least the bouncer seemed interested when I made contact just to test his attitude. I spoke to the girls with us and they were cool. For all that, and the hangover I sported the next morning I am keen to investigate some of the other stuff on show down in Newtown. As with many things here you just have to be on your toes and expect the unexpected and realise that the air of normalcy hides a chasm of chaos.

Ett liv utan knäckebröd

Innan vi reste till Sydafrika tänkte jag att jag skulle skriva små betraktelser var och varannan dag om mitt vardagliga liv i Johannesburg.

Men det har inte varit möjligt. Jag har fullt upp med att uppleva och leva själv. Först nu har jag distans och även om vi har varit här i fyra månader känns det ändå som jag ganska nyligen klev av planet.

Men jag börjar vänja mig, det kan jag berätta. Jag börjar vänja mig vid trafikköer, vägarbeten och tiggare vid varje trafikljus. Jag börjar vänja mig vid ett vänligt kaos vid utgångskassorna i snabbköpet och jag börjar vänja mig vid blanketthysteri och byråkrati.

Uppvärmingen i lägenheten där vi bor är lite skruttig men vi har köpt extra element och extra duntäcken så det går ingen nöd på oss när det blir kallt om nätterna. De element som finns är från 50-talet då huset byggdes.

Varje morgon när vi vaknar är det sol och 15 grader varmt så vi öppnar balkongdörren och lyssnar på fågelsång och trafikbrus.

Jag dricker mitt rooibosté och äter papaya till frukost och saknar inte Pyramidknäcke och keso som jag åt varje morgon i Sverige. Jag badar bubbelbad nästan varje morgon i mitt aldeles egna vackra badrum med inbyggda kranar och fönster.

Jag öppnar inte galleriet förrän klockan 10 om förmiddagarna så jag har tid att både njuta av utsikten från vårt arbetsrum och läsa nyheter på nätet innan jag ger mig iväg hemifrån. Svenskan, DN, BBC och sydafrikanska Mail&Guardian hinner jag scanna innan det är dags att ge sig ut i trafiken.

Mitt nya liv som gallerist

Sedan drygt tre veckor arbetar jag på ett fotogalleri i downtown Johannesburg. Mitt i smeten. Se krysset på flygbilden här intill.

Galleriet heter Bailey Seippel Gallery och ingår i ett nybyggt konstcentrum som heter Arts on Main. Kvarteren är slitna och ganska ruggiga men förhoppningen är att konst, konstnärer och besökare ska bidra till upprustningen av centrala Johannesburg. Den del av Sydafrika som gett hela landet dåligt rykte.

Galleriet specialiserar sig på afrikanskt dokumentärt fotografi från 1950-talet fram till idag. Just nu har vi en utställning med en sydafrikansk fotograf som heter Paul Weinberg som bland annat tog den historiska bilden av när Nelson Mandela röstade för första gången i sitt liv.

Så här glad ser jag ut när jag öppnar galleriet om morgnarna. Jag jobbar varje dag utom måndagar och det är en jämn strid av besökare nästan varje dag.

Gården utanför galleriet är en populär mötesplats. Här kan man äta goda luncher, ta en drink på eftermiddagen eller äta en tallrik gröt på morgonen för elva kronor!



I galleriet säljer vi också affischer med gamla omslag från den legendariska tidningen Drum som gavs ut 1951-1978. Det var en av de få publikationer där svarta fotografer och journalister fick jobba.

Se ett par av omslagen längst ner, ett med Miriam Makeba och ett annat med Winnie Mandela.

Affischerna ges ut i en begränsad och numrerad upplaga och kostar 1 800 rand styck.

Drivers seat

For someone who has not driven a car much over the last 12 years (except while on holiday in Europe) Jozi is a test of patience, reactions, patience, eyesight, mind-reading, ability, skill, and more patience. It also requires a kind of Zen attitude to the incompetence, aggressiveness and selfishness that unfolds on the average commute.

There’s the taxi overtaking on the inside (the minibus taxis here proudly stop anywhere, anytime without indicating), a truck changing lanes from the right, check rear-view mirror, a pedestrian dodging between lanes, look ahead, a BMW driver doing what BMW drivers do, a gaggle of guys selling stuff at every intersection (mainly flags and football paraphernalia but also phone chargers and a host of other mainly useless stuff made in China), glue-sniffing beggars, glue-free beggars (there’s an old guy with scraggly hair operating an intersection down the road from us who has a sign saying “poodle needs a wash”), potholes, uncovered drains and the broken traffic lights. Plus the cops.

I mentioned a few weeks back that I was fined for driving an unregistered vehicle. R500 paid without complaint. By the beginning of this week I had still not got the problem sorted. Lo and behold we were on the way into town on Tuesday morning when we bump the mother of all roadblocks. It was like there was a manhunt on. All the traffic was being funnelled from five lanes into two. My initial thought was accident. Then as we got closer the reality dawned. Metro Police. The Johannesburg Metro Police. The gang that have a reputation for incompetence, corruption and violence bar none. Who always get their bri…man. Although I have not experienced any of their traits personally I have many friends who have paid bribes, usually while driving drunk.

