Calling all workers…

CHRIS BENNETT resolved a couple of issues recently…

SOMETHING has been bothering me for quite a long time, but only recently did I realise what it is. And it has a lot to do with the smaller matter of Phrenobia and the call centre.

From time to time, usually in connection with my bank or my cellphone, I have to make use, for want of a better word, of the services of the call centre offered by one or both of these tiresome institutions. This is something for which only words of the order of ‘dread’ and ‘loathing’ seem appropriate.

For it is only recently, as I say, that the cacophonic tones of Phrenobia’s voice revealed all.

I had tried to sort out a problem with the cellphone and as a last resort and after much frustration I called the said centre.

Now, for those of you who are not sure what a call centre is let me try to shine a little light on the subject.

In the old days, days before sometime like 1970, if you had a problem that required some help from the bank you had two clear and simple choices: either go to the bank or, if you had one, pick up the phone and dial the bank’s number. Maybe I should add at this point that there was usually to be found next to the phone a directory containing, in alphabetical order, the names of anyone you may have to call.

This of course, included the bank (etc.); when someone answered you asked, by name, for the person to whom you wished to speak. All fine and dandy. The problem was solved.

Now, in the 21^st century, a time of great simplification and much curtailing of bothersome things like calling the phone company or the bank, you dial the number of a call centre.

The advantage of the first method, especially of going into the bank in person, was that you had a good idea of what the problem was and the person to whom you would speak, directly, face to face, would quickly grasp your dilemma. He/she would listen to you.

Today you are spared all this tiresome to-ing and fro-ing.

You simply pick up the phone (cellular or with strings attached) and dial the number of the call centre. The phone will ring once or twice; a good start. Now you are at the mercy of the institution, and they know it. You will first be welcomed by an androgynous, rather tinny, voice and told how valuable your custom is to them. Well, it would be wouldn’t it; they spend your money.

The voice will then list a number of options, none of which will come anywhere near to solving your problem.

These options are accessed by pressing a key on the number pad. After listening to about a dozen choices, you are invited, in tones of charm laced with an edge of exasperation, to hold the line for the next available agent.

Because the bank (etc.) is being subjected to a nightmarish barrage of calls at that moment you will be in for a long wait. Two conclusions can be drawn from this: one, the bank is incapable of doing its job properly and is falling apart at the seams, hence the swathe of enquiries from bewildered customers, or, two, the available agents are having tea, chatting to their girl/boy friends, playing computer games or on strike.

Eventually you will hear the ear-splitting sounds of someone who may be saying, “Hello, Glebe’s Bank, Phrenobia speaking, how can I help you?” On the other hand she may not, because you won’t have been able to distinguish a word.

At least by now you will have forgotten what the problem was.

CB

25/3/11

620wds

Drain brain…

CHRIS BENNETT has been digging up some interesting facts about sewers…

A FRIEND, George, recently left the South Coast for the bleak wilderness of Gauteng. This was in the nature of his work, which, put at its most simple, is fixing sewerage systems. He has been working on the new plant near the northbound Shelly Beach off-ramp from the R61.

He was scheduled to start work in October last year, but sundry delays meant he started about December. In the meantime he rid the Southern Ocean of the awful Japanese whaling fleet; some people have more interesting hobbies than computer games. I should add that his skills in engineering the niceties of sewerage farms did not play a role with the whalers. Not directly, anyway. However there may have been an overlap of vocabulary here and there.

While working in the UK a few years ago he was required to dive in the accumulated sludge of British opinion. George is a qualified diver.

Perhaps George’s calling, and it is an extreme calling, is a little more than most could comprehend, let alone ponder.

They are interesting things, sewers; sometime source of mirth for the less mature; sometime sauce of wit for the more.

The earliest underground sewers discovered by archaeologists are in the regularly planned cities of the Indus Valley Civilization, which flourished in the northwest region of the Indian Subcontinent from 3300–1300 BC, its mature period being 2600–1900 BC.

In ancient Rome, the Cloaca Maxima (the Greatest Drain), considered a marvel of engineering, disgorged into the Tiber river. Its construction is believed to date from about 660BC. In ancient China, sewers existed in various cities such as Linzi.

In medieval European cities, small natural waterways used for carrying off wastewater were eventually covered over and functioned as sewers. London's River Fleet is such a system. For many years Fleet Street was home to the greatest newspapers in the English language, a thought which in itself is not without implication.

