Not so proudly South African

October 19 1977 – South Africa’s Apartheid government bans several local newspapers for publishing news articles about the beating and murder of Steve Biko at the hands of the police… the ANC protested this violently.

February 14 1994 -"A critical, independent and investigative press is the lifeblood of any democracy. The press must be free from state interference." - Nelson Mandela

November 22 2011 – South Africa’s ANC government passes the Protection of Information Bill allowing the incarceration (for up to 25 years) and banning of any journalist or entity that makes public information about the corrupt nature or actions of members of government.

Great Cities, London... Part II

My blog started off with an honest but positive account of the city I live in. I had then visited many, many cities, and in a rare moment of good humour in economy class, (this is an achievement in itself) just had one of those revelations that make you realise, shit, I have it good!

So I have visited many cities and have weirdly found myself comparing them, kinda like normal girls would do with ex-boyfriends... example: ah Shaun was great, good opportunities but no fun... I'm going... Singapore would be a great career move, but Dubai provides far more opportunities and is definitely more fun... oh dear, I'm comparing cities to exes... sigh! Hear me out -

So my NYR (otherwise known as a New Years Resolution) is to start sharing some of these experiences, both positive and negative... and to try identify that x-factor - you know that "thing" that makes a city great... that makes a city that even fashion conscious folks will proudly declare on a dodgy T-shirt that we love.

Just like Carrie was more about NYC than Big, perhaps I'm going to find the perfect city? And, just like Carrie, gonna have a whole lot of fun and pain exploring!

So I started thinking... why, do I, who travels so much, feel an instant affinity to some cities, and not to others? What makes a city great? What is the ... hmmm .. I dunno, the stuff that makes the cogs turn, inspires, creates genius and creativity, and well makes you want to come back again and again? That shit is gold!

So here would be Part II (I already did Dubai in my first blog, keep up people!)

London, ah London... heavy clouds, sleety streets. Slutty, sharp and vicious girls. Cute, mean and focused guys. Beautiful, chubby little babies with their hip and hot Dad in his ultra-cool, dropped jeans and hoodie and slinky, sexy white Mum in her topshop dress and fabulous shoes. Mixed couples, druggies, funksters, immigrants, new arrivals, tourists, the infamous "Poles", fat girls, gay boys, confident dykes, skinny girls, emos and fashionistas - all these bloody labels... oh, and lets not forget, those gorgeous, unruffled "lithe" creatures in Liberty...still... a city of life.

London is grey... so grey, so grey in fact, that nobody blinks when a "covered" muslim girl is hand-in-hand with a nice white boy from the 'burbs"... perhaps in the "xxxshire" where he was born they may be uncomfortable but, well, in London nobody really cares, but, mate, you stand on the wrong side of the escalator on the tube, and the Londoners may have an issue with you. London, like life, is tough, but if you understand the rules of engagement, you are home.

Its a city that thrives on self-belief. If you're strong enough to have a relationship that challenges your family, then honey, the city will welcome you. If you're tough enough to claw your way through the snooty public school established system and make something of yourself, well ... hats off to you 'ol mate - respect.

I love London. I love the irony, the humour, the refusal to allow globalization to eradicate the need for good manners, but completely allow the odd "fck you mate" when someone really peeves you off. A city of contradiction, talent and, well, a healthy sense of self and the freedom.. the freedom to just be.

Its tough, its gritty and, yet, has a weird sense of refinement. Perhaps, perhaps manners, respect of space and others, talent and ambition are the fundamentals that London, dare I say it, has actually got right?

I don't know really, would love to hear your opinions.. all I know, is that London has encouraged talent for more years than not, has created the high-street which has made fashion accessible to the young and keeps on reinventing itself... perhaps, what makes London so great is that it refuses to age appropriately? Or perhaps, its because I, who am admittedly narcisstic (what blogger isn't?) can confidently stomp around Selfridges and contemplate a pair of Tods, but still end up spending more on old school (aka pixies, beastie boys and bowie) Ts in Camden - But feel comfortable enough in both environments. I find it a welcome, but very tough city.

And ladies and gentleman, I (heart) London.

(PS didn't buy the T-shirt but bought a New Order one so that counts for a lot)


mmXAI!

Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens and unhappy song

I think every woman needs her own little arsenal - that little collection of favourite things you haul out when life, love, shitty decisions and circumstance leave you feeling adrift.

