Les memoires d'un tel vieil homme

"Le Temps court et s'écoule et notre mort seule arrive à le rattraper. La Photographie est un couperet qui dans l'éternité saisit l'instant qui l'a éblouie." - Henri Cartier-Bresson

Viens, mon ami. Assises-toi  près du feu ; reste pour une seconde. Il y a du temps ; quand on  vieillit, on a du temps. Moi, je suis vieux ; j’ ai vu plus de cinquante hivers froids et des printemps parfumés. Regarde ces trois photos ! Ouais, bien sûr j’en ai des dizaines d’autres, mais ces trois  incarnent mes souvenirs sans pareils ! Chaque photo raconte une histoire tout en montrant un moment qui m’a changé . Va ! Touche-les, je t’en prie ! Laisse-moi te raconter mon histoire…

De la violence et de la haine inutiles

Voyons la première photo! Ah, je me souviens comme c’était hier! C’est une image assez violente, non ? Cet homme, c’était un ancien combattant. C’est quoi,  me demanderais-tu ?  Eh bien, au Zimbabwe, cela veut dire « quelqu’un qui n’est pas assez âgé pour avoir combattu dans une  guerre, mais qui aimerait bien ce titre pour profiter des avantages ». C’est l’un des visages innombrables qui  ont pillé le Zimbabwe : l’un des multiples visages qui ont tué des innocents,  haï des paisibles citoyens, et volé des terres et divisé des milliers de familles. C’est une image qui me remplit d’amertume, penserais-tu ? Non, mon ami, j’ai fait ma paix. Quand j’étais plus jeune, peut-être cette image inspirait l’amertume dans mon âme, mais avec du temps  elle m’invite au pardon. Le pardon de tous les crimes commis contre moi. La vie est trop courte pour être rancunier !

Le début d'une passion

La deuxième photo ! Ah, regardes, c’est moi, dix-neuf ans, guitare à la main. Je suis si jeune : un corps musclé, les cheveux à l’état sauvage, rempli de jeunesse et l’arrogance qui l’accompagne toujours. C’était min premier concert. C’était dans un petit bar qui s’appelle Pirates. Je l’avais joué (elle s’est appelé Layla) depuis ma seizième anniversaire, mais ici, dans cette photo, c’est la première fois que je joue et chante en publique. Ah, je souviens la foule, dans ce bar plein à craquer. Ces gens ont crié, et m'accompagnaient en chantant. Mon ami, tu n’as pointe vécu jusqu’à t’as sentir la clameur de la foule contre ta peau, si vive qu’elle remplit tes poumons et ta cœur. C’est la raison pourquoi j’adore la musique et la guitare en particulière : le caractère léger de ses accords doux retentit partout dans mon cœur  comme des ondes qui se brisent contre mon âme.

Le travail acharné et des sacrifices apportent la gloire  

Et  voilà enfin, la dernière photo ! À vingt ans, je venais de remporter la plus grande régate de l’Afrique du Sud – le fameux Boatrace. Regarde-moi, un sourire charmant aux lèvres illuminait un visage joyeux, le bras  aux épaules de mes camarades, une médaille prestigieuse pend autour de mon cou. Je m’étais entrainé depuis sept mois ; j’avais parcouru presque 1 900 kilomètres de course à pied et à l’aviron. Chaque matin je me levais à cinq heures et demie, bien avant le lever du soleil. Moi,  j’adorais vraiment la rivière de Port Alfred : la beauté naturelle de ses hauts arbres dégarnis qui  dépassaient le buisson vert comme des doigts squelettiques. Cette beauté est pareille au songe qui se garde longtemps au réveil.  Mes mains étaient couvertes d’ampoules profondes et douloureuses, et mon dos accablé de douleurs atroces. Et c'était la période décisive de ma vie. Je venais de me rendre compte qu’avec plus de travail et de persévérance plus rien ne me serait impossible.

Mon ami, je te demande: qu'est-ce que tu ferras dans ta vie? Des grandes choses? Ton present, deveindras-t-il un belle passé que tu peux cherir dans ta viellesse? Moi, je reponds « oui ». Un jour, j'espere que tu reponderas du même facon.

Brace yourself

As Lord Eddard Stark warned us.

"Winter is coming."

After the bone-biting chill of today frostily and unnecessary-adverb-ly swept across Grahamstown, I fear that the sweet warmth of summer has seen its heyday, and is on its swift way out.

The last week has been very enjoyable, and not just primarily because of the weather. Sure, the sun has been shining beautifully, and some days have been unseasonably warm to the point that the air becomes a hot honey against your skin, cloying sweet and sticky, but the people at Rhodes itself have been... well, they look pretty good.

Now, blog posts about the weather aren't exactly what you'd call riveting, nail-biting prose, and so I come to the secondary point of this post: fashion. Now, I'm no Gucci or Gaultier, but I've grown up around two sisters and a my mom (they used to watch a HELL of a lot of Style Network channel, a testament to their lack of cupboard space), and so I pride myself on knowing at least a little bit about fashion and how to look good. This past week, I've thought exactly that about the Rhodents I've seen across campus and in the various local haunts at night. This I can attribute to one sole reason: home.

We were in that most wonderful of times: the first week of term. Freed from the stresses and strains of university, students went home to relax and unwind. Upon their return (I know this is an assumption, but I can only base it on what I've seen) most got new clothes, had their hair cut, coloured, Brazillian deep-conditioned, straightened and god-knows-what-else-ed. Also, being home, they probably decided to wear their nicer clothes (and here by "nicer" I mean "anything that WASN'T flip-flops, teesavs, beaters, hippy pants, hoodies, terribly-motto'ed printed tees, and the innumerable other things that encompass the "student too lazy to even put on shoes let alone drag a comb through their greasy, matted locks" look). And so, lulled into this sense of home (and in some cases, the fashion prerequisites of big-city life), most came back still lost in the heady mists of home-hood. As a friend eloquently noted, "Bro, these chicks are, like, at least one point hotter than I remember". Sexist shallowness aside, I couldn't help but agree.

