Adolf Hitler is today a justly reviled figure. It wasn’t always so. Indeed, one of the abiding questions that remains partially unanswered about the Second World War is how one of the most educated societies on earth allowed themselves to get taken in by the fear-mongering and fomenting of a single man? With the current worldwide resurgence of right-wing populism and with many countries now openly flirting with authoritarianism, it is a question that has taken on an added relevancy.
Like Vladimir Putin, who seeks to rehabilitate the memory of Stalin, the 20th century’s other great mass murderer, Hitler’s aim was, from the outset, to destroy democracy through the democratic process and then impose a one-party dictatorship. In other words, his plan was to pursue the legal path to power by getting himself elected to high office.
Just how he set about doing this, in those crucial few years before he assumed total control of Germany, is the subject matter of this deeply researched, illuminating book. Ryback describes, in fascinating detail, the political circumstances, and the schizophrenic state of Germany at the time. the personalities, the behind-the-scenes manoeuvrings and machinations, the double-dealing and endless intrigue, the back-stabbing, the violence, the messianic self-belief that Hitler possessed in abundance, the temper tantrums, the lies and the deceits.
Capitalising on the financial turmoil and political unrest that was dogging Germany and had left so many Germans disillusioned with the system, Hitler’s plan was to first get himself elected Reich Chancellor. In this, however, he was not to have it all his own way. When he suffered a massive drop off in electoral support, there was a brief while when it looked like Hitler was finished as a force. As one writer wryly observed: “Hitler is a man with a great future behind him’…”
Hitler faced another formidable obstacle in the form of Reich President Paul von Hindenberg. The two men came from different worlds. As the hero of the victory at Tannenberg, the tall, imposing aristocratic former field marshall was openly disdainful of the man he contemptuously referred to as the “Austrian corporal” and only too aware of the danger he posed. He feared that a “presidial cabinet led by you [Hitler] would inevitably lead to a party dictatorship with all the attendant consequences of a dangerous exacerbation of all the polarization among the German people”. This, in good conscience, he could not countenance; Hindenberg was determined to prevent it from happening under his watch.
Despite having publicly humiliated Hitler on several occasions, the ageing and increasingly frail Hindenberg had, in the end, little option but to appoint his despised nemesis Chancellor. The consequences of this action would soon be plain to see with Hitler plunging the world into the biggest and most brutal war in history.
Ryback’s account of Hitler’s ascension to power may be familiar but he has unearthed new information and has filled in some important gaps. The events he relates serve as a good cautionary tale about why we should be careful about who we elect to power; it also serves as a reminder as to why histories like this one must continue to be written and read.
published by Jonathan Ball
This is the second in a series featuring South African author Justin Fox’s protagonist, Lieutenant Jack Pembroke. Set against the backdrop of World War Two, it focuses on a now little-remembered theatre of operations during the international conflict – the U Boat attacks on the British convoys sailing around the southern tip of Africa.
As the commander of a small anti-submarine flotilla operating out of Cape Town, Pembroke is tasked with escorting an important convoy to Durban. Lining up against them is a deadly German wolf pack under the command of the experienced and wily Captain Wolfgang Brand, who had dropped off a South African-born spy on the West Coast. His mission had been to launch a mission of sabotage and rebellion bent on toppling Jan Smut’s government whilst, at the same time, relaying critical information to aid the German cause.
Fox has obviously taken enormous, almost obsessive, care to get the background to his story just right. Displaying a remarkable factual authenticity, The Wolf Hunt, vividly portrays what life must have been like not only for the sailors on their vulnerable ships, pushed to exhaustion and often operating in extreme weather conditions, but also for the Germans confined within the cramped, claustrophobic interior of a U Boat who are equally aware that their lives are at risk. While it recalls the war-time thrillers of Nicholas Montserrat and Alistair Maclean, the storyline does not, in any way, feel borrowed. Powerful in its physical descriptions and evocation of another era, one finishes the book looking forward to the next one in the series.
After much waiting, debating, and negotiating, the President announced an expanded GNU cabinet consisting of 32 ministers and 43 deputy ministers. Meanwhile, the country braced itself for a rocky ride, with the president having to navigate a landscape of competing interests while striving to maintain balance, coherence, and unity within his own party.
In the first contentious vote in the National Assembly since the formation of the Government of National Unity (GNU), the DA, FF and several smaller parties broke ranks with their ANC partner over the election of the disgraced Judge John Hlophe to serve on the Judicial Services Commission (JSC).
South Africa felt the impact of global warming as large parts of KwaZulu-Natal were devastated by severe fires while Cape Town was hit by heavy rain, gale-force winds and flooding. According to climate modelling studies and research, the country will become prone to more heat waves, drought and heavy rainfall.
MPs aligned to the Government of National Unity grouping, which includes the ANC, DA and IFP, rallied behind President Cyril Ramaphosa amid attacks from the progressive caucus composed of MPs from the uMkhonto we Sizwe Party (MK) and the EFF.
The Gauteng Division of the High Court ruled that health legislation requiring doctors and health practitioners to obtain a çertificate of need before being allowed to practice in a particular area was unconstitutional. The requirement had been a cornerstone of the proposed National Health Insurance.
The seemingly fragile KwaZulu-Natal government of national unity proved to be resilient in face of speculations that the uMkhonto we Sizwe Party’s (MK Party) dominance in the KZN Provincial Legislature would undermine it.
Maritzburg United, the oldest professional football team in Pietermaritzburg, decided to relocate to Durban, drawing to a close an era and a long-standing battle to secure a “home ground” at the Harry Gwala Stadium.
EFF Deputy-President Floyd Shivambu defected to the recently-formed MK Party, led by Jacob Zuma, causing its biggest rupture since the party was launched eleven years before. Shivambu, who had been implicated in the VBS scandal, had been promised a senior position in the party alongside several state-capture suspects whom Zuma had recently appointed as MPs.
An investigation revealed that Justice Minister Thembi Simelane took a loan of more than a half million rand from an organisation that brokered unlawful investments into the VBS Bank by the Polokwane Municipality – while she was mayor of the city in 2016. Amongst those calling for her to step down were the EFF who had also been implicated in the VBS scandal.
A lone Bateleur, with its short stubby tail and stiffly-held wings, was spiralling lazily in the thermals, as we drove through the Phalaborwa Gate into Kruger National Park. My first bird. I took it as a good omen, a sign that the God, gods, deity, ancestral spirits, shade, cosmic guardian angel or whatever other natural or universal force it is that governs my destiny and gives my life a semblance of direction had given blessing to my latest expedition. Not that I required much convincing. I have yet to go into Kruger – and I have now been many times – and not have a good experience.
The day was overcast and wintry but I soon had several other raptor sightings to scribble down in my battered notebook. Within the space of two hours – the time it took for us to drive from the Gate to our night stop at Mopani – I had ticked off a Brown Snake Eagle, a Martial Eagle, a White-backed Vulture, a Tawny Eagle and an African Hawk Eagle.
Tawny Eagle.
The rains had petered out much earlier than usual that summer. It had been a long, dry winter, with higher-than-normal temperatures There was not much surface water and the landscape was bleached and parched, crying out for rain. The dryness didn’t put me off. I can think of nothing more satisfying than driving miles for no other reason than to take in an accumulation of trees, grasses, endless plains, rivers, rocks, animals, birds, ant-heaps, insects, reptiles, sunrises and sunsets. It is a powerful and fundamental experience.
More to the point, I was back in my beloved bushveld. I grew up in a country like this. It wormed into my consciousness when I was still a little boy, became part of my cultural identity, and imprinted on my personality. It is my myth country.
And now here I was once more in familiar territory. I had a pair of binoculars in one hand, and a camera in the other. It wasn’t just good to be back. It felt spectacular.
Once you have crossed the low-level bridge across the Letaba the road begins to veer south. The mixed woodland gives way to Mopani scrubland. It is by far the most dominant tree in the hot lowveld. Where there are mopani trees, you find elephants. Loads of them.
I guess the dominance of the tree provided the rather predictable name for the camp we had booked into for the night – Mopani. We checked in at the reception and then headed to our chalet. The camp was crowded with tourists. Since I consider myself a genuine Bushveld person, I assumed an air of lofty superiority. I wanted them to know I was not of their lowly rank. Keen to put some distance between myself and them, I jumped at my brother-in-law’s suggestion that we drive down to the causeway to watch the sun setting over the dam.
Great Egret+
The sky was still grey and overcast when we set off the next morning but as we drove the clouds began to disentangle themselves from one other and slowly drift apart, By afternoon, it had cleared up completely,
Beyond Shingwedzi the mopane veld continued flat, brown and dusty. Many visitors find this section of the road boring because there is seldom much to see and the scenery is so repetitive. My main purpose for going to Kruger is not to record the “Big Five” (although I am happy if I do), I just go to immerse myself in nature. So, I don’t mind driving through this stuff. It is part of Kruger’s charm…
As it turned out, we did see a few interesting things, including a small group of Roan Antelope, at a watering hole. Because of their low numbers (there are only around 100 in the park), they are not often spotted.
Roan Antelope.
We passed the turn-off to Punda Maria camp, built on the slopes of a low, dry hill with Pod Mahogany trees growing on it. Beyond it lie more hills, marking the eastern extreme of the Soutspanberg Mountains. The next landmark is the Klopperfontein Dam built by Stephanus Cecil Rutgart ‘Bvekenya” Barnard, a legendary elephant hunter and poacher who later turned conservationist, as an overnight stopping point and to provide water for the thirsty labourers trudging wearily towards the City of Gold (of which, more later).
