The South is a strange place to most people, but if you come from there, it’s like home. Not, like Rosettenville, more Oakdene, Bassonia. Me and my mates all still stay there. We grew up together, and we still there.
There’s houses in Glen Vista that are about R900 000 for a two-bedroom townhouse. That’s not cheap, hey. It’s the same as Bedfordview, boet.
But we all still there. We can just call each other up and braai. It’s not like the one oke’s staying Honeydew and the other guy’s in Illovo or whatever. We all still there where we went to school. I’m renting a place in Mondeor… It’s lekker in the South. It’s probably a bit like the Eastern Cape. Okes are genuine, you know what I mean?
We all used to play roller-hockey together. There in the parking lot of The Glen shopping centre. And we still all staying there near each other.
It’s just… Yussie, that commute’s killing me. You know, boet, I leave at seven on the dot to get here by nine. And if I’m five minutes late, you can add another half hour to that. Two and a half hours, boet! Just to get to Sandton!
It’s a joke, man.
But I’m 26 now and I always said I wanna have lighties before I’m thirty. It’d be lekker to be able to play with my lighties. Even my grandkids. My one mate’s grandpa even comes and plays seven-a-side football with us sometimes. It’s lekker, that. The guy’s in his sixties, but he can play football with his grandson.
I’ve just gotta propose some time this year. Then we got two years to hang out, and we can have kids before I’m thirty.
She’s just started working here in Sandton, so I’m waiting for her to crack. I’m saying nothing. It’s been three weeks so far, but I can check she’s getting moeg. That commute’s starting to get to her. Two hours to Sandton. Two hours back. I’m just waiting for her to suggest that we buy a place here in the north.
And then it’s on. We get a place in, like, Parkmore. Have you checked that place? It’s not so steep. It’s about a mil and a half for a three-bed place. And close to Sandton, boet. Five minutes!
I’ve always said, I must have my own house when I get married. You know what I mean? You can’t bring your wife home to a rented flat. I scheme by the time we got a place here in Sandton, I’ll propose.
Kim, Her name’s Kim. Also from the South. I’m a proper South boytjie, boet. But it’s time for a oke to get serious now. You know what I mean?
It’s time to settle down now.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Earthworms versus the Internet!
There these worms! All my life I’ve known they’re there, in the Ciskei. That’s all the Ciskei represents to me, except prickly pears, and massive, massive, enormously long earthworms.
I’ve heard they grow up to seven metres long. And they live in the soil around Debe Nek. There’s an area called the Kommetjie Flats that consists of metre-wide, disc-shaped depressions that are the casts of the microchaetus worms.
Microchaetus worms!
I’ve always known they were there! What do these things look like? Seven metres! That’s 23 feet! They must be like the worms from Dune! Ploughing through the soil, devouring everything in their way!
Or perhaps they’re not, maybe they’re never seen! Always hidden beneath the earth! Gorging away beneath our feet on… on… What do earthworms eat? Dirt? And then creating fertilised soil! Exactly like the worms from Dune! And the length of a pantechnicon truck! These worms must be awesome!
I’ve always known about these earthworms, but I had to find out more! I phoned the Rhodes Zoology and Entomology department to enquire about microchaetus microchaetus, but they were probably all on holiday already. I left a message.
Then I turned to the internet! I typed in “longest earthworms in the world” and guess what came up? The Giant Gyppsland earthworm! Megascolides australis! Not microchaetus! And it says here, “they can reach three metres in length”.
Only three! Meanwhile I’ve known all my life that the Ciskei earthworm reaches seven metres. And you can hardly find that info anywhere on the internet.
For that I blame David Attenborough. He did a nature doccie on the Giant Gippsland, and now that vid is all over YouTube with the tag “World’s Largest Earth Worm”. Meanwhile it’s not!
“Those gurgling noises, believe it or not, are being made by giant earthworms, as they squelch along their water-filled burrows…”
Attenborough never says the Gippsland is the biggest earthworm, but somehow that assertion has been made, and it’s come to dominate the web. Wiki answers says “The world’s largest earthworms are in Australia, particularly Tasmania. Meanwhile Gippsland is in Victoria.
Something just doesn’t feel right. At this point, my only source of information is the internet, but steadily, Microchaetus microchaetus, the enormous Ciskei earthworm, is eroding my faith in the accuracy of the world-wide web.
But what is fact these days, if not what Wikipedia says is true? The Giant Gippsland has a two-screen page on Wiki, while microchaetus only rates a stub. Our East Cape worm has been done a disservice by the hegemony of the all-determining internet.