Alas, let me reiterate: winter is coming. That first blast of freezing cold not only make students shiver and bitch and moan at supper, but it dealt a potentially fatal wound to fashion prospects. I've been here for two years now. Do you want to know what a cold, like, really cold, winter does to dress sense? It alters it utterly.

So, what have we to look forward to on campus? Well, for one, we can applaud winter's kiss in rendering the barefoot look a thing of the summery past. No one is so lazy that they'd freeze their pink little phalanges off. However, that is not enough of a saving grace. Hoodies are coming. Lots of them. Some with terrible res/matric slogans embossing/adorning/ruining them. And not those cute hoodies, either. The puffy, pouffy, "fuck you, winter" marshmellow ones so thick they'd make the girl who invented pouty ducklips look like Einstein. Hoodies of this caliber are utterly devoid of any shade or suggestion of sexiness; if anything, they remind of that last boss battle in Ghostbusters.

You see my point?

It's not just the hoodies, either. similarly puffy and pouffy hippy quasi-pyjama pants will make their usual appearance, accompanied by those ever-godawful Ugg boots. Or, (fucking)Ugg(ly) boots, as I prefer to call them. The only thing worse would be slippers: oh yes, you'll see plenty of those, too.

Kate put on her new hoody and went to lectures.

Or maybe I'm being defeatist: there are some who met the cold with valiant fashionable resilience: black coats, jeans, boots, scarves. I can just hope the wintry wind fills the sails of this revolution.

Or, maybe even worse, I'm being shallow. "There's more than meets the eye," I hear you cry. "Beauty is but skin deep!" Well, maybe. And maybe not. No one loved the Mona Lisa because the canvas and wood underneath its paint was. Let's be serious: you can't judge a personality from across the quad, and so you might have the most wonderful, striking, charmingly charismatic personality in the world, but it won't count for much if you dress like (for want of a better word) a lazy moron. And don't say "oh, but just talk to them".  What, every person I ever see? Yeah. Not likely.

All in all, I love winter. Yup, it's definitely tie-collared-shirt-and-jeans weather, a look which is just painful  under the the burning eye of the summer sun.
Except when I have to row. Then winter is a bitch. A hand-biting, bone-chilling bitch.

RyG goes Cuban

Ever since that fateful day that my now-defunct iPod played their speed-of-insanity “Diablo Rojo”, I have been deeply in love with the musical style of the brilliant, unique guitar duo that is Rodrigo y Gabriella. Comprising of Rodrigo Sánchez on lead guitar and  Gabriella  Quintero on lightspeed, percussive rhythmic guitar, the duo kicked off their notoriety by playing their heavymetal-esque acoustic flamenco style in bars across Dublin.

So you can imagine my excitement when my mom pointed out an album in a music store we happened to be passing. “Oh look, don’t you like them?”, she asked, pointing to the red and blue cover of El Rodi y La Gabi’s new album Area 52. I could barely contain myself: I didn’t just like them, I practically worshiped them – their previous albums have accompanied almost every shower I have taken since discovering them (the acoustics of tiled rooms are magnificent, aren’t they?), and their flamenco, triplet- and riff-driven guitar is half the reason I keep playing and practising, whittling my thumb away to nothing.

However, after giving this CD a few (dozen) listens, I was quite surprised. Much like the vegetarian lasagne they serve on Thursdays in the Dining Hall, I had to take quite a couple of bites just to decide whether I liked the new offering or not.

The crazy flamenco style of RyG joins C.U.B.A to produce some wonderful and sometimes curious results

Area 52, the band’s fifth studio album, showcases a musical collaboration with C.U.B.A, a 13-piece Cuban Orchestra and various other guest musicians playing a variety of instruments, from sitars to rock drums. Some critics have said that the duo lack depth, and so perhaps a foray into a more encompassing style is a good one...

...or perhaps not.

Let me break down the CD into a track-by-track breakdown as they appear on the album.

“Santo Domingo” kicks off the album with a extraordinary intro that grabs you by the balls and gets you listening immediately. You can almost instantly feel the new edge to their sound: trumpets blast and interject to create a rich, exotic sound, and an added ‘wah’ effect to the guitar work makes the riff at once familiar and brand new. They stay true to much of their old style, with centrality being lent predominantly to the ever-inventive guitarists. However, the song quickly loses its flame to an unnecessarily long jazz piano solo piece, followed by… what the f-? Flutes? Really? Flutes. In a Rodrigo y Gabriella song? One simple question: why, God, why?

After the first song fades away, we are given a beautifully sculpted rendition of “Hanuman”. The song swells and resounds with a great Cuban interlude, and the electric guitar work and solos are nothing short of the fantastic Mexicano stylings that I fell in love with. My only critique would be that, apart from the solo, the guitar pieces are lost in the sounds of all the other instruments.

"Ixtapa" , the next track, is fantastically remastered. Their new rendition is absolutely tranquil, seeping a calmness that grows and swells with their amazing building progression. With the great guitar work that resonates so deeply within my heart, I just can’t help but scrunch up my eyes in utter incredulity. Their old style is mixed with new influences, fusing with definite Cuban styles to produce a wonderful achievement; and besides, just listen to the sitar work done by Anoushka Shankar – it’s damn near enough to make you cry, and it adds a poignant and wonderful dimension that I never thought the band could have.

Originally a tribute to Pink Floyd, “11:11” is probably the centrepiece of the CD. The guitar screams with reinvention, accompanied by a new, heavier beat. The piano and great drum work works in tandem with punchy horns to build up and accentuate the guitar work. The solo… God, the solo… I have never heard a guitar scream “FLOYD!” more loudly: the unmistakeable wailing, bending sound of the electric guitar in this song is nothing short of genius, and it captures the Floyd sound brilliantly. Syd Barrett would be very, very proud. However, the song goes a little “full retard” (to quote Robert Downey Junior) and suddenly ends with weird tribal-esque drums and singing. To finish so fantastic a song is almost blasphemy. My advice: skip the last 40 seconds or so.

