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.

A Country of Accidents

On 26 October 2006, Sarah Meek, an alumni of the Monterey Institute of International Studies (MIIS) and a researcher at the Institute for Security Studies (ISS) at the time, perished in a tragic automobile accident in her home country of South Africa. She is memorialized on the MIIS campus with a bench in front of the Kade Building. In order to honor Sarah’s work and promote research in Africa, her family established an annual monetary prize for student research in Africa, known as the Sarah Meek Page Prize.

At about the time I was receiving the email informing me of the details and deadline for the Sarah Meek Page Prize, my colleague at the ISS, Henri Boshoff (aka Bossie), met his maker, as his car crashed on his way home from a memorial service.

What can I tell you about Bossie, a man I only knew for about three months. Well, when I met him in his office the first thing that stood out was the collection of guns hanging from the coat rack (he was ex-military), as well as the war memorabilia lining the walls, including military helmets from the Anglo-Boer war and WWI. As I was sitting with him, however, I happened to look over my shoulder and notice a life-size poster of MLK. Oh, the duality of Man. I wish I had more time to get to know this amazingly complex man.

In the short time I did get to know him, he managed to advise me on my project on several occasions, introduce me to dozens of people in the field, and educate me on the innumerable failings of his beloved Blue Bulls (the Pretoria rugby team).

And so yes, it is a world of accidents. Yet South Africa, or more specifically Africa, seems more prone to accidents than most places. So, today, I am reminded that even thousands of miles away from home I am not immune to loss. I am not immune to the insulting facts of sorrow. 

Situation Report: From Cape Town to Cairo

I believe it was Ferris Bueller that once said: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” With North Africa on fire, Cote d’Ivoire in shambles, Nigeria bracing for electoral bloodshed, Swaziland in revolt, I’m not sure truer words could be applied to Africa these days.

With that in mind, I thought I would share a few topical articles about Africa, both news and notes, which have come across my desk the past few weeks.

Paul-Simon Handy, the Director of Research at the ISS, wrote an interesting ISS Today in the beginning of April about the deteriorating situation in Cote d’Ivoire. His article, Cote d’Ivoire: The War is on, Let’s Give it a Chance?, was written before Ouattra’s forces captured Gbagbo, so it’s a little out-dated at this point, but he makes a good case against what he calls “dogmatic pacifism” that enraptures the African political establishment.  

Although the Ivory Coast is the sexy story out of West Africa at the moment, it is important to keep tabs on Liberia and Sierra Leone. Nigeria is also a hot spot, with Goodluck Jonathan poised to win tomorrow’s elections.

On the sort-of-related-to-Africa front, there was a great profile of the odd couple in Libya, which is Obama and Sarkozy (aka Sarko l’Américain), in the NY Times this past week.

South Africa is not immune to the acid winds that too often blow through the continent. This week Julius Malema, the African National Congress (ANC) Youth League President, made his way to court flanked by (illegally) heavily-armed bodyguards. To be honest, it looked like a scene out of a Tarintino movie. He’s on trial for hate-speech because at his youth rallies he likes to break into song, a song entitled “Kill the Boer.”

Then of course any article I’m quoted in is ok in my book: http://mg.co.za/article/2011-04-13-sa-joins-brics-club-to-punch-above-its-weight

All of the highlighted parts are hyperlinks, so you should be able to click on them and go right to the articles. I’m hoping that everyone will at least read one article that is of interest. Happy Reading!

República de Moçambique

“I like to spend some time in Mozambique/The sunny sky is aqua blue/

 And all the couples dancing cheek to cheek/It’s very nice to stay a week or two”

– Bob Dylan, Mozambique

I’m not sure if Dylan ever spent a week or two in Mozambique, but if he did, he forgot to sing about abject poverty and rampant corruption. I only spent four days in Mozambique and yes I saw white sand beaches and the aqua blue seascape; however, my Mozambican experience was also defined by all that Dylan must have left behind.

