Poisoning the Dogs

When a dog ingests the toxins from certain pesticides it’s usually only a matter of minutes before the dog starts hemorrhaging, quickly followed by violent seizures, respiratory paralysis and then death. Most of the more aggressive dogs, Rottweilers and Doberman Pinschers, often approach the criminals with their mouths agape, barking, salivating, looking for a reason to explain why someone is approaching their yard in the middle of the night. If this is the case, the night burglar – a perfected art form in South Africa – will spray either a full can of Raid or rodentcide into the snarling dog’s mouth, the open passageway only hastening the dog’s demise.

Mr. van Wyk vaguely remembers hearing his dogs' final barks the warm February morning his house was broken in to. Shortly after the robbers subdued his two dogs with poison and bypassed his electric fence, one of them made it to the open bedroom window, ready to pepper spray Mr. van Wyk if he awoke to the rummaging throughout the house. At that same time, the other robber was making his way through the house, using a sharp knife to cut clean through electronic chords and appliance wires, gathering anything of value he could find.

Perhaps rattled by the noise of the rummaging himself, the robber by the window took no chances, for he unleashed a bottle of pepper-spray on Mr. van Wyk before his partner made it out of the house. Mr. van Wyk barely gathered himself before he opened fire on the intruders as they fled, leaving jewelry behind in their haste. Hours later when the police finally showed up, his throat was still burning from the pepper spray.

There is nothing remarkable about Mr. van Wyk’s story in South Africa, a country that has seen a 100% increase in residential robberies since 2003/2004. The cops made their pledge to look into the case, but all parties, including the robbers, knew that nothing would come of it; the dogs had already been poisoned. 

Swaziland: Part 3: The Kingdom Underground

You should be able to follow the link below to my latest article. It starts on page 11 of the African.org.

http://anax5a.pressmart.com/africanorg/Index.aspx

2011 South African Electoral Scorecard

Local elections are taking place today in South Africa, and I have enjoyed every moment of the mudslinging leading up to this historic vote. It’s historic because it might finally mark the rise of a formidable adversary for the African National Congress (ANC), the party that has held solid majorities across the country during its 17-year reign. The Democratic Alliance (DA), that rising power led by Helen Zille, already controls the Western Cape and is looking to make inroads into the Eastern Cape, specifically the Nelson Mandela Bay Municipality, which includes the city of Port Elizabeth. Over the past week the campaigning and the rhetoric have increased, making for an interesting showdown today.

As most of you know, there’s nothing I like better about politics than watching the horse race. And the horse race in South Africa is full on. Julius Malema, the firebrand who leads the ANC Youth League, has been the mouthpiece for the ANC this campaign seasons. He adds vitriol with his neo-Marxist ideology, stirring passionate intensity in his devote followers. Although he makes valid political arguments now and again, his temperament overwhelms almost everything positive he has to offer.

From his insistence on continuing to sing the struggle song “Kill the Boer” to referring to any black member of the DA as “Helen Zille’s garden boys,” Julius Malema is certainly a lightening rod.

Malema’s recent op-ed in the Sunday Times reveals a great deal about his politics. He writes that “job creation will be spurred and driven by a decisive land redistribution programme and greater state participation in the ownership and control of the economy.” Unfortunately, he has never explained the mechanics of these policies and reasons why they would “lead to the creation of many job opportunities for the unemployed.” All he offers is a strong dose of party worship, stating that trust in the party will please “African ancestors.” It all has an eerie Animal Farm feel to it.

Malema’s takeover of the ANC message has allowed for the DA to chip away at the party of Nelson Mandela’s constituency. It also helps that the DA has a well-polished, female candidate running their show. Helen Zille sticks to her talking points, yet is great off-the-cuff. She speaks Xhosa and has anti-apartheid credentials. Although she is white, the optics of a woman candidate at the head of a political party is quite striking here in South Africa. In some ways she’s a mix of Hillary Clinton and Nancy Pelosi, with the steely reserve of Condoleeza Rice.

Even if the DA gets a piece of the Eastern Cape, it appears that the ANC will take ground in KwaZulu-Natal, thus maintaing their healthy majority. The Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP), the party of Zulu nationalism, led by Mangosuthu Buthelezi who is in his 80s, continues to splinter, giving space for other parties to pick up votes in this province. The fact that Jacob Zuma, the president of South Africa, is a Zulu from KwaZulu-Natal certainly improves the ANC’s profile there.