Megascolides australis returns 7 000 internet searches, and microchaetus half that! Is it because Australia is a first world country?
Our worm, which is clearly longer, has been marginalized by an inferior worm that simply has a better PR strategy!
I’m still waiting for Rhodes to call me back, but I’m pretty sure ours is longer. Unfortunately, with worms living below the earth and all, we’ll never know for sure. But I know what I believe, and I’m certainly not taking the internet’s word for it.
I’ve heard they grow up to seven metres long. And they live in the soil around Debe Nek. There’s an area called the Kommetjie Flats that consists of metre-wide, disc-shaped depressions that are the casts of the microchaetus worms.
Microchaetus worms!
I’ve always known they were there! What do these things look like? Seven metres! That’s 23 feet! They must be like the worms from Dune! Ploughing through the soil, devouring everything in their way!
Or perhaps they’re not, maybe they’re never seen! Always hidden beneath the earth! Gorging away beneath our feet on… on… What do earthworms eat? Dirt? And then creating fertilised soil! Exactly like the worms from Dune! And the length of a pantechnicon truck! These worms must be awesome!
I’ve always known about these earthworms, but I had to find out more! I phoned the Rhodes Zoology and Entomology department to enquire about microchaetus microchaetus, but they were probably all on holiday already. I left a message.
Then I turned to the internet! I typed in “longest earthworms in the world” and guess what came up? The Giant Gyppsland earthworm! Megascolides australis! Not microchaetus! And it says here, “they can reach three metres in length”.
Only three! Meanwhile I’ve known all my life that the Ciskei earthworm reaches seven metres. And you can hardly find that info anywhere on the internet.
For that I blame David Attenborough. He did a nature doccie on the Giant Gippsland, and now that vid is all over YouTube with the tag “World’s Largest Earth Worm”. Meanwhile it’s not!
“Those gurgling noises, believe it or not, are being made by giant earthworms, as they squelch along their water-filled burrows…”
Attenborough never says the Gippsland is the biggest earthworm, but somehow that assertion has been made, and it’s come to dominate the web. Wiki answers says “The world’s largest earthworms are in Australia, particularly Tasmania. Meanwhile Gippsland is in Victoria.
Something just doesn’t feel right. At this point, my only source of information is the internet, but steadily, Microchaetus microchaetus, the enormous Ciskei earthworm, is eroding my faith in the accuracy of the world-wide web.
But what is fact these days, if not what Wikipedia says is true? The Giant Gippsland has a two-screen page on Wiki, while microchaetus only rates a stub. Our East Cape worm has been done a disservice by the hegemony of the all-determining internet.
Megascolides australis returns 7 000 internet searches, and microchaetus half that! Is it because Australia is a first world country?
Our worm, which is clearly longer, has been marginalized by an inferior worm that simply has a better PR strategy!
I’m still waiting for Rhodes to call me back, but I’m pretty sure ours is longer. Unfortunately, with worms living below the earth and all, we’ll never know for sure. But I know what I believe, and I’m certainly not taking the internet’s word for it.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
When the memories come out to play…
“There aren’t many Pirates fans in PE,” says Xolisa, gesturing to the expanse of
Zanzibar, which, on match days is packed with punters.
Just then a guy walks into the bar wearing a Pirates shirt. It’s Baby’s old mate
Trevor. He’s known. He’s a successful guy.
Just as we’re saying howzit, Fred’s like, “Bob Kernohan’s next door at Café
Blend!”
We pop outside and there’s Bob, having a tramezzini. He’s the guy who taught
me the ropes. Taught me sub-editing, which to this day is about the only useful skill I
have.
Nelson Mandela Bay tourism are taking us on a tour of the Bay, even though
we’re from there. We’re tourists in our own city.
And that’s the old Farmers Home hotel. Where Hally had to go fetch his drunk
father in Athol Fugard’s Master Harold & The Boys. Tourism should start an Athol
Fugard tour, they really should.
They could go visit the Donkin, Bob says, there where Hally and Sam went
and flew the kite, that time in the play.
That’s where we’re headed next, The Donkin. It’s just down the road, we can
walk it. And as we’re doing so, just there, outside the old Wu’s café, a bakkie hoots at
us and stops.
It’s Steve! Shabba Schultz! From the old days. He’s on a work mission, but he
stops and we have a lekker catch-up, there in the middle of Parliament Street.
