Searching for Sugarman

It's the end of another week and what a tough week it's been! Sipping my coffee, listening to my newly downloaded Rodriguez (I'm loving the fact that South Africa can FINALLY purchase music on iTunes) I'm waiting for the calm to end before the next storm hits. And it will in a few hours when the board results are released. But for now it's headphones in and music on...

It always amazes me, although I'm not sure why, how much music can calm / change my mood. Hearing the cracks on the 1971 recording on the Coldfact album can only but make me happy - there are imperfections in even the most beautiful and perfect things. And they are better for them. They are unique for them. They are what they are.

On Sunday I'll be waiting in baited breath to see if the documentary Searching for Sugar Man receives the recognition it deserves at the Oscars. In a era of performers it will be awesome to see a true artist be recognised for his craft - a recognition he has, until recently, never been privy to, despite his popularity in our country. His story teaches us to do what we love and do it well, without needing positive reinforcement from others.

Lyrics to "Cause" - by Sixto Rodriguez

Cause I lost my job two weeks before Christmas
And I talked to Jesus at the sewer
And the Pope said it was none of his God-damned business
While the rain drank champagne

My Estonian Archangel came and got me wasted
Cause the sweetest kiss I ever got is the one I've never tasted
Oh but they'll take their bonus pay to Molly McDonald,
Neon ladies, beauty is that which obeys, is bought or borrowed

Cause my heart's become a crooked hotel full of rumours
But it's I who pays the rent for these fingered-face out-of-tuners
and I make 16 solid half hour friendships every evening

Cause your queen of hearts who is half a stone
And likes to laugh alone is always threatening you with leaving
Oh but they play those token games on Willy Thompson
And give a medal to replace the son of Mrs. Annie Johnson

Cause they told me everybody's got to pay their dues
And I explained that I had overpaid them
So overdued I went to the company store
and the clerk there said that they had just been invaded
So I set sail in a teardrop and escaped beneath the doorsill

Cause the smell of her perfume echoes in my head still
Cause I see my people trying to drown the sun
In weekends of whiskey sours
Cause how many times can you wake up in this comic book and plant flowers?

Stand up and lead

I've been given various leadership positions in my life: prefect, chapel steward, head of house (boarding school thing ) and more recently cell leader (church thing) but leadership has never been something that I've felt at ease with. I take it on because of a sense of duty and commitment, and I suppose with pride at having being asked to step up. But it's not something that has ever come naturally to me.

When I was given the "manager" title almost 3 years ago at work the transition was easy. Easy because I worked in a bubble with only myself to manage. I've since inherited a a very diverse team and discovered the challenges associated with being the new (and far less loved) replacement. To say that the 6 months since the transition have been rocky would be an understatement...how long is that Storming quadrent supposed to last again? Just when you think you've have successfully navigated the murky waters and moved into a somewhat norming state - boom, there it is...and you're right back to forming.

It's all very well to say stand up and lead, but how? I'm grappling with this question daily at the moment. Literally losing sleep over it. I don't enjoy conflict (who does) and I have no idea how to steer a group away from it, towards happier days. No text book can teach you this - this is the real class room that I've come to know.

What I have learned is that sometimes the mess up will be yours and you need to 'fess up and apologies (and I'm pretty good at that) but that there will also be times when your team messes up and you're the one held responsible for it, and again you need to take it and say sorry (I'm far less good at this one.) It's almost as if my pride doesn't want to allow me to be associated with misplaced blame...you see I've always been the goodie two-shoes who does my damdest not to mess up. Leaders are able to take the teams blame when it's needed and give up the credit to the team when it might not be wholely warranted.

I have learned that if there are 6 parties involved then there will be 12 versions of the truth. The version of the truth that each individual has and then the version of the truth that they are willing to admit to others. Prehaps even a third version of each persons truth depending on who has the listening ears.

What I've learnt is that I can't be everyone's friend...scrap that - I can't be anyone's friend. I can try to be kind, supportive, friendly but gone are the days are sharing personal stories or details of my life. I need to aim to be fair, consistent, solid, reliable. I'm failing (every day) at this because for so long my work was my life, my colleagues, my friends.

What lies ahead is sure to be a challenge but one I hope to look back on with gratitude (because I've grown and learnt from it) and relief (because its over!) but until then I keep calm and carry / struggle / learn on.

Tragic Take out Tuesday

Analysis: After the murder that shocked the country, a time for introspection

Reeva Steenkamp, a lively, well-liked young woman with a promising career, was allegedly killed by Oscar Pistorius on Valentine’s Day. It is a horrible, surreal story. The discovery that a national hero and global poster-boy for inspiration may also be a murderer is devastating. But we cannot allow Pistorius’s status to prejudice our response to what seems – based on scanty available evidence – like a gruesome act of domestic violence. If this is what it was, to downplay it would be to betray Anene Booysen and countless others.