Well, the polls will be closing soon, so I must start taking a look at the returns. A quick glance online at the South African papers shows that there have been some minor irregularities at a few polling stations. It should be a good night.

The Great Steeplechase

Thomas Pakenham’s sprawling 700-page history, The Scramble for Africa, which chronicles European colonialism in Africa, took up the better half of my April, so I thought I would share a few thoughts about the book.

From 1876 to 1912 – roughly half a generation – the Scramble for Africa gave Europe “virtually the whole continent: including thirty new colonies and protectorates, 10 million square miles of new territory and 110 million dazed new subjects, acquired by one method or another.” Pakenham unpacks this story through meticulous research, rich prose, and a heavy hand of Irish wit. At times his anecdotes overwhelm the chronology of events, but in the end, he manages to thread a history that stretched from the Cape-to-Cairo, Nile-to-the-Niger and everywhere in-between.

Starting with the explorations of David Livingstone (think “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”) and his call for the “3 C’s” (Commerce, Christianity and Civilization) to liberate Africa, the book then follows the Great Powers’ conquest – the 4^th “C” – of the Dark Continent. Yet, the strength of the book does not merely lie with the facts and untold history it presents, even when considering that Pakenham’s use of primary sources may be unrivaled. No, the true strength of this work is the author’s ability to bring characters to life and recreate the tensions that existed between those characters. His retelling of the Mahdi’s discomfort with the beheading of Colonel Charles Gordon reveals the respect and bonds of fellow warriors in battle; analyzing the long saga of the diamond-and-gold tycoon Cecil Rhodes’s schemes to take the land of the Shona and Ndebele peoples brings modern tensions in Zimbabwe into sharper focus.

Although the book is a library of African and Arab cultures, Kings and place-names, it is essentially a book of European history. And what a history it is. Granted, you must relish in the diplomatic wrangling of the times in order to enjoy the history; but with giants like Bismarck, King Leopold II and Queen Victoria, Great Power intrigue can become a guilty pleasure. Besides, who doesn’t like a good Anglo-French rivalry?

On a more analytical note, I think that Pakenham raises an interesting counter argument against the perception – and “myths” – that the Berlin Conference of 1884 (General Act of Berlin signed in 1885) had established the rules and regulations for “carving” up Africa. He writes:

“It was really the other way around. The Scramble had precipitated Berlin. The race to grab a slice of the African cake had started long before the first day of the conference. And none of the thirty-eight clauses of the General Act had any teeth. It had set no rules for dividing, let alone eating, the cake.”

But again, for me, I am sold on Pakenham’s ability to build characters. Take for instance his descriptions of Pierre de Brazza, the saintly French explorer: “Brazza was a coltish, awkward, taciturn boy of twenty-three, with a long aristocratic nose and large brown eyes. His resourcefulness did him credit and so did his idealism, naïve as it often was.” Years later, when Brazza emerges from two and half years of tramping through the bush of Gabon and the northern Congo, Pakenham describes him as “hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed.” Great writing, I must say.

I must also say that Pakenham has got me back in touch with my inner-historian. In other words, the great works of history keep giving me, in Kipling’s famous phrase, “no end of a lesson.” So, for the month of May I am tackling Pakenham’s other masterpiece, The Boer War. Until then. 

Swaziland: Part 2: Wildlife Catalogues

Each morning, outside the window of my self-catering rondavel hut, a family of warthogs scampered about. Several impalas always wandered around, determinedly. After a couple of days in the bush I became dismissive of their habits. That’s all it took. I had the zebras and wildebeests beyond the gates to go searching for. Adjacent the swamp was the camp’s restaurant; the restaurant’s deck overlooked the swamp. Every now and again, on the banks of the swamp, a crocodile slept. Time had a different pace; it’s the pace of letting your beard grow long. The long dirt road, baked the color of red bricks, stretched out from the Miliwane Wildlife Sanctuary to an intersection with a two-lane country highway. Manning the gate to the sanctuary was a tall man who couldn’t speak much English, carrying an elephant gun, wearing a Yankees hat. I never did find out where he got the hat; if I had my Red Sox hat with me, I would have had him exchange lids. It would have been a significant diplomatic victory for the nation, like the French flying the tri-colors next to the Union Jack somewhere too deep into East Africa. Since he didn’t speak much English and I don’t speak Swazi, we just gave each other a nod and a wave, and then I was off down the long dirt road. The road bent and curved, never quite parallel with the horizon. Young kids, maybe between the age of 5 and 9, littered the road, playing young-kid games and waving. I couldn’t help kicking up dust as I drove by. Before I reached the two-lane country road I could always see out my window a teenager shepherding cows along the ridgeline of the rolling hills. Maybe I have always underestimated the agility of cows. The best time to watch him herd them was at dusk. Soon after the sun sets, bright pinks and oranges reflect off the horizon, while the young teenager and his cows walk through the shadows. Momentarily the cows emerge from the shadows that are falling ever-further West.