Invisible car

So here we are heading slowly towards the inevitable. I felt like a drug smuggler or a defector. There was no way out. There were about a hundred cops (Okay forty. A lot) checking every license disc on every car that passed, and pulling over those that did not comply. There was even a mobile office where the unlucky could pay their fines on the spot. The Asian guy in his Volvo, the delivery guy in his bakkie, a housewife in her Merc and of course the usual collection of taxis. Nobody seemed immune. I had given up hope.

And yet as we approached the point of impact the sea of police parted. It was like Moses in the bible. We became invisible for the two minutes (thirty seconds) we inched through the control zone. Suddenly we had a green light and open road ahead. You’ll never take me alive coppers. I was ecstatic, euphoric, explaining what happened in terms of divine intervention. It reminded of the time many years ago my mates and I were pulled over by the cops while in possession of contraband that was never found. (It’s a long story)

Not very

I am in favour of the cops doing their work and would have paid up no problem but it’s quite fun to dodge a bullet that way. Later in the day I was driving to a meeting on the northern side of Jozi (Rivonia). I do not know this part of town and although I looked at a map before departure it’s difficult to navigate as most of the street names are written on the kerb, and street signs are either missing, or too small to read until it’s to late. It’s like Daaaarn that was the turning and you have a guy who looks like a bouncer driving a BMW aggressively a metre behind you. Try your luck at the next turn buddie.

So there I was heading down Rivonia Road, lost and disoriented (Not as badly as my mate at the bar last Saturday) when I saw my salvation. Cops. This time, the SAPS Flying Squad. The elite. The guys who know their shit, know their way around, know Jozi streets much better than me. I pulled up next to the car and rolled down the passenger window. Ja howzit I’m looking for Mutual Road. Can you help? I saw by the look in the drivers face four words into the sentence he couldn’t. He in turn spoke to his three colleagues.

The passenger cop leaned towards me and said “It’s best if you just drive up and down checking the street names”.

No shit broo. Thanks.

Freedom’s just another word

Kajsa and I spent Sunday afternoon at the Apartheid Museum, a fifteen minute drive south of Killarney. After getting over the incongruity of the museum’s location next door to the Gold Reef City fun fair and casino complex, we endured and enjoyed a roller-coaster ride through South Africa’s past and were left pondering the present and the future.

A bitter past
A few things struck me although I needed little reminding. The first was the evil of the apartheid regime. In its initial phase as a bureaucratic project with its emphasis on banal racial classification, segregation and forced removals couched in terms of “good neighbourliness” and “separate but equal” and the attempt to de-Africanise South Africa.

The second was the utter brutality of the security state in the aftermath of the 1976 Soweto uprising, that reached a crescendo in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s with thousands killed, injured, arrested and tortured. I remember the early 1990’s particularly vividly as I worked for the national Peace Accord in Port Shepstone where a war involving the ANC, IFP and the various security services raged. It was called at the time a low-intensity civil conflict. In our small rural area of operations people were attacked and killed, schools closed and communities displaced almost daily for years. Normal existence for many was impossible.

No turning back
The third thing is a realisation of how far the country has come from those dark days. This country will never return to those days of institutionalised racism and fear. Lastly I was reminded of the hope and joy of the immediate post-apartheid years, the short-lived and much-hyped “Rainbow Nation”. On the eve of Freedom Day this was particularly poignant as I recalled driving out into the back of beyond on the election days in 1994 to witness hundreds of people waiting patiently to vote at the various schools designated as voting stations.

The damage caused by such an insidious and evil regime cannot be simply wished away and erased from memory. Nor should it be forgotten in history. The ANC government is still dealing with the legacy of apartheid, a psychological damaged and traumatised population. It might be an idea for ANC leaders, and the whole population of this country for that matter, to go and spend a few hours in the museum. Not to dwell on the past but rather to seek inspiration for the future and develop a clear vision for South Africa.

All is not lost
I sometimes get the impression that the ANC leadership do not give a damn about what people think and are in government solely for the purpose of enriching themselves and their BEE cronies and that this attitude permeates down into all structures at all levels. This cannot be the case, the policeman who gave me a traffic fine for having an expired license disk (We are borrowing a friend’s car) yesterday made no attempt to solicit a bribe, but the stories of wastage, corruption and inefficiency and mismanagement in many government departments (Home Affairs) and parastatals (SAA, Telkom) is sobering and depressing. Creating a few black oligarchs does not mean economic equality has ended.

On a lighter note I mentioned to a friend that The Department of Home Affairs was introducing a number queuing system at its offices to improve efficiency. The idea is you take a number and wait your turn. She replied that a friend had experienced the new system in action. Her friend arrived at her local DHA office, took her ticket and sat down. About thirty minutes later a bureaucrat came out and shouted to the patient throng: “All those people with tickets number 24-54 follow me”. And off they traipsed to form their own new queue.

Football fever
The World Cup starts in little over a month’s time. Despite the best efforts of the organisers both local and international to sabotage the event through poor ticketing procedures and greedy travel arrangements I am looking forward to a great month of football and fans. While the only new infrastructure in place might be the football stadiums, thousands of tickets have been sold, more and more South African flags are appearing and one gets a sense of football fever gradually growing.

