Something’s happened in my generation that is a 360 degree turn from my parents’ era. My mom was already well into her thirties when she took her first overseas trip and because of the cost and distance, my parents went for 6 weeks. They sent us small children postcards. It was a huge journey for them in those days. The olden days. Now South Africans, like those from many other commonwealth countries are compelled to travel like diseased animals if we are to get any contact with the rest of the world. Twitter aside.

Even so, African blood runs thick through my veins and they say that once you’ve been bitten by that bug you can never go back. Not literally, of course. I mean..well, you know what I mean. I have spent the good part of 5 years sharing my love and intrigue of the continent with Alan.  I drag him there at least once a year where I point and wave at things I love and want him to love, too. I have an ongoing love affair with the place. The continent too many Americans call a country. He has come a long way, although I must admit, he was a fast learner. Which is why I married him. The whole travel thing is like breathing for me.

I always ask Americans where they’re going and Africa is almost never on the list. They say it is too far. Too expensive. Too dangerous. I never correct them because quite frankly I’d rather we didn’t have our own Phuket or Bali over there. But I smile inside when they talk of a world tour that excludes the mother continent.

When Alan and I took a 3 month window and escaped the 9-5 weekday rut to travel together for our babymoon, it was Asia we picked. I was as surprised by my own passing up of Africa as you are. I mean, Uganda, Egypt, Zimbabwe…all places I am dying to see myself for the first time, or locations worthy of a show and tell with Alan. I’ll confess that some part of my decision was swayed like the palm trees I imagined I’d be under, by the idea of toasting my shoulders and gorging on mangoes in Asia. However, the over-commercialisation by each and every American, European and Australian traveller in that part of the world turned my stomach. I like to get off the beaten track. I have been known to swear at tourists and coin phrases of ill repute about them.

But throughout our courtship and the early part of our marriage, Alan talked up his timeas a bachelor traveling through Asia. It was a part of the world I could not share with him and a story at cocktail parties I was excluded from.

I was jealous of his Asia.

“Why India?” my brother asked, upon hearing of our itinerary. “You’ll hate it. I’ve heard it’s awful,” he warned me with that sober, older sibling voice.

He was wrong. So were many others about just about everything. That’s the thing about travelling. You never know what will climb into your heart and what you’ll despise. I firmly believe it is more than anything about the company you keep.

I still daydream over another 3 month window somewhere down the road in my life. Would I take it to disappear to unexplored reaches of Turkey, Morocco and Croatia, or would I use the time to return to the coffeeshops, townsquares, and coves of past holidays that haunt my memories?

Now friends write to me - short, curt emails or they Facebook me, for advice on decisions such as Asia or Australia. Asia or Mexico. It is is question that deserves more than a short, curt answer. How can I get them into that remote beach bar built into a tree in the little coastal town of Kata with me? Or to stand with the melting sun on your brow and the long grass tickling your knees on that vacant plot of land we wanted to buy in Indonesia? Or sway them in believing that the devastating thirdworldness of Jaipur roughened street urchins have the charm and charisma to steal your heart and your wallet?

Perhaps I cannot because it is possible that our trip across 11 countries in 95 days was less about crossing cities off a list and all about falling in love with somewhere new, and each other.

So it would make sense that in this year’s Martha Stewart Everyday Food Magazine gift subscription I enclosed a note inviting Tiffany to join me on  a challenge of the tastebuds. The idea was to take turns hosting a monthly dinner party for friends in our homes, where each  guest brought two things with them: A dish and a bottle of wine. Both were to adhere to a strict set of rules set by the host. Food theme ideas for dinners included those along the idea of a country or region, temperature, ingredient, season or holiday, and color. The wine could be challenged on price, vintage, region, or varietal.

So it was that I kicked off the club last month with Carribean Night.

It’s true when they say that local Carribean cuisine smacks of a spice you just can’t quite put your finger on. This is often attributed to the creativity of chefs of the islands who use traditional ingredients in untraditional ways. Nutmeg, for example, is the accompaniment to allspice (also known as “jamaica berry”) in the wonderfully, tangy jerk chicken. Scotch bonnet peppers, the small, orange, wrinkly and extremely hot chillies are the hallmark of Caribbean cuisine but can go in little else. Food is drizzled in coconut, sprinkled with limes, tossed in beans.

