Hard Times…

CHRIS BENNETT found quite a surprise in a recent edition of this newspaper.

AMONG the many excellent essays written for the South Coast Herald over recent years, the one on reflections of the Margate of the very early seventies was, for me, a particular gem.

I was about thirty in 1970 and at the height of what, essentially, has been a very enjoyable and rewarding career as a journalist, mostly in radio and newspapers, but with the occasional dip into the delightful shallows of the magazine world and even an adventurous jump into the deep end of the murky waters of television.

Lea Jacobs in her lovely piece captured the fragile atmosphere of the time. Both the politically curious nature of our world in those days and the more complex and disturbing indication of the relatively low cost of living, were most revealing.

I used to glibly dismiss such comparisons as rather silly, even childish. No more.

Jacobs’s article reflected some interesting prices, as they usually do, but only on examining her research did I realise the weightiness of the point she was making, albeit more in jest than anger. The car prices seemed like a joke.

Around 1974 I was living in what was then a charming suburb of Johannesburg called Troyville. What connection it had with the ancient Greeks or the lovely Helen, I never found out.

I often walked down to the bottom of the hill and Commissioner Street where the SABC studios were situated, as they had been since the heady days of the likes of René Caprara and Gladys Dixon; who, indeed?

On the way down to the studios I passed a large motor firm (Barlow Motors?), with spanking new showrooms with shining widows displaying, usually parked on carpeting with a sort of funereal reverence, new cars from BMC. Or it may even have metamorphosed by then into the disastrous British Leyland, arguably the biggest failure in industrial history, comparable only with the Comrade Petrushka Ivanova People’s Tractor Parts Factory in Irkutsk in the glorious USSR.

But I digress; one can in a column because it helps with centimetres.

One morning I pressed my youthful thirty-something nose into the plate glass and sighed, looking with ill-concealed longing at a bright red Mini. It was so, so beautiful; and so, so much money as to beyond my wildest moments of sobriety. It cost R1 900. New; out of the box, licensed and ready to go.

I fled, of course.

My salary in those days was about R234, from which there were things like rent, food, wine, laundry, wine, clothes and so on to provide, not to mention the pension (eventually screwed up) and medical aid (ditto); and don’t even think about the wine.

When I see the fiscal rape of my country today I harbour no anger, but rather a lot of sorrow and not a little shame.

Reading Lea’s column made me realise that things really were cheaper then. Nowadays we can afford little, and when I went into town the other day I noticed they had repossessed my bank.

Rumours that the new one will be in the shape of a pagoda are, I am told, completely unfounded and a scurrilous lie.

Well, they would be, wouldn’t they?

A fishy tail…

CHRIS BENNETT was, like many, saddened by the departure of the sardine shoals.

A RATHER stormy week, what with the August winds and one thing and another.

A walk on the beach does certainly clear the mind, especially when the mind has been a bit preoccupied with a poorly friend.

We had been discussing the recent ‘season’, and what a bit of a flop it had been. The visitors seemed to be fewer and the sardines yet fewer. There was once small flurry of activity in the beach opposite my house.

It lasted most of the morning and we, my visitors and I, watched the diving birds, failing like Kamikaze squadrons, and the shimmering of the barely concealed little fishes just beneath the waves.

There seems to be some controversy around the story of these tiny creatures.

Firstly, though, it is useful to remember that they are called sardines and pilchards. Both names are in use on the labels of tins.

The preservation of sardines was long the domain of the Portuguese, and the theory has it that their’s were the best because of the salt used to keep them. The Portuguese were one of the early providers of bay salt (as opposed to sea-salt) to England, where the salt curing of fish, or smoke curing in the case of those delicious kippers (if ever you are in Scotland try Arbroath Smokeys), acquired great importance in the time before refrigeration.

Bay salt, of which Maldon in Essex produces surely the finest, is evaporated by the warmth of the sun in large pans on the shoreline. Sea salt is evaporated by artificial heat.

On my map of the England of 886, much of which would have been according to the Venerable Bede, our first historian, writer and cartographer, and the patron of all writers and historians, Maldon was on the map (literally) when the Danes arrived to knock a little sense into the heads of the locals. They, and maybe even the Romans, had used Maldon salt. You can get it at Pick ’n Pay.

Bede’s most important, and famous work, which this remarkable man finished in about 731, was “The Ecclesiastical History of the English People”, but I am sure you knew that.

Back to the sardines.