I drove past the Gautrain Sandton station the other day and if that is ready to take passengers on day one of the Cup I will be mightily impressed. It looked a mess of metal and concrete. Oh, and the South African team, the Bafana Bafana (another of the PR creations like “Rainbow Nation” and “Proudly South African” so loved down here) are rubbish but we won’t let that stop us from having a good time. I know at least three people, two Swedes and a Honduran who are making the trip so there’ll be a few foreigners along as well.

End of the Rainbow?

I am gradually adjusting to life in South Africa. I realise that my first few blog entries have been on the light side. Don’t get me wrong, we do live in an urban idyll here in Killarney, but it is the idyll of the privileged few.

I have been pondering on the focus of this piece and there is a lot to choose from. Between ongoing township protests at the lack of delivery (the provision of basic services such as housing, electricity and water to township residents) and government ineptitude and corruption (the department of home affairs is a basket case), the emerging class of tenderprenuers (those who use government connections to win government tenders they do not have the skill or wherewithal to fulfil thereby making large amounts of money), the murder rate (50 a day seems to be an accepted figure), rape, road safety, crime and security in general, the inane and inflammable utterings of Julius Malema. And then Eugene Terreblanche got murdered.

Bad old days
The trial will give us better insight into what actually took place but the past week has seen a number of theories emerge, the zaniest being the suggestion that ET was gay, or lat least engaged in some kind of sexual relationship with the accused. Things seem pretty calm though after the rather disturbing scenes outside the court house last week. The ANC and AWB have appealed for calm from its members but the appearance of swastikas and the Nazi slaute at the funeral didn’t help.

Terreblanche was an unapologetic extreme racist and what his death has done it seems is to give air to an organization and ideology very much at the periphery of South African politics. A facebook site in his memory does have more than 6000 fans although not all are supporters of the AWB. I cannot mourn his death quite frankly.

His murder however comes in the wake of an ongoing debate and controversy about the singing of the struggle song "kill the boer” by the ANCYL head Julius Malema. My immediate concern is that some Afrikaner extremist will make an attempt or kill a high profile ANC leader as some kind of revenge. That would be a problem.
Urban-rural divide
A more worrying danger though is the unseemly behaviour of Malema. Holding Zimbabwe as a model for the future would be funny if it were not so tragic. What really disappointed me about the scenes beamed from Ventersdorp last week was that it seemed this country had not moved very far in the last twenty years. The old South African flag, the polarized racial groups etc. I think this is a major problem in the more isolated rural communities.

In most large urban centres people of different races mix in a more informal or professional manner even thought the divide between rich and poor is still very much a divide between black and white.

We will have to see how this pans out. I think President Zuma has to come out with something on the nature of race and society in South Africa. It is suggested that 3000 farmers ( This figure is disputed as records are not comprehensive) have been murdered since 1994.

Unfortunately the killing of farmers is just one small piece in the appalling jigsaw that is murder in South Africa. They do feel isolated but at the same time if the Boers, and by this I mean the old school racists who want their own volkstaat (not going to happen) then when they say they are "here to stay", then they must adapt to the new rules and not use "here to stay" as a threat. They are welcome to stay if they pay their workers a proper wage, stop living like apartheid still exists and end demands for a volkstaat.

Time for new thinking
Still the onus is on the ANC. They have been in government since 1994 and they have failed their constituency, the urban and rural black poor. I hope that the current tension between the youth league and the ANC will encourage some serious discussion within the ANC and the COSATU/SACP alliance partners on the kind of South Africa it wants to build.

The rainbow nation is dead. It is time to start building a national identity that goes beyond slogans and window-dressing. Repairing a few roads, adding a few bus routes in preparation for the football world cup will not do it.

One piece of good news. The road death toll for the Easter long weekend was 105 (28 drivers, 48 passengers and 29 pedestrians), down from 197 last year.

En dag i viltreservatet

Kl 05.10: Rapphönsen kacklar högljutt utanför safaritältet. Det har regnat hela natten.

Kl 05.29: Good morning, wake up call! Rangern Fumana går mellan tälten och väcker alla inför morgonens safaritur. Det är fortfarande mörkt ute.

Kl 05.40: Hur varmt är det nu? Dagens första fråga från en av gästerna kan jag besvara eftersom jag tagit med en termometer hemifrån Johannesburg. Det är 24 grader varmt och ganska fuktigt i den tidiga timmen.

Kl 05.45: Vi dricker pulverkaffe och äter varsin skorpa.

Kl 05.55: Vad kommer vi att få se i dag? Jag svarar att vi får hoppas på det bästa, kanske ser vi någon av de så kallade Big Five, annars kommer vi säkert att se någon eller några av de antiloparter som finns i reservatet.

Kl 06.00: Vi ger oss i väg i tre jeepar med sju förväntansfulla gäster i varje bil.

Kl 06.05: Vad heter den där röda blomman? Redstar zinnia. Den växer vild i Sydafrika och finns som trädgårdsväxt i Sverige.

