Potjie Pap

 

“Look, Steve, it isn’t possible to impart a skill like this over the phone. If you are serious, you will have to attend a demonstration and lecture. I will be cooking pap with our chicken pot on Sunday. You and Sally are welcome to join us, and I can take you through the whole process.”

“Sunday? No, that will be fine. Thank you.”

Steve is my brother’s son-in-law. He shows me just the right amount of deference to give me the impression he respects my seniority, but is unable to convince me he fenuinely values my opinion. Except when it comes to pap.

“Sally and Steve are coming to lunch on Sunday, if that’s alright? I should have consulted you before asking them, but he’s desperate.”

“That’s fine. I’m always happy to see them. But what’s he desperate about?”

I told her that his CEO was coming out from London and would be lunching with him in two weeks’ time. The man was an ex-pat and, on learning that Steve was into potjiekos, had requested his old favourite, waterblommetjie bredie and pap.

“He doesn’t have a problem with the bredie, but the pap fills him with terror. He hasn’t made it for a long time because it always ended up a disaster. Either too soggy or stuck to the bottom with a thick crust. He knows I have mastered the technique and wants some detailed guidance.”

I had told him I would be lighting the fire at 12, and was aiming to have both pots on by one, with the intention to eat around 2 30. The three of them arrived at 11 45. He had asked permission to bring Molly, and I had agreed, with the proviso he pick up anything she might deposit in the garden. What with my eyesight, I didn’t want to be stepping in dog shit after they left.

Once the effusive greetings had been exchanged, Steve and I went out to light the fire, leaving Sally in the kitchen with Kaye, who busied herself with preparing ingredients for the pots.

“I suppose you use Blitz?” I asked as I put a match to the twist of newspaper under the heap of twigs and dry cuttings.

“Lion firelighters. I don’t have access to kindling like you do.”

“And wood? I take it  you buy bags of Rooikrans from the shop?”

“Yes. And you?”

“I get a bakkie load delivered about every nine months. R1600 for a thousand.” I put some light pieces on. “I used to go over the hill and cut wood myself. But that’s hard work and I’m past it now.”

With the fire burning nicely, I asked him to get the key from Kaye and fetch the big umbrella from the garage. He has a sedentary job and likes to keep fit , so it wouldn’t do him any harm if he broke into a sweat lugging it singlehandedly up to the braai.

“The weather is perfect, and we can eat outside. While you do that, I’ll get the pots from the shed.”

On his return, he hoisted the umbrella and I positioned the Number Two close to the flames to warm up.

“Time for a dop,” I said, and we went inside.

Despite having been nattering non-stop, the women seemed to have things under control in the kitchen, and Kaye had loaded the big tray ready for me to take out to the main theatre of operations. I rewarded her with her customary G&T, and Sally with a glass of well chilled Graça Rosé. Steve was drinking some non-alcoholic beer he had brought with him, not wanting to befuddle his brain during the all-important tutorial. I poured my usual Dry white fortified with a dash of OB, and we went out the back door, me with the heavily laden tray and my pupil with the two enamel pots.

I raked coals under Number Two and added a little sunflower oil.

“I can do a chicken pot blindfold,” I said. “First, I get the pot good and hot, and then brown the chicken pieces before adding a slosh  from the 500ml jug of wine and water, and slamming the lid on to trap the steam. I leave it to calm down for two or three minutes, and it is at this stage that I turn my attention to the Number One, and the lesson you have been waiting for, Steve, gets under way. You see the larger of the two enamel pots you brought out? It contains the water for the pap. Remove the lid and dip your forefinger in and tell me what you taste.”

“Salty water,” he said, after licking his finger. “So?”

“That’s good. I always check to make sure Kaye hasn’t forgotten to add it. Absolutely essential. Your CEO would probably fire you if you served up unsalted pap. Tastes like nothing. Right, now pour the water into Number One, put the lid on, and place the pot on some coals in the corner.”

While he did this, I opened Number Two, savoured the gallinaceous vapours, and layered the veg on top of the three pairs of legs, wings and thighs that were mixed in with the hefty breast pieces and the scrawny back and rib ‘bonies.’ First the onion and garlic, then the brinjals followed by coarsely shredded cabbagio, and topped with large chunks of lurid orange pumpkin. A quarter handful of salt, twenty turns of the pepper mill and, to quench the dismembered fowl’s thirst, the rest of the wine and water. Lid on, turn the pot, and rake coals in under its fat black belly.

“Now it must cook vigorously for a good twenty minutes, and then it can saunter along at a slow dawdle.”

I wiped my brow with my hat and quaffed some vino before asking Steve to lift the lid on Number One.

“It’s boiling,” he said.

“Good. The water should be bubbling energetically. Now we take the smaller enamel pot and pour the mealie meal into the seething cauldron and stir with the fork. The mixture should start  glub-glubbing almost immediately, and we remove the pot from the heat and place it on the sturdy little work table standing alongside. I stir the thin porridge a few times and then let it rest for five minutes.  We can load the tray, except fror the fork and the jug, and then, if you don’t mind, please take it in to the kitchen while I half fill the jug with water from the garden tap over there. Don’t let the ladies waylay you for more than a minute or two, because the next step is crucial.”

On his return, I noticed he had switched from the non-alcoholic stuff to genuine beer. This I approved of, as I firmly believe one should be in the right frame of mind when cooking potjiekos. Being uptight anxious or,anal is as bad as falling about half pissed, because, either way, the pot is bound to turn out a fuck-up.

“Now, for a few moments, just feast your eyes on the transformation that has taken place. The maize meal has absorbed as much water as was freely available to it, has swelled and spread out to form an unsullied, creamy white lake. It seems a pity to plunge one’s fork into the soft but dense expanse that is encompassed within the concave black walls of iron, but we can stand in wonder no longer, and I therefore cast restraint aside and thrust the fork deep and stir the thick cereal, scraping and dragging  it from the perimeter to the centre. Once we have built a volcano, we use our utensil to create a central vent, like this,” and I drilled down until the fork struck metal. I withdrew, slowly and respectfully, careful not to collapse the walls of the shaft.

“We fill the crater with water, and create a shallow moat around the heaped up pap. The lid is replaced and the pot is positioned in the corner of the fireplace, care being taken not to expose it to excessive heat. And we can take a breather.”