Although the Portuguese are the most closely associated with this delicious and healthy food, it does seem that the chaps on the Mediterranean Island of Sardinia may have a small stake in the claim for originality. And so do the French, of course. Well, they would, wouldn’t they now?

The French insist that the delicacy of their sardines comes from the exceptional beauty and fineness of the olive oil used in the cannin process. Before canning was invented the Atlantic Port of nantes became quite famous for its jars of preserved sardines.

My vote goes to the Sardinians because on their products, pressed and salted mullet roe, was at the feast celebrating the crowing of King James II. That was in 1685.

So, let’s hope that next years June yields a bit more than gannets for our entertainment.

Now I must go and feed the birds.

Keeping the balls in the air…

CHRIS BENNETT has spent a few weeks visiting the halt and the lame.

ABOUT a month ago I was a daily visitor to the Margate Netcare Hospital. On one occasion I needed the loo and found one opposite a certain Dr Swallow's rooms (the name is my invention, though crossword fanatics might crack the code).

A burly young man was in the process of locking the door to the lavatory for men, so I asked him for the key. He rather pompously in formed me that these facilities were for the use of Dr Swallow's patients only.

Now there are times when I am the very cream at the top of the milk of human kindness; and there are times when I curdle, and would cheerfully kick young men who show no respect to their elders in the tennis balls, my liege. This was what you might call a ‘Hank Cinq’ moment.

My gripe, for a gripe it is, notwithstanding my deep admiration for this admirable institution and its similarly admirable staff, is with the image projected. The image not so much as the surliness of youth, as of a hospital that does not care, its core function I would have thought.

I asked to see the manager/administrator/steeringperson to register my dismay. He was a young man, a patient man and a man of some common sense. He appreciated my point; I emphasised that I was more concerned with what the hospital was doing to its own image than anything else, hospitals being what they are these days; understaffed and over worked as few other institutions are.

In a month of visiting this hospital regularly I have encountered the most refreshing, and reassuring, courtesy from the women who man the registration desk, a task which would make Job weep, to the medics – noble to a man, the nursing staff, whose humour and wit, especially on the surgical ward, are hugely appreciated, and the friendly cleaners and sorters out of problems.

I cannot remember when I last encountered such a buoyant and pleasant team of people.

I do, however, and indeed I would, wouldn’t I, have a little footnote to add to this paean of praise, praise richly deserved.

I have reached the conclusion that there must be an angel in charge of the new building operation at the hospital, the busy construction of more suites. The angel is in all probability, I suspect, a saint in waiting: the Blessed Alphaeus Hinge. This young saint has been put to work as an apprentice, and at his canonisation will become St Alphaeus Hinge, Patron Saint of Door Slammers. He excels in his work, believe you me.

In case you were wondering, you may recall the scene with the French ambassador in Henry V. He conveys the Dauphin’s message and gift of treasure for the youthful Henry, both of which were insulting. The young king turns to his uncle, the Earl of Exeter and asks, “What treasure, uncle?”, to which Exeter replies, “Tennis balls, my liege”.

A bit obscure I admit, but I thought you might enjoy it anyway.

Clerks in unholy orders…

CHRIS BENNETT has been reflecting on the glittering displays of rubbish in our streets these days.

I SAW a lumbering 4x4 in town the other day. It gleamed black and shiny, fat with dark windows and thumping great chrome roll bars, seemingly designed more to intimidate the onlooker than protect the occupants.

It sported, for want of a better word, the number plate NPS 1. This made me think that it was the runabout of the mayor of this pretty and popular coastline.

Now don't get me wrong(ly). I am against neither conspicuously bad taste nor conspicuous number plates; but "Times", to quote the other Dylan, "they are a-changin'". Fast.

Would you not think that during an increasingly vicious cycle of economic woes, and a spiralling food price index, not to mention an ever louder people’s cry against corruption, a less obvious form of self aggrandisement on the part of the clerks and their cronies would be a good thing?

The following gem by Peter van der Merwe was in the M&G last week:

“Then let’s talk about our esteemed minister of communications, Siphiwe Nyanda. The man clearly likes his bling. How much does Mr Nyanda like his bling? Oh, you have no idea. No sooner was the ink dry on his new employment contract than his mind turned to the biggest challenge he could find in his portfolio: how to pillage the electorate most effectively.

“His response was mundane only in its lack of imagination: he purchased not one, but TWO BMW 750i sedans for the trifling sum of R2.2 million. One for his office in Cape Town and one for his office in Pretoria.”

I later read that a minister in the cabinet (and we have more ministers than most of the population have had hot dinners) explained that no rules were broken in the purchase of these excesses. Really? That is what most members of parliament in London said. Then, surely, it is time to change the rules.