Kl 06.10: En hjord impala-antiloper mumsar på buskarna utefter grusvägen. Fyra zebror betar strax intill. Rangern Bethuel berättar om impalor och zebror och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 06.14: Två schakaler springer över vägen och in i buskarna. Bethuel berättar om de rävliknande djuren och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 06.22: Hur mycket tjänar en ranger? Vanligtvis mellan 2 500 och 5 000 rand i månaden, beroende på arbetsgivare, utbildning och år i yrket.

Kl 06.28: Varför finns det så många jägare bland de grupper som kommer från Sverige? Dagens första fråga från Bethuel besvarar jag med en gissning: Kanske har det att göra med att svenskarna för bara några generationer sedan var ett jagande och jordbrukande folk, men att jakten i dag är mer av en hobby och att jägarna tycker om att vara ute i skog och mark.

Kl 06.37: Vad heter det där trädet? Det heter paraplyträd på svenska, umbrella thorn på engelska och acacia tortilis på latin.

Kl 06.56: Bethuel stannar vid en tre meter hög termitstack och berättar om termitsamhället som sträcker sig flera meter ner under jord. Jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 07.00: Ett tjugotal pärlhöns springer framför jeepen i någon minut innan de viker av in i buskarna.

Kl 07.08: Färska spår efter den stora lejonhannen i den mjuka sanden. Spåren försvinner in bland snåren av vild lavendel.
Kl 07.10: Varför finns det inga stora vilda djur utanför viltreservaten? För att människan har brett ut sig där det tidigare fanns utrymme för djuren att ströva fritt.

Kl 07.14: Ytterligare lejonspår, nu efter de båda honorna. Kanske är de ute och jagar.

Kl 07.23: Nu leopardspår och det verkar som om leoparden släpat ett byte efter sig, förmodligen en impala-antilop. Bethuel berättar om lejonoch leoparder och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 07.25: Är vi säkra i jeeparna om lejonen kommer nära? Ja, så länge vi följer rangerns förhållningsorder.

Kl 07.31: Två hornskator landar i ett träd och jag berättar ett de heter yellow billed horn bill på engelska.

Kl 07,44: Fler spår efter lejonhannen som har tillryggalagt flera kilometer under morgontimmarna.

Kl 07.52: Två blåskimrande glansstarar flyger fram och tillbaka framför jeepen.

Kl 08.05: Noshörningspår. Det syns tydligt att han också har lagt sin stora kropp att vila utefter vägen.

Kll 08.15: På vilken höjd befinner vi oss nu? Cirka 300 meter över havet.

Kl 08.23: Två vattenbockar står i den uttorkade flodbädden, en hona och en unge. Bethuel berättar om vattenbockar och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 08.43: Flera vävarfåglar flyger förbi och in i vassen.

Kl 08.58: Hur varmt är det nu? 26 grader. Jag har med mig termometern.

Kl 08:59: Hur långt är det härifrån till ekvatorn? Jag vet inte men lovar att ta reda på det.

Kl 09.00: Frukost i campen. Stekta ägg, korvar, bacon, tomater och rostat bröd. Passionsfruktsyoghurt, flingor och nybakade muffins. Färska kaktusfikon, papaya, melon, plommon och mango.

Kl 09.30: Jag berättar om reservatet, om ägarförhållanden, historia, personal, löner och om hur man utbildar sig till ranger. Jag drar också programmet för resten av dagen och veckan.

Kl 10.15: Vad heter myrorna på grusgången till tältet? Jag vet inte vad de heter men jag vet att de bits.

Kl 10.23: Vad blir det för väder i eftermiddag? Jag hoppas på sol och en vacker solnedgång.

Kl 10.45: Hur varmt är vattnet i poolen? Jag vet inte men jag tycker det känns behagligt.

Kl 13.30: Lunch. Cottage pie, sallader och bröd. Fruktsallad till efterrätt.

Kl 14.05: Saknar du inte Sverige? Nej, jag trivs bra i Sydafrika.

Kl 14.25: Hur varmt är det nu? 32 grader.

Kl 14.30: Jag håller en föreläsning om människans ursprung i Afrika och om Sydafrikas politiska historia från 1647 till 2010.

Kl 15.45: Vad blir det för väder i morgon bitti? Förhoppningsvis inget regn och lagom varmt för safari, utan brännande sol.

Kl 16.00: Eftermiddagssafari. Redan femtio meter från campen står det tre giraffer. Bethuel berättar om giraffer och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 16.10: Vilken är den vanligaste maten i Sydafrika? Majsmjöl som kokas till en fast gröt som kallas pap vilken ofta serveras med tomatsås.

Kl 16.15: En familj vårtsvin springer snabbt in i buskarna. Bethuel berättar om vårtsvin och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 16.30: Elefantspår och elefantbajs längs med vägen.

Kl 16.47: Det brakar till i skogen och en stor elefanthona omgiven av tre ungar kommer fram ur buskarna. Vi sitter helt stilla och Bethuel berättar om elefanter med låg röst och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 17.05: Elefanterna äter av gräset allldeles intill jeepen. Ingen säger nånting.

Kl 17.15: Vi åker vidare och lyckas ta oss över den till brädden fyllda floden. Det kommer in vatten på golvet i jeepen.