Just like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens... these are a few of my favourite things:

Lloyd Cole - Love Story
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Sex and The City - Season 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 ;-)
Molton Brown - Black Pepper scent
Good chablis
Gomez - Tijuana Lady
Grand Torino
The Cure - Cut Here
Beatles - While my Guitar Gently Weeps & Fool on the Hill
Don McLean - Castles in the Air
My wonderful friends
Annie
and ...

A simple, but far from silly, poem I read in my last year at school - simple words that touched me then.. and 16 years later, still ring true.

After A While

©1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn

the subtle difference between

holding a hand and chaining a soul

and you learn

that love doesn't mean leaning

and company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn

that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises

and you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes ahead

with the grace of woman,

not the grief of a child

and you learn

to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow's ground is

too uncertain for plans

and futures have a way of falling down

in mid-flight.

After a while you learn

that even sunshine burns

if you get too much

so you plant your own garden

and decorate your own soul

instead of waiting for someone

to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure

you really are strong

you really do have worth

and you learn

and you learn

with every goodbye, you learn...

Have to admit, I am still trying to plant my own garden and master the whole grace thing but I do buy my own flowers and after 6 years in Dubai I have without a doubt figured out that even sunshine burns if you get too much. I think I have mastered the build your plans on today thing, have learnt the whole love doesn't mean security lesson, have realised kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises and I've certainly learnt that you never stop learning...you learn, you learn, you learn with every goodbye, you learn...

These are the things I remember

Those denim shorts
The blue golf shirt
The shockingly out of tune singalongs to Don, Paul and John
That tartan rocking chair
Forever losing your keys!
Being your megalegs, your little girl, your maggie may
Sending your little princess to steal golf balls - I mean REALLY DAD!
Your kind heart
The white towel flag raised during the fight with "step monster"
The walking stick
Eshowe
Five's love for you and her frequent "visits" - brave little dog
The Wings album
The denim bubble skirt
Your eyes
The way you forced your hair straight
The way you chewed your tongue
The way you loved me

My kind-hearted Dad, I will never forget you

Hills of forest green, where the mountains touch the sky
Your last goodbye

Apartheid, rugby and all that jazz...

Sorry, it has been a while since my last post. I've been working like a slave horse on a project which has kept me - well ... exhausted. But its all worth it - I've achieved something quite astounding and that feeling - man, its a rush!

Weirdly, at the same time, I picked up a book I had purchased in December and hadn't had time to read yet - "Playing The Enemy" a book on which the film "Invictus" was based. The combination of the two experiences has made me a very emotional little Saffa.. and here's why...

So..the book first. Its a wonderful story - not only because its personal to me, as a South African, not because its about Mandela, whom I love and admire, not because its about the greatest Rugby game in history, but ... because its message is universal - there is hope, there are ways to overcome the odds and one person can make a difference. Its solid gold.

So I am also a victim of apartheid - I am white, I'm an eighties baby, I'm English, well-educated and moderate. I never voted for the National Party - in fact, the first time I was able to vote was in the first "democratically free and fair elections" and guess what, I didn't. At 18, I didn't know what the f*** was going on. All I knew, was that it was complex and scary. So I didn't do anything. Man, all I wanted to do was see a decent band!

Biggest plus for me about Mandela being freed was that finally we could start engaging with the rest of the world. The Afrikaner right, was as alien to me as the black left (or "swaart gevaar") I just didn't get it. Terreblanche on a horse with swastikas was as weird to me as the "africans" necklacing each other (this involved putting a burning tyre around someone's neck and burning them to death) - had I HAD TO CHOOSE, I think I would've chosen the fat drunk white guys on horses....understandably so?

I had grown up in a climate I despised. I was a teenager, who wanted to meet boys, go to concerts, travel, shop, listen to music, and be normal - with normal opportunities. I detested authority and I hated my country. I wanted to live - I was, to put it bluntly, just plain sick of politics. I didn't like the "dutchmen" and I didn't like the "terrorists". I just wanted to live a normal life. I look back and smile at this younger version of myself - but you have to understand, we did not know any better. And were my desires so weird?