Maputo

Maputo is a little over 100 kilometers from the South African border post of Lebombo, which is located just north of Swaziland and just south of the Kruger National Park. The 100kms rolls gently through hills and down toward the mangroves that lead to the low, sandy coastline. The coastline is there, I’m sure of it, but the city has consumed everything in sight. You first pass through the shacks and shanty towns that accompany most African cities, but the sprawl of Maputo moves ever-inward, building up and out as you move in. A two lane bumper-to-bumper street runs through the heart of Maputo, with hollowed-out and pockmarked (possibly still remnants from the civil war) buildings lining this main thoroughfare. The road is hectic, the action fierce, yet the faces out the window seem still, eyes tracing the jerking movements of the Toyota Yaris. The only trace of the Portuguese is the art deco architecture that gives the city a sense of charm, as well as the occasional tanned face beneath a helmet of dark hair gliding in and out of lanes – surely not a foreigner. On the whole, however, the city is a squalor, a postcard that conceals the misery the lens avoids. At night, down by the harbor, where a few bars emerge from the sidestreets, this seedy town feels that much seedier. And the only escape from it is north, for one cannot head south unless one has four-wheel drive, as the roads turn to deep sand 50kms out. You don’t know when you actually leave Maputo; the city sprawls northward with you, spreading its tensions with you all the way.

Magic in a magical land

Bilene, Mozambique is a solid 3 ½ hour drive from Maputo, but feels like a lifetime away. The white sandy beaches instantly washed away the stress of the city. The locals were villagers, carrying with them the pace and attitude of the countryside. In addition to the locals, there were immigrants from Zimbabwe, really Rasta-types. (On a side note, it was a shame to see so many educated, capable, confident, well-meaning young men and women fleeing Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.) The Zims, my travel companions and I sat out in the square one night, drinking a few pints of 2M beer, talking politics. At night the stars came out, seeming to drift out into the Indian Ocean. The prawns and Portuguese chicken was as good as I read about. Reading and reflecting was the order of the day – a great respite from the worlds we create for ourselves.

In some ways, it’s as if I never left Mozambique

My (and my travel companions’) Mozambican story begins and ends at the border crossing. Now, I’ve crossed a handful (or more) African borders in my life, making me neither an authority nor a novice on such matters. That said, I carried a casual disposition into the Mozambique border…at first.

Driving from Pretoria to the Mozambique border takes about 6 hours, so by the time we arrived we were hot and tired. Once at the border, we were surrounded by hawkers trying to sell us insurance and currency and the like. Others were trying to “help” us through the border, which means they “showed” us where to go and what to sign and all the rest. Then it was time to grease the skids, meaning it was time to pay off the Mozambican “cops.” They only wanted R200 (about $30) to “check” the car, while the “helpers” were asking R250 in tips. We obliged. Needless to say, we, or at least I, left the border depressed and disoriented, the experience souring most of the trip.

On the way out of Mozambique on Sunday we swore that we would not be bamboozled again. Forget these guys. We came focused, with an edge, an attitude. (For those that may not know, you need to get stamped in to a country when you enter and stamped out when you depart. For example, when we left SA on that Thursday, their border agent stamped us out.) Pulling up on the Mozambique side we saw the same old hawkers whistling us in, so they could “help” us get stamped out of Mozambique. This time we skirted past them, driving directly to the South African parking lot. The cops didn’t seem to take notice. So, we got in a long line on the South African side to get stamped in to the country. As we were waiting in line, one of the “helpers” made it over to us and asked if we got stamped out of Mozambique. No, no we hadn’t, was our reply. “You gotta come back, you gotta come back then,” he demanded. He then asked, “did you get your car checked yet?” Nope. He continued to badger us until I asked him who exactly he worked for. And then I informed him that we will see if things work out here on the South African side; if not, I told him, then we would be happy to come back. Leverage had shifted, the momentum had turned. Now all we needed was a bit of incompetence from a South Africa official. Sure enough they were very accommodating and we were officially stamped in to South Africa.