The ladies were set the task and it was agreed the feast would comprise pineapple salsa, plantains, and shrimp sauteed in coconut, followed by bean salad, jerk chicken with mango salsa, lime and cilantro rice, and ended nicely with bananas flambed in rum, almonds and toasted coconut. To my surprise the men rose to the challenge of the kitchen, with my Alan jerking chicken outside to an applewood chip beat, and Chris (of guest couple number 1) nearly burning down my kitchen while lighting the rummed bananas. Alan posted photos of the islands onto our flatscreen and we bopped to some hipswaying beats while Tiff tossed her bean salad.

Tyler Florence’s Jerk Chicken

Jerk Marinade

Directions

Begin by making the jerk marinade. Combine all the marinade ingredients in a blender and process until you have a smooth puree.

Add chicken pieces into a large resealable plastic bag and pour in the marinade. Put the bag into a baking dish and let marinate in the refrigerator overnight.

Preheat grill to high.

Prepare the grill, line it with foil and add some soaked wood chips to the bottom. Place a wire rack over the top, upside down, and lay chicken pieces over the chips on the rack. Cover with foil and grill over high heat. Smoke for 10 minutes and cook until firm.

Martha Stewart’s Cilantro Lime Rice

Ingredients

Serves 4

• 1 cup long-grain white rice
• Coarse salt
• 1/2 cup fresh cilantro
• 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1 garlic clove
• Optional: coconut milk

Directions

1. In a medium saucepan, bring 1 1/2 cups water to a boil. (I cooked my rice in coconut milk).  Add rice and 1/4 teaspoon salt; cover, and reduce to a simmer. Cook until water/milk is absorbed and rice is just tender, 16 to 18 minutes.
2. Meanwhile, in a blender, combine cilantro, lime juice, oil, garlic, and 2 tablespoons water; blend until smooth. Stir into cooked rice, and fluff with a fork.

The wine challenge was rieslings, he perfect pairing for spicy food, tand we partook in one from each country. This seemed apt, as (is so often the case these days) the party represented the US, Australia and South Africa. Rieslings are seeing a revival, much like roses did in recent years, with two winning New York’s most coveted wine awards this week. A $14 semi-dry Riesling from Anthony Road Wine Co. was voted best wine, and Sheldrake Point Vineyard took the winery of the year title.  The two-day contest was judged by 24 experts, half from New York, six from California and six from other states. To steal a quote, Jancis Robinson ends her chapter on rieslings with a summary that’s all-too-true: “Unbeatable quality; indisputably aristocratic. Ludicrously unfashionable.”  Recognized by many prominent wine writers, experts and critics as the world’s greatest white wine, Riesling is surprisingly difficult to sell commercially. Despite it’s status as one of the most versatile food matches around, it’s an endangered species on restaurant wine lists. This is most likely owed to the riesling still lugging around baggage from the bad old days when those cheap, thin, sugar-water wines  hit the U.S. market by the tankerful.

All in all, a huge success. Bon Appetit!

Chris with his (now famous) flaming bananas

Tim Cahill, very reluctantly speaking on what place moved him…

What is most interesting about Tim Cahill is what turns him on. Like how he set a world record for speed in driving the entire length of the American continents, from Ushuaia in Tierra del Fuego in southern Argentina up along the Pan-American Highwayto Prudhoe Bay, Alaska in twenty-three days, twenty-two hours, and forty-three minutes - material for his book Road Fever. He compromised a Christian cult by going undercover to gain material on them. He said he just let them pick him up in the road. I counted 10 books under his penmanship, as well as plenty of fascinating interviews, articles and stories for a coffeetable book of titles like National Geographic Adventure, Esquire, and the New York Times Book Review. He wrote the backpage for the newborn, Afar magazine (on shelves August 2009). He won a National Magazine Award and two Lowell Thomas Gold Awards from the Society of American Travel Writers. He says he’s been to 100 countries. He is the father of adventure travel writing.

It was at last week’s Book Passage Travel Writer and Photographer Conference in Corte Madera that I stopped googling Tim and started watching him. The event teemed with world-class editors, reviewers, publishers, writers and photographers. It broke all the rules, as these teachers expressed an insatiable urge to listen, open up, share log cabin stories over the cheap plastic patio tables in the sun. They were available an approachable and it was almost overwhelming.  How very uneditor-like.

