June 9, 2018 Comments Off on Ringside
Kallie Knoetze. Gerrie Coetzee. The men I’m most likely to recall if you ask me to name a boxer. Knoetze turned pro in 1976 – the same year television arrived in South Africa – and I remember watching several fights on SABC between Knoetze and Coetzee. My parents had their comfy chairs, and I sat sitting cross-legged on the family room floor, white-knuckled with excitement, after my father finally relented and allowed “one of those things” in the house.
Somewhere along the way I lost my appetite for watching grown men slug it out in the ring, but 40-odd years later, I find myself driving to the Portuguese Hall in Turffontein, Johannesburg – on purpose – to watch two women slug it out in the ring. Eight male bouts, each four rounds long, followed by a single female bout of six rounds.
It’s not quite what I expected. Too many Hollywood movies have created an image of an illuminated ring in the midst of a darkened room. This hall is bright and airy, and crisply cold, with sky-blue, sky-high, concrete stands half full.
A man in a sharp black suit and shoes that gleam in concert with his shaven head announces the boxers, the victors, the sponsors. His patter is rehearsed, and he trundles out well-worn phrases that become remarkable for their consistency as the afternoon goes on. Girls in skimpy shorts hold up the round numbers; the bell marking the beginning and end of each round is loud enough to wake the dead several blocks away.
My companion remarks that it’s amazing to see so many actual six-packs – to know that it is possible and attainable. I am amazed by how many spectators seem to be carrying around entire beer barrels under their shirts. Aside from the young girls in inch-deep make-up, who’ve been poured into their jeans, a large proportion of the crowd seems to be pulled from the same style pool as bikers.
I am struck by the theatre of it all – the ring and the rhetoric, the lights and the music, and the costumes. Oh, the costumes. There is satin – so much satin; so many ill-fitting jackets and gowns, the hoods pulled low to obscure the gladiators’ faces. Some boxers simply walk to the ring and climb into their corners. Others have an entire routine, executing a kind of dance around the entire outer circumference before climbing the stairs, and doing another lap of the inside.
You can almost smell the testosterone in the air as a series of young men square up against each other. I find I can tell by the end of one round who’s going to win. I can see a subtle shift in the predicted victor when he, too, realises he has the upper hand.
I am grateful to be far enough from the ring not to hear fists slamming into flesh, not to be sprayed by blood, sweat and tears. I am especially grateful when Mike Schutte Junior takes such a pounding from Danny Ngokwey, that he vomits copiously in one corner while VIP ticket holders scatter.
And then it is the headline bout, Kholosa Ndobayini against Hedda Wolmarans, and the reason I am here – to join a band of supporters for Wolmarans, known in boxing circles as “The Shredder”. I’m not relishing the idea of watching someone I know being punched, but I find there’s no need to be concerned. She goes about her business with a clinical precision, patient, watchful, calm, persistent.
After six rounds, she is victorious, and I – the renowned loather of sport – am on my feet, yelling and air punching with the best of them.
May 21, 2018 § 1 Comment
I understand the movements of peace, love and tolerance for all, but I’m starting to think we’ve fallen so in love with tolerance, that we’ve forgotten that there are some things we shouldn’t be tolerating at all.
We are witnesses and participants of casual racism more often than we care to admit, but we laugh at the jokes anyway. We say nothing when a husband or wife constantly puts the other down. We’ll discuss them in the car on the way home, of course, but we won’t say anything: we don’t want to get involved.
We watch estranged parents using their children as pawns in a battle that isn’t theirs, and we are silent. We witness corruption or tax fraud – sometimes at work, sometimes because our friends brag about it, about how clever they’ve been. Perhaps we even admire them a little.
“It’s not my business,: we repeat, like a little mantra. “I will mind my own business and leave them to mind theirs.”
But it is our business. Because the consequences of those behaviours don’t sit in neat, contained silos. They spread outwards through society, like the clammy fingers of a misty morning, touching everyone they encounter. People are damaged – children are damaged. Government and business coffers are robbed. And the damage quotient goes up and up and up.
And then we pontificate at dinner tables and barbeques about the state of the world: how it’s all going one way. How the country is going to the dogs.
But it’s we who’ve gone to the dogs. We’ve relegated a sense of broader right and wrong to an individual what’s right and wrong for me. And that only works up to a point. Some things are just wrong. Abuse, injustice, murder, rape and robbery for starters – many of which go on all around us in various guises, and are even perpetrated by our friends.
So be tolerant. Be inclusive. Celebrate the magnificent diversity of the human experience and recognise that we all navigate the world differently and have different viewpoints. But also have the guts to speak in those situations that make you uncomfortable – the racist jokes, the constant belittling of a friend by their spouse, the overfeeding of an already obese child.
Because no man, woman or child is an island. Damaged people make for damaged societies – and we have a lot of repairwork to do. Speak up. Speak out.
March 7, 2018 § 1 Comment
Early this past Saturday morning, on a familiar road, I happened upon four young men. They were congegrated on a corner, leaning on an electrical supply box, seemingly oblivious to the crisp, autumnal air.