By REBECCA DAVIS (courtesy of Daily Maverick)

Ahead of Pistorius’s court appearance on Friday, there are very few concrete facts about the shooting of Reeva Steenkamp in the public domain. We know that the shooting occurred in the early hours of Thursday morning, reportedly between 4:00 and 5:00. We know that Steenkamp was shot several times in the head and upper body. We know that neighbours reported hearing a disturbance before the shooting, and that police had previously been called to Pistorius’s house because of what police spokesperson Denise Beukes called “previous allegations of a domestic nature”.

Importantly, we know that it was a neighbour, and not Pistorius, who called the police to the scene after hearing shots ring out. We know that the police will oppose bail during Pistorius’s Friday hearing. Although it is apparently common practice for police to oppose bail in cases like this one, Beukes gave a hint that there might be something more to motivate their opposition. She told journalists: “One of the reasons we will be opposing bail will be disclosed when he appears.”

We may also assume that it is definite that it was Pistorius who killed her. Police are not pursuing other investigations. We are not clear where the story emerged that Pistorius had mistaken her for an intruder – a suggestion dismissed by Beukes. It may have been an assumption of the Beeld journalist who broke the story. It may have come from Pistorius himself, or it may have been suggested to journalists by someone with an interest in protecting Pistorius. Whatever the source, it played a critical role in directing how Steenkamp’s murder was initially framed: as an accidental shooting. Consequently, there was much initial sympathy directed towards Pistorius.

As the day progressed and facts were clarified by police in a way which strongly suggested an intentional shooting, this sympathy began to wane. Journalists began digging in Pistorius’s background, and unearthed a number of unsavoury incidents. There was the hissy-fit he threw after being beaten in the 200 metres at the Paralympic Games last year, which suggested a man capable of anger and resentment in a way that was quite at odds with his shiny public image. There was a boating accident on the Vaal River in 2009 in which it appeared likely that alcohol was involved. In the same year, there was a night in police custody after Pistorius was accused of assaulting a 19 year-old girl.

There was also the testimony of Pistorius’s ex-girlfriend Samantha Taylor, who told City Press last year that the athlete has a wandering eye. “Oscar is certainly not what people think he is,” Taylor said – a statement that seems eerily prescient in light of current events.

Last year a New York Times journalist spent time with Pistorius and reached some interesting conclusions. “Hanging out with Pistorius can be a great deal of fun,” wrote Michael Sokolove. “You also quickly understand that he is more than a little crazy.” Sokolove painted a picture of a man prone to recklessness – he reported that Pistorius drove at 250km/h. He also portrayed him as jittery and gun-crazy: Pistorius whipped him off to the shooting range upon hearing that the journalist had never shot a gun before. Tellingly, Sokolove wrote: “Suddenly, I felt like one of those characters in a movie who must be schooled on how to be more manly”.

Pistorius, on his Twitter account, boasted of his shooting prowess in November 2011, writing that he had spent the afternoon at the shooting range. “96% headshot over 300m from 50 shots! Bam!” Pistorius tweeted. The athlete, Sokolove concluded, had the disposition “of a person who believes himself to be royalty of a certain kind – a prince of the physical world.”

Sokolove’s piece (which was by no means universally negative) was unusual in presenting an even mildly negative account of Pistorius, because his standard media coverage has been so uniformly glowing. And how could it be otherwise? His is a tale of endurance and inspiration; a triumph in the face of adversity. Pistorius is a reminder not to be constrained by physical limits; to follow one’s dreams; to not take no for an answer. It is heady stuff. He has done more than anyone in history to raise the profile of both disabled athletes and the Paralympics. He has carried out extensive good works to improve the situation of other disabled people.

It is totally understandable that the media would canonise Pistorius in the face of this. When someone operates so successfully as a symbol for so long, who cares about the man himself? Pistorius was a good news story, which is why advertisers love him – he is visual shorthand for “inspiring”, a metaphor on blades. It doesn’t hurt that he is extremely good-looking. In South Africa, he has made us proud. At the Olympics, he put us on a global stage: one of our own done good. To be asked to give this up and replace it with a profoundly ugly narrative, one of violence and death, feels traumatic.