At this event I discovered that Spud Hilton, editor of San Francisco Chronicle Travel Section looks like Drew Carey, and is “the cruise guy“. Pauline Frommer tends to get off the beaten track with her tendency to wander off topic during panels and launch into her passionate views on the current political front.  Rolf Potts is intense and reminds me of my brother. Jen Leo is a professional blogger and media socialite. (I want to say more, but she will find this in seconds and rap me over the virtual knuckles). I wanted Jeff Pflueger’s life and Linda Watanabe McFerrin’s face. But it was Tim Cahill who’s pocket I really wanted to climb into. 

He spent 3 hours a day over the course of the week with a select group of “advanced” travel writer’s he’d hand-plucked from applicants for his intensive class. I liked feeling hand-plucked by Tim Cahill, although it made me neurotic during simple 3-minute exercises. He gave me to-do’s. He said he really liked my writing. He praised it. He made me want to own it.

Tim swears at sketchpads and sets silly rules like “Tim is not always right”.  He responds to emails in snail mail fashion, and wears fluorescent Hawaiian shirts. (Then again, that appeared to be either the joke or the uniform of travel editors at this conference.) His photo that appears on jacket covers looks like it was taken moments after Woodstock ended. He made a name with a name as common as Tim Cahill. He broke into the writing world with a book on serial killers – my secret passion. He has friends like Bill Bryson.

In my pre-class research (that in any other age would be recognised as stalking), I also read that he lost his wife last year in a tragic traffic accident. I wished I hadn’t read that on a website because it made me want to hug him constantly. Which is not good for networking with a famed pioneer at such a conference. It made me seem scary.

And now it’s back to my desk for this touched-by-magic (and Tim Cahill) travel writer before I do something else that’s wildly inappropriate.

But yes, we are getting a puppy…AND a baby. Within the same 12 months. Yes. It’s true. Now before you start your rants and raves, believe me I have heard it all before. But Alan woke up one morning and said he simply could not live another day without a best friend, and I said I simply could not live a day without him, and so came Shasta. That’s her breeder-given name. We’re working on a fancier one and I joke around that while Alan did not have a single baby name in mind (Maddison does not count), he had 10-20 ready-to-go for our new beloved dog. I joke that he is more excited about this 3 week old pup than he is about our baby. I joke, but as you all know, there’s an element of truth to every joke. Last week he said that I can have the baby if he can have the dog. Hmmmmm….reality check en route? I think the stork is bringing a whole lot more than a little bean this Christmas, don’t you all?

So we settled on a comfort retriever. A comfort what? Let me tell you. It’s a relatively new breed of dog that’s so cute it’ll eat your heart up on sight. There’s only one that we know of in San Francisco and the breeder jokes that she knows everywhere PJ’s been because she gets calls from interested potential owners saying they saw him waiting outside the gym, dry cleaners, book store…you get the drift. So her mommy (Virginia) and daddy (Teddy) are both comfort retrievers too, making her a second gen, but way back when (ok, only two generations ago) a golden retriever got it on with a cocker spaniel and hey presto, we have a miniature (oh, about 32 pounds) golden.

For now, while she’s being weaned, I get daily weather reports from Alan so we know how she’s faring in South Dakota and he carries her photo in his wallet and whips it out proudly at parties. I am not joking. What beloved Shasta is going to do to our extensive and unrelenting travel plans is another question altogether – putting a diaper on her little bottom and carrying her in a sherpabag goes beyond a serious cramping of my style.

I’ll put a photo up of darling Shasta as soon as I get one, so that you can all get your orders in. And vote on a name.

Much wet snouts, Lucinda

A few weeks ago a status update made its rounds on Facebook about how non-parents resent the birth of Babybook. I added friends because I wanted to stay in touch. not because I wanted a daily account of their loved one’s bowel movements, was the general gist of the grumblings. With adult-to-adult interaction you can give friends schtick. Smartass responses like “get your lazy ass off the couch!”, or “I never knew you knew how to langarm” are perfectly fine, but when the status update is about a baby’s ear infection, not only is it inappropriate, but it’s also just not so red-apple appealing.

In my mom’s day no one even knew what “dilating” meant, let alone putting your centimeters on their Facebook page!

Why, oh why, would you want to change your profile pic to that of your toddler’s? I don’t know that person!