The geography started transforming itself before our eyes, breaking up into a wild rocky country. The hills grew closer and larger, and beyond them rose other, steeper, hills. Then we dropped down into the hot Limpopo Valley. Here, the temperatures can hover, in summer, above forty degrees for days on end. Dominating the skyline on either side of the road are huge, ancient, baobabs. The most well-known of these is the one on Baobab Hill, a prominent landmark, just next to the road, rising above its surroundings like an outstretched hand, grasping at the sky. For centuries the hill has served as a prominent beacon and was the first outspan for the Witwatersrand Native Labour Association’s (WNLA but colloquially known as Wenela) route to the Soutspanberg, 1919 – 1937.
Turning off just before the bridge over the Luvuvhu Rives, the dirt road led along the edge of the same river. Its steep banks are multi-coloured and criss-crossed by game paths. Huge trees grow along its sides. Unlike many of Kruger’s other large rivers, the Luvuvhu flows all year around, making it a magnet for all the thirsty animals (and birds) at this time of the year.
In places it opened into glades where the grass, cropped short, was littered with elephant dung. A Ground Hornbill was making his way, methodically, through the piles, picking up balls of it and then tossing them as it went.
At our first pullover, a small herd of eland took mute note of us and carried on drinking. Around the next bend, a family of elephants was funnelling up gallons of water from the sluggish river below. As I stood watching, a bull elephant, perhaps angered by the sound of a rival, emitted an air-splitting scream of agitation and then went thundering through the water, trumpeting loudly as it stormed up the opposite bank.
We stopped at the beautifully shady Pafuri Picnic Site with its magnificent Nyala Berry and Jackalberry trees,
My sister suggested a cup of tea. She got no argument from me. Then, I went looking for birds. Birding is my passion. It is like gaining access to a world that exists parallel to ours, full of amazements and surprises and delights. In next to no time I had seen a Bearded Scrub-Robin, a Red-capped Robin-Chat, a Grey-backed Camaroptera, a Black-throated Wattle-Eye and several other furtive forest dwellers.
Beyond the Picnic Site lie more massive trees that have benefited from the heat, fertile soil and abundant water available to their roots. Some trees are hundreds of years old (the baobabs run to thousands). Every now and again, we pulled over under the leafy branches of these, to see what might be lurking below. When I first visited Pafuri, many years ago, the forest extended even further away from the river than it does now but severe flooding and elephants, with their tree-splitting propensities, have destroyed many of the tall acacia and fever trees that grew along its outer rim.
We reached another intersection and then, turning left, made the short drive to Crook’s Corner, the most northeastern section of the park. Although the Luvuvhu was still flowing, the much larger Limpopo was, at this point anyway, completely dry. Where the two met, a large hippo pod lay asleep on the sand. From their leathery backs, Oxpeckers gazed quizzically about. A pair of White-crowned Plovers – confined to large river systems like this one – kicked up a huge fuss as they swooped angrily over our heads. Maybe they had a nest nearby.
In this harsh country, you really do feel you are on the edge of the frontier, worlds away from anywhere, although, before becoming a park, the area had been traversed and occupied for thousands of years. In venturing deep into the interior, the early traders had followed the river systems, like the Limpopo, exchanging their goods for items such as ivory and gold which they would then take back to the Arab trading stations established along the African shoreline. In response to this burgeoning trade, several important mercantile centres sprung up in the region, of which the most prominent and famous was Mapungubwe, located several hundred kilometres to the west of the park, near the junction of the Shashe and Limpopo (which also happens to form the modern meeting point between South Africa, Botswana and Zimbabwe). Its capital city was centred around a distinctive, flat-topped hill, on the southern side of the Limpopo, on which lived the king and his more important followers.
For reasons which are still not completely clear the Mapungubwe civilisation collapsed around 1290. Many of its people moved north and east where they joined another iron-age centre that came to be known as Great Zimbabwe.
Between 1450 and 1550 another wealthy trading centre grew up at Thulamela Hill, which is on the right as you leave the main road and turn down towards Crooks Corner. Its inhabitants also established trading links with the Muslim traders at Sofala, in modern-day Mozambique, as well as indigenous settlements in southern and central Africa. You can see why they chose the hill. Strategically located right at the eastern edge of a long line of rocky hills (the direction from which the traders would come), from its summit it provides a miles-wide, panoramic view over the surrounding floodplain.
Later, with the arrival of the white settlers, Crooks Corner gained a more notorious reputation. A big signboard, erected under a large Ana tree, tells you all about it. A well-known stop on the infamous “Ivory Trail “, it became a natural refuge for poachers, illegal black labourer recruiters, gun runners and other scoundrels eager to evade the law. Because it was situated right at the point where three countries meet all they had to do was hop behind the conveniently located border beacon and they were safe from arrest.
Junction of Luvuvhu and Limpopo Rivers at Crook’s Corner.
On this particular trip the area’s long and, more recently, dubious history was not my main focus of interest. I was in hot pursuit of an unusual vagrant that had caused a bit of a stir in South African birding world circles – the sighting of a lone Collared Palm Thrush at this very location. This bird, with its distinctive black necklace, normally occurs much further to the north, especially along the Zambezi River.
We hunted high and low for it but no luck. Reluctantly concluding that it was not our day for Palm Thrushes, we headed south, out of the belt of riverine forest, to a small group of hills on the one side of which stood the Pafuri Border Post into Mozambique.
Although I had never been here before, I experienced a curious mixture of pleasure, surprise and familiarity when we got there, because the buildings and setting contained so many echoes from my youth.
Even in this Eden-like wilderness, though, one cannot escape South Africa’s fractured past, its old injustices and its history of exploitation.
Regarded, by the new administration, as a symbol of colonial oppression, the one-time Theba Recruitment Station, which was to be our base for the next few nights, had served as a gathering point for Mozambican workers making their way to the gold mines of the Witwatersrand, part of the Wenela labour route. Originally established in 1919 it was finally closed down in 1976, more or less when Frelimo came to power.
The old Wenela Office.
I have a connection with its now officially frowned-on history. My father, a professional pilot who, during his forty-odd-year career, had flown all over Africa, had ended up working for the company. He, however, had been based in Francistown in Botswana, flying in labour from the Okavango Delta region, Angola and Malawi – all very far from the spot where I now stood, but the old houses, with their period furniture and room layout, were very similar in design to the one he had lived in, next to the airport. Our residence – formerly “The Doctor’s Residence” – with its wide verandahs built for air, and sun and to help keep the house cool (no air-conditioning in those days) at the height of summer. As an additional protection, it was fully enclosed in gauze, a defence against the malaria-bearing mosquitoes and other undesirable guests who might be out there.
The old “Doctor’s Residence”.
Standing amongst the familiar-looking buildings, I felt the ghosts of my own parents. I remembered our Wenela days, my father, with his lackadaisical stroll, heading home in his uniform, jacket slung over his shoulder, his pilot’s cap slightly cocked on his head, after a long day’s flying. My mother fussing away in the kitchen, preparing a meal for his return.
More fragments from my past. I remembered sitting high up in the air traffic control tower, on the hangar roof, watching the long queues of mine workers, snaking across the runway, heading to or returning from the mines. As exploitive as the system undoubtedly was, there were obvious material benefits for both the workers and the countries they lived in because they invariably returned laden with goods, decked out in fashionable, new clothes and with a lot more cash in their pockets than when they set off to the mines.
That evening I went for a walk. The ground with its covering of crusted leaves crackled underfoot. Outside the perimeter fence, this would, no doubt, make it more difficult for any hunter – man or animal – to stalk its prey. All around me stretched the bush, real bush, vast, unapproachable, moving to its own music, waiting for rain…
The sun, now a bloated orange disc, was sinking through a reddish-gold wash towards the horizon. The trees had still not shed all their summer finery and their water-starved leaves were a kaleidoscope of yellows, oranges and ochres. From our hilly vantage point, they glowed like ambers in the setting sun. All around me, the birds were making their farewell to the day calls.
With the sinking of the sun the bats came swirling out, followed, by a hunting Bat Hawk, burnt black against the western sun. Then, the sky started darkening, disclosing its first stars, and a cool, evening breeze sprang up and helped lift the heavy air.
The next day, we drove back down the same road as we had come in by, scanning the roadside for the Palm-Thrush. It was still playing hard to get.
At Crook’s Corner, the same hippo lay in the same position on the sand (although I was sure they had been active during the night). Not far from where they lay, a solitary Hamerkop stood, motionless, in the shallows, staring intently at its reflection in the water. In local African tradition, the Hamerkop is known as the “Lightning Bird” because it is seen as the herald of a thunderstorm. Maybe the hippo were aware of this association with the supernatural, its slightly sinister reputation in local myth and legend, as a few of them – having resolved to go for a morning dip -, were eyeing it warily, as if worried it might put a spell on them if they proceeded further. The crocodiles were of a less susceptible mind. Several drifted past the feathered narcissist, single-focused, completely unconcerned…
Our disappointment at not finding the Palm Thrush was partly offset, a little later on, by the sighting of a Peregrine Falcon, with its kill, on a stretch of open land on the edge of the forest. Back on the tar, we drove to the Luvuvhu bridge where I hopped out and scanned the river for Spinetail. I have never seen the Mottled Spinetail and this is, reputedly, a good place for them but – like the Palm Thrush and the creature at the heart of Lewis Carrol’s classic nonsense poem, The Hunting of the Snark (“Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew.”) – it proved very elusive.