Kl 17.22: En regngök sitter i ett dött träd och Bethuel säger att det nog kommer att regna igen i kväll.

Kl 17.30: Fyra stycken kuduhonor står i buskarna ett par meter från vägen. Bethuel berättar om kuduantiloper och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 17.39: Är det alltid så här varmt den här tiden på året? Ja, för det mesta.

Kl 17.46: En stor noshörningshanne dricker ur ett vattenhål knappt fem meter från vägen. Bethuel berättar om noshörningar och jag översätter till svenska.

Kl 18.05: Vi stannar för att ta en drink och titta på solnedgången.

Kl 18.15: Hur högt är det där berget? Cirka 1 800 meter.

Kl 18.25: Vi packar ihop muggar, flaskor och kylväskor samt tänder strålkastarna för en kort kvällssafari.

Kl 18.32: Den stora lejonhannen kommer och går på vägen i mörkret och passerar förbi jeepen på bara en meters avstånd. Han är helt ointresserad av oss och försvinner snart in i snåren. Strax därefter kommer de två snart treåriga lejonungarna gående, nästan fullvuxna till storleken. Alla är knäpptysta.

Kl 18.45: Vi lämnar lejonen när hela flocken är samlad inför nattens jakt. De är sex stycken sammanlagt.

Kl 18.55: Rangern får syn på en kameleont i en buske trots att det är kolmörkt ute.

Kl 19.00: Hemma igen på campen. Det är tänt en stor öppen eld och dukat utomhus.

Kl 19..10: Grillar man mycket kött i Sydafrika? Ja, om man har råd att köpa kött.

Kl 19.25: Hur varmt är det nu? 27 grader.

Kl 19.30: Middag. Grillade fläskkotletter och sydafrikanska korvar. Sötpotatis, spenat, morötter, majs och sallader. Chokladkaka med vaniljsås till efterrätt.

Kl 21.15: Vi är alla trötta och vi drar oss tillbaka till våra respektive tält.

Kl 21.30: Lejonhannen ryter i natten och det låter väldigt nära. Det börjar regna.

It's good to walk

When I told people that our apartment was around the corner from the Killarney Mall and that we were looking forward to walking there to do our shopping, the idea was met with a deal of scepticism. The general perception is that it is impossible to walk the streets of any part of Jozi at all, any time. This is not the case.

Killarney is a leafy maze of avenues that hide apartment blocks called Whitehall (a national monument), Brenthurst, Cranwell Hall and our block Hanover Gate. Combine those with street names such as Fifth Street and Second Avenue and you get a sense that you are in London or New York. The mall is a ten minute walk from our place and on the way I will usually pass a granny pushing a pram, a granny walking alone weighed down with a few plastic bags of shopping, a gardener, a few nannies, and one or two homeless guys lying in the park.

Make a few cents
There is also a young girl who I imagine is in her late teens who sits under a tree with a tray that on my last pass had on it three packets of chips and two packets of cigarettes. Her post is in sight of the mall but she does some business selling loose cigarettes for two rand each to people that pass by. I didn’t ask her the price of the chips but her margins cannot be that high. Diagonally across her an older guy, homeless by the looks of him, has set up shop opposite one of entrances to the mall. In his tray, and sometime scattered on the floor around him, is a collection of key rings. They are plastic bottle openers with pictures of elephants and hippos. Mine splashed open when I dropped it on the floor of the apartment. It cost ten rand and I gave him twenty for his trouble.

Killarney Mall, built in 1961, is the first such shopping centre built in South Africa. Recently revamped, the mall has the usual selection of shops (book shop, banks, post office, supermarket, bottle store, Le Creuset store) made a little more exotic by the fact that there is a kosher deli and butcher at the supermarket. This is because this area is regarded as a Jewish neighbourhood although I suspect that is only the grannies left and all the kids in America. There is a shul around the corner but the make up of the community today is quite mixed. Every Thursday though the mall hosts an organic market. There are a number of stalls all selling a wide selection of food from curries to cakes to vegetables. It is quite a meeting of worlds.

Cupcakes and butternut
There is a lady from Montenegro who works for the Bulgarian cheese maker, a lady from Serbia who works for a Swede (I have not met him but the name on the card is Mikael Olsson and Serbia swears he’s a Swede) who makes wonderful tarts, pies and quiches. There are two young ladies selling the most incredible luxury cupcakes. They are more like works of art decorated with a swirling mountain of icing in flavours such as strawberries and cream, toffee, double chocolate and Madagascan vanilla. I must admit I am an easy target for the cupcake crew.

Then there is the guy, as tall as a basketball player, who drives in from Limpopo with wonderful organic veggies. Beautiful orange butternut big enough to feed ten, squash, onions, and shiny red tomatoes are some of the wares on display. There is also an Indian lady selling spices and potato roti, a Polish lady who sells biltong and kabanosy sausages, and the old biddy who makes pancakes to order. There was also a stand selling honey and another devoted to all things lemon. Lemon tart, lemon cake, lemon pudding. I just don’t have the budget.