As it stands today, I am without a stamp out of Mozambique. I guess you could say that in some ways, it’s as if I never left Mozambique.

 

Bookends of Horror

“The last battle of the colonized against the colonizer will often be the fight of the colonized against each other.” – Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth

Adam Hochschild’s King Leopold’s Ghost and Gerard Prunier’s Africa’s World War are in too many ways bookends to the horrors that plagued the Congo (i.e. Congo Free State, Belgian Congo, Zaire, DRC, etc.) over the last century. Starting in the late 1800s, Hochschild’s book recounts King Leopold II of Belgium’s greedy quest for a colony; his cunningness in carving out a Belgium colony in the heart of Africa that was bigger than England, France, Germany, Spain, and Italy combined; and finally, after a trail of terror as long and as unforgiving as the Congo River, the King watched over a genocide that killed over 10 million people. Prunier’s book catches up with this story in 1996, when in the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide, regional tensions boiled over to spark a continental war – Africa’s World War. Prunier examines this bloodbath – which curdled for over six years – by untangling the ethnic dimensions of the conflict and the numberless atrocities that accompanied it.

I am about two-thirds the way through King Leopold’s Ghost and I can’t help thinking that the brutal system of colonization in the Congo, where hands and heads were cut off as souvenirs (the impetus for Conrad’s Mr. Kurtz), built the exposition phase of the story told in Africa’s World War.

Both authors are historians and analysts, storytellers and novelists, bringing forgotten history to life. Yet, both have different styles and points of view. Hochschild is more of an activist, but one who can’t help but build a narrative: “But those who condemned it were unaware that, compared with the bloodshed beginning just then in central Africa, it was only a sideshow.”

Punier, on the other hand, is a French (always French) philosopher-analyst: “And the situation in the Great Lakes is so horribly complex, so contradictory that one does not have to be American to fall victim to the syndrome of desperately wanting to find "good guys" and "bad guys" who could restore meaning and clarity to such moral gloom.” Yet he too has the novelist’s touch: “Thus the best image one can give of what happened is that of geographical hollow, the Congo Basin, entirely surrounded by a chain of otherwise unconnected storm clouds which were all drawn toward the low-pressure zone that had suddenly developed.”

As I conclude this rather cathartic experience, my hope is that these two books do represent bookends to the long history of conflict in the Congo. And may peace be found.

White Tribe of Africa

Oh, white tribe of Africa,

The passbooks cannot be shaken from your skull;

Forgiveness of self and sins its greatest trek.

Oh, white tribe of Africa,

Step out from behind the electric fence;

Your language must be eaten whole.

Oh, white tribe of Africa,

Your poor smile toothless too;

Crying, their beloved country.

Oh, white tribe of Africa,

Your passport is an unsigned identity;

Yet restorative, long last.

Oh, white tribe of Africa,

This is your country – the country of Africa –

And the final disgrace can only drip from the tongue.

Voortrekker Monument
Pretoria, South Africa
February 13, 2011

Keep Out: The Deformities of a Securitized South Africa

“The skull, followed by the temperament: the two hardest parts of the body.”

 – J.M. Coetzee, Disgrace

The South African province of Gauteng, home to the securitized cities of Pretoria and Johannesburg, is very different from the Western Cape. Gauteng may lack the pristine sandy beaches, lush green vineyards, and Cape Dutch architecture, but there is something that it does have over the Western Cape: a plentiful supply of private security companies (PSCs). Figures from the 2009/2010 Private Security Industry Regulatory Authority (PSIRA) report shows that out of the 7,459 registered security companies spread out over 9 provinces, Gauteng accounts for 2,722 of those businesses, or roughly 36% of South Africa’s private security sector. Gauteng also boasts of having 151,991 out of the 387,273 (39%) registered security officers in South Africa. What makes these statistics more startling is that they continue to grow, with the latest numbers in Gauteng roughly representing an annual increase of 15% and 7% in the aforementioned categories. The closest contender, the province of KwaZulu-Natal, only has 1,199 registered PSCs and 65,323 registered security officers. In other words, Gauteng is far and away the most securitized province in South Africa – and perhaps the most privately protected place in the world.