I turned the Number Two, which was rumbling determinedly without being frenetic, and asked Steve for a time check.

“13 06.”

“It’s all on,” I announced on entering the kitchen. “We should be able to eat at two thirty.”

Sally asked Steve if he had seen Molly, who is an elderly Jack Russell with a reputation as a skilled hunter of rodents.

“I think I saw her heading off into the bush about ten minutes ago. Do you want me to go and call her?”

“I hope she doesn’t come across any snakes.”

This was the kind of answer that contained a veiled threat. If any misadventure befell the dog, blame would be apportioned to he who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her. I filled my glass almost to the brim and added a cube of ice, Steve grabbed another beer, and we hurried outside.

He called and whistled, and she soon appeared.

“Come, Molly. You must go inside now. I have important things to attend to.”

I turned both pots, and added three pieces of wood to the fire, which had burnt down to coals. When he came back, we sat at the table under the umbrella and he opened the notebook on his phone. “Alright, I said. “First, I will run through the ingredients. Just pap, water and salt; couldn’t be more basic. Premier coarse braai pap is the best on the market, so there is no need to mess around with anything else. You can read the recipes and cooking instructions on the packet, but for God’s sake don’t take their quantities and proportions seriously. Many a novice has been led into a waterlogged swamp, or a scorched wasteland by following these treacherous directions. Take this down: the correct amount of maize meal is 100ml per person, measured out meticulously, and not just sommer roughly. For every 100ml of pap, you should have 150ml of water, which makes the arithmetic simple. Today there are four of us. That means Kaye has given us 400ml of coarse braai pap in the small enamel pot, and 600ml of water in the larger one.”

“What about the salt?”

“I’m glad you asked about the salt, which is a vital ingredient. Here, we are less precise, for some unknown reason. When I asked her, Kaye said a level teaspoon for two, and a rounded one for four. I suppose a few grains this way or that is of little significance. She normally adds the salt to the water but, on rare occasions, she has absentmindedly put it into the uncooked maize meal, and it doesn’t seem to make any difference. Well, there we are: the pap, the water and the salt.”

“I suppose it’s the technique that’s the secret?” He sounded a trifle disappointed.

“Don’t underestimate the importance of the quantities and proportions. But yes, you are right. The technique is what separates disaster from success. I have taken you through the early stages of the cooking process, and now to proceed further.”

I got to my feet and remove the lid of Number One.

“Take a look. After twenty minutes the pap is already beginning to stick to the bottom. With the fork I stir and scrape the pap over to the hot side of the pot, and then dribble a very small quantity of water down the side. A faint hiss should be audible. We replace the lid and wait another half hour before checking progress again.”

I turned Number Two, which was grumbling quietly, and resumed my seat.

“What pots do you have, Steve?”

““A Number One and a Number Two, like you.”

“Most versatile, until you have to cook for a large gathering. I also have a Three and a Four. With pap, it is important not to overfill the pot; otherwise, it doesn’t cook thoroughly. For more than four servings, I prefer the Number Two.”

His thumb moved briefly on the screen to record this tip.

“You know,” I resumed in a conversational tone, “it was the Dutch settlers who introduced cast iron pots to Africa back in the 17^th century. Over the next 300 years they were assimilated into the everyday lives of the indigenous population until they became ubiquitous. They used to be known as kaffir pot.”

“Please!” Steve nearly choked on his beer and glared at me in horror.

“It’s alright; I’m just telling you what people called them way back before you were born. Am I supposed to revise history and tell you they were referred to as k pots? Anyway, it was only in the 80’s that potjiekos took off and the pots became known as potjies.” I could see from the look on his face that he was thinking seriously disrespectful thoughts about me. “Time check?”

“13 55.”

“Five to two? Jesus, now we must concentrate. I’ll doctor the chicken pot and then we must attend to the pap.”

I went inside and prepared the muti, which was a concoction of frugally dispensed soya sauce, six shakes of Worcester sauce, two globs of chutney, and a heaped teaspoon of tomato sauce mixed together in the aluminium jug. There was no sign of the women, so I assumed they were somewhere in the garden.

When I got back to the braai, there they were, seated at the table under the umbrella talking to Steve and laughing about something in a way that suggested they weren’t entirely sober. I was half pleased and half annoyed to see them. Pleased because I enjoy the company of most women when they are not nagging, complaining, or talking about ailments and bbabies, and annoyed because their presence would be distracting.

After lifting the lid of Number Two and setting it aside, I rotated the pot, poured in the muti, and placed the jug upside down on the simmering contents  and left it to steam clean.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said loudly, “but I must show Steve the last critical stage of the pap process. Steve?’

He drained his beer and got up, a little reluctantly, I thought. I removed Number One and set it on the sturdy fireside table.

“See that?” I said, after lifting the lid and allowing the steam to dissipate. “On the side where the pap is heaped, it is now free, but on the other side facing the coals, it is forming a crust. Again, we scrape the pap across and pour a little water – not too much, mind you – down the side and listen for the telltale hiss as it encounters hot metal. I usually drag a little pap off the fork and take a taste, like this. Ah, excellent! Done. Now it is a matter of freeing up that bit of crust, and then merely keeping the pot warm.  Time check?”

“14 23.”

“Are you aiming for half past?” Kaye asked, and she got to her feet. “I had better get ready to dish up. Sally, can you arrange glasses and cutlery out here? And open the wine?”

Sally began to follow Kaye when she emitted a piercing shriek that convinced me she had just broken her ankle.

“Molly!” she screamed. “What are you eating? Drop it!”

The dog had been lieing at the base of the Manetoka, and now leapt to its feet and took evasive action by running for the kitchen, all four humans in pursuit.

“Has that little brak gone and killed a bird?” I demanded. “I’ll break its bloody neck for it!”

Steve gave me a dark look that I interpreted as, ‘Just you try, old man.’

“It’s alright,” said Kaye. “It’s a dead robin. It’s got ants on it. She must have bound it in the bush.”

Sally was kneeling next to Molly where she lay in a couchant position on the mat. Between the two of them, the women managed to prise open the dog’s jaws and extricate what was left of the bird.

“You silly dog,” said Sally. “Now I suppose you are going to be sick? Come outside.”