Open drains along the centre of some streets were known as kennels (canals or channels). The nineteenth century brick-vaulted sewer system of Paris offers tours for tourists (the vain brain drain?).

The image of the sewer recurs in European culture as they were often used as hiding places or routes of escape by the scorned or the hunted, including partisans and resistance fighters in WWII. Fighting erupted in the sewers during the Battle of Stalingrad.

The system in my village has recently been upgraded. Odd word, that. Especially given that the sewerage system is a metaphor for the ultimate degradation. Maybe that tells us something about cellphones.

The maintenance of such infrastructures, especially power supply, water supply and the drains, remains one of the cornerstones of a civilisation. To be without power is an inconvenience; to be without water is somewhat worse; to be without drains is one notch down, if you see what I mean.

We are fortunate in having workers (silly word, that) who ensure that these amenities are at our disposal.

Most of the time.

Research for this column was in Wikipedia and the Macmillan Family Encyclopedia; Macmillan, London, 1984.

CB

4/3/11

Party pieces

CHRIS BENNETT has been frolicking about.

IT has been a bit of a week for parties. Last Friday I attended the annual South Coast Herald bun-fight, at which the buns were good and there was no visible evidence of fighting. We celebrated the camaraderie that is so common among businesses at whose core lies the fine art of writing.

The event was held at the Taj Hotel in Port Shepstone, and for those of us who work from home it was something of a reunion. The dude who was charged with the music soon realised that when journos and their colleagues in the arcane world of production, a world of the typing, typesetting and proofreading arts, and the all important sales team gather together for a friendly glass of sherbert they want to talk, not listen.

It was great fun.

As was the braai to which I had been invited the following day. It was given at a friend’s house in Nzimakwe, a green and pleasant place dotted with avocado trees, banana trees and glimpses of the ever present sugar cane.

There were about ten guests, who also talked - about many things, but the events in Egypt seemed to occupy centre stage for a while, so I asked who among us knew where Egypt was. There was what I can only call a sheepish silence.

So I asked if the school had a map of Africa. It hadn’t. I was amazed.

Would you not think that a map of Africa was an essential in teaching young minds about their future and their heritage?

When the time came to go home, with the afternoon sun pouring a golden light on the emerging game of football, I reflected on this odd state of affairs. Could someone not sponsor a map, preferably big and strong enough to withstand the vagaries of childish behaviour?

At home an email awaited me from my friend LR. I decided I could not let pass the opportunity to share it, for many readers of this excellent paper are not emailers, so here it is, slightly abbreviated.

This obituary apparently appeared recently in a copy of the London daily, The Times:

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.

Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers;
I Know My Rights
I Want It Now
Someone Else Is To Blame
I'm A Victim

CB

18/2/11

Of shoes and ships and sealing wax…

CHRIS BENNETT reflects on some of the ships that pass in the night; and in the day.

WELL, the quote from Lewis Carroll is a bit of a cheat, actually. Forget the shoes and the sealing wax.

One of the most pleasing pastimes on the South Coast is the delightful diversion of ship watching. The equipment for this most stimulating - for some of us, anyway - of hobbies comprises a pair of binoculars (not too expensive) and a good view of the ocean (expensive).

The shipping traffic along the coast is often quite close in. I don’t know the reason for this, although it may well be connected with the economy of the ship’s engines, but it affords an often spectacular view of the ship, and sometimes its name or registration.

Some lines, like MSC (the Mediterranean Shipping Company), Hamburg Süd and Safmarine paint their company name in huge letters along the hull of the vessel, allowing the ship watcher to identify it. In the case of Safmarine the name is writ large in a beautiful cursive script.

The favourites for our little group of watchers are the white ships. On a fine day they ride the waves in nothing short of thalassic majesty. Many years ago I was told, but I have forgotten by whom, that these ships (the Safmarine fleet) are liners that were converted to container carriers. I like the idea.

Occasionally something odd passes through the window of opportunity afforded by the splendid milkwoods around my cottage. On one occasion someone was startled by the appearance of what looked like Tower Bridge, that astonishing hydraulic road bridge across the River Thames in London, a fine Victorian achievement.