What’s the impetus for all this security? To start with, Gauteng is also one of the most crime-ridden provinces in the world. The 2009/2010 South African Police Service (SAPS) crime statistics reveal that between April 2009 and March 2010, there were over 8,000  robberies at residential premises – a sub-category of aggravated robbery involving the use or threatened use of force – in Gauteng province alone. To put that in some perspective, KwaZulu-Natal, a province with a slightly larger population than Gauteng, had about half as fewer robberies over that same time period. Although contact crimes (murder, rape, assault, etc.) and most property related crimes (particularly theft out of motor vehicle) have declined gradually over the past seven years, burglary at residential premises – does not involve the use or threatened use of force – has virtually remained steady. Not surprising, these two categories fall squarely under the purview of PSC operations.

Walk the streets of Pretoria – never mind Johannesburg, the “crime capital of the world” – and you will see an endless string of barbed wire, electric fences, 24 hour a day alarm monitors, CCTV systems, outdoor beams and more. All the perimeter protection the heart needs. A fleet of armed response vehicles patrol neighborhoods; security guards man boom gates and “information” booths erected at key routes throughout neighborhoods and suburbs; PSCs not only provide residential security, but also deliver security services to commercial, retail, and financial institutions. Security begetting security.

Endless theories on the causes of crime and violence in South Africa have been put forth, some with more credence than others. The most common and credible hypotheses focus on poverty, inequality, and the brutal legacy of apartheid. However, more interesting research has recently emerged concentrating on what has been dubbed a “moral degeneration,” emphasizing how crime shapes (or reshapes) the context of decision making, specifically the decisions of would-be criminals. Yet no theories focus on the other side of the crime story: the public’s reaction to high crime rates. What drives this push for more and more private security is the question that interests me. It can’t be just crime, can it? And then what are the social impacts of this highly securitized state? What are the psychological ramifications? These are the things I think about – not crime – when I walk the streets of Pretoria.

Lastly, I’m curious how private security feeds into people’s perceptions of safety. Next month I will be conducting a door-to-door survey (I will write more about the survey in the coming weeks) for my research project, trying to gauge people’s perceptions of safety in regards to their use of private security. Here’s a sample:

1.      Fear of criminal activity was an important reason I chose to purchase private security services.

Strongly Disagree

Disagree

Neutral

Agree

Strongly Agree

6.   Private security companies help to reduce crime rates in my neighborhood.

Strongly Disagree

Disagree

Neutral

Agree

Strongly Agree

9.  Without private security services, I would feel less secure.

Strongly Disagree

Disagree

Neutral

Agree

Strongly Agree

I would very much be interested to read your ideas about possible survey questions or general thoughts you may have on this topic.

The Bakkie

“The vehicle was a bakkie, a small truck with a three-litre engine, fourteen-inch wheels with heavy-duty ten-ply tyres, and a sturdy standard chassis on which the buyer fits a fibreglass canopy with windows, air-vents and foam-padded benches running along either side, behind the cab. It makes a cheap car-cum-caravan for white families, generally Afrikaners, and their half-brother coloureds who can't afford both. For more affluent white South Africans, it is a second, sporting vehicle for purposes to which a town car is not suited."  – Nadine Gordimer, July’s People

Most mornings I count about a half-dozen bakkies on my walk into work. Usually the cargo beds of these pickup trucks, 4 feet long at best, are filled with 6-8 day laborers (or is it labourers?), most likely migrants from the surrounding provinces and countries. The workers, dressed in snappy blue domestic uniforms – the instant identification of class in South Africa – sit 3-4 across on the side panels, taking in those needed minutes before the start of the work day.