“The pots!” I shouted, suddenly remembering where my duty lay. I hurried out and was relieved to find that the fire had died down to a bed of grey coals and posed no threat. Number Two was bubbling demurely, and Number One had retained enough heat to keep the pap ready for serving.

“That’s the beauty of potjiekos,”I said to Steve. “A distraction like this needn’t result in a disaster.”

The meal was served, the wine poured, and all agreed that both the chicken pot and the pap were deliciously up to my usual standard.

“Well, there you are Steve,” I said just as they were departing a while later. “Now that you know how it is done, I am sure you will have no trouble cooking pap for your boss.”

“We will have to see,” he said, and got behind the wheel. “Thanks for the lesson.”

We all waved goodbye, and they drove off.

 *

A couple of weeks later, Sally phone Kaye and told her the waterblommethie bredie had been a huge success, and the CEO had offered Steve a promotion.

“And the pap?” Kaye asked.

“Oh, the pap was great. Steve found a foolproof recipe on the Internet and did it in the microwave. It was dead easy and came out just right.”

 

Senile Delusion

 

 

“Christmas comes but once a year, and when it’s gone, I jump and cheer.”

It has been a few years since I said this, mainly because they finally agreed to cut right back on that ridiculously excessive present giving, and also after my wife admonished me for acting like a miserable old curmudgeon and a wet blanket. Now that I don’t have to endure two hours of Father Christmas handing out the gifts, and the unwrapping and oohing and aahing over the trinkets, I am better able to appear affable and interact with the company once the ritual is over.

On this last occasion, I accepted another beer and went out onto the terrace, where a brother-in-law, Jack, was talking to one of the niece’s partner, George. I suppose he is called her partner because they have been living together for several years, and that makes him more than a boyfriend but not quite a husband. He was saying to Jack that he was surprised at how full Pearly Beach was this year, and how many new houses had gone up.

“Yes, there are a lot of people moving to the Cape as the rest of the country falls into ruin and the unemployment crisis worsens. These ANC monkeys are incapable of growing the economy.”

“Be careful how you use the m word,” I said as I joined the conversation. “One of the youngsters could be videoing us, and what you say could go viral on social media. You don’t want to be had up for hate speech.”

He just snorted and took a drag at his beer. George also lubricated his throat, and I followed suit prior to mounting my hobby horse.

“Talking of the unemployment crisis, it is clear that no one knows how to solve it. But I have been giving it a lot of thought, and I have come up with a possible solution.”

“I didn’t know you were an economist. I thought you used to be a house builder before you went under?”

I was tempted to say, ‘Fuck you, Jack,’ but instead continued with my grand proposal. “The way I see the situation in South Africa is this. There are millions of people hanging about doing nothing other than scratching for enough food to keep themselves and their families alive. Most of them are semi-literate, but many are moderately well educated and even qualified, yet they are all without work, even though they are desperate to find employment. Now, I ask myself, is there nothing for these people to do? The answer comes back loud and clear: there is more than enough to keep them busy for ever and a day. Just look at them sitting on their arses in front of a dilapidated RDP hovel or an iron and cardboard shack. What’s to stop them building themselves a proper house, for starters?”

“Money. It costs a good half million to build a half decent house.”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Jack. Money. If people had access to money they would get to work. So, why don’t we print the money and hand it out, in a strictly regulated way, and start a building boom that would get the economy fired up and create thousands of jobs?”

“Oh, for God’s sake! If you started printing money and handing it out to all and sundry, it would become worthless in no time.”

“As I understand it, it is called debt monetization, and it is what the US and other developed countries do when they need to stimulate their economies. Remember quantitative easing, and how the banks were bailed out in the financial crisis? So why can’t we do the same?”

“You don’t seem to understand the fundamentals. You can’t compare this banana republic with the strongest economy in the world. The US has more than four trillion dollars of debt, but they can still continue to issue bonds because investors have confidence in the financial health of the country and its ability to keep inflation under control. The dollar remains the dominant currency in the world. If we started printing money to finance our fiscal deficit, the rand would crash. Argentina has tried this stunt several times, and on each occasion it has resulted in hyperinflation and the collapse of the peso.”

“Yes, but if we extended credit to the por in order for them to acquire a fixed asset like a properly built house, it would not only improve the quality of millions of lives, it would create a huge demand for related goods and services. The economy would be given a massive boost, tax revenue would pour in, the rand would strengthen, and investors would clamour to get in on the boom.”

Jack drained his beer, and I could see from the look on his face he was in no mood to pursue the conversation.

“I, for one, would be dead against what you are proposing. I would rather stay with the status quo, unsatisfactory as it is, than risk hyperinflation and the almost certain collapse of what’s left of the economy. At least under the present situation my pension and investments are moderately secure. Now I must rejoin the company and leave you to peddle your crackpot idea to a younger audience.”

“He doesn’t seem to share your idealistic vision for the future, Uncle,” George, the niece’s partner said, once the old fart had buggered off.

“No, Jack comes from a social lineage that has produced, through selective breeding, individuals like him who have lost the traits of altruism and idealism.”

“Interesting that you should say so. From a sociological and psychological perspective, that is. The two of you are of a similar age, I believe? That makes you baby boomers, many of whom, in the 60’s and 70’s, were fired up with youthful rebelliousness and a desire to change the world, for the better, of course. Now, what interests me as a Sociologist – you know I teach at UJ? – what interests me is how most of your generation have given up on activism and utopian dreams, and have become more pragmatic and conservative. The responsibilities that come with earning a living, bringing up children and providing for the future give them a deeper understanding of the complexities of social and political change. On the other hand, there are individuals like you, Uncle, who retain a sense of outrage with the world’s problems, and see ongoing and new injustices as a reason to continue the battle to bring about change through radical ideas and actions.”

I drained my beer, and he hurried inside to get us each a fresh can. While he was away I looked out to sea and thought about the direction in which this young fellow was leading the discourse.

“Yes,” he said on his return, “I was saying there are some elderly people who retain their youthful radicalism and stick to their idealistic world views, and you fit into that category. But, the question arises, is there something more to your posing of simplistic solutions to major problems than just a desire to see a better world?”

“Simplistic? Alright, let’s let that go. What else could be motivating me?”