Being an expectant mum now myself, I have promised future me that I will not do all those things. Ever. I promise to keep my mind sharp, my interest in people my own age, and my reflections of a PG-rate level.

Meantime, I am slowly watching my waist lose itself in swamp-like pudding layers (WTH?), and my bust surge to that of a matron. Let’ s see, what could possibly bring me back down to earth and keep me from “gaaning aan” (translated “going on” as we say in South Africa) about it while I really don’t want to even start talking about politics…a puppy!  Yes, I am that crazy. To be continued…

Baby kisses and Puppies

Mummy-To-Be

The Fox Theatre  is one of those old fashioned bioscopes that are going out of business these days, getting torn down, turned into gyms and Walgreens stores. It is a decadent and gracious grand dame. The icing roof on the sinside looked edible as it folded up and down elegantly. 

On the stage they had erected a large red fighting ring, around which tightly wound prancing men danced. They were mock fighting, dodging and swinging at pretend adversaries. We took our seats and I ordered a coke (more to come on this later), and the games began. Slowly the room filled as the men took one another on one after the other. Each game was punctuated with lively music that made me want to dance. They were brave and flabby. Some wiry and neat. But mostly it was out of shape amateurs who’s been coaxed into their first onstage fight. After an hour or so of this, the room became charged with energy, welcoming the professionals. These guys were padded by entourages of bucket-swinging large men, as they made their way through the auditorium to the stage. For them, coming in from the wings was just not good enough. Mostly, their faces were blank and composed, concentrating on some mantra or other going on inside their heads. It looked like they’d prepraed themselves for the guillotine. Maybe they had. I can’t imagine what shapes their brains must be in to 1. sign up for this antic, and 2. after all the swings they’ve taken to their heads. The club had three midriff-bearing ladies – ok, who am I kidding – they were halfnaked. They were young and untroubled.These helpful girls would climb through the ropes with large cutouts featuring the round number, to much cheering and applause. This was what most of the men were concentrating on.  It was a night of blood, guts and breasts. I was almost a convert.

As the fights continued and the night wore on, the bodies got leaner and more in shape. So did the pre-fight ceremony. Some practiced a Muay Thai wardance in traditional garb stamping at their glaring opponents in the blue corner. This took quite some time and everybody waited patiently. Alan started noting that those who did the ceremony always won. I would do the ceremony if it were me. I noted the devitaions form the program, as fighters lost the nerve and others gained some Dutch courage.

All in all, it was going well. Not nearly as gruesome as I’d expected. Then one guy kicked another between the legs. There was much in terms of dirty looks (and much ado about nothing in my book) as they brought him an icepack and cleared the stage. He went off with the medics and the title. I felt sorry for the other guy. I mean, surely bodyparts just get in the way?

So, as I was saying, everything was going  just swimmingly until the two girls fighting for the world bantamwight championship title came on, that is. While half of me wanted to be them, the other half was aching for them. Both wore plaits across their heads like a messy array of beaded necklaces. These hairstyles could come at you from nowhere and do just about as much damage as fists. Mostly, it was hard to watch the fighting between the girls as they fought on a different plane. Unlike the men, they went at each other’s faces, in a clawlike motion, without the nails (which were tightly embedded in the trappings of mutiple bandages and massive plastic gloves). It was a catfight of epic proportions. And it seemed terribly taboo, like eating ice-cream out of the container. I mean, were their mother’s watching?! Jenna Castillo was the firm favourite (Gina Reye’s having nominated herself at the last minute, poor thing) and she took the belt, after Reye’s corner ended the match in round 3. They hugged each other with tenderness, decency and sportwomanship.

Never say never. We skipped the afterparty.

10 Most Important Cell Phone Etiquette Rules         by Lucinda Tikwart

Long gone are the days when we carried bricks in our briefcases and whipped them out at traffic intersections to make calls while demonstrating how “with it” we were. (Although we all get nostalgic remembering that Rodea Dr scene in Pretty Woman). Now everyone who wants a cell phone has one, and you can bet it’s the G3 iPhone, or at the very least a crackberry. One of those versions that does everything except walk Rufus and fold your socks.  

It continues to intrigue me how you can put a cell phone in the hand of an otherwise courteous, normal person and then sit back to watch how that person loses all sanity coupled with awareness of the people around him. Just as some of us hide behind email to avoid face-to-face communication, too many cell phone users think a phone in their pocket makes them more important than everyone else.  