“Master Maqui”, the next track, continues the guitar work nicely: again, it’s very good, even if it is at times lost to the other instruments. I constantly feel like the two primary guitarists are Jack Dawson, being forced to drown in the freezing Atlantic whilst that bitch Rose (in the form of trumpets, drums and those damned flutes) hogs the whole wooden float. At times, this song feels a little bit like a Broadway show-chorus tune, and at times it shows definite Arabian Nights influences. It’s… well, sometimes it’s nice, and sometimes I just have to ask “WTF?”.

Next is “Diablo Rogo”, the piece that captivated and awed me all those months ago. This track is one hell of a mean one: the old song is still definitely there, recapturing the heart-racing incessant awesomeness of their Spanish speed, driven even more crazy by ‘wah’-effect guitar, light piano and great drumming.

“Logos” was another one of my old favourites, simply because of it’s sheer foot-stomping addictiveness. Though this track is a slightly altered portrayal of the guitar in the original, it is by no means a bad song. In fact, it’s a whole different kind of addictive: it is unbelievably calm and yet at the same time driven, making your foot stomp all over again, and for much of it the accompanying orchestra is absent, which can be a good thing. All in all, this is a great reinvention that still stays true to the original.

“Juan Loco” is no different: though a very different feel to the original, the playful beat and melange of instruments and sounds make this song one that stays true to its roots whilst exploring other influences. The build in this song verges on sheer sonic mastery.

“Tamacun” is an all-time favourite of mine: after I practiced (for six long and arduous months) the insane, lightning-fast triplets Gabriella had shown in one of her tutorial videos, this is always a song I like to mess around with when I play live. This is a wonderful track to end this relatively short CD with: the song comes reinvented, bursting with a Cuban playfulness – saucy and spicy, with a lighter, jazzier sound that drives right to the heart of why I love this band so much. Like some of the other tracks the guitar is sometimes lost to other instruments: there is, for example, too much trumpet, I think, and you don’t get quite so much the palm slapping and percussive elements for which the virtuoso Gabriella is so well known. However, it’s still an awesome track.

So, my feelings at the end of it all are a bit mixed. Sure, as a localised Afro-Cuban experiment, the album works very, very well. However, I can’t help but feel that the very definite, unmistakable Rodrigo-y-Gabriella-ness of the band has taken a back seat in this experimental drive. Sure, their songs appear in some tangible form of their old glorious selves, but much of the sheer jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring guitar insanity for which they became so well-known has lost its centrality to a backdrop of trumpets, piano and (God help us) flutes. I really do get what they were trying to do with this album: to experiment and get a more localised flavour, to see what kind of a spin they could season their old favourites with, and to a certain extent it does work – the sitar, piano, drums and trumpets add a whole new dimension of sound. However, I must say that if I had wanted to buy a Cuban instrumental orchestra CD, I would have done so. At R150, I wanted the ear-pounding, soul-smashing heavy-metal-on-nylon duel fury that these two magnificent artists so expertly and easily dish out. This album, though it is a fantastic one, just fails to deliver the sheer guitar dexterity and mastership for which this duo has become famous. Where is the double, palm-muted body tapping of the old “Diablo Rojo”? Where is the simple ingenuity of the original “Ixtapa”? Alas, if you’re looking for a sound more reminiscent of their older eponymous album Rodrigo y Gabriella, or the unstoppable heart-racers of their Live albums (Manchester and Tokyo respectively), then perhaps Area 52 is just a time-killer until the next time they make an unbelievable amount of awesomeness out of two simple guitars.

Books, covers and everything in between

I’ve been in Cape Town on holiday for almost a week now. It’s nice, being back home and seeing the family, taking a break from university work and the daily worries that come with it. However, outside of the “vegetarian – default” meal system at Rhodes, trying to get by outside of the great RU walls has been nutritionally challenging. Now, Cape Town has a certain image. I’m not one to judge a book by its cover (or a city by its hipsters) but I must admit that I’ve been quite… well, disappointed.

My family have been awesome in meeting this whole vegetarian lifestyle that I’ve got going on. Family meals have taken on a more vege-centred, meatless form, even though they still have yet to give up the red and white entirely. Apparently sushi is just too awesome to never eat again.

However, the first few problems arise as soon as I step foot out my door (which is a new door: we’ve moved house, and when I say “moved” I mean something more like “took our stuff about a hundred metres down the road to a new complex”). I went to Long street with my family to eat out. We sat down in a nice little café, and everything was just perfect. Perfect, that is, until I opened the menu.

No vegetarian option in sight. Well, there was salad (a range of salads), but salad is nowhere near a main course. Hell, salad is a side-option to a main course. So we decided to get up and try another place.

And another.

And another.

And another.

I found it hard to believe that so many places in Long street had nothing to offer green-crunchers other than salad; these placed offered about as much choice as a Zimbabwean presidential election. I eventually had to ask the chef of one establishment to make me a cheeseburger, minus burger, plus fried onion and egg. Now, I’m not saying that Cape Town doesn’t cater for vegetarians: there are lots of places that do do it, and well (Kauai comes to mind), but they are just too few and far in between. Even the high-end places like Harbour House, Sevruga’s and Willoughby’s have nothing really aside from a soya dish and vegetarian maki. It’s almost insulting. I’ve almost, almost, rescinded on my ideals and partaken of chicken just so that I don’t have to eat another salad or choke down another vegetarian pasta. I mean, there are literally thousands of different vegetarian meals that can be made. The other night I made a vegetarian ratatouille with pasta; is it too much to ask a master chef to make something similar, if not better? I cannot imagine what it would be like being a vegan: cutting egg, milk and other animal products entirely from my diet would in effect guarantee my starvation.