“The insidious deterioration of physical and mental capacity associated with old age. . In my PhD, I focussed on Gerontology, which is the …”

“I know what Gerontology is, damn it! Do you take me for an ignoramus?”

“Not at all, Sir. Far from it. Anyway, studying the effects of advancing age has provided me with valuable insights into the behaviour of old codg… I mean, old men like yourself and Uncle Jack.”

“You know, I find it mildly demeaning the way you are examining, analysing and categorizing me. It feels a little dehumanising. But no matter; it’s interesting. And I could subject you to the same scrutiny. You millennials exhibit behaviour that comes across as neurotic, obsessive and antisocial at times. You are slaves of the computer and Internet age. But, be that as it may,, continue with your explanation of why we old folks carry on the way we do.”

“Thank you. As you move into your sixties and seventies, and especially after retirement, there is a growing tendency for you and other elderly individuals to respond to constant reports of disasters and conflicts with utopian ideas and unrealistic solutions. This can be seen as a coping mechanism related to aging and the sense of diminished agency. As you grow older, you feel a heightened awareness of your mortality and a desire to leave a positive impact on the world.” He paused to wet his whistle. “I hope I’m not boring you with all this text book stuff?”

“No, it’s food for thought. Carry on.”

“Right. So, as your perception of decreased personal agency due to physical limitations, retirement, or reduced social roles, can prompt a focus on grand, sweeping solutions that might seem beyond reach to younger generations. This may provide a sense of hope and purpose, allowing you to feel you are contributing to discussions on global issues despite not being directly involved in decision-making processes anymore.”

“Well, put like that, I sound rather pathetic. What you are saying is that my debt monetization proposal can’t be taken seriously, as it comes from an old man with diminished faculties who is trying to delude himself that he still has something valuable to contribute and should be taken seriously, and not dismissed as useless, irrelevant and superfluous.”

“Don’t worry about it. As  you have pointed out, no generation is safe from the Sociologist’s dispassionate gaze. We all have to develop coping mechanisms. Formulating grand solutions to the world’s problems is just one in your arsenal. Another common strategy with the elderly is to rewrite history, or, in other words, put a different spin on the retelling of past events.”

“Ah, I think I know what you mean. I have picked up this idiosyncrasy with Jack. When he talks about past events or relates an anecdote he casts himself as the central character who is in charge of the action and plays a more or less heroic part. I have caught him out, on more than one occasion, altering facts in his narrative to such an extent that it becomes pure fiction. I suppose it helps him deal with the painful truth that his life was unexceptional, and there is no prospect of him ever making a mark.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind. It’s all to do with the awareness of declining physical and mental vitality. The elderly become increasingly less active, their joints wear out and need replacement, their eyesight and hearing are compromised, their memory iss unreliable, their ability to learn new skills diminishes and technology leaves them behind and results in feelings of frustration, alienation and powerlessness. Furthermore, as a man becomes more decrepit, his libido wanes and, instead of accepting this as a natural process, he dreads the onset of impotenc and seeks medical assistance through the prescription of drugs designed to treat patients with clinical dysfunction. This often results in further misery for both him and his spouse, who resents him making a nuisance of himself.”

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Damned impertinence! There was no way I was going to be drawn on this topic.

“Do you have a bucket list, Uncle?”

“A bucket list? No, I am too poor to have a bucket list. But I know a few contemporaries who are able to tick off several items a year. I suppose you see it as another coping strategy?”

“Exactly. As people retire and enter their later years, they become increasingly aware of their mortality, and they reassess priorities and unfulfilled aspirations.”

“It strikes me they draw up the list and keep adding to it in order to delude themselves they are staying ahead of the biological clock. I know one couple who spend at least half the year travelling to exotic destinations, one after another, and each time they come back it’s as if they get into a panic because they might suddenly age and become too old to embark on the next adventure.”

“That may be so, but travel is not the only way to feel a sense of achievement. Learning a new skill, or even another language provides cognitive benefits by keeping the brain engaged and reducing the risk of mental decline. Have you ever thought about writing your memoir? It wouldn’t cost you anything, and it could be most beneficial.”

“Hell, no! That would depress the shit out of me, sifting through all that rubbish. A litany of wrong choices, foolhardy enterprises, disgraceful personal conduct, bad luck, embarrassing blunders and missed opportunities.”

For a moment he looked a little daunted, and I realised, with some irritation, he had been trying to encourage me to adopt a more sanguine outlook with regard to the dwindling time that was left to me.

“Well, maybe a bucket list isn’t for you, Uncle. But for many it is a psychological tool for managing the approaching end of their days, and they find meaning in an enhanced quality of life. It helps old folks shift their focus from loss to fulfilment, from regret to action, and from routine to excitement. It ensures that the final chapters of life remain rich and purposeful”

“You know something, George? You would make an excellent motivational speaker. If you ever tire of Academia, you could make a decent living by going on a speaking tour of lifestyle and golf estates as well as old age homes and retirement centres.”

He found this funny and was about to reply when his partner, the niece, and one of the granddaughters came out to join us. I ran a lascivious old eye over breasts, rumps and expanses of beckoning young flesh. An initial rush of delight was soon replaced by searing pangs of envy, regret and bitter resignation. Not for your gaze, old man. I muttered something about my weak bladder and slunk back into the house. Maybe another beer would help me delude myself that old age wasn’t such a kak story after all.

 

The Real Danger

 

In the past 40 years I have witnessed several fires burning through the bush on the northern side of Broadway. Most of them occurred in late summer and were driven by an easterly wind. The vegetation they consumed was primarily Rooikrans (Acacia cyclops), the invasive Australian species that has displaced the indigenous fynbos.

About a year or two after each fire the seeds of this plant germinate and grow rapidly into saplings and reach maturity after five to ten years, ready to fuel another fire. Each time it happens the fire protection services are called on to contain the blaze, which usually destroys power lines and causes electricity outages, sometimes for several days.

Having observed this repeated cycle of events, it strikes me as being a fine example of inadequate planning coupled with a lack of foresight. I ask myself, when will it dawn on the authorities that prevention is better than cure?

The most serious danger to Pearly Beach and surrounding areas is the unchecked proliferation of alien vegetation. To be surrounded by dense stands of Rooikrans, Wattle and Gum poses a serious threat to habitation and lives. Should a fire driven by gale force winds take hold, fire protection services might be powerless to contain it, as has been seen in southern Europe, Canada, Australia and, most recently, the Los Angeles area.

