They say every story has a beginning, a middle and an end. Strange that one never knows who “they” are. It could be the same “they” who heard that the policeman’s wife visited the mechanic while hubby was out of town too long. In that case “they” would be right. Every story has to have a beginning, but I’m not exactly sure where the middle of this story is. Between my publisher and the editor I’m sure they’ll sort it out. A story’s ending is not necessarily determined by the author. If he’s lucky, he’ll keep the reader’s attention up to the last page. If not, it will end up on the shelf of a second-hand bookshop or it will become one of those last minute birthday gifts.
Hopefully I’ll succeed in tearing you away from your television set for a few minutes. Television is bad for your sex life and reproduces life in short sound bites without getting to the crux of the matter. Not that I necessarily always get to the point, but the adventure on the way there is far more important than anything else.
In conclusion, a message to all the airlines I have used through the years: It sucks to fly in economy class and your client service is horrible. How do you expect me to follow a movie’s dialogue with cheap earphones made in China, while everyone around me is wide awake and chattering away, just because you wouldn’t ply them with enough alcohol? You should also seriously consider giving all children under the age of ten a Valium before allowing them on the plane. Onboard frustration is the real danger, not nail clippers and cigarette lighters.
When I’m president one day, I’m going to lock you all up.
Deon Maas[1]
Murtalla Mohammed Airport
Lagos, Nigeria
[1] Deon Maas is Witboy, but Witboy isn’t Deon Maas.
| TWO AFRICANS IN NEW YORK Harlem, 2002 |
Politically correct African American journalist (Journalist): “How do you see the future of African Americans?”
Famous black South African performer (Performer): “What is an African American?”
Journalist: “You know, black Americans?”
Performer: “Why do you call them ‘Africans’?”
Journalist: “Because that’s where they’re from.”
Performer: “You mean blacks here call themselves ‘African’?”
Journalist: “Yes, didn’t you know?”
Performer: “My white friend here is African. Black Americans are not.”
Journalist: “Why do you say that?”
Performer: “You can only call yourself African if you can shit behind a bush and wipe your arse with leaves.”
Journalist: “I can’t write that.”
Performer: “Well, then I guess that’s the end of the interview. Hey Deon, wanna go and irritate some more niggers?”
| 1 | GUERILLAS IN THE MIST Rwanda, 1998 |
I WAS STANDING IN the international terminal at the Johannesburg airport surrounded by a mountain of sound equipment. Its joint capacity could deafen a whole stadium of people for days. Despite the air-conditioning the guys carrying the equipment were sweating.
I was also sweating, but it wasn’t to do with physical exhaustion. This was my first trip into Darkest Africa. A product of white suburbia, I had been warned against “die Swart Gevaar” my entire life. Now I was walking into the lion’s den, much like Daniel. The only difference was that it was not my religious conviction that nudged me into the lion’s den, but a warped sense of adventure. I was doing it entirely voluntarily.
While the guys were still bringing in more stuff, it was my job to charm the cute young lady behind the counter, because we were in for an excess baggage fine. I had R10 000 cash in my pocket to sort out any problems, but as our whole trip lay ahead I had to keep the excess as low as possible.
The sticky, sweaty feeling I was experiencing wasn’t only due to my uncertainty about my first visit north of the Limpopo. The welfare of more than a dozen people weighed heavily on me. Well, actually not people, musicians. Musicians are a special subspecies. They lose passports, miss flights, get drunk and end up in people’s beds without knowing where the beds are. The cash might not last long.
It all started a few weeks ago. When my bosses at Gallo asked who would be interested in managing Lucky Dube’s Rwandan tour I was the one who waved my arm in the air frantically like a teacher’s pet. It was four years since the genocide in Rwanda and we had been a Rainbow Nation for four years. At that time Africa was still a fairly dark place for the average South African – especially if you were white.
Well, I thought, at least no one would confuse me with a Hutu or a Tutsi if anything did go wrong.
None of my black colleagues even considered going. The entire week before I left everyone at the office was extremely friendly to me. I had the distinct impression they thought they might not see me again. And the evening before our departure they even threw me a farewell bash.
My mother was terribly upset. The “but what are you going to do there, my child?” and the “why would you even consider going there?” questions were never ending. I never told her that I volunteered to go.
It’s difficult travelling in Africa when your skin is white. The chances are slim that you’ll be taken for a local and even if you are one, you’ll still stand out. This means you’ll be the constant target of beggars, curio salesmen, or anyone who sees you as a possible source of income. The reasoning is very basic: you are white, therefore you have money.
If you visit a bar on your own, your cell phone will inevitably be admired within minutes. Weird, but this is a favourite pick-up line in places like this. Numerous women (or rather girls) will sleep with you in exchange for a few dollars, an airline ticket out of the country or sometimes just for the chance to be seen with you.
I’m not into that kind of thing, but I’m the exception. One of the worst images in Africa is of a fat, perspiring Scot, Swede or other sinner with a pathetic hairstyle accompanied by three beautiful, clever back women who hang on to his every word. You just know he’d never get so lucky back home. And while he gets sloshed, the girls work up courage for the bedroom escapades. This happens everywhere and far too often.
Travelling becomes even more daunting when you are white, and just an ordinary tourist. Then you become the target for every single person sporting a uniform – the tweedledees and tweedledums of the bureaucracy. The expectation is that you will make some kind of donation towards their salary, funeral policy or their children’s school fund. Sometimes Mr Uniform is thirsty and only wants a Coke or a cigarette. But you will fork out something. Paying up is the name of the African travelling game.
When you’re travelling with someone like Lucky Dube, a total superstar in Africa, things change pretty quickly. You hang out with ministers. Your bodyguard is usually a senior security policeman – the kind you avoid like the plague when you’re an ordinary tourist. And best of all, you get a safe pass letter, signed by someone high up in the hierarchy, which guarantees your safety in any tricky situation. You are actually hanging out with the baddies, but what the heck, if it makes you safe, so be it.
In Africa (as in most of the world) people are only nice until they get power or money. Then they turn into power crazed megalomaniacs whose only mission in life is to get more power and money. In this elite group everyone takes good care of each other, presidents included, because they