On top of the box was an assortment of drinks: a bottle of water, a take-away coffee, a carton of amasi. They chatted and laughed. One playfully punched another’s arm, as young men often will.
I drew closer and stopped at the lights, and noticed that one of them held a handwritten sign, and a paper cup loosely in his left hand. I knew his face; I’d seen him often at this very corner. Except now, the shuffling gait, the stooped spine, the pleading eyes were gone. Now he seemed tall and proud and vital.
This morning he was simply a young man, taking a few minutes before the work day began to chat to his colleagues in the sunshine. To talk about the news, perhaps, or share a joke.
Soon they would scatter to their respective corners, their sparse belongings obscured in the recesses of high walls, or the crook of a tree. Soon all of them would don their professional personas, and work the cars at the lights: shuffling, stooping, pleading: all in the name of making a few bucks for food, shelter, clothes.
And you can think of them as con artists, sure: there’s a sense in which they perform to extract money from passing trade. I couldn’t help but think, though, that many of the ‘respectable’ jobs we’re so proud of – the ones that distinguish us only by the buying power they give us – really aren’t that different when you really boil things down.
January 25, 2018 § 3 Comments
I had to stand in a bank queue today to collect some new cards. It’s payday, it’s been hot, and it was just after lunch so there were four or five people ahead of me. Still, I needed my cards, so I decided to wait it out.
Two people ahead of me was an older woman, impatiently pacing on the six-inch spot she occupied, moving huffily from one hip onto the other. When one of the two bank employees behind the enquiries desk dared to walk to the other side of the branch to fetch something, she boomed, “Great! Now one of them has left!”
The woman returned to her post and finally it was Loud Woman’s turn. She asked for her card, and it wasn’t there, despite her having a text message on her phone telling her to come and collect it. It was a frustrating situation, to be sure, but not nearly frustrating enough to warrant the shouting that ensued.
Patiently the bank employee explained the processes. Impatiently, Loud Woman shouted over the top of her, the volume increasing with every sentence. Eventually, after some further investigation, it transpired that the card was actually for her mother-in-law and she’d received the message because she was the contact person for the account.
Did she apologise? Don’t be ridiculous. She didn’t even have the good grace to look sheepish. She barked a curt thanks at the object of her abuse and stalked out of the bank.
Finally it was my turn. I went to the same counter she had. We exchanged some commiserations about the rudeness the bank employee had just encountered, and chatted about this and that as she processed my transaction.
An elderly man stepped up to the counter beside me. He greeted no one; just snapped out his business, and while he waited for the teller to help him, started attacking the woman helping me for delaying the queue. By his estimation she was taking far too long, wasting time by talking to me – a woman who had been standing and helping me the whole time I’d been at the counter, fighting with a sluggish network computer to process my cards. He leaned on one elbow and thrust a finger in her face with the other arm, shouting and called her a liar to her face, while she smiled and placated and practised the finest example of ‘the customer is always right’ I have ever seen.
I’d like to say I stood up for her; I’m ashamed to say I didn’t. The truth is, I was utterly gobsmacked by what I was witnessing. I honestly couldn’t form a coherent sentence.
And when he’d gone, she and her colleague shared an almost imperceptible chuckle and a head shake, and they carried on being their bright and sunny selves. “You can’t win,” she said to me. “If you don’t chat to the customers, then they complain about you. And if you do, then they also complain.”
Some days I think human beings really haven’t evolved much at all. And people who do these kinds of jobs, are my everyday heroes.
December 31, 2017 § 6 Comments
I’m not usually one to celebrate a new year. For me, 1 January is just another day. I don’t set resolutions, and I’ve spent the last few New Year’s Eves alone – which suits me just fine. I take down the Christmas decorations, give the dogs Rescue Remedy, and go to bed around 9pm. After all, it’s midnight somewhere in the world, right?
This year, however, is different. I’m still having a quiet evening at home, although I’m in the company of my younger daughter and three of her friends. But I have a very real sense of being on a cusp; of facing the future in a completely different frame of mind.
The last three years or so have not been easy. I don’t expect the year ahead to be any easier. But I am different. For the first time in ages, I’ve got to the end of a year and felt tired, but not profoundly exhausted. (This is the first time in three years I’ve not had shingles, as a case in point.) I haven’t even taken a holiday, as I didn’t feel like I needed one yet, budgetary constraints notwithstanding.
Instead, I’ve stayed home and I’m working quietly on all of those things I don’t usually get to – really preparing for the working year ahead. The pace of work is slower, and I take frequent breaks for tea, a swim, to hang out the washing, or pull out some weeds. (Welcome to Glamour Central.) But my plan for 2018 is really to hit the ground running. To bring my A game. To stop using hackneyed phrases…
So I’m making resolutions this year – but not those kinds of resolutions. And I’m putting them here so I can find them easily and refer to . You really are not obliged to read them. And if you don’t want to read them, you should probably go and do something else right about now.
So here they are – in no particular order:
- To consume less – in all kinds of ways – and to live lightly upon the earth.
- To be more present, wherever I might be.
- To celebrate the small stuff – even if it’s just with an air punch or a 30-second dance party.
- To strive for excellence in everything – because that’s who I am. I just forgot for a while, but baby, I’m back. Watch this space.