An aerial view of Pearly Beach shows the most vulnerable parts, should a major conflagration occur, to be the Resort and Eluxolweni, where there is a high concentration of residents. Then there is the Church and water treatment plant, the eastern end of Charlie van Breda, Church Street, the entire length of Broadway, as well as Boundary Road. All would be on the front line.

With the increasing number of extreme weather events associated with climate change, it has become a matter of urgency for fire and disaster management authorities to develop a holistic strategy that incorporates preventative measures and not only an emergency response capability.

 The Proposal.

This would involve a partnership between land owners, the Overstrand Municipality and government departments. A long-term plan should be devised, and the systematic clearing of all alien vegetation, from Die Dam through to De Kelders, should begin. The plan should include the creation and maintenance of firebreaks and the establishment of a permanent team to monitor and eradicate subsequent new growth.

Although all this would require considerable funding, the investment would eventually yield dividends. Fighting a fire, especially when aerial support is called in, is extremely expensive. In this regard, there would be long-term saving as firefighting became a matter of backburning low fynbos scrub from an accessible firebreak. The programme would initially create hundreds of job opportunities and permanent employment for maintenance teams in the future. In addition, as the indigenous vegetation re-established itself, the promotion of eco-tourism would benefit the accommodation, hospitality and local business establishments.

Surely it makes sense to take this proposal seriously and break the cycle of growing fuel for fire after fire?

 (The following photos - © Guy Martin - were taken seven years ago in March 2018 when a fire swept past Pearly Beach.)

The real danger we face comes from the authorities’ inability  to prioritize immediate and long-term preventative measures that would help to ensure the safety of all who live in our area. To understand the psychology behind this reluctance to take the required preemptive action, I turned to AI for some analysis, and this is what ChatGPT came up with:

 

‘The tendency to prioritize immediate responses over prevention is closely related to several psychological concepts. The relevant and psychological terms and analyses include:

Temporal Discounting

• Definition: Temporal discounting refers to the tendency to value immediate rewards or outcomes more highly than future rewards or outcomes, even if the future rewards are greater.
• Similarity to Response vs. Prevention: Preventative measures often involve investing time, effort, or resources now for benefits that will only materialize in the future (e.g., reducing wildfire risk). Temporal discounting can make these long-term benefits seem less appealing compared to the immediate and tangible results of responding to a crisis.

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Hyperbolic Discounting

• Definition: Hyperbolic discounting is a specific form of temporal discounting where the value of future outcomes decreases more steeply as the delay to receiving them increases. This can result in inconsistent decision-making, where people might prefer the immediate reward now but would choose the delayed reward if both options were further in the future.
• Application to Disaster Management: When faced with a choice between spending resources on wildfire prevention (future benefit) or on immediate disaster response, individuals or organizations may disproportionately favor the immediate need due to the steep discounting of long-term benefits.

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Neglect of Low-Probability, High-Impact Events

• Definition: Humans often struggle to prioritize actions to mitigate low-probability but high-impact events, a phenomenon rooted in bounded rationality and limited attention. Preventative measures for disasters like wildfires may seem less urgent because the occurrence of a disaster is probabilistic and uncertain, even if the long-term risk is significant.
• Relevance: Once a wildfire occurs, the probability is no longer uncertain—it is happening now, and immediate action feels necessary and justified.

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Action Bias

• Definition: Action bias refers to the psychological tendency to prefer taking action, especially in response to crises, even if inaction or preemptive action would be more effective. People often feel the need to "do something" in response to disasters, leading to a focus on reactive measures.
• Connection: Preventative actions are often less visible and can feel less satisfying compared to the clear and direct impact of crisis response.

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Present Bias

• Definition: Present bias is the tendency to give disproportionate weight to the present moment, often at the expense of the future. This can lead to underinvestment in long-term solutions like wildfire prevention, as the immediate benefits are not felt in the present.

 

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Addressing the Issue

To counteract these biases, behavioral interventions such as framing, commitment devices, and policy nudges can help. For example:

• Framing wildfire prevention efforts as saving money and lives in the long run can make the benefits more tangible.
• Mandating a portion of disaster response budgets for prevention can serve as a commitment device to balance immediate and long-term priorities.

Understanding these psychological tendencies is key to designing systems and policies that encourage a more balanced approach to prevention and response.’

 

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here. 

My Writing Career

 

 (Image: Ideogram.com)

I began my writing career in 2000 at the age of 50. I was aware that the majority of famous writers hit their stride in their thirties and forties, and that I was making a late start. Undeterred, I told myself that my muse had been in no hurry, preferring to allow me sufficient time to accumulate a rich store of experience to draw on before releasing my pent-up creative energy.

It was also around this time that it dawned on me that I had finally developed a world view. I had given up the futile search for the meaning and purpose of life, and had reached conclusion concerning human nature and my place in the cosmos, which I put into print in a 4500 word essay entitled, Why I Haven’t Killed Myself, Yet.

While my wife went out to work, and between home-schooling our two children and performing domestic drudgery, I set to work on a semi-autobiographical novel that I called The Life of Henry Fuckit. This took more than five years to write in longhand (I could still see well enough to put pen to paper), and at least another year for my teenage daughter to turn it into a Word document. I then approached a publisher and began the first of many demeaning encounters with literary gatekeepers.

Around this time, 2007, I started to use a PC. Having hit a brick wall with Henry, I decided to try my hand at some commercial fiction, and wrote Pop-splat, a fast-paced modern novel with plenty of violence and sex in it.  After three rejections I began to explore the possibility of self-publication. My wife reluctantly agreed to ‘invest’ R25000 in the printing of 1000 copies of my book, which I assured her would fly off the shelves and make us a profit of R50000.

I tenaciously badgered the books editors of numerous magazines an newspapers, sending them copies of the novel and requesting a review. This proved a lengthy process but eventually yielded several positive results, which I used as promotional material.

“How many books have you sold?” my financial backer asked me after a year. “When am I going to get my money back?”

I had to admit that only some 200 copies had flown off the shelves, and nearly 700 were still in the printer’s warehouse waiting to fly.