There is something deeply liberating about the bakkie (pronounced bah-key). I think the fact that there are no laws in SA against sitting in the back of a bakkie plays into that sense of liberation. Maybe it returns me to the myths of the America West, with all that road going, and the frontier adventures so closely associated with those myths. By no means am I a “truck guy,” but perhaps the truck speaks to the essential need of Man to haul things. Maybe it is just another point of contact with South Africans that makes me take note of them. Or maybe after a month in SA it’s time to kick up some dust and hit the open road – in a bakkie.

leave your shoes inside the car

Walking barefoot through shopping centers is a peculiarity among young Afrikaner males that I haven’t come to terms with yet. On my first tour through SA in 2000, I took note of this phenomenon on a few occasions. In fact, I can still vividly remember a barefoot young boy waiting in line at a Pick n Pay. At the time I was so intrigued with the concept that when I returned home I tried walking shoeless (and sockless) through the Shaw’s supermarket in South Burlington, VT. (I was politely asked to leave.) In the following years I guess I just assumed it was a passing phase in Afrikaans culture or that perhaps the boys I encountered lived on a farm – true boers – so they were accustomed to walking around without anything on their feet. However, this week, in the middle of Pretoria (i.e. the country’s executive capital), at the Brooklyn Mall (the US equivalent of the Scottsdale Fashion Square), there he was: a young Afrikaner male standing barefoot at the register.

I suppose the thing that’s most disturbing for me is that at some point the young kid had to cross the parking lot, make his way up the escalator, circle the aisles, and finally get up to the checkout counter…barefoot. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I guess.

A More Perfect Union

Last Sunday, 20 February 2011, I walked the 5km from my house in Brooklyn, Pretoria to the Union Buildings downtown. The roads and sidestreets leading to the Union Buildings are littered with embassies and consulates, including but not limited to: Nigeria High Commission, Singapore High Commission, High Commission of Malaysia, and of course the concrete Pentagonesque structure that the American diplomats call home, which ominously sits adjacent to the faux Ming architecture of the Chinese embassy. I’ve been told that Pretoria has the highest concentration of embassies and consulates in the world.

The first thing that you notice about the Union Buildings is their depth, as if they are absorbed into the hillside. Approaching the buildings head on, walking up past the expansive lawn, I make my way to the terraced gardens at the base of “the buildings.” The manicured lawn and pruned bushes of the terraced garden brings me back to the gardens of Suzhou, in an Afrikaner sort of way. Yet it is the color of the buildings – reddish-brown sandstone – that holds the city still. The buildings are the color of the Highveld earth, which can be seen all around the hilltops sheltering Pretoria. I take a seat and watch.

The “new” South Africa stands before me. Scattered throughout the grounds I see an Afrikaner family picnicking with their white wine; there is an Asian family, most likely immigrants from Vietnam (best guess from the language I heard), celebrating a wedding in their Sunday bests; a group of Nigerian and Ethiopian tourists are busily snapping pictures and joking with each other; and the black South African families and couples are taking it all in on their lawn chairs. Crime, Aids, immigration policy, poverty and inequality dominate the debate in South Africa, but for one Sunday afternoon in February I saw a country forming a more perfect union.



South Africa

  South Africa,

I lost you in the rain,

now I’m left in the desert

without any soles.

  South Africa,

I fell for your beauty on beauty.

  South Africa,

years of tears,

monsters of destiny;

your children walk barefoot

wishbone thinking.

  South Africa,

Pringle to Wyk to Serote

shade rainbow words

while we tourists dip our noses

in forever life changing professions.

  South Africa,

I’ve seen through your township walls,

            looked down from your table mountain,

and saw two oceans meet as one.

  South Africa,

I’ve seen men, South African,

            white and black,

talking, making sense.

Don’t you know color is consciousness

And ignorance dies with language?

  South Africa,

I came for a quart of Castle,

            I left with a lesson

on life as an art for love.

  South Africa,

When will the townships be safe to walk at night?

When will the women be left alone?

  South Africa,

When will color be of no fear?

How long will it take to stop this rain?