I grew up in such an isolated and insulated world - my parents (who were moderately liberal - aka PFP as it was called then) did try explain things to me - but I was sick of it and didn't want to hear. I hated the fact that we had bomb threats - I didn't feel comfortable with my maid living in a small room - I had been bullied by Afrikaners for being a "rooinek" - which means "red neck" not in the US way, but a term that was created for my type - the anglo-saxons, who burnt badly in the African sun. I was mocked about my very bloody English name and for being - well - middle class and English. But, I , and my parents, were born in Africa - we knew no other home. I was neither "African" nor "Afrikaner", I was a rooinek, an "Engelse" or a daughter of a nice "madam" depending on which side you looked at me from. But - I was, undoubtedly, a victim of apartheid and more importantly, a South African. At the same time I was despised internationally for being a white South African - and I'm going HUH? I did not vote or choose this shit, and I'm tired of apologising. As the Arabs say - Kalaas!

I didn't realise it at the time, but I was part of the "integration" experiment - at the age of about 14, some black kids joined our school. It was no biggie - they were a little different to us - but hey - we had Jews (Jewish), Porras (Portuguese), Greeks, Dutchmen (Afrikaners), coloureds (a uniquely South African "classification"), indians - you name it - we had it and it was fine! So my Jewish friends didn't like to mix milk and meat and I was like - bummer - no cheese burgers? I did do a few shabbat dinners and liked them - still adore candles - and - I don't eat meat... so my "African" friends liked hip hop and wearing converse (both of which I approved - definitely cool) and my porra & lebo (lebanese) friends had the best lunch boxes - by far! But so what - it made no impact in terms of how I saw them as people - and such is the beauty of the very young.

You may, justifiably so, at this point, question the well-educated thing - but we were taught a very weird version of world history - basically it involved Voortrekkers in weird outfits and a whole lot of oxen... and some scary black guy called Dingaan and lots of guys in loin cloths with spears who "could NOT BE TRUSTED" and corrupt English people, who "could NOT BE TRUSTED"... And we learnt this version of history every year - and it was - given our broader education system - highly BORING! If I have one regret (other than my passport and visa issues) of being South African, is the fact that I was denied so much information.

I also had a very brief flirtation with religions other than Christianity - it involved 4 slides in one day (in those days on a projector) on all these way-out religions like Judaism, Islam and Buddhism. At the same time, and here we get to the nub of the complexity in South Africa, I had Jewish Lebo, Porra & Muslim friends and, to some extent, "African" friends- as us useless moderates used to call them. And weirdly, the only one that spoke up about this obvious "contraction" in our "other world religions" syllabus was me - it got me kicked out of class - something I was not all that opposed to as it meant I could openly bunk class instead of sitting there listening to something, I knew in my very stinted way, was flawed. One thing I admire about the young is their absolute respect for honesty.

The "Africans" were cool kids too - the way many things are with the youth. Yeah there were some of the jocks that joked about the "k***irs" but I didn't like the jocks anyway. They seemed dull and quite stupid. Oh and they used to bully me too... And I so DID NOT GET the rugby thing. My Mum - bless her - tried to explain the significance of the 1995 game, but for me - it was all the same shite - politics and ugh, stinky rugby! Boere and politics - so NOT my thing...

So... that "game" in 1995 flipped my world. As naive and ignorant as I was, I could not help but be drawn into the fever that enveloped my country after the rugby world cup. I, had decided at a very young age, to not watch rugby - thats what those "bastard afrikaner, meat eating, fat, racist" bullies did. Yes, I admit at my age, it was all quite simple - everyone fitted into a neat box. The "others". My ambivalence was my stance.

I have to admit I only watched the second half of the game, I saw Joel's drop kick and I sat, like many other South Africans, in a sheer state of tension - not because this was a game that would unite our nation - but because - after years and years and years of being denied the opportunity to compete on an international stage, we were finally getting the opportunity to do so. And me, the uncompromising "hater of rugby" all of a sudden fell in love, with the game and more importantly, my new president and my country. The "street scenes" after the game, destroyed my ambivalence - as it did millions of South Africans. These largely artificial boundaries started to crumble - I started to realise it wasn't because I was lucky that I met "cool" black guys and "cool" afrikaans people - there were cool people everywhere - and all of us, by chance, circumstance, sheer shitty luck or perhaps, blessing - were "South African" And a new "me" was born.

Nelson Mandela, with his cheeky grin, buttoned up rugby shirt and his obvious joy, was somebody, I, like countless other South Africans could finally identify with. And all of a sudden, I got "gees" - an Afrikaans term for spirit or soul.

Will we survive when Madiba dies - yes, we will. His legend lives on in our hearts, in our soul, in our beautiful country and in the youth he managed to influence.