None of us knew what to make of the great contraption, not the bridge, but the thing at sea, but we all agreed it must have been some sort of rig. It was heading south, and we wondered whether it was bound for Cape Town or Mossel Bay.

But I think most of the delight in seeing these reassuring symbols of trade and, presumably, prosperity, is reserved for those sporadic visitors who have no connection with the barter of nations.

These are the private yachts.

As far as our small group of enthusiasts (all retired, obviously) could deduce there is no suitable harbour for these brave souls to head for between Durban and East London. This tells us that we are watching serious and dedicated sailors.

These little vessels, and some are not all that little, are always a joy to watch. They sail slowly, giving the watcher a chance to study their lines.

A few years ago one rather magnificent motor yacht oozed past the cottage, bristling with ariels and what appeared to be a helicopter landing platform. A day or so later I saw a stunning photograph of it tied up in Durban harbour. The name of the vessel I have forgotten, but I seem to remember it was leased to the Woods Hole Institution in Massachusetts by one of the founders of Microsoft; the ship is a specialist oceanographic research vessel. If that is the case, what an excellent thing to do with a lot of money.

But it is the little yachts that I really admire. The skill of the sailor, or sailors, is fairly evident even to an untrained eye.

And finally, not that I watch them very often, there are the splendid ski-boats that take to the sea for fishing, sometimes deep sea, sometimes fishing of a less strenuous nature. The ski-boat clubs along the South Coast are icons of our lifestyle.

Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of barley water, preferably Scottish.

CB

11/2/11

Cell-by date…

CHRIS BENNETT has been wondering about the cellphone industry.

A WEEK of cellphone frenzy has been my lot.

Some weeks ago I came out of my favourite bookshop in the Southcoast Mall and my eye was drawn to a large advert in the window of the

Telkom shop opposite. I went over to examine it.

Now I have had a love-hate relationship with Telkom since the days when it was actually illegal to own a telephone that was not supplied by what was then the Post Office. The perceived attitude to its customers on the part of this benighted institution was little short of one of tyranny.

Since those far-off days things have changed, and vastly for the better.

My curiosity was aroused when Telkom, the Post Office’s successor, shed its shareholding in one of the main players in the cellphone industry sometime last year.

So when I read this advert, the design of which made it a bit difficult to comprehend, I was not all that surprised that Telkom had started its own cellphone service, called 8-ta. It uses the existing tower network.

I have two cellphones, for the simple reason that one was inherited; it lies in a drawer awaiting the day when I might need it, where it is kept charged and raring to go.

A lot of people have two cellphones; one of my friends has four.

She is, by her own account, a blonde.

When we are out shopping, usually at Port Edward or at

Shelly Beach, her phone will ring. We then sit down while she spends what seems like half-an-hour scrabbling around in her capacious bag to find the right phone.

On one occasion the phone stopped before she could find it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, the found phone was found and my friend looked at the screen and said, “Oh well. Never mind. I’ve got a missed call here anyway.”

But back to the phone shop…

I made enquiries and met a delightful young woman called Vuyo, who spoke beautiful English, was totally involved in her work and full of enthusiasm. I wish there were a lot more like her in the course of my daily occasions.

She explained the system to me and I decided there and then to transfer one of my phones to 8-ta. Its rates are remarkably good and its data, of which I use a lot on my smart phone, was cheaper.

The “porting” of my number was free, and I didn’t need proof of residence because I have an account with Telkom.

On my second visit, to make the actual changes, I was helped by Amanda, an equally bright and delightful young woman.

However, I couldn’t help wondering, “If 8-ta can charge these low prices for calls, why have I been charged, in the fifteen or so years that I have had a cellphone, at such a preposterous rate?” Within 48 hours I had not so much an answer to my unspoken question, as a reinforcement of my darkest suspicions.

How it got there I don’t know, but I noticed a new icon on my desktop with a cellphone provider logo on it. I opened the document. Guess what?

This provider had lowered its prepaid prices to below the excellent 8-ta level, and was now advertising itself, quite rightly, as the cheapest provider. But would it have been doing this without 8-ta?

My cellphone has now become a pleasure to use.

CB

4/2/11

Dear me…

Progress is all very well, writes CHRIS BENNETT, but there is such a thing as throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

A DEBATE of some magnitude seems to be arising in the British press, and doubtless in many other English newspapers around the world, about the decline in the use of the style Dear … when addressing the recipient of a letter or an email.