In South Africa, we find it hard to let go of heroes. Hansie Cronje was still voted the 11^th greatest South African of all time in 2004, despite having been disgraced and banned for life from professional cricket. And Hansie didn’t have half the inspirational cachet that Pistorius does. Sportsmen often get imbued with undeserved moral virtue – part of an aeons-old tendency to conflate physical prowess and external attractiveness with inner goodness.

In reality, though, they often do much to counter this perception. South African sportsmen have a particularly bad track record when it comes to violence against women. Cricketer Makhaya Ntini was found guilty of rape in 1999, though the conviction was overturned on appeal. Springbok Percy Montgomery spent a night in the lock-up in 2009, after his wife laid an assault charge against him, subsequently withdrawn. James Small, a 1995 World Cup winner, was outed as a wife-beater by the father of his former fiancée Christina Storm, who claimed to Fair Lady in 2001 that Small beat Storm “at least half a dozen times”. His compadre James Dalton also had his day in court in 2007, charged with having tried to drown his wife.

These incidents make news – unlike countless others – because of the public profile of the men involved. But there’s no sense that they are particularly career-limiting for the men involved. South Africa is famously sports-crazy, and the adulation meted out to successful sporting personalities seems to result in a high degree of immunity. Sportsmen are also prized on some level because they are the “manliest” men, in a country where aggressive, testosterone-driven masculinity is rewarded in arenas from schools to boardrooms to bedrooms.

Anene Booysen and Reeva Steenkamp lived very different lives. Steenkamp was well-off, professionally successful and from a stable home. None of those factors ultimately protected her from harm. Like Booysen, it would appear that she ended her life at the hands of a man she trusted.

In a terrible, poignant irony, Steenkamp had paid tribute to Booysen in an Instagram post earlier this month. “I woke up in a happy safe home this morning,” Steenkamp wrote. “Not everyone did. Speak out against the rape of individuals in SA. RIP Anene Booysen.”

In any other country in the world, a death like Steenkamp’s would provoke a vigorous national conversation about gun ownership. In South Africa, that’s unlikely to take place to any meaningful extent: too many citizens exist in a siege mentality, and too many people live in fear. But even if we’re not going to talk about guns, we have to keep talking about violence against women. We have to acknowledge that the problem pervades every echelon of South African society: that it touches the leafy estates of Pretoria as well as the construction sites of Bredasdorp. We have to work on developing alternative masculinities: ones that prize virtues other than being able to run the fastest or hit the hardest.

We have to do these things now. It is literally a matter of life and death. For Anene Booysen and Reeva Steenkamp, it’s too late. DM

Be Brave and Just BLOG IT

Being honest and vunerable is a very brave thing. I don't know about you all, but I often find it a lot easier to be honest about my emotions to complete strangers, in writting, than to those I know. When I started this blog, I just wanted a creative outlet - I didn't want anyone to know who I was, let alone have those around me read it. It took me a very long while to send my man the link to it and I still haven't told any other family or friends about it! I kind of like the idea of it being my little secret...My place to be me without the fear of reprise.

Why is it that we are so scared to open up and be vunerable to those around us? Prehaps it is that those around us don't truely know what goes on in our minds? I'd like to believe that one day, if my family and closest friends were to stumble across this page that they would know and understand the posts within the context of my life. There are however many "friends", or prehaps people better described as acquaintences, who would think I had multiple personalities!

When thinking this all through, I realised that, as the years tick over, I'm far less phased by what those around me think of me. This has forever been an issue that has plagued me and it's so empowering to be breaking free of it...slowly, but surely! I'm very happy to focus on the great group of close friends and family who know the real me than to be concerned over the views of others.

Am I ready to hit the "share blog" button on my Facebook page or even Twitter account yet - probably not. But then again, there are still plenty more years coming up to grow in confidence and in "who-gives-a-damn" attitude! Let's call being brave a work in progress.

Keep Calm and LOVE, South Africa

One of my very first blog entries was Keep Calm and Love South Africa. This time (prehaps aptly on Valentines Day) I'm putting the comma after love and before South Africa, because while we as South African's are all very good at loving our country, we aren't all very good at loving our fellow South African's (well at least not those who look different to ourselves.) We need to learn to LOVE. To love one another, to love our diversity, to love those who challenge the norm, to love the new things that we see on a daily basis.

Let me start by saying that it's taken me a long while to write this post. Even longer to post it. It's not only that heavy of a topic, but also something increadibly close to my heart...literally ;-)  Let me establish some facts up front:

- I LOVE this country

- I LOVE that not everyone is like some of the the people I decribe

- I LOVE a man that has a different skin colour to myself 

Back to the very beginning: I was born in 1982, into the height of the Apartheid era in South Africa and grew up in a small farming community in the Eastern Cape. I grew up initially attending our farms pre-primary school where I could play with my slightly older best friend, Veliswa and eat cheap digestive biscuits and drink warm milk fresh from the cow during break time each day. I learnt my nursery rhymes, numbers, days of the week, vowels, colours etc all in Xhosa.