Swaziland: Part 1: Border Posts

For some reason, the African border-post gods have not smiled upon me. Over Easter weekend I set out on a 400 kilometer, 5-hour trip to Swaziland, looking to spend some time in the bush and cover the pro-democracy movement. (On a side note, the pro-democracy movement in Swaziland is looking to dethrone King Mswati III, the last absolute monarch in sub-Saharan Africa. Well, actually, they just want him to give up his complete control of the legislature, judiciary, and executive.) After taking in a good stretch of Mpumalanga province, I pulled into the Oshoek border post around 2:30pm, with plenty of daylight in front of me.

Northeast Mpumalanga is open country, with open skies, rivaling anything in the American West. To be specific, it reminds me of somewhere on I-90 between Sioux Falls, South Dakota and Buffalo, Wyoming. Perhaps it’s more towards the plains side, I’m not sure yet. In either case, the baked rust-red dirt of Mpumalanga country leaves any traveler with newfound eyes.

The minor roads angling towards Swaziland run through small towns and farm towns – the lonesome veld. Almost out of nowhere, maybe 80 kilometers from the Swaziland border, chipped rock-earth and sturdy pine tress start to fill the landscape, bringing me back to Flagstaff, Arizona. By the time I arrived at the border, cold and fog descended, and I could tell night would come early.

My car was maybe 10^th in the queue approaching the South African side. Not bad, I thought. However, after 25 minutes and not a single car had moved an inch, I had reason for concern. In all, it took me 2 ½ hours to get through the South African side and all they did was stamp my passport. They did not check my car or try to extort money from me (though for expediency’s sake, I wish I could have bribed someone). Of course I still had the Swazis to go, who didn’t prove to be in any more of a rush than their South African neighbors. That side took about 1 ¼ hours to get through, but I spent that time standing outside with the cold, dark winds of April (that just doesn’t feel right to say).

After I got my entry stamp and paid the road tax, I set off down the MR3, Swaziland’s main thoroughfare, dodging cows and the occasional pedestrian hugging the road a little too tight. The turnoff for the Mlilwane Wildlife Sanctuary, where I spent my 5 nights, is a dirt road stretching past farms and empty storehouses. The road splits about 2kms from the turnoff. In the dark, I could not tell which way to go, so I chose the wrong direction. Taking the left instead of the right, I ended up driving into the reeds – and the night – loosing my way completely. It was one of those moments when things look more mysterious than they actually are.

Eventually I would find my camp and have a great 5 days in the landlocked kingdom. Before I left I debated about which border post I would exit through. Wednesday, the day I left, was a public holiday in South Africa, so there was still a chance the Easter crowd was in county and that the border post would be a mess.

On the morning I left the sun broke broadly across the western horizon. Barely a cow or pedestrian on the highway. The parking lot at the Oshoek border post looked abandoned, just a few customs and immigration agents in big coats, talking the day away. I made it through both sides in less than 10 minutes. It was really as if I visited two different border posts in Swaziland.

*I will post a link to my article on Swaziland, which will hopefully be published in the June/July edition of the African.org. 

River Days

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”

– Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories

I keep staring at the rivers on the wall; the rivers are on my map you see.

The cataracts of the Congo sit atop my head; the burden of the Orange is in my veins.

This of course does not explain the behavior of the Nile at its source -

Where Colonel Charles Gordon may be sleeping.

At night I break off down the Niger, past the mangrove swamps

And the mahogany trees lining the banks, with blank treaty forms in hand.

Zambezi, I know that name best; I have seen her Victoria Falls.

Senegal, I don’t even know your Upper or your Lower.

I am not here, however, for lakes: Albert, Kivu, Tanganyika, Nyasa, or the like.

Instead, I scan the Sahara for the lost rivers of Africa.