View upstream, from Luvuvhu Bridge.
A Raquet-tailed Roller had also been spotted on the road to Pafuri Gate so, with Beaver-like determination, I next went off hunting for it – with an equal lack of success. Such is the nature of birding…
Recrossing the bridge (still no Spinetail) we turned right down the Nyala Loop, at the end of which stands Thulamela Hill. An archaeologist friend, currently working at the site, had offered to take us up (you can’t go unescorted) but unfortunately, his timings didn’t fit in with ours. Instead of exploring the wonders of this ancient kingdom, I had to make do with a troop of baboons, examining each other for fleas on the flat land below the hill.
On the way back home, we made the obligatory detour to Crook’s Corner but the Palm Thrush was still pulling a no-show although a young twitcher, we spoke to, had seen it earlier that day so there was good reason to persevere.
The next day we drove the exact same route, again with a detour to Crook’s Corner, again hoping the find the Palm Thrush. It was becoming a bit of an obsession on my part. I don’t know a great deal about the bird’s habits but they do seem to have a flair for the dramatic because finally, on our last attempt, we found it. It was feeding on the ground, in the company of a pair of Tambourine Doves. At first, all we could see was its back. Then it turned around and with a great flourish presented its chest, putting any doubts we might have had as to its correct identity beyond question! I had found the Snark of Crook’s Corner!
Collared Palm Thrush, Pafuri. Pic courtesy of Ric Bernard.
Mission complete, we headed homewards, the next day, through the same landscape, thinned by dryness and dimmed by smoke. Nearing Babalala Picnic Site, we found the responsible culprit – a huge bush fire, pushing up great columns of acrid, grey smoke, was billowing towards us. We had planned a slight detour via the Mphangolo Loop, usually a very rewarding drive with some attractive river scenery. Suspecting it might now be closed to traffic we stopped and asked a ranger. He gave us a thumbs up and flagged us on..
I am not sure who it was who gave them the all-clear sign, but we passed a small herd of elephants, seemingly unconcerned by all the action taking place around the picnic site, trudging towards the waterhole beyond which raged the fire. I love elephants. I love the way they inhabit their space, the relaxed rhythm of their walk, and the pattern and purpose with which they move through the bush. These were no different. They had used this track countless times before and saw no good reason to deviate from it now.
Or maybe they had greater confidence in the firefighter’s ability to contain the blaze than we had shown..
Because the area was so dry. with little water in the rivers. we saw fewer animals than I had on previous trips. In certain places, where it still lay close to the surface, the elephants had dug wells into the sand and were drinking from them. Once they had gone, other creatures would tentatively come down and drink from them too. Most animals are territorial and there appeared to be some sort of dispute going on, at the one well, between a crazy-tailed old Wildebeest and a family of warthogs about who had priority when it came to drinking from it.
When they are not seeing off indignant warthogs, the lone Wildebeest bulls like to station themselves under a shady tree, defending their territory against intruders in the hope of a chance to mate. I’m a Wildebeest fan too.
A stand-off between a Wildebeest and Warthog.The scene later provided me with an idea for a cartoon.
Driving through Kruger can be a bit like running an obstacle course. True to form, we hit a sudden roadblock – a herd of elephants had found a spot for a good browse and midday snooze and showed no signs of wanting to budge. Our exit route had been barred. It became a game of patience, an old-fashioned stare-down, a test to see who would blink first. We did. After about half an hour of waiting for them to move off the road, we turned the car around and headed back the way we had come until we found a side road leading us back to the tar. Unlike the elephant, we were on a tight schedule.
Back at Mopani. we had booked a chalet with a view over the dam. Instead of going for an evening drive, we chose to sit on its verandah (in my case, beer in hand) and watch the sunset from there. As it sank in the west, it turned the water’s surface a burnished gold. Right on schedule, several waves of Red-billed Quelea swept past, darkening the sky as they went, heading for their nightly roosting sites. On a previous visit, I had actually seen a Bat Hawk swoop into one such flock, seizing the one unlucky bird among the many thousands available to be seized.
As sometimes happens in Kruger, we got our best predator sightings when we thought it was probably too late. ‘On the way out, the next day, we saw, first, a hyena, lying alongside the road. It appeared completely unafraid of us, briefly opening one eye to give us a look over and then going back to sleep. Some people think hyenas are foul creatures, ugly beyond redemption. I am not one of them. I find them quite likeable, almost handsome with their odd, bear-like lope even though, in local belief, these fearsome beasts of the night are often associated with evil. Nature is not a democracy. It operates according to its own rules and as objectionable as some of the hyena’s manners and feeding habits may be to our more refined sensibilities they are just fulfilling their allotted role in the natural order of things.
Then, a bit further on, by the side of a river, we came across a pride of lions who had just finished feasting on a buffalo kill and were now lying sprawled out, belly to the sun. As we sat, the one male rose to his feet and sniffed his female partner’s hindquarters. Then, he raised his shaggy head, flared his teeth and let out an aroused triumphant roar.
One of Africa’s most primordial sounds, it was a fitting finale to our trip…
GALLERY:
Birds:
Kori BustardBrown-crowned TchagraGolden-breasted BuntingGiant KingfisherMalachite KingfisherBrown-hooded KingfisherNamaqua Dove (male)Yellow-billed StorkFish EagleYellow-billed HornbillBlue Waxbill and African Firefinch (?)White-crowned LapwingSaddle-billed StorkRed-capped Robin-ChatWhite-fronted Bee-eaterFish EaglesLilac-breated RollerSabota LarkAfrican Jacana
Storks have always been great birds of myth and legend. Perhaps the most common and widely held of these, is that they deliver babies in a cloth hanging from their long beaks. The origins of this belief are very old and obscure although common to many cultures. In Norse mythology, for example, storks were seen as symbols of family values. The fact that they traditionally returned from their migration in spring, a time when many babies, are born, undoubtedly fed into the legend, especially as their colour – white – is also linked to purity.
The myth garnered new traction in the 19th Century when Hans Christian Anderson used it in one of his children’s stories. In prudish Victorian England, where parents were often reluctant to discuss the facts of life with their children, it became a useful way of obscuring the realities of sex and birth.
In Southern Africa, the bird has a slightly different association. To the English speakers in colonial Natal, as well as many of the local tribes, it was known as the Locust Bird because the insect was one of its main food sources. Thus, the S.Sotho name for the White Stork is mokotatsie, derived from kota ‘peck’ plus tsie ‘locust’ (see Zulu Bird Names and Bird Lore by Adrian Koopman). The White Stork is not, in fact, utterly white although that is its predominant colour. It also has a smattering of black. “White” is just a quick shorthand description. The bird is a migrant, flying from its nesting sites in Central and Southern Europe all the way down to the southern tip of Africa.
How on earth do they find their way? How can they complete a feat most humans wouldn’t be able to do without a GPS or compass? It is a question that has long intrigued people. Scientists are still not completely sure although they think the storks, like other migrants, rely on available compass cues from visual landmarks, the sun (and, at night, the stars) and magnetic fields.
I have always been fascinated by storks. For me, it is a privilege to encounter them in the wild. On the ground, they deport themselves with quiet dignity and style. They are gracefully proportioned with elegant necks and legs to match. Although shy and wary they also seem to have an affinity for human settlement. As a child, I had pored over the pictures of them in my storybooks, intrigued about how they were able to live parallel lives, one in Europe, one in Africa. I would always get very excited when they mysteriously appeared out of nowhere
White Stork, KZN Midlands.
Hitherto, the only link I had been able to make between the two places had been in my imagination. This changed, back in 1989, when my English cousin invited me to join her on a car trip through the three countries that formed the main part of the old Hapsburg Empire – Austria, Hungary and Czechoslovakia. I had made other pilgrimages in my life. I had been to Wordsworth’s house in the Lake District, and I had seen where the Bronte sisters had lived in Yorkshire. So why not go to where storks go when they leave Southern Africa?
I won’t pretend that this was my only reason for undertaking this pilgrimage to the Eastern bloc but it was certainly a compelling one. I decided to do it.
The journey proceeded. Unlike the storks, I took the easy route and flew by Jumbo jet to Heathrow. Landing in the country, I soon realised I had another problem – I didn’t have enough money to finance the remainder of my trip. So I went looking for a job. I was lucky. My English cousin, who ran a catering business, had just secured a contract at Wimbledon and was looking for extra staff.
And so for the duration of the event, I became a lowly dishwasher.
The hours were incredibly long and it was mind-bending, back-breaking work but, in a strange way, it was educational. It made me see life through a different lens and from a slightly altered perspective. For the two weeks, I was there, I didn’t get to watch a single match of tennis although I did see a few of its stars (and actually had a long chat with tennis legend Billie Jean King as I was carrying a dustbin out the dining area to empty it), as well as a lost-looking David Hasselhoff, of Night Rider fame, who – assuming I was a local – stopped to ask me directions. I concluded his clever car which could no doubt have told him which way to go must have been in for repairs.