Unless you are one of the final few on this planet to invest in a cell phone, taking note of the following ten simple cell phone etiquette rules are a must.  

1. Wherever you find yourself, use your inside voice. Here’s an interesting behavior to consider. Why do cell phone users shout into their phones as if it were a tin can connected to another tin can by a string? Most likely it is because you yourself are in too noisy a spot to hear the perosn on the other end of the (non-tin can) line. This one’s really simple: find yourself a spot to talk outside and away others where you can shout all you like. Realize that yelling in any public area or around others is rude, frustrating and uncalled for, whether you are on the phone or not. A quick no-fail test to see if you are the kind to raise your voice when talking on a cell phone: Take your cue from the response of those around you. If anyone looks in your direction, lower your voice or find a spot way away from bleeding eardrums. 

 2. Put your cell phone back in the cradle. We have all at one time in our lives found ourselves slaves to our phones, and there are very few of us who don’t resent this needy, blaring device in our pockets. Thus, we resent the person who interrupts our vacation from it with a “Hello?” breaking the calm. Start by thinking of your phone as a tool for emergencies only. Examples of such include your boss calling to say you uploaded your personal photos instead of the report to the site and it is drawing traffic and comments from customers; your grandmother phones to say she’s leaving her retirement home in Florida in the morning and is moving to Vegas where she’ll take up exotic dancing. Second, think of your phone as a portable answering machine. Yes, it records missed calls and it takes messages when you can’t talk. It really does. Never make a friend, colleague or boss feel that the conversation you’re having on your phone is more important than the one you’re already having with them.

 3. When in doubt, vibrate. Any place of worship, museums, shows, planes, stores, hospitals, in an open-plan office, while giving a speech, during any kind of medical appointment… all these are off or vibrate moments. Initiate only essential calls, and keep conversations brief when you are in spots that aren’t phone-friendly, such as restaurants and while visiting friends. If your phone does not have a vibrate capability maybe it’s time for an upgrade.  

 4. Guilty, as charged. If you forget both “off” and “vibrate” and your does in fact annoy everybody in your vicinity and rings, turn it off immediately (and be thankful you chose a grownup ring tone). Sink lower in your seat, glare around as if joining the search for the wrongdoer and no matter what, NEVER ANSWER IT!

 5. Live people come first. Even though you’re on the phone, you still exist in the world to those around you. Don’t continue a call while someone is trying to take your order, locate an upgrade for your flight, or understand the details of your returning a worn sweater. Attend to face-to-face business first and foremost.

 6. Consider availability. Now here’s a thought: Do you really want to be available all the time? Does that make you more productive, or make you feel more important, or needed? The more available you make yourself, the more everyone will expect you to be. Experiment. People will actually be annoyed with you for not being instantly and constantly available rather than just happy to hear your voice. Being connected 24/7/365 is like never having a weekend or taking a vacation. Repeat this mantra: “If it isn’t important, you’ve interrupted yourself , and in the case that it is, they’ll call back.” The world will still turn, I promise you.

 7. MACD. Mothers Against cell phone driving. America is behind the times when it comes to legislation regarding driving and talking but the international results are clear. Driving and talking on the phone kills. We have no data yet on the impact on road deaths caused by texting, but the first thing authorities do after a railroad accident is pull the driver’s cell phone texting records. If none of these reasons compel you to change your risky actions, think of all your fellow drivers cursing you for your erratic, clumsy and downright idiotic driving style while yakking away.

 8. Big No-No’s. I don’t care how important you think you are. The gym is no place for a cell phone. Don’t talk when you’re doing cardio and don’t take up space on equipment while catching up the latest gossip. That goes for public (and private) restrooms, too. Too many of us have heard a toilet flush midway through a conversation know how much of a giveaway this is. Others that agree have experienced the embarassingly awkward experience of reporting a drowned cell phone to their service provider.

 9. Repeat after me. “I promise to never, ever conduct an emotional, confidential or private phone call in public.” Mobile addicts everywhere are blurting out steady streams of shocking and secret revelations to large masses of unsupecting strangers every day. Don’t be a statistic.