- To work harder, faster, smarter.
- To finally see those ideas in my head come to fruition
- To remember when obstacles rear up on the path ahead that my mother raised a resourceful, creative daughter.
- To ask for help when I need it, and offer it when I am able to help others.
- To rest from time to time.
- To connect with people who energise me.
- To start a band. (Well, I’m thinking about it.)
- To find a way to travel more.
- To be kind and gentle to myself.
- To do whatever it takes to ensure my cup runneth over, and then give from the overflow. The stuff inside the cup is for me.
- To be firm with my boundaries.
- To not be so good at saying ‘no’ that I forget to say ‘yes’ from time to time.
- To do stuff that scares me – especially when fear of success is the problem.
- To persist. Giving up is not an option.
That’ll do for now.
If you’ve read this far, Happy New Year, everybody, and thank you to those who take the time to read these blogs. I appreciate you more than you know.
Now it’s time to stomp all over 2018 and make it our own.
December 8, 2017 § 4 Comments
Some people leave an indelible mark on you from the first time you meet them. Aunty Pam was one of those people.
Of course, she wasn’t my aunt at all – but that’s how we did things then. You’d never think of calling someone who was your parents’ age by their first name. But Aunty Pam would soon feel to me as though she really was one of my family members.
I first met her as a teenager – she was a friend of my boyfriend’s family. When I married him some years later, Aunty Pam did the flowers. When we had children, she and Uncle Peter became unofficial honorary grandparents. They faithfully remembered birthdays and Christmases, and we kept in touch with the odd phone call or lunch. When my husband and I divorced, my relationship with Aunty Pam and Uncle Peter remained unchanged.
I learnt so much from her. She was the most down-to-earth, salt-of-the-earth, warm, generous soul you could ever hope to meet. She was wise and witty. She was sharp as a shard of glass, and she called a spade a damn shovel. She had the ability to cut through any bullshit and see through to the heart of things. And she had enormous compassion and a remarkable grasp of human nature – which is probably what made her such a great nursing sister.
One of my favourite memories of her was a discussion about her retirement plans and where she wanted to live. I asked about a retirement home, and she almost spat with disdain at the thought. “I’m not going to one of those places,” she said. And then she twinkled: “I wish to be a burden to my children.”
On Tuesday this week, as I silenced the alarm on my phone, a call rang through, and I heard that Aunty Pam had died. Next week Tuesday, Aunty Pam’s friends and family will gather to celebrate her life. Sadly, I can’t be there as I have family matters of my own to attend to.
I will miss her enormously. I will miss her broad accent, which she never lost despite having left the UK several decades ago. I will miss her toddling off to my kitchen to make more rooibos tea, which she drank in copious amounts after she stopped drinking red wine. I’ll miss her throaty chain smoker’s laugh – she remains the only person I ever allowed to smoke inside my house, because in later years she simply didn’t have the mobility to get up and smoke outside. I’ll miss her pragmatism and wisdom and generosity, and I’ll miss her annual Christmas cards, which arrived promptly in early December every year, including this year.
But most of all, I’ll miss her for her kindness, which she dispensed in large helpings to anyone who needed it. Kindness, I think, is the currency of love.
Rest in peace, dearest Aunty Pam. I loved you very much, and I will never forget you.
December 8, 2017 § 1 Comment
This evening my elder daughter boards a plane for Europe with a sense of possibility. She’s seeing the realisation of a dream that has been partially fuelled by her own hard work.
She wanted to go on a Contiki tour to celebrate the end of more than a decade of schooling, but it cost a lot more money than we had. So I sat her down and asked her if she was willing to work for it. It might take a little while, I said, but I thought we could create a fund with the small amount I had in my savings account, and work to raise the rest of it. I would bake and sell shortbread, she could tutor and babysit, and we’d even wash cars – with all proceeds to the fund.
It would require a team effort. So she, her sister and I made a pact, and the fund was launched. I crafted a Facebook post that explained the goal, and that we didn’t expect anything for nothing. We had a rough figure in our heads, and within a week, between donations and the services and shortbread we were offering we’d raised 60% of our goal.
She tutored and babysat at every opportunity. The three of us baked and packed and delivered more shortbread than we ever thought we’d see in our lifetimes. I even washed a car with th gracious assistance of its lovely owner. And another week or two later, we’d reached our goal.
I am delighted that she’s going. But I’m even more delighted that she learnt a few lessons along the way.
She learnt that people who love you will support your dreams in ways big and small if you’re prepared to put in the effort. She learnt that it’s possible to pay cash for big ticket items if you’re prepared to work, be disciplined, and exercise some patience. She learnt about the power of lots of small drops adding up into an overflowing pail of water. And she learnt that the simplest of elements – butter, flour and sugar – can be transformed into dreams when they’re seasoned with resourcefulness.
The shortbread recipe was passed on to me by the mother of one of my dearest friends. I like to think she’s looking down on us from heaven in approval of what her delicious recipe has helped to bring about. Thanks, Nini – we couldn’t have done it without you.
And thank you to everyone who contributed. You’ve helped to make a young girl’s dream come true.