As far as I can see the question has not arisen with regard to the text, or as we so clumsily call it (being running dogs of our imperial masters, the US) the SMS. But then, considering the contribution of that medium to the written language there is no surprise there. Why use one syllable when you can use three? This train of thought, of course, will lead us to the most meaningless word in the language: basis.

Dear… is an interesting little debate, for it throws some strong light on the modern tendency to ignore people’s surnames and use the familiar, or first name. What seems to have happened here is yet another incursion into civilised behaviour in the guise of political correctness.

Putting aside the probability that most offenders couldn’t spell political correctness, I can only assume that the now widespread habit is an attempt at reinforcing the absurdity that we are all equal.

There used to be a neat expression in English that was, like so many others, a mild warning. It was “Familiarity breeds contempt”; the expression may now be dead, but the sentiment and the principle are surely not.

I am old enough to remember when the world had bank managers whose main concern was the welfare of their customers. In my twenties and thirties my bank manager in Melville eased me into the buying of a house and the financing of a car. He assumed, quite rightly, that these areas were a minefield for a man with no understanding of money, let alone the workings of matters fiscal.

We came to know each other well, and our friendship soon reached the stage where we were on familiar terms, using first names.

This process had considerable value, a value only fully understood, like most values I would think, when the learning curve of the process is complete.

For many, and I am one, to be addressed over the phone by a functionary who uses my first name is a guarantee that things will not go well. Not if I can help it, and especially if that functionary has the temerity to try to sell me something. And as for receiving emails from my bank’s computer using the same contumely, well…

Here endeth the digression.

Dear… as a form of address, has, apparently, too intimate a tone for the 21^st century; surely that is simply to misunderstand the word and miss the point. Dear… has been in use for centuries because it establishes a neutral ground for written exchanges; it has nothing to do with endearment. It is a mark of respect, no matter how laden the word may be. You may recall the stinging, and now very out of date, “Dear George, please give our regards to Mademoiselle your mother.” Those were the days.

“We're losing the art of letter writing. E-mails are becoming like texts - everyone is abbreviating. If we don't get a handle on it, future generations won't be able to spell at all.” So wrote an authority on etiquette, Jean Broke-Smith, on a British website last week.

There is more to this than meets the I.

CB

28/1/11

Our world of words…

CHRIS BENNETT considers the voluptuous pleasures of words.

AS we approach the beginning of another academic year, eyes watering at the news that 98 percent of matric students (‘learners’ drive cars) passed their exams, I thought you might enjoy this little quote from the Telegraph obituary for Professor Fred Halliday, a Professor of International Relations at the London School of Economics

His fluency in Arabic, Farsi, Russian and the major languages of Western Europe earned him widespread respect, and his expertise on the complexities of the Middle East and the Muslim world reached a substantial public audience.

As a veteran of academic conferences Halliday’s pointed but light-hearted advice to the organisers of such events in an article in 2007 evoked the peripatetic life of the successful academic in the injunction “not to foist oppressive, embarrassing or vexatious local practices on often tired, patient and stressed visitors, such as long boring 'high table’ dinners (Oxford, Cambridge), third-rate Indian restaurants (most other UK universities), ducks’ feet as main course (Beijing), Stetson hats (Texas), sheep’s eyes (Khartoum), fatty sheep’s tails (Ulan Bator), mastication sessions of narcotic qat (Sanaa, Aden), hypocritical pretence at avoidance of alcohol (most Arab universities), evening meal at 6pm with no alcohol (East Coast, US), evening meal at 11.30pm with too much alcohol (Barcelona, Madrid, Moscow, Berlin), ponderous, ugly and useless formal presents (Baghdad and many other places), long, vapid and self-regarding introductions by the chair (much of the world), pestering and importuning about own students who have failed to get into the London School of Economics (pretty much everywhere).”

An academic friend from Pretoria commented on the pass rate by saying “the proof of the matric pudding will be in the university eating. Let’s see their progress after six months”.

I attended a small and private memorial gathering in Port Edward last week, to mark the committal to the sea of the ashes of my friend of many years, Wendy Benn. It was a singular privilege to be with the family, who came from as far afield as Hartbeespoort and Durban, London and Newcastle (the one under the snow).