 10. Yes you! All of the above applies to the world of text messaging.

Cultural quirks of an exotic land seep into the routine of daytime airport mania. The thud of eager passengers lining up to watch the offloading and reloading of each plane, noses pressed to the glass. They share the dedication and loyalty of a lab awaiting his master. Women prop themselves on tottering heels (‘a minimum of three inches’ notes Alan, yawning from his bench across the cavernous airport hall)., as they generously sway their curves dangerously across the slippery floor.

The dusty landscape surrounds out hurtling van quickly absolving our travel-weariness. We are now feeling the excitement of our arrival in Los Cabos. Alternating spotlights of sunlight polka dot the surrounding hills which are as pimpled and hairy as a teenage boy. Angry graffiti (is there any other kind?) swears at us from bridges, pavements, open storefronts and homes. The shame of the community, nakedly honest, for all to see. “Abierto” swings a sing from the tortilleria, staking its claim on the corner intersection. The  swell of hills, leads us down to the shimmering sarong of water below. Coco trucks melt in the side-windows as we pass. A string of low grade resorts splatter the roadside, and I shiver in the air-conditioned car.

Our resort, The Pueblo Bonito Sunset, it turns out, is at the end of a long line of orchestrated avenues scarring the dry hillside. Below, the rough sea smacks the shoreline with vengeance. Their lobby smells of lavender and perhaps it is this which softens us up to agree to a complimentary breakfast and timeshare tour the following morning. 90 years of jail time in this egomaniac’s empire. I’m just doing it for the spa and food vouchers. Alan, I suspect, wants the bottle of tequila. He tears into their numbers pointing out the inefficiencies of such a model. The retiree salesman is so unsuspecting shifting his flipflopped feet. “The more time you give me on the beach, the more likely I will be to sign up for a lifetime of this” I announce, pushing out my chair.

Staff dressed for a tennis match and in hair nets pad around us, in their great numbers. It is like they never sleep. There’s always a golf cart waiting to take us to our turret at the top of the castle. I pity the brides for their formulaic, calculated nuptuals, as they receive a standing ovation from the poolside set en route to the beach. It’s Disneyland on speed.

There’s this battle of the neighborhoods that exists in San Francisco, like so many big cities in the world. Where you choose to live is supposed to say everything about you. And it’s (of course) one-sided. Reverse racism, so to speak. Let me explain.

If you choose to live in the Mission, the Haight, or anywhere inbetween in San Francisco you naturally absorb qualities such as edgy, “real”, and smart. You are also free to throw rocks. If you live in any of these areas, you can call people who live in The Marina, Cow Hollow or Pacific Heights any number of names. Some that have been thrown down in the sparring include “Baboonnettes”, sorority sisters, frat jerks, “snotty, stuck-up white women who think they’re super hot and have really stupid attitudes”, and my personal favorite “dude bros with their checkered shorts out of Macy’s and nautical star hats live here and throw up on street corners we have to stand on” (check the grammar). It seems to bring up so much hate and anger in people. In the end, the ugliness they intended to land on someone else boomerangs right back at them faster than they can finish their Bud.

I personally don’t associate my personality with any one area of a city. Having said that, I have always found the Marina to be clean, safe, pretty and full of interesting shops and cafes. It is also undoubtedly the most beautiful part of San Francisco. No one wants to admit that. For that reason it is also the most expensive, and also the most unaffordable. A a result, it attracts the young, successful set who are said to spend too much time admiring each other’s diamond rings and blowing their inflated salaries on overpriced foreign beer in frosted glasses.

If, on the other hand, you were to categorise the opposite end of the city (the one throwing judgements, remember?) you’d have to first climb over the piled trash, abandoned homeless trolley carts, and of course, sideswipe the broken windscreen glass. The Mission may have personality and history in the form of “infestation with $5 whores”, edge and inner-city reality, but beautiful it isn’t. It is possibly, very likely, really, “actually purgatory”. No getting around it.

Yet, if the Marinites took some time out of the workout, mani-pedi, couch-shopping activives to rate those on the opposite end of the city they would be crucified before they opened their lipsticked mouths. Perhaps this is the real price of living in the Marina.

In all my years of living in this great city, I have never ever heard a bad word spoken about the Mission by people who live on the water. Only that it is an expensive cabride away. Much like yelling racist slurs from the passing window at a black man waiting for the bus, this would not be ok.