However, investigating what I could eat without betraying my new ideals has been interesting. A few pertinent questions have arisen: if I eat eggs, doesn’t that mean eating caviar is okay? (some sushi is quasi-vegetarian, but topped with caviar and mayo); and what about prawns? I mean, I gave up fish, but prawns aren’t exactly fish, are they? Sigh, categories and labels are such confusing things (does eating one prawn mean that I failed to stay the course? Oh well: that tempura was well worth it, if it does).

Anyway, I’m back in Rhodes as I add to this post, which has been sitting around partially edited for the last few days. It’s gonna be interesting to see what this next term brings. My first guess? Work: it isn’t even the first day of term yet and already I have several Word documents sitting on my desktop waiting to be finished by Friday… C’est la vie d’un étudiant, non?

My other guesses? Well, for the most part, two: firstly, I got a Kindle, so I'm probably gonna read a lot more than I used to; and secondly, I've been practising guitar a lot (played two gigs - open mic nights, really - in Cape Town) and so I think that George and I (George is another great guitarist at Rhodes, and he plays a style that really gels with mine) will make some serious music this term and in the others to follow. Working name? El Toro. The Bull.

Innovations: behind the guitar and curtain

I sit in the dressing room backstage. My guitar is in hand, my throat burning a bit from the Fisherman's Friend I just sucked (a throat lozenge, not a sexual innuendo, har har). My voice is fine, but as the seconds tick by, the shakes start to pop into the lower notes. I hum the tune of the song I wrote, "You", and idly pluck the 3/4 melody. A head pops around the door.
"Five minutes."

It's Friday night, and Innovations 2012 is finally upon us. All those long hours of practising, missing dinner, and having to do Journ assignments at 1 in the morning were finally over. The days when this performance was just a Facebook message between Robynne and me are long since over. My stomach grumbles. I should've had something to eat. Then again, it probably would've been pizza, and cheese and vocals don't exactly get along.

I walk out of the dressing room, closely shadowed by the other dancers. I sat on my amp, turn it on. The red light stares at me. The video overhead (a noir-parody by the comedy improv group, NaturallyCaffeinated) plays, and as the seconds pass my heart beats faster and faster. Soon, the lights drop, the crowd cheers, and it's our turn. The dim blue stage lights come on, and I grab my amp. I walk on stage, amp and guitar in hand. Suddenly, there's a tug as an unseen foot steps on my power cord, and the amp falls dead.
Tragedy. 
I put it down and go back into the stage wing, frantically checking the plugs and wiring, but in the blackness of the wing, I can barely see my own hand. Nothing. I turn back on stage, realising that I'm gonna have to do this unplugged...

I walk off stage in anger. I almost dropped my goddamn guitar in that last bit where I walk off, and the crowd actually fucking laughed. I'm beyond mad; I'm absolutely seething. I grab my stuff and go back upstairs. I don't talk to anyone; I don't feel like. Khanyi tries to cheer me up, but I'm beyond even her infectious smile. The final piece comes and goes; I don't really care. Later, when I go downstairs to put my amp away, a couple of the committee members and tech people try to blame me for the projector not working. In effect, they try to blame me for screwing up the show. I didn't say anything: I don't always explode at people, but when I do, I tend to go over-the-top. I decided that it was best to hold my tongue and not have a mushroom-cloud hanging over the second showing.
I grab my case and go to the Guitar Society function.

Guitar has a very soothing effect on me. On that tiny stage, with George on lead, and Luke on bass, and me doing that Spanish flamenco percussive thing I love so much, I'm in my element. Guitar, especially that violently expressive Rodrigo y Gabriella style, is such a great way to vent; I just wish more people had come down to see some of the more hidden musical talents at Rhodes.
The punch helps too.

I go out. I meet a girl called (Jess? Roz? Does it matter?) and I tell her about the show. In my drunken faux-profundity, I tell her that the song is about trying to win someone over and failing in the process, and so on a philosophical level, perhaps performing it badly and failing to win the crowd over is just as good as playing it badly. I remember laughing afterwards: after all, what kind of bullshit is that?
The rest of the night is sort of lost in a blur, but when I wake up the next morning, I'm back in good spirits (even if I feel as sick as dog; "malaria" my mom would call it)
Tonight will be better.
I can feel it.

Photo: Robynne Peatfield
The Philophobia group doing what we do best...

And it was. Yes, my heart still hammered in my chest as hard as ever, and yes, I was as nervous as hell, but all-in-all, I walked on stage and my amp was on. Robynne sang really well, I didn't really screw up royally, and the dancers were amazing. We had pulled it off, as had the rest of the performers: in front of a full house, we had shone and excelled.

Performing in Innovations has been a mixed bag. There were many positives to it: the opportunity to go and stage and play for a much wider, more appreciative crowd than the drunken masses at Pirates Pizza, and a great chance to meet wonderful new people. Hell, I've always loved the drama department: they're a great crowd, so fun-loving and free-spirited. Kin and kind, per se. Also, the leaflet called me a "guitar virtuoso". I would never claim to be one, but it is nice to read a compliment like that...

However, there are many things that were challenging at times. First of all was the fact that the performance  date fell on the same weekend as the USSA rowing regatta, which was heartbreaking. More than that, though, was the atmosphere of the show itself. First of all, we as the performers all got called "divas", which was kind of insulting. I mean, divas tend to stay in fancy dressing rooms and have people at their beck and call: we had neither. Then, there was just this massive blame-game going on all the time. I just feel like maybe if we focused our energies on the right kind of drama (i.e. on stage, and not backstage), things would be a lot smoother. Also, I felt as if a lot of the people in charge were very, very condescending. When we were packing up all the props and stage equipment after the final showing, I felt like the higher-ups thought me to be some kind of moronic child. It's just utterly unnecessary. I try to be understanding and kind to everyone in the show, be they a performer or a stagehand -  is it too much to expect the same treatment in return?