The obsequies were under the gentle guidance of John Pretorius of Port Edward, where Wendy had enjoyed holidays for most of her life. Afterwards he commented that he was in agreement with my steady, if occasionally harping, entreaties to encourage more people to read, especially young people. The now renowned 98 percent of last year’s matric students (learners drive cars) may care to note this somewhat feeble endeavour.

In his account of the life of the island of Rhodes during the early 1950s*, Lawrence Durrell recounted his experiences as the editor (and sensor) of a local Greek language newspaper. Largely for the enjoyment of my editor and her excellent chief sub, I took out this little piece from this beautifully written book. Durrell writes of the people who come into the editor’s office, “to consult me on a point of style or an infinitive that had somehow split in the heat of composition”.

In a later book, about Cyprus**, he writes of the abbey in the little town of Bellapaix, where he had bought a house: “The tower of the church took the tawny golden light softly upon its ancient face, so that the stonework looked as if it were made of the compressed petals of the rambler roses which bordered the walks”.

To all those on the South Coast who about to enter university, especially if they are studying English, one of the by products of which is usually a lifelong habit of reading and enjoying it, I salute you.

* Reflections on a Marine Venus; Lawrence Durrell; Faber and Faber, Lodon, 1953. My copy is a 2000 edition and the book is probably still in print.

** Bitter Lemons; Lawrence Durrell; Faber and Faber, London, 1957.

CB

14/1/11

Our world of words…

CHRIS BENNETT considers the voluptuous pleasures of words.

AS we approach the beginning of another academic year, eyes watering at the news that 98 percent of matric students (‘learners’ drive cars) passed their exams, I thought you might enjoy this little quote from the Telegraph obituary for Professor Fred Halliday, a Professor of International Relations at the London School of Economics

His fluency in Arabic, Farsi, Russian and the major languages of Western Europe earned him widespread respect, and his expertise on the complexities of the Middle East and the Muslim world reached a substantial public audience.

As a veteran of academic conferences Halliday’s pointed but light-hearted advice to the organisers of such events in an article in 2007 evoked the peripatetic life of the successful academic in the injunction “not to foist oppressive, embarrassing or vexatious local practices on often tired, patient and stressed visitors, such as long boring 'high table’ dinners (Oxford, Cambridge), third-rate Indian restaurants (most other UK universities), ducks’ feet as main course (Beijing), Stetson hats (Texas), sheep’s eyes (Khartoum), fatty sheep’s tails (Ulan Bator), mastication sessions of narcotic qat (Sanaa, Aden), hypocritical pretence at avoidance of alcohol (most Arab universities), evening meal at 6pm with no alcohol (East Coast, US), evening meal at 11.30pm with too much alcohol (Barcelona, Madrid, Moscow, Berlin), ponderous, ugly and useless formal presents (Baghdad and many other places), long, vapid and self-regarding introductions by the chair (much of the world), pestering and importuning about own students who have failed to get into the London School of Economics (pretty much everywhere).”

An academic friend from Pretoria commented on the pass rate by saying “the proof of the matric pudding will be in the university eating. Let’s see their progress after six months”.

I attended a small and private memorial gathering in Port Edward last week, to mark the committal to the sea of the ashes of my friend of many years, Wendy Benn. It was a singular privilege to be with the family, who came from as far afield as Hartbeespoort and Durban, London and Newcastle (the one under the snow).

The obsequies were under the gentle guidance of John Pretorius of Port Edward, where Wendy had enjoyed holidays for most of her life. Afterwards he commented that he was in agreement with my steady, if occasionally harping, entreaties to encourage more people to read, especially young people. The now renowned 98 percent of last year’s matric students (learners drive cars) may care to note this somewhat feeble endeavour.

In his account of the life of the island of Rhodes during the early 1950s*, Lawrence Durrell recounted his experiences as the editor (and sensor) of a local Greek language newspaper. Largely for the enjoyment of my editor and her excellent chief sub, I took out this little piece from this beautifully written book. Durrell writes of the people who come into the editor’s office, “to consult me on a point of style or an infinitive that had somehow split in the heat of composition”.

In a later book, about Cyprus**, he writes of the abbey in the little town of Bellapaix, where he had bought a house: “The tower of the church took the tawny golden light softly upon its ancient face, so that the stonework looked as if it were made of the compressed petals of the rambler roses which bordered the walks”.