I have this theory that is about as un-PC, and probably equally unpopular, as you can get. At a disappointing but standard restaurant opening last night I met two guys who work in the nightlife world in the Mission. They threw the usual pebbles and we apologised away. And then I asked them if they ever wanted to do anything else with their lives beyond serve beer from behind a bar for tips and a few lines of low quality blow. And surprisingly (or not) they assured me they didn’t. Life for them was too easy and resposiblities too few and far between. Forget the fact that they were both edging from an edgy lifestyle toward their middle thirties, still sharing a shoebox in a dirty part of town with a random guy of equal descent. None of this I could say out loud, obviously. Obnoxious Hipsters!

We don’t know where to start with our caring (and tax-deductible spending)…attempting to prioritise needs is oh-so-Sophie’s Choice. At times, I feel torn between malarial outbreaks, the AIDS epidemic, a bacterial killer I just learnt about this week called MRSA, Oprah’s new pet project Invisible Children, and of course, general poverty and starvation.

But as my mother always said, good housekeeping starts at home. And South Africa’s grocery list is just as long. 

Living abroad, I have so often been met with wrinkled noses when I start to unravel the story of my land. To Americans, Asians and Europeans, it is just too far away to care too much about. South Africa is insignificant.

But it shouldn’t be. Here’s why you need to care.

You see, the power behind the mother continent of Africa, rests in the hands of our little country at its tip.  As the only African member of the G20, South Africa hobnobs with the richest and most powerful countries in the world. Our post-apartheid constitution is among the most progressive worldwide, and we’re the largest energy supplier and biggest consumer on the continent. We are the breadbasket of Africa.

And here’s why I am worried…

Since the ANC first came to power in 1994 an estimated 1,000,000 whites have left the country, taking their skills with them in an exercise referred to as “brain drain”. Estimated because burning bridges and all that prevents them from filling out that redundant emigration form at Oliver Tambo Airport when they leave. This departure of the previously advantaged is not altogether uncelebrated, as SA’s aggressive affirmative action policies have all but bought the “pale males” in SA a one-way plane ticket to London. The number of departures of these educated, somewhat wealthy few is significant, considering it is estimated only 4.5m whites remain. This equates into 9% of the population. Who have the skills, training and education to do all that needs to be done.

Crime has certainly played an equal part in emigration, although the real stats of violence are unknown, owing to the muzzle on the media. Most everyone agrees, despite actual, reliable numbers, South Africa has one of the world’s highest murder rates. According to a survey for the period between 1998 and 2000 compiled by the UN, South Africa was ranked second for murder and first for assault and rape per capita. In the world.

 But whites are not alone in their pessimism. “We are in a bad place at the moment in this country,” liberation struggle warrior and hero Archbishop Desmond Tutu has lamented. The rose-tinted ideals of Nelson Mandela’s “rainbow nation” were overdue in their transition to a harsher reality. The table has turned for even Mr Mandela, the international hero, is being scolded for going along with corruption and making poor use of his immense authority, as he watches of the mistakes of his party. In my point of view, however, pointing out all the wrongs of Nelson Mandela, doesn’t make our new leader right.

Yes, new leadership is what keeps me up nights most of all these days. Let me explain. Unlike the rest of the world, South Africans vote in their general elections for a party, not a person. And that party has a conference where its leaders vote for the president. So in essence, democracy is dead.  The party can at any time ask the president to step down and will replace him, without so much as a backward glance at the will of the population. This happened last year in the country. And when Zuma won 60% of the vote at the ANC summit at Polokwane, he also scooped up the top 5 positions within the party for his candidates. The ANC is his. And so is the country.

According to Dr Zweli Mkhize, the KwaZulu-Natal chairperson of the African National Congress, “South Africa was eternally blessed to have a leader like our beloved Madiba. We must also face up to the reality that there will only be one Madiba. Therefore, our leaders will increasingly become more and more ordinary.”