All in all, Innovations 2012 was a fantastic experience. Sure, there were hiccups, but aren't there always? I try not to let a few niggles stand between me and the utterly awesome feeling of being on stage and sharing my art with the audience. The feeling of sitting there, and having the applause crash over you like an intoxicating wave is so magnificent is verges on just plain indescribable. Sometimes I wonder why I even do Journalism at all...

My beef with beef

Today, I have been a vegetarian for 75 days.

Well, Pesca Vegetarian, I suppose (I eat fish VERY rarely), but you get the idea.

Having eaten meat for all of my life, many have asked my why (the hell) I had chosen such a path. "Never eat meat?!" they cried. "Impossible! Unthinkable! It can't be done!" they shout, their beloved bacon clutched desperately to their chests. I used to be one of those people, you know? Ask my friend, Dale. I used to give her every excuse in the book: "You're crazy!", "Meat is too tasty", "I'm a rower and I need the real protein", "I'm not a left-wing tree-hugger or animal rights activist", blah blah blah ad infinitum, ad naseum.


Then one day (December 31st, making it a New Year's resolution - the first I've ever been faithful to) I just decided "to hell with it". And so here I am.

There are a few reasons one would become a vege-muncher. 

1) Ecology


"Earth and Water", as the Persian messenger famously said to King Leonidas, and the meat industry takes far too much of both.

According to some of the statistics that I have read (and the many that were blasted everywhere by my friend and chief inspiration for going vegetarian, Kayla), it takes a ridiculous amount of water to get meat on your plate. it takes a startling 50 times more water to produce one calorie of energy from beef as it does from potatoes. Since the water is vastly subsidised by the government, and with things like public land grazing and low water costs, the meat industry is still a viable one, but you have to ask yourself "for how long?". Meat may still be relatively cheap, but we are paying a price above and beyond the Rands and cents listed on the packaging: we are paying with our planet. When I think about how precious water is (especially living here in Grahamstown, land of the brown water that may or may not give you Alzheimer's one day), I just cannot, as a rational and logical man, justify this wastage. Vast swathes of forest and land are being cleared to keep up with demand, with beef imports from Central and South America (the so-called "lungs of the planet") on the rise. A World Rainforest Movement report found that 90% of deforestation occurs as a result of unsustainable agricultural practices. Beef farming itself is destructive to top-soil, and degrades land and aquatic systems, causing eutrophication. Beef production also uses up far too much fossil fuels.

Logical?

2) Health

Since processed meat is basically doused in antibiotics and boiled in ammonia (and then reflavoured), meat has been shown to reduce the efficacy of antibiotics. Simply by eating meat, we are risking new strains of diseases that are immune to our medicines. Meat is linked to certain kinds of cancer (of the colon, for example), and has a lot of cholesterol in it. Besides, watch the video below, which basically summarises points 1(wastefulness) and 2 (health) of this post. Personally, I was disgusted.

I can personally vouch for the health side of things: since becoming vegetarian, I've lost 11kg and a belt size. I've never felt better. I would love to tell you how difficult it has been - to say that it has been an endless struggle, that I've starved, and so on - but that would be untrue. For me, it was as easy as clicking "Vegetarian" on the Meal Server. The hardest part has been remembering to not buy meat pies at the BP convenience store after a particularly big night out.


3) Humanitarianism

Personally, I'm not taken by the animal cruelty argument. I can see the sense and reasoning behind it, and agree that many abattoirs and slaughterhouses are needlessly cruel, but hey, I grew up on a farm. From a young age I became desensitised to animal slaughter. My cousins and I hunted animals and birds, and at my grandparents' house, there was always dead sheep hanging from a hook behind the old tree in the corner of the garden, just waiting for the Sunday braai. My sisters and I would always dare each other to touch its protruding severed windpipe or bulging eyes. I'll never forget the harsh, cloying metallic smell of blood, like copper and dirt mixed together. An earthly smell.
We were never under any illusions as kids as to where our food came from. I saw the death; the meat we ate was never disguised by distance and plastic wrapping and cleanliness. It was brutal, and noisy. I think now that I'm old enough to think critically and for myself , and make my own grand life decisions, I can see the complicity in a meat diet. Just because we don't see the dying, it doesn't mean that it doesn't happen.

4) People

Now, I hate to be shallow, but when you see the list of notable vegetarians who have come before us, then maybe you start to think that we meat-eaters are perhaps doing something wrong. Sir Paul McCartney, Christian Bale, George Bernard Shaw, J.M. Coetzee and Xavier Rudd are on that list. But let's ignore the current, modern faces, and look back (oh, let's also ignore that Pamela Anderson is on that list. Ignore Hitler as well - it's disputed anyway).

Confucius. Byron. Voltaire. Einstein. Aristotle. Plato. Pythagoras. Socrates. Da Vinci. Virgil. Gandhi.

Much closer to home (Gtown) I can easily admit that meeting the other vegetarians (who seem to excel in whatever they do) are an inspiration in themselves. And, if you're religious (I'm not), the list even notes Jesus, John the Baptist, and Saint Matthew. It goes on and on, naming sports personalities, artists, writers and spiritual figures.
Being a vegetarian won't make you these people, but hell, it can't hurt your chances either.

Now, don't take this as a tirade against meat-eaters. I think we should have the freedom to choose for ourselves what kinds of lifestyles we lead. However, my advice is this: think critically about the impact your decisions make. As my dad always told me, "every action has a consequence, even if you can't see it". Think about these things, and try to think beyond the immediate selfishness of a carnivorous diet.

Not all dogs are chihuahuas.