The cry by various bigwigs that the disturbances in Gauteng are the work of the “criminal element”, whatever that may be, was at best pathetic and at worst embarrassing. The delivery of services for the past decade has been little short of appalling. People, especially people who vote are not stupid; misguided, sometimes, but not stupid. There is no problem with service delivery; it is the management of that delivery that is the probem.

As regular readers of this column know, I am a frequent visitor to Nzimakwe, where I have quite a few more readers. My brother, who recently visited the area (he is a human rights specialist) was moved to observe of Thongasi and Nzimakwe, “There seems quite a lot still to be done”. I refrained from comment.

Our president, Mr Zuma (I presume he is still the president; he seems to have been seen and never heard of again), has commendably come down hard, verbally, on corruption.

Surely the clerks of menial and slightly more than menial status should operate with a car pool of Citi Golfs, Polos and Yarises, preferably white (the racially sensitive should note that the reason for this choice of colour is that it reflects the heat of the sun and avoids the need for expensive air-conditioning).

Wigs of the slightly larger variety might have a couple of Corollas or Elantras at their disposal; but no Mercs, no Beemers, no Audis, no Volvos or other types of material excess (echoes of the French revolution?) which might lead to the inflammation of the passions of the starving voters.

Just a thought in passing, you understand.

Blue in the tooth…

Recent surveys in Europe have shown that people with time to think and research, which usually means older, retired people, are likely to live longer and more happily, or so CHRIS BENNETT found out.

MY sister-in-law, a Dane, can claim descent from Harald Bluetooth, or Harald Blåtand, as she would spell it. My brother, rather shamelessly I thought, pointed out that it was this Harald who raped and pillaged our native village of Grimsby, at the mouth of the River Humber on the east coast of England (the land of the Angles) about 1100 years ago. My brother has a long memory.

Harald was actually a rather nice man, as men went in those days. He was baptised by the monk Popo in around 950 (that was the year, not the time of the morning), and proceeded to unite all Danes into one nation. That nation he converted to Christianity.

Until then there had been lots of little nations, each with its own king and each with its own axe to grind - usually a two-handed battle axe, which one did not question - and each with its own ideas about how things should be done and who should marry whom and so on and so forth. Not much has changed, has it?

Harald was effectively the first King (the Danish is Kong, I am told) of Denmark, hence King Harald I. Although the bond was brief, he united all the Danes, Norwegians and Swedes under one king, himself naturally, for a time.

I have to assume that he had a blue tooth, for his more formal name was Harald Gormson, his father being the great leader Gorm; a name to toy with if ever I saw one.

But of course to Danes today, or at least to many of them, he was a super-hero. And in case you are wondering why I should be telling you all this, read on, McDuff.

Harald’s name would have been written, though probably not by the lad himself, in what, as I am sure you know, are called ‘runes’, which were essentially letters which could be easily carved into trees, rocks and people you didn’t like much.

Harald’s initials, H and B, are drawn in the runes used in Old Norse. Bound, or written together, the two runes for H and B form the symbol at the top of this blog.

It is probably familiar to you. You will find it in glowing blue at the right bottom corner of your computer, laptop, smartphone or similar device.

It is, of course, the international logo for the data transfer system we call Bluetooth, which is used to unite, seamlessly and cordlessly, different devices such as smartphones, iPods, laptops and so on, as Harald did with those squabbling Vikings all those years ago.

Aren’t we nice?

I hope I haven’t runed your day.

Papering over the cracks…

After years of unmitigated rubbish on ‘talk radio’ CHRIS BENNETT finds there is hope in the on-line newspaper.

THERE is a flesh and blood aspect to reading papers online. Take this week's little exchange on the subject of Shakespeare’s plot lines in the Times, or it might have been the Spectator. The twinkle in the words of Matthew Parris and his challenger (and possibly champion) would not have had the same frisson in a newspaper, methinks. It was the speed of her reply to Parris’s comments that gave the tweak to the occasion.

Although there remains, in the minds of some newspaper proprietors, serious doubt that the internet is little more than a flash in the chip pan, reality, harsh as only reality can be in this age of virtual everything, is quietly pointing the way; leading the field, as it were.

Newspapers, the more pompous of which refer to their printed versions as “fibre editions”, as though they were some new fangled dietary supplement, are now assessing not so much the question of whether this would be a good time to panic, but more a question of how far up the panic scale should they aim.