Killarney does not have the cachet or buzz of Parkhurst or Norwood with their street café vibe but it does have a sense of welcome calm. There are no hip and trendy bars or restaurants in Killarney but there is a sense of a bygone era where people greet each other on the street and kids can play in the park. Next I plan to take a walk up the road towards the zoo and the military museum.

For those of you who read the last post, the cooler weather has done for the mosquitoes so we sleep in peace.

Damn the mosquitoes

Mosquitoes. That’s what I forgot living in Stockholm. The mosquitoes, buzzing like Focke-Wolfes over Europe, dragging their blood-filled bodies to the safety of the bedroom ceiling after yet another successful attack.

Blood on the ceiling
This morning I went on a killing spree, grabbing the only weapon at hand, a rolled-up bathroom towel. For two nights in a row I had been disturbed by a blood-sucking din as I strove for sleep. This morning I cracked. Bodies flopped from the sky as I wielded the towel axe-like, killing and maiming as I spotted a new target. At one point I nearly pulled a muscle such was the fury of my attack. Blood splattered the walls and cupboards as I flailed at my enemy. I hate to say it but innocents died in the crossfire. I clearly need to get out more.

I have been caught unawares. Growing up in Durban, a sub-tropical harbour on the Indian Ocean you expect mozzies. That’s what we call them in Durbs. You get the badass malaria mozzies down there. Here in Jozie mozzies didn’t cross my mind. Crime, violence, road rage, general chaos. For sure. Mozzies not so much. One way or the other I’ll adjust. And I’ll get some repellent to ease the way. A rub-on stick for the skin, electronic destroyer pad for the bedroom at night, and coils to burn when sitting outside on the veranda. I'll be like some kind of medieval priest, all lotions and insense.

Mid-life crisis
All this mozzie paranoia is part of the adjustment process. Either that or some really zany mid-life crisis. Adjusting to a new city in a new country entering a new era mixed with an air of trepidation and uncertainty. Plus my wife Kajsa is away for the week. I spoke to a mate yesterday and he reckons adjustment is not easy for people our age. He did apologise for raising the age issue but maybe he has a point. I don’t know. I turned forty-six a month ago and have never considered age as an influencer on my behaviour or attitudes. We moved here with very little pre-planning, just rocked up with a vague idea of how to put our skills to work. I think it was more the excitement of change that drove us forward. We are fortunate to have this opportunity to experience something new.

Pretty much everyone we know in Stockholm and Jozie mentions the weather as a reason for moving here. It wasn’t. Although I reckon anything must be healthier than a seven month winter. Ja, there’s the skiing, skating and all that outdoor winter stuff to do. But its usually cheek scalding cold, and pitch black. That I will never miss. But in twelve years you do build something, a life you would say. Friends, family, work, travel, art, culture, booze, bands, love. All that stuff that makes up the thing we call life. Now we want to build something new.

What the heck….must dash, I hear a buzzing in my ear. Time to towel up and let fly.

Positive trepidation - an introductory ramble

I am back in South Africa after twelve years in Stockholm. While I have returned here on holiday a number of times, usually over Christmas, twice to bury friends and once to enjoy a six-month leave of absence. This time feels a little different, hence the hollow feeling in my stomach, a symptom of excitement and uncertainty.

The shock of change
We moved back (Kajsa is enjoying the trials and tribulations as tour leader for twenty or so Swedes on the Chobe River as I write) with eyes wide-open and with what I felt was a clear understanding of the economic, political and social environment with all its violence, desperation, love and energy. While South Africa is not so different to hundreds of countries, it has a special history that complicates and contaminates thought and deed. So I had followed controversies at the SABC, Eskom and the Constitutional Court, the outspoken comments by ANCYL head Julius Malema, Mbeki and Aids, Zuma and Aids, Zuma and children, attacks on immigrants, corruption at all levels and the psychotic violence that seems quite particular to South African crime. We’ll rob you, and then kill you. That did not prepare me for the culture shock (I think that’s what it must be) that I am feeling.

While I feel some trepidation I think it has more to do with the nerves of a new beginning as opposed to any intrinsic fear about being here. Certainly not fear. I have been met with helpful, relaxed people at every turn, and even though steam-driven internet connections and traffic chaos can cause frustration, those are not big hassles compared to what millions of other people deal with every day. A friend phoned me a few days after we arrived and asked with a smile in his voice if I had been robbed yet. Not yet.

Things are happening. There is a buzz about 2010. Perhaps not a buzz so much as the steady rumble of construction vehicles as contractors rush to complete infrastructure improvements for the big event. All major roads around Jozie are being widened and re-furbished, a new fast bus service will be introduced and an n urban rail link between Pretoria, OR Tambo airport and Jozie is due for completion two weeks into the World Cup. The contractors offered to have the project complete on schedule for a fee of half a billion rand and the government politely said no.

Nelson's last hurrah. I hope he makes it to the opening. Sepp Blatter must be doing all in his power to make that happen. For his, not Mandela’s sake of course.