“All I need is a lucky break. If some influential person was to endorse the book it would take off, I’m sure.”

It was about this time that I began to consider another reason for why I had not become a sest-selling author, apart from the ‘lucky break’ excuse. Maybe Pop-splat wasn’t such a great read after all, and the writer was a little short on talent?

Despite a great deal of help and encouragement from my daughter and son, who set up a website and Facebook page to promote the book, sales dwindled to zero, and I was obliged to admit defeat on the Pop-splat front. However, in the meantime, I had continued writing and completed a second novel, Kikaffir, in 2011.

“Have you heard of Smashwords?” my son asked me. “It’s an online publisher that sells ebooks. You provide them with your manuscript and they make it available on their platform, and take a small commission from every sale.”

I was through with mainstream publishers, so I agreed to give it a try. By this I meant I would be grateful if he went ahead and did the necessary formatting, cover design and submission, which all entailed a considerable amount of skilled labour.

Over the following decade I continued writing and he kept placing the results on Smashwords but, I regret to report, our efforts were almost entirely in vain, for sales over the years amounted to hardly more than $100.

“Have you heard of Print On Demand publishing?”

Technology had moved along and it was now possible to self-publish anything from five to a hundred, or more copies at a relatively low cost.

Again, I managed to wheedle a few thousand rand out of my long-suffering wife, and we had 20 copies each of Kikaffir, Shark Alley Shootout and Strandveld Private Investigators printed.

“It should be dead easy to sell them locally, and then the word will spread and I can have more printed.”

The Gansbaai Book Exchange sold half a dozen copies, while the Book Cottage in Hermanus eventually told me after two years to come and collect my books, as they had been unable to make a single sale. Somebody suggested I try the flea markets in Pearly Beach and Stanford. Three Pop-splats and two Shark Alley Shootouts. Pathetic!

“Well,” I said to my wife at the end of 2020, “it doesn’t look like I’ll be asking you for any more money to further my writing career.”

It was with that acknowledgement of failure that I concluded my final attempt to prove that arsehole headmaster wrong.

Towards the end of 1967, which was my last year at Fish Hoek High School, this pedagogic prick called my parents in for an interview. He told them it was his sad duty to inform them that their son would never amount to much in life. Because I was dull-witted and lacking in any God-given talent, my prospects were bleak. It would be futile to hope that I might avoid the usual disappointment, boredom and pain associated with a life of mediocrity.

Well, it turned out that he wasn’t far wrong in his assessment. What he didn’t get right, though,  was the boredom bit. I have always been, and remain so to this day, interested in everything under the sun. I find the natural world and the antics of humans endlessly fascinating., and approach each day with fresh curiosity.

I now feel a certain degree of embarrassment that I should have deluded myself into believing I possessed enough talent to become a successful author. I also experience a strong sense of guilt when I consider how much time and effort, not to mention money, my wife and children have expended over the years in supporting me in my foolhardy literary ambitions. I can only hope that they do not harbour resentment or a sense of betrayal after realising they had allowed themselves to be persuaded to participate in such a misguided venture. My son, especially, has spent years trying to encourage me and promote my writing. Upon reflection, was it all for nothing? It is my hope that he will one day turn what he has learned from the experience into something of value and make it worthwhile.

Finally, although this signals the end of my writing career, it does not mean I will stop writing as a hobby. Hell, no! I intend to continue examining life and putting my thoughts into words. If I was to call a halt to this creative process the consequences would be dire. In the words of Henry Fuckit, “I'll be destroyed, totally and utterly. My spinal column will dismantle itself and fall in pieces upon the floor. My inflamed eyeballs will inflate and stand forth from my head before rupturing and collapsing back into their sockets. My liver will dissolve, my kidneys vitrify and my spleen will desiccate and crumble into dust. My poor heart will squawk and then shrivel to the size of a pea. My testicles will retract and putrefy with shame. My pride and joy will fall down dead, turn brown then black, and hang between my legs curing like a piece of biltong. My hair will turn white and fill my comb with tuft upon tuft. My tongue will thicken and become coated in lichen, choking my airway, blocking my gullet. My teeth will fall out with a clatter like ice into a bucket. My intestines will reverse the peristaltic flow and excrement will ooze from my nostrils. And my brain! The reaction of my brain to the terrible insult of being made to give up writing will be truly cataclysmic. My brainstem, cerebellum and cerebrum will fuse together into a dense, lifeless mass like a golf ball. The process will be instantaneous and the resulting vacuum in the cranial cavity will suck in stirrups, anvils and hammers to strike my defunct brain and ricochet out through my tympanic membranes. My entire nervous system, central and peripheral, will burn out in a storm of electrochemical fireworks and I will fall to the ground. Destroyed. Totally fucked in my moer."

Yes, that is what will happen if I stop writing, sure as night follows day.

 

Anybody for a FREE copy of Pop-splat?

078 455 7355

 

 To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.

Waiting for Walter

 

On the last of our ten days with Guy, he drove us to Lanseria Airport to catch a 12.05 flight on a Safair Boeing 737 back to Cape Town. It was another fine day: mild, no wind, cloudless blue sky, minimal smog – just like all the other days we had been in Joburg. He chaperoned us as far as he could, we said goodbye, and checked our hand luggage through the metal detectors. I was surprised when the official told me to add my hat to the basket. Never try and be smart with officials, I reminded myself, and refrained from asking him if he wanted my shoes as well.

In the passenger lounge Kryś picked up three free newspapers and we looked about for somewhere to buy a sandwich. Kauia. Never heard of it. She later Googled it; even the pronunciation. These were no low-class, pre-packed sandwiches, and we had to wait a good ten minutes while the woman behind the counter put them together. I had chicken mayo, and Kryś cheese and tomato between sourdough bread. Freshly made and hot out of the snackwich machine, one hundred bucks seemed a fair price and not too extravagant, seeing we were on holiday.

We made sure our bladders were empty, bar a few dregs, and took a seat for ten minutes before joining the queue at Gate 3. I did not enjoy standing there for a quarter of an hour, and worried that I might come over dizzy, like I did on the ramparts above the prison at Constitution Hill. It was a relief when we were allowed to descend onto the runway and then climb the boarding stairs. This time we were seated towards the back of the plane behind the wings, and there was a better perspective of the cabin, which was about three quarters full. Kryś sat between me on the aisle and an elderly German woman at the window.