Steve’s in flooring, but he’s still jamming, still rocking the bass like back in the
day. He’s busy with an awesome contract out at Kromme. So lekker to check him
again… “Have I still got your number?”
The rain is coming back, and in the meantime, the peeps are waiting for us
there at the Donkin. There where they’ve put up that awesome artwork with the
pipes. It looks like a pipe organ that melted in the sun.
There opposite Donkin Terrace, where there was a Vodacom agency once.
There where me and Jerome bumped each other the one time. Near the old Grey
Institute where Robbie used to work.
Next to the Edward Hotel, where I made my modelling debut in the old
Images 2000 competition. Across the road from the old Up The Khyber where we
played pool with Rodriquez after his show at UPE.
At the same intersection with the Grand Gardens hotel, where Napalm Death
played that time, where I went and played pool with my old man and we checked
Sandon and Jules.
Up the road from the Opera House where I got hypnotized by Max Collie. He
made me passionately kiss the lady next to me. And I was only 15. She was in her
twenties. It was a good time to get hypnotized.
And it’s a good time to be a tourist in your own town. When you’re from a
town as full of memories as this, coming home is magical.
Even on a rainy day. The weather is atrocious, but somehow it brings the
memories out.
Zanzibar, which, on match days is packed with punters.
Just then a guy walks into the bar wearing a Pirates shirt. It’s Baby’s old mate
Trevor. He’s known. He’s a successful guy.
Just as we’re saying howzit, Fred’s like, “Bob Kernohan’s next door at Café
Blend!”
We pop outside and there’s Bob, having a tramezzini. He’s the guy who taught
me the ropes. Taught me sub-editing, which to this day is about the only useful skill I
have.
Nelson Mandela Bay tourism are taking us on a tour of the Bay, even though
we’re from there. We’re tourists in our own city.
And that’s the old Farmers Home hotel. Where Hally had to go fetch his drunk
father in Athol Fugard’s Master Harold & The Boys. Tourism should start an Athol
Fugard tour, they really should.
They could go visit the Donkin, Bob says, there where Hally and Sam went
and flew the kite, that time in the play.
That’s where we’re headed next, The Donkin. It’s just down the road, we can
walk it. And as we’re doing so, just there, outside the old Wu’s café, a bakkie hoots at
us and stops.
It’s Steve! Shabba Schultz! From the old days. He’s on a work mission, but he
stops and we have a lekker catch-up, there in the middle of Parliament Street.
Steve’s in flooring, but he’s still jamming, still rocking the bass like back in the
day. He’s busy with an awesome contract out at Kromme. So lekker to check him
again… “Have I still got your number?”
The rain is coming back, and in the meantime, the peeps are waiting for us
there at the Donkin. There where they’ve put up that awesome artwork with the
pipes. It looks like a pipe organ that melted in the sun.
There opposite Donkin Terrace, where there was a Vodacom agency once.
There where me and Jerome bumped each other the one time. Near the old Grey
Institute where Robbie used to work.
Next to the Edward Hotel, where I made my modelling debut in the old
Images 2000 competition. Across the road from the old Up The Khyber where we
played pool with Rodriquez after his show at UPE.
At the same intersection with the Grand Gardens hotel, where Napalm Death
played that time, where I went and played pool with my old man and we checked
Sandon and Jules.
Up the road from the Opera House where I got hypnotized by Max Collie. He
made me passionately kiss the lady next to me. And I was only 15. She was in her
twenties. It was a good time to get hypnotized.
And it’s a good time to be a tourist in your own town. When you’re from a
town as full of memories as this, coming home is magical.
Even on a rainy day. The weather is atrocious, but somehow it brings the
memories out.
When the last press falls silent, let there still be a Press!
Media migration, they call it. It’s the trend of media consumers (that’s you) to get
their information and entertainment from new sources.
By and large, this trend means people these days are consuming less print
media, and more online content. All of which makes for pretty gloomy times if you’re
working in the print media.
Print are not taking this lying down, of course. We’ve all established excellent
online platforms, websites, mobile sites, iPhone apps and all the rest.
But when we do so we’re competing against every blog in the universe, each
nimbly run by a handful of people. Meanwhile established media groups are large,
clumsy, slow to change and rooted in traditions of paper technology which are
gradually becoming less relevant.
At a recent conference I attended the “new media” crew (they seem reluctant
to be called journalists) gloated over the imminent demise of print media and
trumpeted the success of their web platforms.