I heard the other day that there is to be a meeting held between the wardens of the various residences at Rhodes University to decide the fate of the infamous Orientation Week serenades. Typically, these serenades are a way of getting the reses to meet and greet one another at the beginning of their first year. Usually, a song and dance routine (usually a very badly sung and terrible-choreographed routine) is done to break the ice, like a fat, tone-deaf polar bear. This year, however, one girl (there could have been more, but let's focus on the one in question) wrote a letter to the Dean of Students, complaining that the serenades were sexist and made her feel "objectified". In addition, she felt that it felt like initiation, and she said that she felt uncomfortable sitting in her pajamas telling "her stripper name" whilst being ogled by men. Our warden emailed us all, asking us to give our thoughts on the matter. This is but an extension of those thoughts.

Serenades: not ALL bad

I can understand that serenades can go wrong. In the heat of O week, when hook-up fever and the post-highschool freedoms of university hit us hardest, we can forget things like subtlety, sensitivity and bearable singing. Serenades can at times get a little sexually suggestive (I remember one lyric "Ladies/ you're looking good/ so good/ so finger-licking good") and raunchy (pelvic hipthrusts are the dancemove du jour).

However, in the same regard, I think that this can just as easily have been an isolated incident. Guy Butler (my residence) has always had this at-times quite cliche reputation of being "the Gentlemen's Res" (our sign has a dude with walking stick and top-hat; and just LOOK at the above picture of last year's serenade) and our lyrics have never been downright lewd or outright lecherous. Hence my terrible proverb title basically entailing the synecdochal fallacy: that we judge a whole based on a part (One society steals money? "Ban ALL the socieites!" Does that make sense?) In this case, perhaps it would be understandable to call for more moderation: make certain lyrics (i.e. those likening women to a bucket of KFC) not allowed, and tone down the Maverick's-esque dance routine.

Logic: not always dependable

However, banning it outright would be a terrible mistake. Serenades are such an important way to get to know the different reses and to meet new faces when you're just days into your stay at Rhodes. Instead, we should highlight the fact that taking part in these serenades is entirely *not compulsory* (I don't know how else I could have emphasised that more strongly).

If something bothers you, hell, downright offends you, to the point where you feel it necessary to write a letter to the DoS, don't you think you should find a way to stop it happening? Again, I reiterate: the serenades are not compulsory. You don't have to take part. So sitting there, and dancing the lewd dances, and cracking the crude jokes, and singing the dirty, lecherous lyrics, you are in fact complicit. If you lack the strength of character to stand against what you think is wrong, then perhaps you should accept lying in the bed you've made for yourself. If you sit in a barber's chair and ask for a haircut, and he just cuts and cuts and cuts and cuts, and you just sit there silently watching, what good is it complaining that you're bald when you had the power all along to speak up and put an end to it? And justifying it with "oh, but if I had not taken part it would have made it awkward for me in res" is a stupid cop-out. Again, you have the power to change the things you don't like in university. This isn't highschool; this isn't some idiotic, clique-strewn popularity contest. And besides: when did taking a stand for what you believe in ever win you friends? I could just as easily say "oh, but if I speak out against the horrifically racist jokes my friends are making, then they won't like me", but how would that improve things? At the end of the day, what good is it having a thousand friends if they're all ignoramuses whom you detest?

I'll bet my top dollar that there were far more people who enjoyed serenades than felt offended by it. We can't burn down the whole orchard just because of a few bad apples (geez, my analogies are painful to read, aren't they?). Instead, we should afford future generations of Rhodents the opportunity to decide for themselves.

I scream "KONY"!

The man himself

By now you're probably either utterly enraged by, or pissed off because of, this face. He needs no introduction; his face has been spamming your EVERYTHING since the infamous video calling for him to "become famous" came out. The video is pretty long (29min), so watching it on my Spartan (note, Dear Reader - and Hellenic Society- that this means "austere, frugal" and not "huge and muscular and Scottish-accented") student internet quota was quite an investment on my part.

There is no doubt about it: he's an evil man.

But already we reach our first problem. I come from Zimbabwe, and many of my Zimbabwean friends shared this. Why? Have you SEEN your (our? I feel more and more disconnected from that place every day that passes) own country? Similar, if not worse, atrocities happen there. Just because there isn't a sparkly, sad video showing the horrific beatings and political oppression, it doesn't mean that it doesn't happen. Where was our "MUGABE 2008" campaign, during a period known simply as "The Fear". In a similar way, South Africans post it. Even closer to home, did you Grahamstonians SEE the water last night? Where were your statuses,huh? (I'm trying to fix this; I have a large water filtration project for Rhodes that is slowing gaining momentum, if only those bastards at AquaVie would respond to my emails). Meanwhile, our society is so marred with problems that it makes Joseph look like the Virgin Mary. This is, in a way, Imperialism. It's making us care about American problems, and turning attention from our own. The thing is, Americans have time to care about things abroad, simple because (relatively speaking) their country isn't a corrupt, dangerous shithole. In this way, the KONY campaign makes us ALL invisible children. By casting a bright light on Uganda, it sends shadows arching over the rest of the world's problems.

The other "Invisible children"

There have also been allegations of only 31% of donations actually going to a cause, and of Kony-haters supporting Ugandan forces (Uganda basically hates homosexuals). The Ugandan military doesn't exactly have a sparkling record: apparently, they have been known to use rape as a weapon of war. By proxy, if you 'like' KONY 2012, you 'like' the exact same things that you're trying to stop. Also, there are some parts of the documentary that are misleading or just plain wrong.

The campaign also showed me the sheer ignorant apathy of people (or, conversely, the apathetic ignorance of people). Many posted "stop this kak u'll only change nothing" (note the horrific grammar, Dear Reader), which is absurd. Caring is good. When we get lost in the Mr Kurtz-esque "Africa the unsaveable" mindset, then we're really screwed. I also dislike the fact that some smear the campaign. And just because America (if we're to call all dogs chihuahuas, to use one of my strange proverbs) probably only cares about things that enrich it (ie oil in Iraq), it doesnt mean that every time someone cares about something they are after blood diamonds or crude oil or whatever natural resource occurs in the country in question. Whatever its intrinsic problems are, its heart is in the right place. Saying that a facebook repost is pointless is wrong. Facebook and Twitter are just the modern, electronic equivalents of placards.