At some stage and for reasons that I either can't recall or weren't explained to me at the time, I moved to the local English pre-primary school, where all my new friends were white and the quality of the tea time biscuits was slightly better. Around the same time my mom had to explain to me that Veliswa was no longer allowed to visit me in the afternoons to play, as her dad (who worked for my dad) now considered her grown up enough to help her mom cook in the afternoons. Her dad had also told her that the sea would "swallow her" if she went in it when she came to our beach house with us, but that another whole story! Our daily play dates ended and I was devastated.

Skip forward a few years and I remember the first black kids joining me at my "Model C" farm school. The parent body had taken a vote - Yes or No (as it was known back then) and they, collectively had decided to move with the times and allow non-white students into the school. Of course there were proviso's: the parent body had to hand select the students (and their parents) who "passed an interview." Enter Wendy, Elroy and Kiran...I still remember them all clearly. I was fascinated by them, because they weren't white like me, or black like Veliswa. Kiran and Elroy spoke Afrikaans - which, other than my obsession with American TV shows we were forced to watch in Afrikaans (unless simulcast on the radio) I had not heard before. Wendy spoke perfect English and perfect Xhosa.

My mom explained to me that Wendy's parents loved each other very much, but because of the rules that the government had put in place, they had not been allowed to get married before she was born as it would be illegal. I remember being sad for them, but also intrigued about how this all worked and how they were somehow "outsmarting" the system by having Wendy and only now being allowed to get married. The 30 minute drives to school, on horrible farm roads, undoubtably felt even longer for my mom as she patiently explained Apartheid's laws to me, her views on it all and how things would hopefully soon change.

They were my first exposure to a mixed race couple and I remember them both very clearly.

I want to say that I've always felt more comfortable with Black people, but prehaps that's too strong a statement. Generally, I find that I'm more accepted by people that I meet who are Black and as a result feel more comfortable around them. This being said, I was lucky in that I attended a boarding school where I was exposed to many cultures, races, languages and religions. Living side by side with people so different and yet so similar to yourself is a surefire way to open your eyes to just how alike we are and yet, appreciate the uniqueness that we all have.

 Fast forward a good few years and I find myself about to embark in a relationship after years of being single. Being the over-analyser that I am, I have a lot to think about: am I ready to open up again? Do I trust him? We're great friends but can I see this relationship being romantic? If I do, and this goes all the way, as I would want any relationship at this stage in my life do, am I ready to be in a mixed race relationship? I know my parent's views, but would this extend to me, their only daughter? Am I ready to have mixed race kids that won't look like me or have straight blonde hair?! I'm sure that you can imagine how busy my mind was for the week that I left my most amazing man stewing in anticipation over whether or not I'd reciprocate his now-voiced feelings. 

Ultimately there was no choice for me - I was too far down the road with him. I couldn't imagine my life without him in it. And deep down I knew that all the rest would be ok too. We were (and still are) so similar in so many ways that ran more than skin deep that I knew that the risk was well worth it. And anyway... I really do love cute dark kids with crazy afro's :-)

Fast forward a year and while driving home from our one year anniversary dinner, we turned on the radio and listened as Eusebius McKaiser (author of There's a Bantu in my Bathroom) asked the question on his evening talk show: can the number of mixed raced couples one sees nowadays in South Africa could be an indicator that we are moving past racial prejudices of the past?

The callers reponses were varied but generally positive. I'm not entirely sure that I agree. Yes - generally people are accepting if they know the couple or if they live in more "liberal" areas. What saddens me is that there are still people out there like the lady I encountered recently at a pub. Sitting at a table not even a metre away from me, she stared at me holding my man's hand discretely under the table, while telling her friend to look at us, claiming loudly "it's so disgusting." What I find disgusting is that she not only had these thoughts, but then voiced them...and loudly to boot! I tend not to be affected by the stares (because to be honest I stare at mixed raced couples too as I'm still intrigued by other people "like us") but hearing such narrow minded views trying to tarnish my love for someone based only on skin colour did hurt.

I've rewritten the account of this incident a few times now as the first couple of drafts were very angry and may or may not have included sentiments along the lines of : "Get with the times... or leave. Plenty others have and you are welcome to join them in Australia. This is a reality that you will not escape, a reality that will become even more present in your life as the years go on - prehaps even someone in your family (heaven help them!) will also find true love housed in a skin colour your don't approve of. But ultimately, this is a reality you won't escape so get with the programme ok?"