What web 2.0 does with news, is give the audience the opportunity to express
themselves, debate stories and issues with each other using the
ubiquitous “comment” functionality. One web editor described her role as being
a “conversation shepherd” in that she steers the debates that arise after the initial
posting of a “seed story”.
The problem with this trend, though, is that it elevates opinion above
impartial reporting.
Sure, it’s great that everyone can chip in their ten cents’ worth, that there are
now multiple channels of communication and that the audience are now no longer
passive recipients of media content.
But where is the reasoned argument? The deep, investigative reporting? Is it
in the comments section below the stories? Hell no! In the Twitter updates? The
Facebook status updates? Hardly. The blogosphere?
No, it’s not. In empowering all of us to publish our views, digital media are
killing the tradition of responsible publishing.
People can pretty much say whatever they want online, and there’s no
censure. Chances of you being able to sue someone calling themselves zigs_11 in a
comments post are slim.
The old newspaper tradition of balanced reporting, of featuring both sides of
a dispute is vitally important, though, and it must not be allowed to die. To say
nothing of our role as social policeman who can hold public and private entities to
account.
There is also an equalizing quality to third-person perspective. When A and B
are having an argument, the best person to write about it is not A or B, but someone
else, perhaps C.
So even when the newspaper press finally grinds to a halt, I hope that news
organisations will live on. They are custodians of several centuries of reporting tradition. The skills and ethics of the best kind of journalism are more vital now than
ever before.
By all means let the people rant. Let everyone’s opinion be heard. Let flame
wars rage in the comments section below every YouTube post. Let the websurfers
insult each other to their hearts’ content. Let LOLs and ROFLs and emoticons
resound across the digisphere.
But when we need someone to actually tell us what’s going on in the world.
Please let there still be some decent reporters around.
their information and entertainment from new sources.
By and large, this trend means people these days are consuming less print
media, and more online content. All of which makes for pretty gloomy times if you’re
working in the print media.
Print are not taking this lying down, of course. We’ve all established excellent
online platforms, websites, mobile sites, iPhone apps and all the rest.
But when we do so we’re competing against every blog in the universe, each
nimbly run by a handful of people. Meanwhile established media groups are large,
clumsy, slow to change and rooted in traditions of paper technology which are
gradually becoming less relevant.
At a recent conference I attended the “new media” crew (they seem reluctant
to be called journalists) gloated over the imminent demise of print media and
trumpeted the success of their web platforms.
What web 2.0 does with news, is give the audience the opportunity to express
themselves, debate stories and issues with each other using the
ubiquitous “comment” functionality. One web editor described her role as being
a “conversation shepherd” in that she steers the debates that arise after the initial
posting of a “seed story”.
The problem with this trend, though, is that it elevates opinion above
impartial reporting.
Sure, it’s great that everyone can chip in their ten cents’ worth, that there are
now multiple channels of communication and that the audience are now no longer
passive recipients of media content.
But where is the reasoned argument? The deep, investigative reporting? Is it
in the comments section below the stories? Hell no! In the Twitter updates? The
Facebook status updates? Hardly. The blogosphere?
No, it’s not. In empowering all of us to publish our views, digital media are
killing the tradition of responsible publishing.
People can pretty much say whatever they want online, and there’s no
censure. Chances of you being able to sue someone calling themselves zigs_11 in a
comments post are slim.
The old newspaper tradition of balanced reporting, of featuring both sides of
a dispute is vitally important, though, and it must not be allowed to die. To say
nothing of our role as social policeman who can hold public and private entities to
account.
There is also an equalizing quality to third-person perspective. When A and B
are having an argument, the best person to write about it is not A or B, but someone
else, perhaps C.
So even when the newspaper press finally grinds to a halt, I hope that news
organisations will live on. They are custodians of several centuries of reporting tradition. The skills and ethics of the best kind of journalism are more vital now than
ever before.
By all means let the people rant. Let everyone’s opinion be heard. Let flame
wars rage in the comments section below every YouTube post. Let the websurfers
insult each other to their hearts’ content. Let LOLs and ROFLs and emoticons
resound across the digisphere.
But when we need someone to actually tell us what’s going on in the world.
Please let there still be some decent reporters around.
Scammed! Or maybe not! It was kinda hard to tell…
“I’m sorry. It seems you gave me four hundred and ten rand instead of five hundred.”
And the waiter proffers the five notes we ostensibly given him a minute ago. Or did we? It’s five past one in the morning, we’ve been out since about 8pm, when we left for the Greek restaurant.