Take-off and ascent were exhilarating, aware as we were that engine failure could send us plummeting to our death. We levelled up and unbuckled seat belts. It was then that she asked me what I had done with our free newspapers. Damn it! I must have left them on the chair in the passenger lounge. Not that we could have opened a paper in such cramped conditions, but it would have been interesting to look at them at leisure back in Pearly Beach. She agreed that I was a stupid old bugger.

At a quarter to one I suggested we tackle our fancy sandwiches. Mine had plenty of chicken but was a little short on mayo, while Kryś found hers entirely to her liking. Slow eaters, it took us nearly half an hour to munch our way through lunch, taking more than twice as long as a ‘normal’ person would need to wolf down a semi-masticated sarmie. By necessity, I tend to eat slowly because I only have 20 teeth left, twelve of the original allocation having fallen out or been pulled. On the other hand, my wife is a slow eater by design. She intentionally chews her food to a smooth paste before swallowing it in order to facilitate the digestive process. She also maintains that she is better able to savour the taste of what eventually ends up as wate matter after all nutrients have been extracted.

It was not long before we began the gradual descent to Cape Town International. After a turbulence-free flight the pilot got us to our destination punctually at exactly 2.20pm. Unfortunately, he blotted his copybook at the last moment by touching down with such a thump, I thought the undercarriage would collapse and the plane would skid to Arrivals on its belly. Luckily, this did not happen and he was able to taxi to the main airport building on all 6 wheels.

We had told Walter, the owner of GB Shuttles, that our estimated time of arrival was 2.20pm, and we foolishly believed that once we had disembarked, we would collect our old-fashioned luggage and proceed to P2, where our lift would be waiting for us.

P2 is an underground parking area with a pick-up section. There was no sign of Walter, so Kryś phoned him. He said Francois, our driver, had her number and would be in touch. It was now 3.30. We made our way over to the stainless-steel bench against the Passenger Waiting wall and sat down. Kryś’s phone dinged. It was a message from Francois to say he would be with us at 4.20. Christ, that was nearly another hour we were going to have to wait in this mausoleum! And we didn’t even have a newspaper to read!

I took a walk around the chill periphery of this echoing hellhole, breathing the toxic fumes of the cars that came and went. I returned to my spouse, who was keeping an eye on our luggage and waiting patiently.

“This is a fuck-up,” I said. “After such a great time with Guy and Jen, we end the holiday on a sour note. It’s going to be dark by the time we get home. And that’s if this goon pitches up at all!”

“Oh, stop whining! It has already gone four. Not long to wait now.”

At 4.30 she messaged Walter: ‘Francois said he would be here at 4.20. It is now 4.30.’ The answer came back: ‘He is right there.’

A silver-grey Kia Sedona had pulled up in front of us. GB Shuttles was written on the door. The man who came round from the driver’s side looked about 60, had a huge belly, and walked with difficulty. He refrained from explaining why he was nearly two hours late, and dispensed with apologies. Despite being relieved to see him, I was surly, and made him load the luggage into the back of the vehicle without helping him, even though he appeared to be in pain. Kryś chose to sit in the back, so I got in next to the chauffeur and he drove us out into the afternoon sunshine.

My seat was astonishingly comfortable, ergonomically designed with the needs of those suffering from spondylosis of the lumbar spine kept in mind. A far cry from the non-reclining, cramped accommodation foisted on travellers by the avaricious Airline Corporations. To his credit, the transport Walter provides for his clients is more than adequate. This luxurious 7-seater must have cost him a pretty penny.

The Friday traffic exiting the City was heavy but moving at a brisk pace. I had decided to show my displeasure at having been kept waiting by not talking to Francois and merely grunting if he attempted to engage me in conversation. However, he seemed an affable sort and kept up a commentary, to which my wife was responding with interest, and my resolve soon dissolved. After all, if I saw myself as a student of the human condition, why miss the opportunity to hear another autobiography complete with analysis and pronouncements on the state of the world, the meaning of life and the price of cheese?

He was talking about the elections that were coming up in five days’ time. He held up his left thumb to show the blue-black mark on the nail.

“We had a home visit this morning. With my knees, I can’t stand in a queue, and my wife has five auto-immune diseases. Every vote for the DA counts. We have got to stand together and keep those people out of the Western Cape.”

He had more to say about ‘those people,’ describing how useless, corrupt and backward they were. When I asked him if he had ever been accused of being a racist, he answered with glee, as if he had been hoping I would ask him just such a leading question.

“I’m not a racist. I don’t hate white people.”

As we approached Somerset West, his phone, which was on speaker, rang. It was Walter, and he suggested stopping to buy the clients coffee and a hotdog, seeing they had been kept waiting for so long. I firmly declined the offer, stressing the urgency of our desire to get home as soon as possible.

The traffic began to thin as we started the long climb over the pass. I asked him what was wrong with his knees, having already diagnosed part of the problem. My knees would also be buckling under the weight of such a massive gut. It spread out in front of him and to the side like a half-full sack of mealie meal and almost reached the steering wheel. He said he had played competitive hockey right up to the age of 45, and his joints had taken a hammering. What about knee replacements? No. The orthopaedic surgeon at the state hospital in Worcester had taken one look at him and refused point blank.

“I was 160 kg’s then. Now I’m down to 140. I don’t have any pain while driving or sitting in a chair, or lying down. It’s only when I stand and try to walk. I will just have to live with it. It could be worse, you know.”

For a second time he coughed so horribly I nearly put down the window and spat on his behalf. Christ, had he swallowed that lot? My wife, who is far more knowledgeable in medical matters, later assured me it was not phlegm that I had heard rumbling and gurgling; it was a classic smoker’s cough erupting down deep in his lungs as dead tissue was sloughed off, resulting in irritation to his inflamed bronchi.

“I am the only smoker I have known who has never wanted to quit. You know how much satisfaction I get in the morning when I have that first smoke with a cup of coffee?”

“It’s an expensive habit, these days. Cigarettes aren’t cheap.”

“Depends where you buy them.” He picked up the pack lying in the well between hand brake and gear lever. “R7.50. I get them from Bagit, the Chinese shop. No tax, you see.”