To all those on the South Coast who about to enter university, especially if they are studying English, one of the by products of which is usually a lifelong habit of reading and enjoying it, I salute you.

* Reflections on a Marine Venus; Lawrence Durrell; Faber and Faber, Lodon, 1953. My copy is a 2000 edition and the book is probably still in print.

** Bitter Lemons; Lawrence Durrell; Faber and Faber, London, 1957.

CB

Roman festival…

CHRIS BENNETT had a splendid Christmas week.

I SHOULD tell you about Miriam.

Miriam is a hadeda ibis who has taken up residence in the fig tree above my balcony.

She arrived about a month ago, amid much trumpeting. Miriam and her mate, Caesar, proceeded to build what I imagine Miriam, were she able, would call a nest. This rickety, precarious bundle of sticks and twigs sits uncertainly on a fork of one of the tree’s branches, looking rather like a ground plan of the Germiston railway junction.

Miriam eyed me, her eye like a sparkling piece of coal, with great suspicion.

Before long she was sitting on a clutch of eggs; how many I couldn’t, at that juncture, tell. During this broody period Caesar fetched and carried for her, occasionally relieving her patient sitting. He spent much of the day in the tree opposite, a milk wood, from whence he guarded his domain.

The sun’s early horizon glow, around a quarter past four, is the time for birds to wake up; and the rest of the world, in Miriam’s view, shall wake up too. No good deed, as they say, goes unpunished. A conversation followed between Miriam and her mate, sitting about ten centimetres apart, at a decibel level that would shatter a whisky glass, and likely create the need for one.

He left for work; she stayed.

At first this morning alarum was startling. I have never been so awake so quickly. Now I have grown accustomed to her voice, and I smile into my pillow.

One day I noticed a change in the patterns of the birds’ comings and goings. The nest had two nestlings.

I read somewhere once that birds are the remnants of dinosaur life on this planet. I can well believe it. Miriam’s two offspring gave a new dimension to the meaning of cute and ugly. We called them Romulus and Remus; Romulus hatched first.

Some three weeks later they had grown almost to Miriam’s size. They were soon likely to fly.

The idea reminded me of the story of the little boy who asked his father why the hadedas made such a racket on taking off. The reply was, “Because they are afraid of heights”.

Time passed, and a few days ago the youngsters made a discovery: vocal chords. It is taking quite a long time for the novelty to wear off. The early morning calls (never was there anything less like a dawn chorus) now have a distinctly competitive edge; there is a race to see who can shout the loudest. And the longest.

Now we have reached the big issue – flying school.

Romulus was the first out of the tree and took to the air as he should – to the manner born. Remus was slower, and as I write is still sitting, hunched and peeved, on the branch. At least he is out of the nest.

Yesterday I watched delighted as Caesar came home, stalked along the branch to an unsuspecting Remus and stuck his beak under Remus’s tail, tipping him off the branch. The ensuing acrobatics were spectacular; Remus furiously flapped everything that would flap and screamed at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. He fell to the branch below, hung on, and shook his feathers and his dignity and went, clearly, into a black sulk. Flight can’t be far behind.

I expect this feathered family will have a splendid 2011, as I hope you will.

CB

Changing the guard…

CHRIS BENNETT has been celebrating the reintroduction of one of the oldest business names in his part of the Lower South Coast.

QUITE a lot, actually. Take Gate Store for instance. I became familiar with the name over the past few years during my periodic visits to friends in Inzimakwe, the village in which Gate Store is a prominent landmark.

Heinrich Kaiser was an early German settler in the Munster area.

Sometime around 1918, after being released from internment during the First World War, Heinrich Kaiser opened a butchery and store on the road from what is now Palm Beach connecting to the main road from Port Edward to Ezinqoleni.

He called his business Sangweni Store; sangweni, I am told, is the Zulu word for ‘gate’, and before long that English name was in use and is still in use today.

I can only surmise that there would have been a gate at this point on the road, or track, perhaps dividing two farms or parts of farms. This was subsequently confirmed on my enquiries.

Before researching Desirée Joubert’s excellent little book Munster and its Pioneers, as well as the equally excellent memory of Rod Kinsey, better known to some, perhaps, as the Herald’s Motor Racing correspondent, I had rather blandly assumed that at some point there was a Mr. Gate.