The problem lies with the inability of so many to understand that the publication of one’s thoughts is no longer the secret domain of the newspapers. You can do it in the comfort of your own home. Just don’t be surprised a) if there is flak and b) how much time it takes to keep churning out a blog.

Floppy eared bunny hugging types will argue, with conviction if not much sincerity, that the newspaper and the printed book are here to stay. Well, yes. Maybe.

I would be the first to agree that the feel of a book, especially and old one, is something I should prefer not to do without. Similarly, newsprint, that smooth, husk-embedded delight to the touch on which most papers are printed, has something very special about it.

But all this is rather missing the point.

Now that we have all fallen into line with the almighty American way of doing things, our newsreaders, be they SABC, eNews, Sky or any of the others, have become unintelligible. They have been taught that a silence of more than one millisecond will cause the viewer (or even listener, as this blight is equally rotting the wireless) to lose interest.

Meaning, that kernel of garnered thought, in speech (what used to be called the spoken word in the time of professional broadcasting), is powerfully controlled by the use of the pause, and newsreading is the spoken word. Unlike the written word you cannot go back and read it again until you understand.

Consequently most television news has been reduced to slovenly, unintelligible drivel; drivel delivered at such a gabble that even were it intelligible it would remain drivel. To really find out what’s happening you need a newspaper.

This brings me to that gleaming edge of electronic news: its immediacy. The fact that the gifted writer and the eminent scholar had roseate words to exchange was nothing new. The fact that the exchange took place in what we now, rather clumsily, call real time was the diamond in the tiara.

News has become interactive; it is those with the skills needed to both marshal and succinctly to articulate their thoughts that will be the victors of the future. Reading, and writing, has never had such a weight of import, nor such a profundity of reward.

I wonder if any of our schools on the South Coast have noticed these things.

Taxing credulity

The increasingly bizarre behaviour of taxi drivers borders on a new art form, writes CHRIS BENNETT.

THE recent news of the deaths of ten people in a taxi crash near Lusikisiki has highlighted the increasingly scandalous disregard for the lives and safety of their passengers shown by South African taxi owners.

These shadowy men, the innocent among whom are tarred with the evil brush of the guilty, should be pursued, apprehended and charged. In the case of the man who owned the Toyota Quantum involved in the Lusikisiki enormity, he should be charged with ten counts of manslaughter and locked away for the rest of his life.

I remember well the days when the Toyota Hi-Ace became the taxi de rigueur. This was a long time ago and a lot (probably several thousands) of people are now dead as a result of bad driving, lack of maintenance and overloading. I would like to look at these three aspects of this appalling industry if you will bear with me.

I speak, it need hardly be said, not as an expert but as one whop has done a great deal of driving around South Africa, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Namibia, much of it in the pursuit of my line of work and some for the indescribable pleasure that Africa can offer the road traveller. I also speak with the often lopsided eye of the journalist, who speaks for those who cannot or will not.

It is not as though nothing can be done about the awful bad habits of the taxi industry, many of which are perpetrated in order to load more people, ergo more profit, into the taxis. The taxi industry is a service industry and therefore, properly, should not be making a profit. Unfortunately our government has shown itself to be incapable of managing the dustbin trucks, so managing something as complex and critical as the taxi industry ain’t gonna happen.

The bad driving of the childishly minded drivers of our taxis is attributable to several things, I do not doubt. However foremost among them has to be a sense of invincibility, a ‘lord of the roads’ mentality, and a complete lack of comprehension of the rules of the road. Were it not such a preposterous idea I would be tempted to say that taxi drivers see the rules of the road as something for aging whites, and nothing to do with the highly polished pieces of black glass that constitute our yoof.

Then we come to the matter of maintenance. This is a tricky one. To understand why maintenance is so very important you first have to grasp its central principle. The maintaining of a thing, be it the fabric of a building, the health of a man or the roadworthiness of a vehicle, is undertaken to ensure its full, and thereby profitable, usability for the duration of its expected life. Waiting until the tyres are bald and then buying “reconstructed” tyres, that is tyres that have been cut with a razorblade to look as though they have tread, is not advisable.

But the real spanner in the works is overloading. This is chumpmanship taken to the point of no return.

The designers of the taxi knew what they were doing. The physical laws that govern the stability of the taxi are altered if the passenger complement is overreached. That is common sense. But, of course, there is the profit to consider, and the driver may have little choice in the matter. Again the onus is on the owner.

Wouldn’t it be nice if the government, national and local, could sort out this problem before next year? After all we do want to impress our visitors: don’t we?