While working at Wimbledon, I stayed with another cousin, Julian, who lived on an old boat moored on the banks of the Thames about half a mile upstream from Greenwich. Built in 1895, in the yard of Ferdinand Schibau in Eibling, Germany, and named the Aegir, it had originally operated as a steam-driven tug pulling ships down the Kaiser Wilhelm Canal. Since then it has survived two World Wars and numerous changes of ownership and now went by the name Sabine.
My cousin’s boat on the Thames.My cousin’s boat is on the left of the barge.
Over the years its body, paintwork and furnishings had deteriorated but Julian was busy renovating it with the intention of turning it back into a working vessel. In the interim, it served as a sort of comfortable, floating cottage cluttered with thumbed books and maps, old furniture and an extensive collection of rock albums which very much reflected my taste. It is hard to explain why – I had no previous experience living on a boat in the middle of a huge, bustling, cosmopolitan, city – but I felt completely at home.
I found the smell of brine, oil and damp sand, as well as its creaks and groans, oddly comforting. Secluded in an old boatyard, it was the perfect place for thinking and remembering and wondering about my forthcoming expedition to find out where the storks go. I loved sitting on its deck, sipping coffee, with the mud foreshore below and the forlorn gulls circling above and the odd barge and a warship and even an old sailboat drifting past.
The view up the Thames, from the boat.
With Wimbledon over (Boris Becker beat the defending champion, Stefan Edburg) and having raised enough cash I embarked on the second leg of my adventure. This took me across the English Channel, through Germany and Austria and then into Hungary.
We holed up in Budapest for a week, trying to get a sense of what life was like in a communist country. As a more open one, I got the feeling that Hungary was a generally more agreeable place to live than those hard-line states – Rumania and Albania for example – where a purer, more primitive form of communism prevailed (although that didn’t exclude party officials from enjoying a better lifestyle than the workers), One got the sense there was less of the prying and repression to which the proletariat of other Soviet-bloc countries was subjected.
Budapest looking across the Danube River towards Royal Palace.
At the end of our stay in this beautiful, if somewhat run-down, city we drove out along the E7, heading towards the westernmost end of the country.
Our route took us through some of the hilly parts of Hungary, which is rather flat. There are numerous old fortresses, limestone caves, dark, gloomy woods and charming old baroque towns along this road, including Eger, famed for its fruity red wine known as Egri Bikaver or Bull’s Blood of Eger.
Not all the country was so attractive. There was also Hungary’s second-largest city to contend with – Miskolc.
I had been pleasantly surprised by Budapest but Miskolc is everything awful you have heard about communism and more – a bleak, sci-fi fantasy landscape that could have served as an alternative setting for Blade Runner. Row upon row of uniform, ugly grey apartment blocks dominate the horizon, all linking together to create a picture of unremitting dreariness and gloom – not improved by all the dust and smoke and poisonous chemicals being belched out of the local factories.
Driving past Miskolc…
We spent the night in Szerencs in a castle-cum- hotel, surrounded by rubble and uncut grass, which had featured in several battles against the Turks in the 17th century and also served as a home for Ferenc Rackoczi, a Hungarian nobleman who led a nearly successful uprising against the Hapsburg Empire. He is now regarded as a national hero.
The next day, in the small village of Tokay, I finally found where the storks go. There they sat in their nests built on top of street lamps and chimney pots or on wire platforms thoughtfully provided by the local citizenry who regard them as good omens. It is difficult to describe how excited I was to see them. It was like suddenly finding yourself among old, familiar, friends after a long absence.
Where the storks go…
The storks seemed equally bemused to see me, staring quizzically down their beaks at me while I photographed them. I wondered if they could tell, by my accent, who I was and where I had come from.
Pretty in the sunshine, the countryside around Tokay was wonderfully unspoilt. There was a slow unchanging, almost medieval feel to it. Bees buzzed in the air. Flowering shrubs ran wild on the common ground. In the fields, we saw grizzled old peasants with scythes, and ancient black-frocked old crones with headscarves and gumboots, hunched over their hoes. As we drove into town we had to give way to horse-drawn carts.
The bucolic rural atmosphere was partly offset when, from the centre of town, came a sudden blast of rock music. We soon found its source – several youths were erecting a rather crude wooden stage there, urged on by a group of long-haired hippies, sitting on the steps of the local church, surrounded by empty wine bottles.
What Tokay is famous for – another reason I wanted to go there – is its wines. Often referred to as “the king of wines, the wine of kings” this beautiful, gold-coloured wine is supposed to be able to restore a dying emperor. It certainly resuscitated me…
Tokay comes in three different forms: Tokaji Furmint (Dry), Tokaji Szamorodini (medium-sweet) and Tokaji Aszu (full-blooded, very sweet). Its excellence is attributed to the properties of the local soil, the mineral content of the water, the production methods and – some say – the peculiar quality of the sunshine.
Several privately owned cellars were open for tasting, or one could visit the large, state-run consortium at the neighbouring village of Tolcsva. Alternatively, one could pop into a borozo and drink with the locals.
Glazed with alcohol, I took a stroll, that afternoon, up through the graveyard and into the hills above town. From here I had a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside. Directly below lay Tokay itself with its quaint, twisting, cobblestone streets, bright, orange-red, church spires and the rather melancholy shell of an old synagogue – a tragic and haunting reminder of the fact that over 80% of Hungary’s Jews perished in the last World War.
Beyond that stretched the Great Plains of Hungary with the oddly named Bodrog River curving off to the one side. It was easy to imagine the Ottoman army sweeping across this landscape, scattering all in their wake. To the East, beyond a mist-covered ridge of hills, lay the USSR. Directly behind me was Czechoslovakia, my destination for the next day. To my south lay the mysterious Transylvania, best known for its blood-thirsty vampires and howling wolves.
View over Tokay with Bodrog River in the background. Somewhere in the distance lies Transylvania...
Sitting up there with only the occasional shouts of children or the barking of a dog to disturb the eerie stillness and silence of the place, I felt I was on the edge of the known world.
Then, reality barged back in: I glanced at my watch and realised it was time to head down.
That evening we had supper in the local hotel, whose drab grey walls had been partly offset by the roof, painted in brilliant rainbow colours. The interior was oppressively dark but the mood was partially offset by a cheerful gipsy violinist who wandered from table to table, serenading us.
I left Tokay the next day feeling the perplexity of irreconcilable differences: the old way of life versus the new cult of Marxist-style progress which had been so clumsily superimposed upon it. There was nothing unusual in any of this I suppose. Countless cultures have waxed and waned.
And at least the storks were still there to provide a sense of continuity and remind us where babies come from…
Reflecting on 30 years of freedom, former president Thabo Mbeki described his successor Jacob Zuma as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Mbeki said most of the country’s crises, including load shedding and the collapse of the South African Revenue Service had been orchestrated by the counter-revolution.
Suspended Msunduzi manager Lulamile Mapholoba said he would head to the High Court seeking an urgent interdict to get his job back. Mapholoba returned to work briefly following the Durban labour court judgement, which found his suspension in February unlawful.
President Cyril Ramaphosa signed the National Health Insurance Bill (NHI) into law, setting in motion the government’s fiercely contested plan for universal health coverage and prompting immediate legal challenges.
The Constitutional Court ruled that graft-tainted former president turned firebrand opposition challenger Jacob Zuma, is ineligible to stand for parliament. The top court backed an electoral commission decision that Zuma’s previous conviction for contempt of court prevents him from becoming a Member of Parliament, ruling that the constitution bars anyone sentenced to more than 12 months in jail, from doing so.
With voter discontent rising and shifting political alliances, the 2024 elections were marked by uncertainty and a desire for change.
In their first elections, the Umkhonto weSizwe (MK) Party swept the floor in KwaZulu-Natal securing 45.35% of the vote. The IFP got 18% while the ANC – who previously held the province – managed only 17%. In other news, a devastating tornado ripped through Tongaat in KwaZulu-Natal causing extensive damage to homes and infrastructure.
The MK Party instructed its MP members candidates not to attend the National Assembly swearing-in ceremony where the party’s 58 members would have been sworn in as members of Parliament. It also rejected the government of national unity (GNU) proposed by the ANC after the general elections produced no outright winner nationally.
At his second-term inauguration, President Cyril Ramaphosa struck an inclusive and unifying note while welcoming South Africa’s new reality. But behind the scenes, there were already signs the Government of National Unity (GNU) faced a rocky road ahead…
Impeached Western Cape Judge President John Hlophe was appointed Parliamentary leader for Jacob Zuma’s MY Party, marking a contentious new development in the country’s legislative history…
“Asia,” declared Metternich, “begins at the Landstrasse” – that is the road that runs out of Vienna to the East. And it certainly felt like we had crossed some sort of frontier when, back in 1989, my three travelling companions and I found ourselves marooned among the milling mob at the Hungarian border post.
It was my first introduction to Communist-style bureaucracy and I can’t say it created a favourable impression. Indeed, my immediate reaction was to turn and flee back the way we had come.
Finally on the road again, after what seemed a nightmarish eternity, the first thing I noticed were the cars – strange, box-like little contraptions belching carbon monoxide and emitting a most curious noise. Compared to all the top-of-the-range Mercedes Audis and BMWs we had passed by on the other side of the border they seemed positively prehistoric. It certainly gave you some idea of just how far behind the West the Soviet-bloc countries were in terms of living standards. That didn’t stop their drivers from travelling at death-defying speeds though.