That said, the whole campaign does inspire hope in me. It's amazing that social media can spread one single issue across the whole globe like wildfire in a matter of hours. Libya, Egypt, Uganda... It leaves a tingling feeling of excitement in my stomach, as I try to think what social networks will be used for next.

Hopefully something a lot closer to home.

War

I read this blog post today. It's a response to the subject of my last post, that infamous article "Club Etiquette" (someone should upload it to give context). After reading it, I felt... well, challenged. Not because it's hard-hitting, cutting journalism (which it isn't) but because it put me at a loss for words.
Speechless. A thing that happens rarely, if ever.
But then I found a picture that somewhat embodies my feelings.

My reaction

Though I hate starting with cliched defenses, I'm obviously not a rape denialist (Chrome's spell-checker tells me that's not a word), or apologist, or whatever crap someone might want to call me. Rape is wrong. We don't need a blog to tell us that. Great, now that that is out the way, I'm gonna try to untangle the bag of snakes that is my internal turmoil right now.

First of all, I've read the article. It's bad, like I pointed out in my last post. Hence, I took none of it seriously (something everyone might want to think about doing). I certainly didn't think that the article "silences rape survivors". However, the author of the blog post (Michelle Solomon, editor of Activate's rival paper, The Oppidan Press - but we'll get to that little niggle in a sec) did just that. Suddenly, a trivial fluff-piece had become a Rorschach test in which demons, monsters, and above all rape lived.

"Unfairly taken advantage of", in one swift and inexplicable move of synonymy and denotation, became "rape". One comment stated that "being taken advantage of IS rape", which is, well, silly. The guy who sold me that ornamental guitar in Mozambique took advantage of my ignorance and touristy ways, and got more money that it was worth, but he certainly didn't rape me. And also (from personal experience, Dear Reader) 'taking someone home' does not mean having sex with them. Hell, even sleeping with them doesn't mean having sex with them. This in itself is the major problem with this blog post: it assumes that what is described in the article is rape, clear and undeniably simple. However, now that we're in the realm of connotation and denotation (thank you, 2nd-year Journalism), I'd hardly say that you'd rape "the person of your dreams". Maybe I'm just being romantic or conservative here, but a better verb would be "ask out", "kiss" or "marry", not "drag her drunk ass home sans consent". Also, the original article's author is female, so I don't think that denying rape or suggesting that it is okay are high on her list. If we say that Activate's article (sorry, that should be "rape apologia") is one that trivialises rape and provides a platform for rape denialism (still not a word), then we should use the same logic and say that this response post is demeaning to Rhodes University students, and assumes that we just walk around with rape on our minds. In short, the article's molehill is made into a mountain. Yes, rape is a problem, but we mustn't make every problem some underhand, obscure justification/denial of rape.

Also, Solomon is the Editor for Oppidan Press. As far as I've been able to gather from my sources, no opportunity was afforded to the Editor of Activate to even apologise or print a retraction, a decision that disgusts me. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call mudslinging. I'm not saying that journalists shouldn't criticise each other just because they work for rival factions, but what I am saying is that you should try to get an explanation first. Last year I had a huge showdown with Activate about a column that spoke disparagingly of red-haired people in a column (something about them not having souls), and what did I do? Did I jump onto my computer, smash the keyboard in self-righteous fury and berate them at length on a public forum? No. I emailed the writer and the Editor. And hey-presto! Lo and behold! The issue got dealt with! This sort of rash, hot-headed journalism is the kind that gets you into trouble before you even know it.

Finally, the posted is headed, footed and sided  by credentials saying that the article is "written on behalf of the Rhodes University’s Gender Action Project (GAP) and Slutwalk Grahamstown".  Well, Solomon is chair of the former and co-organiser of the latter. In my opinion, that's hiding opinion behind a formal organisation. It would be like me saying that this blog post is written on behalf of the Rowing club, Guitar Society and the Matthew de Klerk Foundation. If, by her reasoning, Activate is to be held accountable and seen as complicit in Loxton's alleged denialism, then maybe GAP and Slutwalk should be held accountable for Solomon's brash reaction?

I want to just speak to you as frankly as I can. Let us drop, for a second, the overly-verbose academic register, the caution and backtracking of political correctness, the uptight professional journalistic agency and the other influences on the way we speak, write, act and reason, and just be real; sometimes, these things can get in the way of simple, clear-cut, reason. To cut this long story short, the reaction to this article has been uncalled for and unfounded. I think it's dangerous when we let our emotions, indignation and defenses of our various causes get too far. In the past, I have written articles in screaming blue fury in reaction to things that I thought were insanely offensive and wrong. Sure, some of it might have been good writing, but it didn't remove the fact that I had lost the objectivity and impartiality that I had been taught as a journalist to always maintain. I remember a journalism lecture when a guy came in and gave a (fake) press release from the Media Monitoring agency basically trolling us to hell and back. Most of us just stormed out in anger; many argued with him. In the end, none of the information that we had been assigned to get had been gotten. The lesson at the end was one that has resounded with me ever since: keep composure. Our emotions cloud or judgement and mar our thought-processes, and we get so tangled and infuriated at details that we forget to see the bigger picture.

This whole ordeal has been a debacle. Michelle Solomon committed a grave error, albeit one that gave her +1000 page views in a few hours. Why must we read so deeply into things, and take them so overwhelmingly to extremes? And if defending Simone Loxton and Activate and saying that this is a case of "Controversy where there is none", puts me at odds with Solomon's blog post, then, well, so be it (though that might make me a denialist as well).

I'll leave the last word to Mister Freud.

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar"

Article ‘Activates’ bad blood

A furore ripped across campus today (and by “furore” I mean something more like “inane lunchtable discussions and Editor Wars”) after the most recent edition of the student newspaper, Activate, came out. Now, being quite a Grammar Nazi, I can understand why. You see, in this edition, hiding  deep in the recesses of the Lifestyle pages (page 20, for those of you who want to track it down), is an article expertly penned by one Simone Loxton. I could delve into why this article was bad, but that would just be mea…

Oh, screw it. ATTACK!