It works
I am now proceeding on a number of necessary bureaucratic avenues. Applying for a phone bill, opening a bank account and checking my tax status. The phone is sorted but I had to pay a R700 deposit on the ADSL line because Telkom had an outstanding phone bill on record from 1998. I didn’t realise I had left for Sweden in such a hurry but at the same time I was heartened by the fact that I was on record and that the system worked. The process went remarkably smoothly, helped by the banter between customers, young and old, black and white as we waited our turn and the charming young lady behind the counter who was both polite and helpful two traits one does not normally associate with bureaucrats. I insisted on paying the outstanding account even though it had been written off. Don’t want any hassles with the bank. I will call the tax people tomorrow to check on tax status. And then there is the Department of Home Affairs. The website has been down for some time but I hope to get a number and make an appointment for Kajsa and me before she jets off again on another tour.

It is interesting that many of the people I have met in the last week, both friends and friends of friends have had good words to say about Telkom, Home Affairs or SARS. Things like the phone should be connected as promised in one to two weeks and that SARS are doing sterling work against tax avoidance and corruption. Also, despite complaints about lazy and corrupt police, none of my friends, or rather not as many as in the past, now drive drunk, a tradition inherited from our youth. They all take a taxi now. That has got to mean something.

Party on
Today, after a weekend out on the farm I returned to our cavernous and still rather empty apartment in Killarney to be greeted by headlines of riots at Diepsloot, a shack settlement that I had driven past the previous evening, on my way to see Eddie Izzard live. Eddie is in South Africa doing gigs for 46664, Nelson Mandela’s Aids charity, bless his heart. I laughed my head off as did the thousands of people who attended. I think we even made eye contact at one point because I had got one of his obscure rambling comments. At least I like to think so.

The guy sitting in front of me, according to my sister is one of Nelson’s grand-children, arrived late and at one point took a photo with his mobile phone. Taboo. There had been an announcement pre-show. I leant forward just to tip him off that he might get into trouble. Anna thought I was over-reacting and told him I had just landed from Sweden, a country where people tend to follow the rules, something I think, despite my anti-authoritarian streak, is not such a bad thing. I was heartened when a few minutes later an usher came by and told the fellow to turn off his phone.

Statistik och svensk okunskap i Sydafrika

“When I was a young child in rural Lesotho, my elders often warned me to be careful of barking dogs.

This was not, as you might expect, because barking dogs could become dangerous, could attack or even savage children in the fields and villages. It was because of the importance of interpreting what the barking of dogs signified.

This explanation was usually accompanied by a story. Dogs in the fields often slept among the haystacks to keep warm. When they barked, some villagers immediately assumed that there were thieves in their midst, attempting to steal cattle. Others assumed the dogs were barking at cattle moving between the haystacks.

A third group suspected that the dogs were barking because their warm environment was threatened by some intrusion – cattle or people or even other dogs.”

Så börjar nyhetsbrevet från sydafrikanska Statistiska Centralbyrån och redaktören fortsätter med att beskriva hur även statistiker använder olika data och uppgifter som tecken på fenomen eller pågående utveckling. Till exempel det månatliga konsumentprisindex som är ett tecken på utvecklingen av priser och på många andra marknadsförhållanden.

Jag anstränger mig för att tänka så när 68-åriga Anna-Stina från Simrishamn jämför den svarta servitören Clarence vid en hund. Jag hoppas att hennes uttalande ska vara ett tecken på något annat än vad det först låter som.

– Jag pratar med honom på svenska! Han förstår inte ordens betydelse, men han förstår intonationen, det är ungefär som att prata med en hund!

Att hon uttrycker sig grovt och rasistiskt verkar inte föresväva henne en sekund. Jag blir väldigt upprörd, biter mig i tungan och vet inte riktigt vad jag ska säga. Jag hoppas och tror att hon säger som hon gör på grund av okunskap och ren dumhet, inte på grund av medveten illvilja och förakt gentemot Clarence.

Anna-Stina är inte ensam om att bete sig som om kunskaper om det svenska språket och svensk mentalitet är något man föds med, något som är standard och rättesnöre för mänskligt beteende. Att växa upp i ett välmående västland med allt vad det innebär verkar också vara något som Anna-Stina och hennes reskamrater tar för givet.

Vi är ute på safari i ett sydafrikanskt viltreservat i norra Sydafrika och sista dagen på resan tar jag med dem till Soweto.

– Vore det inte bättre om man byggde riktiga hus här, säger en byggnadssnickare från Eslöv och pekar med hela handen på den delen av kåkstaden som kallas ”informal settlement”, eller informell bebyggelse på svenska. Det liknar mer ett skrotupplag än en jättestor samling skjul där det bor tusentals människor, många av dem flyktingar.

Visst har han rätt, men det är ändå höjden av okunskap och dumhet att uttrycka sig så. Som om de som bor bland korrigerad plåt och brädlappar inte fattat att det är bättre att bo i riktiga hus med rent vatten och avlopp.

Men det är ju jag som är guide och reseledare och jag har kanske ett ansvar att förklara hur det ligger till i världen, också för välutbildade svenskar. Så jag håller en liten föreläsning om levnadsförhållanden och levnadsstandarder i olika delar av världen, men jag upphör inte att förvånas över hur lite människor i Sverige vet om hur majoriteten av jordens befolkning faktiskt har det.