We finally got to Budapest. Before we could book our accommodation we had to check in with the authorities, explaining who we were and our reasons and intentions, a routine formality wherever you visited communist countries. Thereafter we were left in peace, free to go where we liked.
This surprised me. It was not at all what I had anticipated.
I had expected to find myself succumbing to a mood of creeping paranoia like I was participating in some third-rate spy-thriller. I kept checking to make sure but no one was trailing us, their hat pulled low over their eyes. As far as I was aware there were no bugs in our room, nor were they searched while we were out. Contrary to expectation, I didn’t feel deeply guilty, like I was alone and powerless in a world profoundly, morally hostile. Quite the reverse in fact.
I liked Budapest immediately. I thought it was a most handsome city.
Straddling the Danube (saturated in blood, grime, phosphates and mud, the river was anything but blue), it is divided into two parts – the hilly sections to the West of the Danube River from Buda while Pest lies on the flat side on the opposite bank. Of the two Buda, with its royal palace looked the older but is, in fact, the later settlement.
View across the Danube to Buda with its royal castle.
Pest, whose name is taken from the Slav word for ‘oven’ (don’t ask me why), has been razed to the ground several times, thus precipitating the move to the hillier, more defendable, side of the river. It didn’t do much good. Hungary came under Turkish rule after the disastrous battle of Mohacs in 1526.
The Turks were finally driven out in 1686.
The two towns were only properly linked in 1840 with the construction of the Great Chain Bridge across the Danube. This famous landmark was the work of William Tierney Clark, a Scotsman who was also responsible for the Hammersmith Bridge in London. The British connection goes further. The Hungarian Parliament, lying along the banks of the Danube on the Pest side, is partly modelled on the neo-Gothic Palace of Westminster.
View across the Danube to Pest with Houses of Parliament.
During the 1848 uprising against Austria, British opinion was very much on the Hungarian side. Combine this with a mutual love of horses and you begin to understand why, when Hungary decided to open up its links with the West, Margaret Thatcher was the first NATO leader they invited to visit.
As a former capital of the Hapsburg Empire, Budapest is full of reminders of a more regal past.
The skyline on the Buda side is dominated by the Matthias Church, an impressive Gothic structure which takes its name from Matthias Corvinus (ruled 1458-90), who established Buda as one of the great Renaissance courts of Europe.
Immediately to the south of it lies another set of imposing buildings – the old royal palace, another legacy of the days when Hungary formed part of the ‘Dual Monarchy’ with Austria, governing an area which included parts of present-day Czechoslovakia and Romania, as well as Transylvania which, at the time of my visit, still remained a thorn of contention because of the Romanian government’s treatment of the ethnic Hungarians living there.
The Magyars, who make up the bulk of Hungary’s population fiercely proud and independent. While nominally part of the Warsaw Pact, its government was always regarded as the most liberal of the communist regimes, allowing private enterprise and developing links with the West. Their nationalism found its physical outlet at the Hosack or Heroes Square erected at the turn of the century in Pest to commemorate the Kingdom of Hungary’s survival into the new century and the thousandth anniversary of the Magyar conquest.
Heroes SquareDetail in Heroes Square
This reverence for a more glorious past also finds expression in the National Museum which houses the country’s most treasured relic – the royal crown of Hungary. This crown – with its famous crooked cross – lies in full state in its own darkened chamber, zealously guarded over by several fierce-looking policemen. That so much importance should be attached to a symbol of imperialism and vanished pomp struck me as ironic given the country’s supposed commitment to egalitarianism..
The Magyar language is one of the most impenetrable in Europe which made communication difficult. Unlike most other languages in Europe, it is not of Indo-European origin but is more closely related to Estonian and Finnish. The word for “Cheers”, for example, was a real tongue-twister: “egeszsegedre”. I found it helped to have had a few beers before attempting to pronounce it…
Having visited all these famous sites, and a few more, we were in dire need of refreshment, so popped into Gerbeauds in Pest, one of the most famous coffee houses in Hungary whose confectionery rivalled the best in Paris and Vienna – at a fraction of the price. In this august old establishment with its elaborate art-nouveau furniture, heavy wallpaper and eighteenth-century prints you could get an idea a glimpse of what life must have been like at the turn of the century when Budapest still formed part of aristocracy’s playground.
In a similar vein, the Café Hungaria is also still known by its pre-communist name – Café New York. For a brief period of its history, when Stalin was still calling the shots, this glittering example of Baroque/Rococo/Art Nouveau/Eclectic and any other art form you care to name was actually converted into a warehouse. Since then, the building has been restored to its former glory and is very much like it must have been when it was a favourite gathering place for artists and intellectuals. The cuisine here, as in other restaurants in Hungary, was excellent and again relatively cheap.
The inconsistencies between the theory and practice of communism also manifested themselves in the Rozsadomb, the exclusive Rose Hill section of Buda, where the original middle-class victims of Marxist socialism found themselves replaced by the new Party elite who had quickly realised that power meant little unless converted to wealth. With their manicured lawns, their lavish lifestyle contrasted sharply with the poorer classes forced to eke out an existence across the river, in the more shabby, run-down, commercial Pest.
As Orwell showed in Animal Farm, revolutions all too often end up with those who have risen from the bottom assuming the habits and trappings of the oppressive power they have just replaced. Africa has proved no exception to this rule…
It was equally obvious, too, that many people had given up on the dream. Rather than pouring over their copies of Das Kapital, the youth seemed more obsessed with Western-style pop culture. Most of the movies being shown were of American origin and many Hungarians tuned in to Western radio and TV stations rather than their own which was, admittedly, easy to understand if you watched the fare being dished up on Russian TV. Most of the graffiti I saw was pro-pop rather than anti-imperialist (Duran Duran and Queen seemed to have been particular favourites).
The weirdest of all, for me at least, was to discover a “Rhodesia is Super” sticker stuck to the windscreen of a car parked down a side street in Pest. What, I wondered, would Robert Mugabe have made of that?
Nor had Communist contribution to local architecture been distinguished by its display of good taste. Budapest, like most other Soviet-bloc countries, has its share of dreary, dehumanised, soul-less grey apartment blocks although these, along with the factories, were mostly confined to the outskirts of town. There seemed to be few pollution controls in this grim, industrial wasteland. The air reeked of dust and smoke and chemicals and the water had a strange metallic taste.
I imagined some grim-faced apparatchik explaining the rationale behind it thus: “We need the factories to produce the cement required to build the apartment blocks that house the workers who work in the factories who produce the cement…”
This dreary uniformity was more than compensated for by the bustle of inner-city life. There was a vibrancy, a sense of the Orient, a dishevelled charm about Budapest. Unlike neighbouring Czechoslovakia, which I also visited, they didn’t browbeat you with ideology. There were very few of those familiar symbols of totalitarian dictatorship – the red stars, the statues of workers in heroic poses, the weird sculptures representing international socialist solidarity, the pictures of the party faithful (all stony-faced and irredeemably ugly), the hammers and sickles.
Inner city life – old buildings in Pest.
While the Hungarian version of communism was by no means as extreme or nasty as the jack-booted versions practised elsewhere, it did leave me wondering why people opt for these authoritarian forms of government!
Margaret Atwood, who wrote the dystopian Handmaid’s Tale, provided a probable reason when she wrote; “True dictatorships do not come in in good times. They come in in bad times when people are ready to give up some of their freedoms to someone – anyone – who can take control and promise them better times”
This certainly seems equally true of our own morally confused and uncertain times…
Since childhood, I have always been a compulsive walker but, in recent years, the habit has taken on a more urgent aspect. Only too aware of the passing years, it has become a vanity issue, part of my need to achieve something measurable and definable before the lights go out. To prove to myself I still have it in me. That I am not completely past my prime.
To this end I like, every now and again, to test myself by undertaking a seriously long hike. Which is where the Wild Coast comes in. I have now done the Wild Coast Sun to Mtentu hike four times. Each time we have followed more or less the same route. Each time, it has felt different.
It is a beautiful hike. The Wild Coast has its own unique atmosphere and character. It is like travelling through a time warp, being one of the few places where you can still get a glimpse of what the South African coastline must have looked like before the property developers moved in and – all in the name of progress of course – stripped it of everything that made it special in the first place.
The Wild Coast.
An opportunity to go there again fortuitously presented itself, when Mary Ann, my regular hiking companion and long-time side-kick, decided she wanted to celebrate her birthday there. When it arrived, I readily accepted her invitation. Here, was another chance to prove my metal, get the muscles working again, pump some fresh salt air into my (chlorine-damaged – don’t ask!) lungs. I wanted a little of that swagger that comes from testing yourself against nature and coming out triumphant on the other side.
For me, the wilderness is, however, more than just, a resource to be mastered or a place where I go to prove how tough and resilient I am. There is a spiritual element to my meanderings. Released from all obligations, it is a way of reconnecting with myself, feeding my soul, transcending the monotony and tedium of everyday life and getting that sense of emotional engagement that comes from immersing yourself in the beauty of a place. Fording the rivers, hiking along the deserted beaches, listening to the reassuring crash and hiss of the waves breaking alongside you as you walk becomes a form of secular pilgrimage, an exercise in humility, a way of savouring the grandeur of sacred nature.