He was a good driver. I approved of the way he obeyed the speed limit and kept a respectable following distance. And it helped that it was a powerful vehicle with a 7-speed transmission that gave a smooth ride. Not like our old Venture, which requires multiple gear changes and a heavy foot on the accelerator to climb hills or overtake other vehicles.

“I was a rep for 12 years, and I used to drive 7000 kilometres a month. But then the management changed, and they got rid of the other guy and expected me to cover his route as well as my own for the same salary. At the end of the month I handed them the keys and walked out.”

We were approaching The Orchard farm stall. On the left informal housing stretched away from us in a jumble of corrugated iron.

“More and more shacks. There’s no work for them but they keep coming. Have you ever bought apples from them at the side of the road?”

“Hell, no,” I said.

“The best apples in the world. The big red ones. You never get them in the shops, because they get exported. We only get the rubbish they can’t sell to the Europeans. R20 a bag; they taste divine.”

“Isn’t it dangerous to stop? And those apples are stolen?”

“I’ve never had any hassles. Fantastic value for R20.”

His wife was on the phone, and she did not sound like she suffered from five auto-immune diseases. But who am I to judge a person’s state of health from the sound of their voice on speaker phone? There was only a trickle of water. They had a plumbing problem and needed a number 13 spanner. He told her his toolbox was in the car, and the car was at Walter’s.

“I was 200 metres from Walter’s when the cam belt broke this morning. That’s major damage to the pistons. A backyard mechanic is supposed to come and look at it and give a quote. All my tools are in the car. I don’t know why she and the boy can’t get a spanner from one of the neighbours.

He lives at Uilkraal, which is a kind of upmarket trailer park. The house is small but he likes it there. The sea and the lagoon are on their doorstep, and it’s nice and quiet and safe most of the time.

It is getting dark as we enter Hermanus. I am surprised that we are already there, time having gone by largely unnoticed, thanks to our driver.

“After repping I worked as a barman. At the Sea View, and then at Oppie Dek, and also Kuslanks. A few times at the Sea View, where I was also bouncer.” I found it hard to imagine him bouncing anyone, unless he was to fall on top of them. “I don’t believe in violence. I just tell a troublemaker they will be banned for two weeks if they don’t leave. It usually works, but the worst troublemakers are the women. Man, there are some rough ladies in Gansbaai! And can they vloek, and throw things!? Glasses and bottles and billiard ball, you name it.”

His wife was on the phone again. Now there was no water at all. He told her to send the boy to the neighbours to borrow a spanner. The boy, he said, was her adult son who had come to live with them because he had a drug problem.

“He is coming right with us, but I have to watch him like I’m a psychologist.”

He also told his wife he would be late, because he first had to take clients to Pearly Beach. In the meantime, she must take out the fish from the freezer.

The Klein River lagoon was reflecting the last light from the west and was fast losing its lustre. It would be dark when we reached Stanford.

“My fisherman friend gave me three katonkil. I will fry them when I get home.”

“Katonkil is a good fish,” my wife, who gets our fish from Boetie Otto when she goes shopping on a Friday, spoke from her seat in the dark just behind me. “It’s very nice on the braai.”

There was still a fair amount of traffic. After Stanford the country side and the sky turned so dark only the road lit by our headlights and the lights from other vehicles were visible.

Walter again. The mechanic had been, but he said it was too big a job. Not worth it. And trips for the rest of the week had been cancelled. Francois was silent as he digested this double whammy. Then he sighed.

“We will just have to make a plan, like we always do.”

Gansbaai was still wide awake, with police vans pulling up in front of the cop shop, cars and bakkies waiting for petrol at Caltex and Shell, and patrons parked on both sides of Jimmy Rockets. Ok Foods was doing a brisk trade, and there was a queue outside the Absa ATM. Gangsters in a mobile boombox nearly rammed a Quantum at the four-way. Light traffic all the way to Fraskraal. I was relieved he did not want to call in at Uilkraal. Across the way at Johnny Rockets, the boozers were playing darts and pouring alcoholic beverages down their throats, and then we were out into the dark.

And I mean dark. I would not have known we had crossed the lagoon if the concrete railings had not shown up in the headlights, and from there on there was nothing to tell us where we were until we passed Duineveld. Just four cars parked outside.

For the next 10 k’s we drove in silence until his GPS told him to go right in 300 metres. The big green and white signboard repeated the instruction and he obeyed, turning into the stretch of road lit by five solar-powered street lights. For the last 5 k’s of our journey, only the woman who knew where we were going spoke, and I had the feeling our driver was done with talking to us.

There could be no doubt that we had left civilization behind us and were now in the depths of the countryside. If we did not know better, we might have thought there were only half a dozen habitations in Pearly Beach.

“Your destination is 200 metres on the left.”

The headlights lit up the path and the front of the house, and I hurried stiffly round to the back door, disarmed and unlocked. I turned on lights, picked up a torch, opened the front door and hastened, less stiffly now, down to the car. Kryś had meantime handed over the cash, all R1760 of it, and unloaded our luggage.

“Thanks for the ride,” I called out, But he was already reversing into the road.

We got our goods into the house. She trotted to the toilet while I went out to check whether the garage and the shed had been broken into, and if the car was still in the carport. Before turning on my torch, I stood on the stoep and savoured the night air, which was cool and clean in my nostrils. I could hear nothing apart from the faint mumbling of the sea in the distance. No sound of traffic, and no activity over at Eluxolweni. Jesus, it was quiet! And dark! It hit me like an epiphany, as if an extreme event had taken place in my brain. I later attributed this astonishment and awe to the dramatic contrast between city life and living out in the sticks. For ten days we had been immersed in unceasing traffic, street lights, headlights, the lights of houses and commercial buildings, lights everywhere at night, the smog from exhaust fumes and smoke, the constant sound of human activity, and the ubiquitous presence of thousands and thousands of people. And now we were plunged into this void. The shock was exhilarating, and I realised I would not have experienced it to this extent if we had arrived in daylight. Instead of our holiday ending with a disappointed whimper (from me), it had climaxed with a bang. And for this satisfactory ending to a holiday that had doubled as an adventure we owed thanks to Walter and his driver.

To view my longer work as an author, you can find me on Smashwords here.