I had the peri-peri spatchcock chicken, as I do. And the Stella Artois draught. One of the few places that do it. And they do a perfectly serviceably cheesecake. And a cappuccino that skriks for min, which gives you the urge to stick around for perhaps one more of those Stellas.
Flushed with the joie de vivre and camaraderie of a successful dinner, we stroll out of the Greek and find we’re still in the mood for socialising. As luck would have it, there’s a restaurant right next door. There was a function on earlier, but it seems to be over.
Do they have room for us? Indeed they do…
After a couple of beers, you feel like moving on to whiskies. Shoo! Expensive whiskies! Four-twenty bucks for a couple of rounds? Well, there are four of us, and we did have two rounds, so maybe it’s possible.
I paid with a card downstairs, so I’ve still got cash on me. Five hundred. Hey, what the hell, keep the change. We’re feeling prodigal tonight.
And now this! I didn’t give him five hundred, I gave him four-ten! He expects me to believe I mistook a R10 note for a R100. As if I would! In this orange light!
I mean, it’s possible, but I honestly don’t think I did. Still, there’s no way to prove it. I hand over another hundie.
“There you go. One hundred rand note,” I tell him sarcastically. “Please bring me my change.”
Still unsure whether I’ve been scammed or not, I’m not sure what to tip him. The original eighty I was gonna give him? Or a token twenty? If he isn’t ripping me, then that would be rude, but if he is ripping me, he gets a wicked R100 on a R410 bill.
I’m getting a maths headache just thinking about it. And I feel scammed, whether I have been or not! Plus, they served us whisky that tasted like dishwater.
So far, so mundane. Man gets a bit pissed, gets his sums wrong at a bar. But then! A week later, the same thing happens to my wife’s mate at another restaurant. Sorry, you gave me the wrong notes. Look, two hundreds and a ten. You owe me another hundred.
Did I?
Forget credit-card fraud. Now the guys are committing note-switching cash fraud. So how are you supposed to pay for your stuff?
Take a cameraphone photo of your notes before you hand them over? Write down the serial numbers? Ask for a receipt there at the table? Do an internet transfer?
I haven’t quite decided. But in the meantime, there are a couple of venues that aren’t seeing my face again.
And the waiter proffers the five notes we ostensibly given him a minute ago. Or did we? It’s five past one in the morning, we’ve been out since about 8pm, when we left for the Greek restaurant.
I had the peri-peri spatchcock chicken, as I do. And the Stella Artois draught. One of the few places that do it. And they do a perfectly serviceably cheesecake. And a cappuccino that skriks for min, which gives you the urge to stick around for perhaps one more of those Stellas.
Flushed with the joie de vivre and camaraderie of a successful dinner, we stroll out of the Greek and find we’re still in the mood for socialising. As luck would have it, there’s a restaurant right next door. There was a function on earlier, but it seems to be over.
Do they have room for us? Indeed they do…
After a couple of beers, you feel like moving on to whiskies. Shoo! Expensive whiskies! Four-twenty bucks for a couple of rounds? Well, there are four of us, and we did have two rounds, so maybe it’s possible.
I paid with a card downstairs, so I’ve still got cash on me. Five hundred. Hey, what the hell, keep the change. We’re feeling prodigal tonight.
And now this! I didn’t give him five hundred, I gave him four-ten! He expects me to believe I mistook a R10 note for a R100. As if I would! In this orange light!
I mean, it’s possible, but I honestly don’t think I did. Still, there’s no way to prove it. I hand over another hundie.
“There you go. One hundred rand note,” I tell him sarcastically. “Please bring me my change.”
Still unsure whether I’ve been scammed or not, I’m not sure what to tip him. The original eighty I was gonna give him? Or a token twenty? If he isn’t ripping me, then that would be rude, but if he is ripping me, he gets a wicked R100 on a R410 bill.
I’m getting a maths headache just thinking about it. And I feel scammed, whether I have been or not! Plus, they served us whisky that tasted like dishwater.
So far, so mundane. Man gets a bit pissed, gets his sums wrong at a bar. But then! A week later, the same thing happens to my wife’s mate at another restaurant. Sorry, you gave me the wrong notes. Look, two hundreds and a ten. You owe me another hundred.
Did I?
Forget credit-card fraud. Now the guys are committing note-switching cash fraud. So how are you supposed to pay for your stuff?
Take a cameraphone photo of your notes before you hand them over? Write down the serial numbers? Ask for a receipt there at the table? Do an internet transfer?
I haven’t quite decided. But in the meantime, there are a couple of venues that aren’t seeing my face again.
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