Along the way you get to know your fellow hikers a little better, and become part of an informal clump sharing a simple objective – get to your next destination.
Determined to be fit for the hike I went into training, scrambling up and down the rocky slopes of the farm. The closer we got to our day of departure, the more my excitement grew. Alas, fate has other plans for me. An old hernia problem chose to flare up again. I consulted a specialist. He told me an operation was necessary. He also advised me against putting too much strain on the offending appendage which is what would happen, he informed me, if I walked the distance required, especially the uphill parts.
I was determined I was not going to miss out. Fortunately, it turned out I was not the only one sporting an injury. Another past hiker had damaged her foot and conveniently for me had decided to drive to Mtentu in her 4X4 (my old banger would not have made it over the Transkei roads).
And so, while the others were hiking along the beach, we set off. The dirt road – or rather excuse for one – on which we found ourselves travelling wound its way through rolling hills, slashed by the odd river gorges, towards the coastline. The landscape was dotted with traditional thatched rondavels although in places these had been replaced by more Western-style rectangular houses with pillars and corrugated iron roofs. There were groups of cattle everywhere. Sometimes small boys and herders would appear mysteriously from nowhere and wave at us, There were also dogs, some a lot less friendly than others. They would come bursting out of the hut yapping their heads off as we drove past.
We eventually reached our destination – a simple, dormitory-like, structure built of cement and stone and capped with corrugated iron – ‘” The Hiking [formerly Fishin’] Shack” – set amidst a scattering of thatched huts and outbuildings which belonged to a respected local leader. Here, we were received with the same wonderful warmth we had on our previous visits by our host, Kelly Hein who runs the Mtentu Ramble ( http://www.mtentu-ramble.co.za/ ) and her family. I immediately felt at home.
The Pondo, who inhabit this southern part of the Transkei, continue to live a way of life that has changed little over the centuries although you can see signs that the 21st Century has begun to encroach even here. The last time we visited, the area had not been connected to the national grid but now virtually every hut you passed had an electricity pole standing sentry-like outside. I was sure the hut inhabitants must have drawn comfort from the fact they were no longer being discriminated against and could now share the joys of load-shedding, courtesy of the ANC Government and Eskom. As if half anticipating this, many of the dwellings had solar panels attached, higgledy-piggledy, to their roofs. There were other signs of the influx of Western consumerist values. Many of the houses, for example, had large, twin-cab bakkies parked outside of them, a sure indication of increasing affluence and upward mobility.
Not wanting to be dismissed as a romantic traditionalist, stuck in a discredited past, I shrugged my shoulders and tried to feel philosophical about it all. At times, it is better not to arrive with pre-packaged notions of what a place should look like..
After lunch, we set off northwards towards the estuary, where we planned to wait for the rest of the group slogging their way down the coast. We had barely got a hundred metres or so when we were greeted by the somewhat incongruous sight of three Ground Hornbills striding purposefully through the blonde tufted grass. Their size is always a tremendous surprise. Immense and black with their huge beak, seductive, boudoir-fluttering eyelashes and red throat and facial patches, they are one of the most engaging of birds. When they spotted us, they veered off back the way they had come and disappeared over the ridge.
Thrilled by this welcoming and seemingly prearranged encounter with these now endangered birds (our good fortune was to continue – we saw another four as we drove out at the end of the trip), we carried on. We had left it too late, however, to greet the wearied hikers at the estuary. Hungry and tired of waiting for us to arrive with their packed lunches, they had pressed on regardless, so we met them at the halfway point.
The afternoon passed. It was nearly sunset. Glorifying in the voluptuous twilight, I strolled up the road that leads past the local shebeen which, at all hours of the day and night, seemed to be alive with stumbling drunks. A group of uniformed school children trooped by. I strolled on, soaking up the atmosphere. Below me, a few horned cattle, followed by a flock of goats, were slowly wending their way home. A few independent-minded pigs snuffled in the rubbish. Washing flapped on washing lines.
The local shebeen.
It felt wonderful to have escaped all those demons masquerading under the guise of the new technology and the ubiquitous cellphone (although – since the small hillock above our shack was the one point where you could occasionally get a signal – a few of my fellow hikers were frantically waving their phones around in the air as they desperately struggled to establish contact with their loved ones). Resigned to the fact that not many people would likely be missing me, I had other thoughts on my mind. Watching the flecked white horses out at sea and the waves crashing and wheezing into the shingle, I felt a wonderful sense of peace and tranquillity.
Although it looked calm enough now, the weather along the coastline can rapidly change. The sky can curdle and blacken with thunder. Bolts of lightning will lighten up the ocean and the sky above it. Battered by strong winds and violent storms, the Wild Coast earned a bad reputation and presented a formidable challenge to the early European sailors (their modern counterparts too). Adding to the hazards of the route were the hidden shallows and underwater rocks; many ships got wrecked in these treacherous waters. You pass a few such rotting hulks on the hike, their rusted ribs and skeletons protruding above the sand or lying, scattered in pieces, over the weed-encrusted rocks.
The Transkei region has an equally turbulent history. The Kei River, further south, in Xhosa territory, once marked the thin dividing line where two alien cultures met: the white settlers moving north from the Cape and the black tribes pushing south, who were themselves part of a much larger migration which had its roots in Central Africa. Needless to say, it became an area of huge friction which lasted over many years and led to the outbreak of numerous frontier wars, in which some of my ancestors fought, earning them a black mark in revisionist history.
In the bad old days of Apartheid, the Transkei was turned into a supposedly self-governing – if impoverished – Bantustan with its own fake border posts and puppet government. Resistance to the system soon arose, with many of the leading figures of the liberation struggle coming from these parts, the most famous, obviously, being Nelson Mandela.
But that was then. Now was now. Turning my collar against the sudden chill wind that had come sweeping in from the sea, I crunched back towards where the sun was sending golden bars of light onto the surrounding hills,
The next morning, woken by the crowing of the noisy rooster next door, I got up early, wanting to catch the rising sun. On the one side of the horizon, the long vapour trail of a climbing jet sliced up the grey-blue dawn. On the other side, yellow-bellied from the rising sun, an endless caravan of clouds drifted over the ocean to wherever it is clouds go. Sitting on the verandah, sipping my mug of coffee, this was followed by the propitious sight of three Grey Crowned Cranes, propelling themselves through the cold, still, air with measured wing beats, their long elegant necks outstretched in front and legs trailing behind. Cranes are special. Shy and wary, it is always a privilege to encounter them anywhere in the wild; here it seemed especially so, almost a blessing, a sign of good things to come..
After a delicious breakfast, we decided to head down to the nearby Pebble Beach. Sunshine was bejewelling the dew that still lay on the fields as we squelched our way down through the grassy sponge to where the waves were collapsing and wheezing into the shingle on this secluded and deserted beach. Not wanting to get their stomachs wet by lying on the soaked grass, hordes of goats snoozed in the middle of the road.
Pebble Beach.
We spent a happy hour or two strolling up and down the beach, stooping over every now and again to pick up and inspect a stone whose surface had been polished smooth and shiny by the tumbling action of the waves. Afterwards, I stood on the outcrop of rocks, that protruded out at the one end of the beach, and watched the crabs playing Russian Roulette with the incoming tide as it surged up through the crevasses and exploded into the sky in a whale-like plume (late on, we saw several of those leviathans cavorting in the currents). The sea in front of me heaved with belches of brilliance and the waves crashed around.. Everything about the morning was magical: being surrounded by water, the pleasing tidiness of the hills behind us, the foraging cattle and goats, the small rural settlements scattered like wheat chaff along the horizon. A solitary Jackal Buzzard suddenly swooped over the hill and then hung in the air like some hovering messenger from the gods.
Down by the seaside with Mary Ann…A crab, waiting for the waves to surge in.
Later, a few of us went for another walk across the rolling countryside. The sun had dipped behind the distant hills but there was still plenty of light in the sky so instead of following the others back to the shack afterwards, I headed further up the road on my own. To my left a herd of cattle were standing atop a ridge, contentedly chewing the cud. I decided to go towards them. At the top, I stopped and surveyed the beautiful view. To my left, a winding river snaked its way through the hills before opening up into a reed-lined estuary over which an occasional heron drifted. In front lay the ocean, stretching out forever under an empty sky. To my right, I could make out the prominent bluff that marks the point where the Mtentu River enters the Indian Ocean. It all seemed ethereal, dream-like, a shifting evanescent panorama.
With the light rapidly fading, I turned and started back along the path. My reverie was interrupted when I became aware of a figure staggering towards me, arms waving frantically, trying to attract my attention. I instantly recognised him. He was one of the noisy revellers I had seen outside the shebeen earlier on, the one proudly sporting a brand new ANC Youth League T-shirt.
My habit of snapping away with a camera at anything that captures my fancy was about to land me in trouble…
Initially menacing the young man demanded to know who I was, why was I there and what was my reason for taking photographs? Was I a journalist, he asked suspiciously? “No,” I said, not strictly honestly (although, in fact, I’m a political cartoonist) -” I’m just an old man – a mkhulu – enjoying the view and taking in the sea air”. He seemed unconvinced by my explanation. Another barrage of questions and accusations followed which I had some difficulty following because of his confused diction and somewhat inebriated state. Then, his attitude abruptly changed. He gave me an ingratiating smile, bent over and scooped up a rusted old enamel dish lying abandoned in the grass. “” Here”, he exclaimed with a beam, “A gift for you. Something to remind you of the Transkei”. I thanked him profusely and – keen to avoid further inquisition – hastened back to the safety of our shack.