After last month’s general election, Jacob Zuma will take over leadership of South Africa, and that presidential inauguration day will be a dark and gloomy one for all South Africans.  And not just because it is the birth of winter in the Southern Hemisphere either. You see, Zuma is a real character. He flaunts his polygamy as he moves onto his 4th or 6th wife (no one really knows), who is 30 years his senior. He dances well. He is a people-person. And that is why the masses want him. But here’s a bulleted-list of why any thinking person who cares not about his rhythm would agree that this new president is a really bad idea for the future of SA:

• More than ever, there is talk these days amongst his henchmen of “reracialising” the country that once bonded over a rugby jersey back in 1995
• SA is saturated with Broad Based Black Economic Empowerment policy, designed to broaden the ownership and management of the South African economy. Black employment equity policy outcomes are clear – they have merely enriched the elite politicians and sent the skilled overseas. Mr Zuma is a proponent.
• Mr Zuma has been an active member of the Communist Party and served on the Politburo as recently as 1990.
• This leads me to my next red flag. Corruption is obviously not new to African politics, but our struggle heroes seem stained by many a controversy. Joe Modise, Mandela’s choice of minister of defense, described as a big-time gangster, is being investigated post-mortem by German, British, and South African prosecutors for conflicts of interest in awarding lucrative arms deals. This has become an increasingly complex and far-reaching web benefiting leaders such as Thabo Mbeki, Jacob Zuma and other prominent ANC leaders. This is just one of many scandals come to light in the past decade. Today, it is difficult to find any SA minister apart from Trevor Manuel who has not presided over a steep fall in standards. Unfortunately, many have come to see the ANC as nothing more than a nest of racists, thieves and hypocrites, who have done almost no good at all since they won power in 1994.
• So now we face a future under a President Zuma and an all-powerful, perhaps even vengeful, ANC.
• Yes, Mr Zuma is angry. He’s angry with the Constitutional Court who have several times voted against him. He now says he would like to review the status of the Constitutional Court “because I don’t think we should have people who are almost like God in a democracy.” He also blames the press, which he loathes. He threatens to weed out the “lazy, corrupt and incompetent” i.e. those he does not like from government.  
• Zuma’s gangster friends aren’t limited to the late Mr Modise. Julius Malema, leader of the ANC’s Youth League decalred just last year the powerful Youth League was “prepared to take up arms and kill for Zuma” if his prosecution went ahead.
• For many, it is Mr Zuma’s eight-year tussle with the courts that turns their stomachs the most.  First, there was that pesky rape case. It wasn’t so much that he was accused of rape but that in his statement his views on prevention of the risk of AIDS came down to a taking a shower after this unprotected unconsented sex. Moving on, corruption is his favourite vice, evidenced by his long legal battle over allegations of racketeering and corruption. His financial advisor, Schabir Shaik was convicted of corruption and fraud, and sentenced to 15 years imprisonment in 2005. The judge on the case said that the payments totalling more that R4m ($596,000) between 1995 and 2005 from his friend in exchange for using his influence to help secure government contracts for Mr Shaik’s companies “can only have generated a sense of obligation in the recipient”. President Thabo Mbeki promptly sacked Zuma as deputy president, (leading to his own demise). Last month, Zuma announced that if elected he would consider granting a pardon to his friend and advisor Shaik. Three days later Mr Shaik, suffering from hypertension and depression, was released from jail on “medical parole”, normally reserved for the dying. He has served only two years and four months of his 15-year sentence.
• It is the speed and outcome of the way the case that had gripped the nation and dominated world headlines was snuffed out that shocked South Africans most. On 6 April 2009, the National Prosecuting Authority decided to drop the charges citing political interference. All charges of corruption, racketeering, tax-evasion, money-laundering and fraud against the president were withdrawn. The actual merits of the case were not in question, they admitted. Nor was the prosecution in any way flawed. The issue was the timing of the announcement of the charges were deemed to be an attempt to thwart Mr Zuma’s political ambitions. This made it “neither possible nor desirable” to continue with the prosecution.
• And so the corruption continues. A poll taken in February/March of this year, shortly before the charges were dropped, showed that 50% of all ANC members believed him to be innocent. Yet nearly 75% continued to support him “wholeheartedly” and unconditionally.
• With South Africa sinking into its first recession after 16 years of expansion, the last thing we need is a leader with a personal agenda and a hard heart. Footage of Mr Zuma belting out his “Umshini Wami” (“Bring me my machine gun”) theme song are not the sort to encourage international investors.

I can’t help but wonder why I still care so much about a country that welcomes my dollars on a holiday, but continues to discourage my vote.  Not that it would count.

For more on the current situation in South Africa and its political future, take a look at Peter Hitchens’ excellent article most recently published in the UK’s Daily Mail.