(Kajsa skrev texten efter ett uppdrag i Sydafrika, våren 2006.)

Sydafrikansk färglära och en kort historielektion

Jorden utanför Durban är mörkt roströd av järnoxid och den tropiskaväxtligheten är klädd i mustiga gröna och röda färger.

Vi åker inåt landet i nordvästlig riktning, mot Drakensbergen, och snart börjar jorden och kullarna skifta i terracotta och guldgult.

När vi når naturreservatet Golden Gate skimrar det av alla tänkbara gyllenenyanser. De mjukt formade bergen består framförallt av sandsten someroderats av vatten och vind till fascinerande skapelser.

Sydafrika kallas ibland för Regnbågsnationen och det anspelar både på medborgarnas etniska hemvist och på naturens färgskiftningar. En resa genom landet blir både en snabbkurs i botanik och geologi samt en kort historielektion.

Utanför Howick, nordväst om Durban, stoppades en bil i augusti 1962 av polisen. I bilen satt den efterlyste Nelson Mandela förklädd tillchaufför och han dömdes till livstidsstraff av apartheid-regimen ett år senare och blev inte frigiven förrän 1990.

Vidare norrut passerar vi flera viktiga platser i Sydafrikas bitvis blodiga historia: belägringen av Ladysmith, Slaget vid Spioenkop, Zuluernas seger över britterna vid Isandlwana, för att nämna någrahändelser.

En av orsakerna till boerkrigen 1899-1902 mellan holländska ochbrittiska invandrare var upptäckten av guld och diamanter i områdensom både boer/holländare och britter ville ha kontroll över ochstrider bröt ut på flera platser.

Ladysmith belägrades av boerna under flera månader och den brittiske generalen ansåg den intilliggande kullen Spioenkop vara av avgörande betydelse för att bryta belägringen.

Britterna lyckades ta Spioenkop från en handfull boer, tack vare förstärkningar beordrade fram av en ung Winston Churchill, men förlusterna var stora: 1 340 döda och sårade britter, samt 1000 tillfångatagna, jämfört med endast 230 döda och sårade boer.

Mahatma Gandhis volontärstyrka av bårbärare gjorde en extraordinär insats och räddade många brittiska soldater.

Belägringen av Ladysmith upphörde en månad senare. Ett stort antal britter kom från Liverpool och än i dag kallas en av kortsidorna på Liverpools fotbollsstadion för The Kop, efter slaget vid Spioenkop.

Vi åker vidare runt Lesotho och passerar flera orter där själva namnet får en att fundera i historiska termer: Windsor, Marseille, Rouxville, Zastron, Ficksburg och floden Carlson.

Vi passerar också QwaQwa (ersätt Q med ett klickljud och försök uttala det), ett mycket fattigt och kargt så kallat hemland som anlades i början av 1980-talet. Hit tvångsförflyttades cirka 200 000 människor ur Sotho-befolkningen, utan förutsättningar till jordbruk eller andra försörjningsmöjligheter.

När vi kommer in i provinsen Fristaten blir bergskammarna spetsigare och färgerna dovare: snusbrunt, grått och mörklila. Vi är uppe på cirka 2 000 meter över havet och bergssluttningarna är täckta av proteor, watsonia-liljor och vilda ljusrosa pelargoner, stora som vinbärsbuskar.

På gränsen till Östra Kapprovinsen och Fristaten ligger orten Aliwal North, känd för sina mineralrika bad och källor. Här finns också ett minnesmärke över de drygt 700 boer, endast kvinnor och barn, som dog i det lokala brittiska koncentrationslägret.

Under boerkrigen internerades cirka 200 000 boerkvinnor och -barn i koncentrationsläger, vilket var en brittisk uppfinning. Mer än 26 000 personer dog i lägren, de allra flesta barn. Det fanns också brittiska koncentrationsläger för svarta under samma tid: av cirka 80 000 internerade dog 14 000.

När vi kommer in i Västra Kapprovinsen liknar landskapet södra Spanien. Här finns torra områden som befolkas av betande får och strutsar, och bördiga dalar där det odlas oliver, vindruvor och aprikoser.

Vi stannar till hos goda vänner i Calitzdorp och på kvällen äter vi kött från området som är helt otroligt mört. Det är nästan som att skära i kokt potatis. Vi fortsätter söderut och strax breder vetefälten ut sig. Skörden är i full gång och allt täcks av ett gulvitt damm.

Vi passerar Suurbraak,en av de få orter varifrån vita tvingades flytta när Group Areas Act infördes i början av 50-talet, efter Nationalpartiets seger 1948. Lagen förbjöd olika etniska grupper att bo i samma områden.

Målet för vår resa är Stanford, en liten by 25 mil öster om Kapstaden där vi ska stanna i sex veckor. När vi kommer fram åker vi ner och sätter oss på klipporna och ser ut över den blågröna Indiska Oceanen.

Inom loppet av 20 minuter ser vi inte mindre än sex stycken södra rätvalar, tre honor och tre kalvar som simmar omkring två och två.Valkalvar behöver upp emot 600 liter mjölk om dagen när de diar, så det gäller att hålla sig nära mamma.

(Kajsa skrev texten 2004.)