I felt saddened by the encounter. With national elections looming, part of my reason for coming to the Wild Coast had been to try and escape the bluster, sanctimony, slogans and ideological posturing. Now, I felt like I had been yanked out of my imagined pastoral idyll and thrust back into the harsh reality of modern-day South African politics.
The mood soon passed. Sitting outside under a star-smattered sky, the air wet from the sea mist and the faint taste of wood smoke drifting past, I witnessed one of those beautiful, long enchanting slides of a shooting star falling through the heavens. The good omens were piling up. Mary Ann’s birthday – which we were to celebrate with a sumptuous paella (Kelly’s cooking again) and bottles of champagne – had really received the blessing of the gods.
Another pleasurable surprise lay ahead. Peering through the encroaching darkness I next made out the outline of a cruise liner, steaming southwards like a massive, lit-up fairy castle. The contrast between it and our own simple rustic setting could hardly have been more striking. As I sat there, watching its progress, it suddenly dawned on me that this was the very ship transporting my geologist brother from Australia who I had arranged to meet in a few days, after he had docked in Cape Town. It was another sign from above..
Straining my eyes, I watched the ship until it was nothing more than a distant speck, Then it vanished and everything went dark again.
The next day, I sprang out of bed with a purpose. The Transkei interior gives rise to several major rivers and numerous lesser ones. The Mtentu, which passes through a steep cliff-lined gorge before discharging its contents into the Indian Ocean is one of the Wild Coast’s iconic rivers. Navigable for some distance, we hoped to canoe a small section of it.
The Mtentu River Gorge.
As it rose above a rampart of cloud hovering above the Agulhas Current, the morning sun was whispering enthralling promises of things to come as we headed down the winding track that led towards the river. Reaching its shore we clambered into the bright orange hire canoe, that had been made available to us, and turned its nose upriver towards the interior. Then, we started paddling.
The Mtentu Gorge has an enchantment about it. Sitting in the brow of the canoe, I felt a bit like Marlowe in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, on a journey into the unknown. As we paddled, the river seemed to close in on us, tall trees and tangled masses of vegetation crowded down the steep cliffs, in an impenetrable thicket, to the water’s edge. Patches of mangrove clung to the shores (I had hoped to catch a sighting of the elusive Mangrove Kingfisher but I was to be disappointed). In places, the choppy waters, snatching this way and that, had ripped caves of soil out of the bank, leaving hundreds of metres of exposed rock and overhang.
A tangled mass of rocks and vegetation.
There was no sign of human habitation or any indication that anybody had penetrated the pristine jungle of trees along its shoreline in aeons. Apart from the odd bird and jumping fish, we appeared to be absolutely alone, face to face with the very elements of creation (although the last time we had been here, Tom Cruise had spent the day buzzing up and down the river in a yellow biplane filming a sequence for the latest Mission Impossible). Drifting through that quiet, deserted, mysterious landscape, with only the sound of the paddles sluicing through the water and the distant roar of the breakers crashing along the river mouth, everything seemed just right. I felt I had all my heart could desire in these troubled times – calm, peace, serenity and a timeless beauty.
A journey into the unknown…
Rounding a corner, a waterfall on the right of the river, hove into view. Ian Tyrer, our (highly recommended) hike leader, who was paddling, arced the canoe close to the bank, before guiding it expertly through the rocks up to its base. Positioning ourselves so that we could best take in the spectacle, we sat quietly for a while in the shade cast along the edges of the river bed by the forest giants and high cliffs watching the cascade of water falling over the lip of rock high above us. As we sat, cloudy layers of falling moisture splattered softly on and around us.
Having reached this dramatic landmark, we turned and headed back the way we had come ( I would loved to have explored further). By now we were approaching lunchtime and the weather had begun to change. Staccato gusts of wind jabbed the water, causing it to splash and thump against the side of the canoe. Ian paddled close to the banks where the water spirits were not so intent on upturning us, directing the canoe past a point where an enormous tree had been thrown into the shallows by some past flood, its twisted form providing a convenient observation point for kingfishers and cormorants. Further on, a pair of tail-bobbing Pied Wagtails struck poses on a rock and watched, with bemusement, our progress, as we battled against the tide.
Instead of pulling in at our launching spot, Ian decided to head on down the river towards where the waves were breaking. Acting like some self-anointed guardian to this wild sanctuary, a solitary egret stood erect on a large sloping rock that demarcated the entrance to the river. By this stage, the swell was getting stronger so Ian called a halt. Turning the canoe around, we headed home.
And so the last day of our trip drew to a close.
That evening, I sat down and, over another beer, totted up the total distance I had walked during the course of the three days. It amounted to over thirty kilometres. Although it had not been my only motive for coming on this pilgrimage, it was an achievement of sorts, especially considering I had not done the main beach walk of about 25 kilometres.
Driving back to my home at Curry’s Post the next day, I felt I had notched up another successful jaunt to the Wild Coast. Not only had it met my inner needs but I had proved there was life in the old dog – that being me – yet…
GALLERY:
More Wild Coast Scenes:
Wild Coast Scenes with Animals:
Wild Coast Hikers:
Pic courtesy of Mandy Tyrer.Pic courtesy of Mandy TyrerPic courtesy of Mandy Tyrer
In late 1989 I made a journey through parts of Austria, Hungary and Czechoslovakia, taking in the three main cities of the old Hapsburg Empire – Vienna, Budapest and Prague. Hungary and Czechoslovakia, at that stage, were still nominally under Soviet rule and forty years of Communism had obviously left its imprint but you could still get a sense of their shared cultural and historical heritage and old links.
Shortly after I returned, I wrote several articles about my experiences which I never did anything with at the time but which – having tightened them up a little – I have now decided to post as a Blog in the hope they will provide a brief glimpse into what life was like in that fascinating part of the world back then.
I begin with my impressions of Prague even though that was, in fact, the last of the three cities I visited.
Prague, with the Vitava River in the foreground. Hradcany Castle on the other side.
1989 found me at a loose end.
I had previously resigned from my job as features editor at SCOPE to take up a position at the newly formed Laughing Stock Magazine in Johannesburg. After barely nine months, I quit that too because all the signs were telling me I was on a doomed ship.
I did not feel inclined to go down with it.
I didn’t feel like facing the grind of walking the streets again looking for work. So, I did what I often do when in an awkward spot – I bought an air ticket and headed overseas. I had already been to Britain and the continent several times. This time I wanted to undertake a different journey. I wanted to go somewhere that entailed an element of risk.
As it turned out, my English cousin, Rebecca, who had just graduated from Oxford, and two of her friends were planning a car trip through three of the countries that constituted the old Hapsburg Empire – Austria, Hungary and Czechoslovakia. One of the places on their must-visit wish- list was Prague.
Despite the fact it was still under repressive Soviet rule, the city was becoming a chic place to visit. Even though I am probably an unlikely candidate in the eyes of others, I decided I could do chic.
First, I had to go through the tiresome business of getting my papers.
It was probably a coincidence but the day after I visited the Czechoslovakian Embassy in Kensington Gardens to obtain my visa the British government expelled three Czech diplomats from the country. As it was I was too busy marvelling over the fact a communist country was prepared to have me – an unfashionable White South African – as their guest to pay much attention to this West-East spat! As a member of a pariah state, I had expected to be immediately shown the door. Instead, I was treated with an indifference that seemed almost indecent.
We entered the country, at the Slovakian end, via Hungary. The contrast between the two countries was sobering. If our first border crossing had been a lesson in bureaucracy at its most bewildering this one was an education in power. With pistols strapped to their wastes, the Czech border guards were cold and officious, demanding our passports and then taking them away for a sufficiently long time to make one realise how extraordinarily helpless one can feel.
Brno, en-route to Prague. There was something little sinister about the tower at the end of the bridge. Note grey tenement blocks behind…
This was more the Le Carre country I had expected.
Having given us this crude reminder of what might lie in store for us, they waved us through the border post. As we drove into Slovakia, I wondered what lay ahead. The countryside we passed through did little to reassure me or allay my fears. Parts of it were badly polluted, the forests dying from acid rain. Elsewhere, great concrete blocks marched higgledy-piggledy, mile after mile.
My anxiety eased a little once we got to our destination.
Prague, or at least the old parts of it, is one of the handsomest cities in Europe. When we visited it still possessed a decaying grandeur, a faded old-world charm. Having escaped bombing during the Second World War, virtually every epoch of European architecture was still splendidly represented.
With its constant surveillance of its citizens and intolerance of public opposition, the Czech Government may not have been the most open-minded or benevolent in the world but they at least recognised what Prague represented and had been remarkably sensitive when it came to preserving the unique heritage of the city. There had been no mad-cap Ceausecu-style leadership here, bulldozing down beautiful, historic, buildings and displacing whole communities in pursuit of some nightmare vision of a Marxist Utopia. Nor had the city been swamped by Western-style consumerism and kitsch. There were no burger joints or trendy boutiques. No neon lights nor flashy advertising had been allowed to impugn the city’s ancient dignity.
Even the display of communist symbols, so common elsewhere, had been kept to a minimum.