So this post doesn't answer any questions - and it possibly raises many - I'm trying, as honestly as I can, explain the complexity that exists and how very, very special and how very tentative our experiment in "collaboration" is. Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika. O se boloke, o se boloke - Uit die blou and ringing out from our blue heavens and all that Jazz!

Falling in love with my city all over again

I have lived in Dubai for 4 years. I have experienced both the boom and the fall out from the crisis. I have seen whole communities mushroom, seemingly overnight. I have sat in traffic, cursed the ridiculous rentals, played dodgems on Sheikh Zayed road, avoided mad Iftar drivers in Ramadan. I have watched the Burj Dubai, grow from an idea to the world's tallest tower. I have seen friends come and friends go. I have experienced the seeming disintegration of a dream when the real estate sector crashed and I have watched as friend after friend packed their bags to leave. I have literally pulled my hair out when trying to achieve simple tasks like ordering a pizza over the phone or trying to make a complaint. Its become part of my vocabulary to start giving my address in the wrong order - Block 5, Street 2, apartment 407... I also think its quite normal to get an address like "opposite American Hospital". I get my dry cleaning collected and delivered in the evenings and I think nothing of popping down to the shops at 10pm to do my grocery shopping.

Last night, in one of my very rare (these days) forays into Dubai nightlife, I went to quite an upmarket nightclub and my cellphone got stolen... I then had a real "hair pulling" moment trying to cancel my sim card before Mr or Mrs Sticky Fingers decided to drunk dial their friends in whatever country they came from.

After an hour of trying to establish what number to dial to stop my sim card, I spent another 3 hours consistently calling said number only to get an error in connection every time. Eventually, I found an Arabic speaker who phoned a friend at the Telco who told them there is no way to stop it now.

Now I've lived here long enough to know that the fact that the Telco's systems were down when my phone was stolen will not cover me from having to pay for la sticky finger's drunk dialling bill as it will, of course, be my fault for 'losing it' and not reporting it.

In desperation at 5 am, I called the police station closest to the nightclub to find out if I could make some kind of affidavit that I had tried very, very hard to report it.

As the policemen on the phones could not speak much English, I was put through to the CID head - a little excessive I agree - but hey, thats Dubai.

Ended up having a lovely conversation about Cape Town, drunken Brits and frustrating telco companies. Feeling quite lighthearted and positive I eventually got through to the telco and spoke to the nicest customer care agent I have dealt with, ever. Ended up having a lovely conversation with him too we both found it particularly funny that there is no facility for "stolen" phones, you have lost it, thats all. Silly me.

Sim card stopped, mood improved and for my efforts was rewarded with a beautiful sunrise on yet another sunny day in my desert city.

It will never be home, but it has been kind to me and this little crazy desert town will always hold a special place in my heart. So to all you Dubai bashers out there, understand this, we live here... not just for the money. We live here because we love this city, its got mojo and its just going to keep pissing you off because it will succeed.

Shukran Habibti

musings of a corporate nomad...

Last night, on the plane, after yet another frustrating Cairo trip, a (large) family of Emiratis sat next to me. The young girl to my left, was about 13 years old, and would (or could) not stop fidgeting. She had cheap, plastic bangles on which jangled every time she moved...

She couldn't figure out the entertainment system and kept smacking it and bumping me, I turned to look at her to give her a glowering look, and she smiled at me with the most open, guileless, beautiful smile. My heart just melted. I helped her put on her "arabia" music and settled into my inane movie about a girl meeting a dark, handsome stranger in Greece blah blah. She then touched me gently on my arm and offered me a chewing gum and again that heart-stopping smile, braces and all.

Halfway through, she touched my arm again and asked me, in broken English, where I was from, when I explained South Africa / Dubai, she was very confused. Then she said "me UAE", turned to her older sister and asked her something, I was about to put on my headset again, when she said: "You very beautiful!" a giggle and again that smile. Well. Shoowee.

When my movie finished she said "you, listen music". I laughed, and decided she may be right, and the first album that caught my eye was Paul Simon's Graceland. As I listened to the sounds of home, getting more and more nostalgic and warm, she touched my arm again and pointed out the window. The moon was so bright, so beautiful it really was quite awe-inspiring. As I smiled and said "its beautiful" she clutched her chest like only the young and innocent can, and said, eyes shining, "yes very beautiful".

This little stranger touched my heart in so many little ways.