I was delighted to find out how wrong I had been.

It is refreshing to find a business reverting to its earlier name, thus continuing the history of the venture for future generations. More common these days is the abolition of old names for more modern and fashionable ‘sound bite’ names, as was the case with the Munster Trading Post which, a few years ago, became the Spar supermarket.

The trading post had been so called for many years, and Mrs Joubert’s book contains a photograph of a railways bus standing outside the building in1925.

Gate Store performed an important service to the people living in and around that part of Inzimakwe.

In 1985 the little store was destroyed in a fire, but the presence of the name continued, as it had achieved some geographical identity.

The following year the land was acquired by the brothers Dave and Rod Kinsey, descendants of the Deeks family who were among the first settlers in the area before the turn of the 20^th century. The family has long been respected for its constructive role among the Zulu inhabitants of this area.

The Kinsey bothers built new and larger premises on the land. These were let to a storekeeper and renamed Brown’s Cash and Carry; but, it need hardly be said, the crossroad continued to be called Gate Store. Old habits either die hard or go on forever.

Today Rod Kinsey is an advisor to the Mpenjati Trust, the present owners of the site. In essence this means that the enterprise is held to benefit the people whose interests it serves.

Following recent renovations Rod suggested that the store revert to its earlier name of, a suggestion which was eagerly accepted by the trustees.

The people, of course, still refer to both the store and its crossroad as Gate Store, so the renaming is all the more appropriate and practical.

The road from Inzimakwe to Palm Beach is currently undergoing major reconstruction and in the New Year it will be tarred, making life a lot easier for the inhabitants of this village.

I am grateful to Rod Kinsey and Michael Nkosikathi Diya for their help in writing this piece.

CB

Speaking of which…

CHRIS BENNETT reflects on an aspect of his career as a broadcaster; in a manner of speaking.

A MOVIE due to be released soon will be of interest to anyone with a liking for history; essentially British history, but so many other countries are intertwined with that history that the movie will have great relevance to most people.

It is called The King’s Speech. It tells of the battle of the shy and retiring Duke of York with his heavy stammer, a difficulty he overcame only with hard work and great perseverance; this enabled him to conduct with flair his role as king when his brother, Edward VIII (after whom Port Edward was named), abdicated in 1936. To me the movie is interesting because of the emphasis it puts on the importance of speech, whether in public or in private.

In this country we have a ruling elite that can scarcely express itself, something that is to the detriment of the running of the country and to its future.

“It is a contradiction of an age in which communication is more important than ever that exact, clear, crisp public speech is so rare.

“So many opportunities are missed. So many important things go unsaid, or badly said. Lionel Logue, who was an Australian, was part of a culture that saw good speech as a form of democratic emancipation. He helped a king, but he believed in good speech for all. Logue was part of an “elocution movement” that encouraged people to learn literature by heart and recite it clearly. He regarded speech defects as one of “the evils of civilisation” because they so compromised people’s capacity to play their full part in modern life.

“He was right, and he is still right.”

So wrote the English commentator Charles Moore in his recent Daily Telegraph review of the forthcoming movie The King’s Speech.

Mr Moore was writing about today; Mr Logue helped the then King George VI in the 1930s, hence the neatness of the last line of the quote.

The burden on our teaching profession, who themselves rarely are able to speak good English, the principle medium of communication in this country whether one likes it or not, is immense. It is not easy to explain to young people why speech is so important when the teachers themselves do not know.

Seldom do we hear the words lucidity, fluency and clarity used these days in connection with the way people speak; and it is hardly surprising.

In England today the standard of speech is recognised as having fallen to its lowest level; some blame education, others blame parents, and yet others blame the self-consciousness of English youngsters debilitated by that county’s weird class structure and its subsequent linguistic divisions. Remember My Fair Lady?

This sorry state was not so noticeable in the years that I attended school in England, although the looming Mr Walton and the rather ascetic Mr Kidger, our French and German masters, frequently pointed out that French boys and German boys took a pride in the proper use of their respective languages, and in many cases each other’s languages.

I have a good friend who visits me from time to time here in Palm Beach who speaks beautiful English, with scarcely a trace of accent, French par excellence and excellent German. She lives in The Hague and is a

Dutchwoman. I need hardly add that she lives a fulfilled and happy life.

We should be offering such to our coming generations.