THIS... IS... MATT'S BLOG!!!

The article (titled “Club Etiquette”, as if such a thing exists in Grahamstown) is written in a sort of offhand advice-cum-features piece, in an attempt to educate incoming seals, er, First-years on the ins and outs and expected behaviour at venues such as the memorable (and by that Rhodents usually mean that they remember nothing) smoke-filled sardine tin that is Friars, a place so littered with broken bottles and spilled drink that you sometimes catch yourself believing that the dancefloor is, in fact, trying simultaneously to shred and goo you to death. That is, if by that stage of the evening you haven’t already had someone try to eat you alive tonsils-first.

The article starts out, “There is something about Grahamstown that automatically justifies unbelievable behaviour on a night out”. Okay, so that means that the whole article is redundant, because you can basically do what you want, non? Moving on.

The rest of the first paragraph is filled with jumpy, fragmented language that seems as if the author tried to glue random bits of printed-out sentences together. However, the pièce de résistance of the article has to be the second paragraph, which reads (sans correction):

Firstly, and this on probably affects us all: do not drop your glass on the floor. The satisfying sound of the flat pop of a glass breaking as it smashes after its second bounce (can be the coolest way to make your point). People hate it when you do this, as having glass attached to the sole of your shoe (or foot) not only ruins it but makes you uncomfortable and really annoyed.
                Activate, Edition 1, 2012 (APA-style referencing can suck it)

Whilst I must congratulate the author on the correct use of “its” and “your” (a rarity in this place, believe you me), I must point out her redundancy: “the sound of the flat pop”. A pop IS a sound, dearie; it’s like saying “the bright blue of the blue sky”. Also: glass bounces? Last I checked, Friars didn’t serve drinks in HercuGlass tumblers. And why does the sentence suddenly cut into brackets?! Moving on from this, glass doesn’t merely attach to your foot or shoe. No: rather it sticks into that bastard, DEEP. I once stood on glass at a party in 2010 (sorry, “got glass ‘attached’ to my foot”) and needed five stitches, and I must say that I didn’t feel merely annoyed and uncomfortable. No, I screamed raving blue murder and had to be driven to a clinic many, many kilometres away for immediate treatment (I won’t say why the on-site paramedics didn’t stitch me up themselves – let’s just leave that in the past).

My first reaction to the article

Anyway, I’m actually getting bored of this. It’s too easy; my hyper-corrective tendencies make it like shooting handicapped fish in a glass beaker with an assault rifle. Also, I’m not sure if I want to be so mean to someone I don’t know.  But overall and all things considered (the tautology of solidarity, my friends, to show Miss Loxton that I feel her pain) what we can surmise from the short critique into this article that  either:
A) The subediting process went horrible askew,
or
B) Simone is a not an experienced writer.

Which brings me to the point of this blog post (which has changed since I’ve decided not to be an asshole): Student Journalism.

Last year I worked as the Opinions Editor for the better of the two Rhodes University newspapers (here, ladies and gentlemen, we see a display of the author’s terrible bias). It was, all things considered, a horrible job. After about three weeks, 80% (a made-up percentage, but bear with me) of my writing staff abandoned me/stopped responding to my emails, leaving me all alone in a locked room with a two-page, 3000-word section. Those were dark days. Add this to my commitments as a rower (training three times a day) and my duties as a student (essays abound), writing six or seven 500-worders was a chore. But hell, I did it. Once in a while I’d have a burst of inspiration from a seal, er, First-year student (political correctness is such a bitch), but overall it was a very heavy burden on my shoulders. Hell, ask any student editor.

As campus newsmakers, we have a responsibility to give our readers journalism and reportage that is relevant, accurate, and entertaining. However, one of the major problems is that the Journalism and Media Studies course at Rhodes is very theory-heavy, skimping on practical instruction and almost assuming that the students in question have been news writers for years before registering at Rhodes. And so, we as editors have to deal with one very problematic problem (solidarity, my brothers, solidarity): either reject the badly-written submissions and use our own years of skill and write the damn paper ourselves (a lengthy and time-consuming process that pushed the boundaries of my sanity, made the Opinions section more like “Matthew de Klerk’s personal ranting space” and discourages fledgling writers from practising their craft), or use their poorly drafted articles so as to encourage our writers and keep them submitting (at a cost to the paper’s overall appeal).

This is not, Dear Reader, an easy choice, and we editors are only human: subediting, improvements, restructuring and suggestions only go so far in polishing a turd, so to speak. And whilst it’s all very well to sit here and pick apart (hell, tear to shreds) a writer who is new to the craft, there are wider contexts to consider. Making a newspaper that long is not easy. I won’t ever pretend that it’s not.
Because it’s something we do above and beyond the call of duty. Swamped by tests, training and essays, we still take time to churn out news for student readers, who get the paper *for free*.

It's either one or the other.

It’s the modern conundrum of journalism: readers want it free AND well-written. Digital “free”ism is killing quality and increasing criticism. 

But as another point, let’s be serious: as bad as it is, it’s just a harmless features article. I’ve heard that relations between the opposing editors of each paper have become very strained and serious, with (sources tell me) allegations of “rape-denialism” (referring to paragraph five of the article) even surfacing. “Controversy where there doesn’t need to be,” my source tells me. Hells, I couldn’t have said it better myself. People need to take stuff less personally.

Anyway, I guess what I’ve taken too much of your time to say is that we shouldn’t be too harsh on our journalists. They’re trying their best. And Simone, if you’re reading this, just keep working at it.
You’ll always meet asshole critics (note: NOT "asshole-critics") like me. Just keep working at it.

Oh, and don’t drop glass in clubs. That shit is annoying and uncomfortable.