The reality is that we do all live here...and as much as I'd love to, I can't banish people like her to Australia (#joking!) I suppose that we just need to try and open the minds of those who share her views and foster a culture of acceptance and love in our societies.

One lady calling into Eusebius' show spoke of having been in a mixed race relationship for over 20 years and how those around her still notice the looks that her and her husband get, but she no longer does. I hope that it doesn't take me that long because I'm in this one for the long haul...

Home is where your Heart is

Lately, I've been longing for (/obsessing over) having my own home. I lived in the same farm house until I was 21, bought my first home at 23 (with the help of my parents of course) and then my second, with my brother (and again, the help of our parents) two years after that. They have always wanted stability and security for us, and undoubtably through them, I've come to associate "owning a home" as the same thing as having a home.

On moving to Cape Town two and a half years ago (time flies when you are having fun!) I felt more at home in this city (surrounded by friends like family to me) than anywhere else I'd lived. Despite firstly, the housemate from hell and now the letting agent from hell, this city in undoubtably home. What, for the past couple of weeks, has felt missing is the brinks and mortar to call my own...and the ability to put nails into them without the fear, trepidation and literal nightmares, of how I'll fix it when moving day comes.

I didn't at any stage stop to think of how others may view my current obsession. Perhaps insane to some that I'd find something material as such a source of comfort. Perhaps pressure at what exactly it entails (they don't come free after all) or perhaps the uncertainty of not wanting to put the cart before the house...I mean horse!

My man's aunt recently passed away and this got me thinking...is home not where the heart is (even in my small, but very comfortable, rented flat...with no outside area!?) Is having a place to call home more important than having a person to create a home with?

Every now and then a little perspective is good for the soul...and the sanity. The rest, as they say, will come.

Keep Calm - It's only your Birthday

February has always been a busy birthday month in my family and this past weekend was one filled with celebrations! My cousins daughter turned 1 and what a cake she had to celebrate the milestone with. Crafty peeps - check out the insane matchbox cake her mom and dad created for her (with flaming matches nog al!) Their logic - before all cakes need to be princess or mermaid related, do something odd and out there that she is not old enough to object too ;-)



Next up was my mans dirty fourth birthday celebrations. Not one for being in the spotlight, he declined the elaborate party I suggested and opted for a day with me! We took a drive to Elgin after ALL the presents were opened (when you can't think of 1 big gift to buy and you think that thinking of 34 small gifts will be easier...it probably won't!), for a spot of adventuring.



34 problems but a gift aint 1!



I never realized that such cool little spots were hidden just the other side of Sir Lowrys. Our first stop was for wine tasting at Almelkerk which had great views and even greater people tasting there that allowed us to join them for lots of laughs and some great wine.

After some shopping there (my wine rack is VERY empty at the moment you see!) we found, quite by accident, the most unique tasting spot I've ever been to. Winters Drift is situated in an old railway station which has been revamped to keep all its vintage charm while including clean, modern pieces. The wine was cheap, the hostess was cheerful and full of stories of growing up on a wine farm and I'm so pleased we stumbled across this hidden gem. (More pics of this stop will most definitely follow soon!)

Rib eye, Lemon Tart, Vintage Suitcases!



Next on the adventuring list was The Pool Room for lunch and what an awesome lunch we had! Despite the drizzle keeping us indoors, the setting was amazing, the food even better and the celeb spotting didn't disappoint (Schalk Burger was there celebrating a friends birthday with wife and very cute baby!)

And then it was time for the drive home - full, happy, wine rack replenished - what more can you ask for from a Sunday?!

Happy Friday (but happy Monday through Thursday too!)

Wow - it's been a super busy week at work and as a result it's been the happiest week at work that I've had in months! There is something about an active mind that just makes one generally happier. After spending some time recently with people who don't have to work (and don't have kids at home anymore - cause stay at home moms are a WHOLE different kettle of fish!) I have definitely decided that me staying home, doing nothing, all day, would not be a good idea (prior blogs will attest to this!) And so it's with an appreciate heart and soul that I leave the office this afternoon, happy to not only have had a Happy Friday, but also a Happy Monday through Thursday!

I'm super excited for this weekend as it is not only my cousins' 1 year olds bday (who doesn't love a kiddies party and gift shopping for them!) but it's also my man's birthday on Sunday :-) If there is one thing that I love more than giving gifts, it's a surprise adventure exploring new places on a special day. Needless to say (if it's to remain a surprise) I need to stop here and only tell you more on this next week. 

Happy Friday everyone :-)