We arrived to find a city not really geared towards tourism. Although they welcomed the money we brought with us (in our case English pounds), the authorities were still highly suspicious of foreigners. We were not allowed to choose our own hotel to stay in, the state had its own special ones reserved for us suspect Westerners.
There were not many of these and the one they selected for us must have been the worst of the lot. Situated in a filthy, run-down, seedy part of town, it looked semi-derelict and was covered in grime and soot. My companions were appalled but we had no choice. The hotel would have to do. We signed the miles of paperwork and regulations the police required because we were suspect Westerners and carted our bags inside.
There was a young Czech soldier staying in the room next to mine. He had a woman with him. She may just have been his girlfriend but I doubted it. She seemed much more worldly-wise and older than the fresh-faced youth who was barely out of his teens. It tended to confirm my suspicions the establishment doubled up as a house of ill-repute
After a barely edible dinner, we headed for Charles Bridge (Karluv Most).
Charles Bridge.
Just as anybody who spends time in London inevitably winds up at Tower Bridge so, too, does Charles Bridge provide a focal point for Prague. With its slightly curved and cobbled surface, this famous pedestrian bridge was begun in the 1300s but not completed for some 50 years. At a later date, 26 statues depicting St Francis Xavier and his pious companions were erected along the sides. Perhaps the most interesting of these is St John Nepomuk, the patron saint of Bohemia, who, legend has it, was flung from the bridge by order of Wenzel IV for refusing to reveal what his wife, the empress, had said in confession.
His body is said to have floated for a considerable time in the river with five brilliant stars hovering above his head.
The bridge links the two most interesting quarters of the city. On the one side lies the old town and Jewish Quarter (Josefov); on the other lies the Hradcany Castle. Protestant nobles threw two Catholic counsellors out of the window of this castle on 23rd May 1618, thus precipitating the Thirty Years War, one of the bloodiest conflicts in European history (the counsellors, who landed in a dung heap, survived)
During the day the bridge thronged with tourists, at night a different atmosphere prevailed: it had become a rallying point for protest against the ruling regime. Soapbox politicians held forth about the evils of the system while long-haired hippies strummed guitars and sang Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin’” and John Lennon’s “Imagine”.
It took me back to the anti-Vietnam protests of the Sixties and Seventies.
Standing in the misty moonlight with the silent, silvery, river flowing underneath, I got the impression that the younger generation, in particular, no longer cared about what they said or did. The fact that such dissent was now tolerated did, at least, indicate the old climate of fear and silence was beginning to thaw.
I struck up a conversation with an English-speaking Czech who turned out to be a lecturer at the local university. When I remarked on the beauty of the city, he shrugged his shoulders and said: “Yes, it is pretty but it would be even prettier without the communists!”
The next morning, I wanted to see more of it. I started at Wenceslas Square which is not really a square but a very broad boulevard that forms the neo-classical part of town above the older parts of Prague. The far end of the square is dominated by the theatre while along its sides were numerous shops, hotels (including the Art-Nouveau Hotel Europa) and restaurants – although we found the cuisine a disappointment after Budapest.
From WenceslasSquare, I headed, via the old Powder Tower, to Staromestke Namesti in the Old Quarter. With its rich Baroque facades, this square is one of the most stunning sights in Prague. It includes the Town Hall with its tower and astronomical clock dating from the 1400s, the glorious twin-towered Teyn Church and – in the middle of the square – a straggling mass of statues erected in 1915 to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the death of John Hus, the celebrated orator, reformer and champion of Czech nationalism whose execution at the hands of the Germans led to the Hussite Wars.
Starometski Namesti.
Not far from here is the old Jewish Quarter which dates back from the 10th Century and is one of the oldest ghettoes in Europe. It also contains surely one of the oddest sights in Central Europe – over 20,000 graves piled one behind one another with hardly a gap in between.
Near the entrance to the cemetery is a small museum which houses a collection of drawings and poems by Jewish children, many of whom died in the concentration camps of Terezin and Auschwitz. Drawn in the art classes the Nazis allowed the children to attend – mostly for propaganda purposes – they show how conflicting realities can co-exist. While some paintings capture innocent childhood preoccupations, others depict far more painful scenes as the children become increasingly aware of the grim reality of their circumstances and the horrors being perpetrated around them. Poignant and intensely moving, they serve as a grim reminder of how easily people can lapse into barbarism and cruelty when ideology gets twisted to serve the most awful of ends.
Indeed, it is hard to believe Franz Kafka died ten years before the first concentration camp was built because if anybody understood oppressive bureaucracy and the true nature of totalitarianism, in the marrow of their bones, it was surely he. A native of Prague, he was born and brought up in the Jewish Quarter and also lived along the Zlata ulicka (Golden Lane) up by the castle.
I was a little disappointed to discover, though, that the one museum I had specifically wanted to visit was closed. This was the Museum of the National Security Corps and the Army of the Ministry of Interior where you got to see how the authorities previously dealt with those who disagreed with their policies. The prize exhibit was the stuffed remains of the dog famous for having caught more people trying to escape to the West than any other mutt on the military payroll.
A little later on, I was to get my own small lesson on how the authoritarian propaganda machine in communist countries worked. Tired from all the tramping, I was sitting at a pavement café, sipping a cup of sickly sweet coffee when a loud, disembodied voice suddenly started barking out worked instructions directly above my head. The effect was startling in the extreme, especially when it was picked up and parroted from the top of virtually every street light in the vicinity. It took a few terrifying seconds for me to figure out the sound had come from a series of loudspeakers rigged around the city. For me, this was Big Brother come to life, not that it seemed to have the slightest effect on the ordinary citizenry around me who simply ignored it and carried on with their lives. I found their response oddly reassuring.
Used to the living standards of the West, I quickly came to realise how unnaturally difficult all the rules, regulations, excessive formalities and mountainous and highly inefficient bureaucracy made life for such ordinary folk. The currency, for example, was surreal with a huge difference between the official rate (16 korunas) and what you could exchange it for on the black market (between 40 and 50 korunas)if you were prepared to take the risk. In Prague, everybody seemed to be in on the game. You could hardly take two steps without somebody sidling up to you and whispering in your ear “Tauschen? Change money?”
Several years later, I would experience the same sort of thing in that other socialist paradise – Zimbabwe.
The next day I headed up to the castle, passing several dagger-thrusting titans who looked like they would slice your head off if you so much as dropped an ice cream or said anything derogatory about the state. This feeling was more than offset when I came to the magnificent Gothic cathedral of St Vitus with its soaring pinnacles and towers. Inside is the impressive Monument of the Kings, the hereditary burial place of the Bohemian monarchs.
Wandering around the interior, noticing all the devotees and worshippers and how lavishly the church had been restored, I realised that the bad old days when Communism persecuted the Church had largely gone.
The next stop on my itinerary was the Hradcanske namesti which had been preferred as a location to Vienna for much of the filming of Amadeus because it was considered more authentic of the period. Besides providing a panoramic view over the city, this area contains many fine old buildings, churches and beautiful Baroque facades.
One of the beautiful buildings where the film Amadeus was shot.
On my way down from the castle, I ducked into the U Bonaparta on the Nerudova, a large, vaulted, cellar covered in Napoleonic paraphernalia and with long wooden tables where they serve beer with a good, frothy head. Grabbing my tankard of excellent Czech Pilsener (the Czech food may have been lousy but the beer made up for it), I sat down at a table next to one occupied by a gang of ageing bikers sporting colourful bandannas, presided over by a large, patriarchal figure with shoulder length hair and a flowing white beer.
They were all in high spirits, a stark contrast to a group of gloomy conscripts in uniform sitting at another table near mine. I got the distinct feeling that national service in the U.S.S.R. was not proving to be the high point of their lives. Having been forced to serve in the military back home, they had my sympathy.
Indeed, it hadn’t taken me more than a few days behind the Iron Curtain to realise that Communism had not resulted in the ‘classless’ society of model of proletarians it was supposed to produce. On the contrary, it seemed to have brought about a great deal of unhappiness, shirking, cynicism and distrust in the all-powerful machine.
Another protester I had met that evening on Charles Bridge had summed it up this way: “There are three types of Czechs – the ones who only live to drink and fiddle the system; the ones who listen and care but do nothing. Finally, there are people like us who try to make a difference but, alas, we are in a minority. And the secret police know their business!”
Later that night, in yet another stuffy, smoke-filled, tavern, I got chatting to a young artist trying to sell his paintings (if I had the spare cash I would have bought one). Marvelling at his felicity in both English and German, I asked him if he spoke Russian as well. He gave that same apologetic grin I had come to recognise during my brief stopover in Prague and said: “Yes – I am sorry to say!”
Safely back in South Africa, several months later, I thought of him and those unhappy conscripts and the protesters on the bridge, when I switched on the news and heard that the Soviet Union – and its satellite states – that had once looked like it was due to last for some time yet, had come tumbling down.
That was not the only momentous world event to take place back then. It was followed, shortly afterwards, by the collapse of the once seemingly indestructible Apartheid regime. For a brief while there was a feeling of euphoria., a hope that this was the beginning of a brand-new era. Sadly, it was not destined to last…
GALLERY:
Some more Prague scenes:
REFERENCES:
A Guide to Central Europe by Richard Bassett (Published by Viking)
Travellers Soviet Union & Eastern Europe Survival Kit by Simon Calder (Published by Vacation Work)
In these turbulent times, where salesmen-cum-saviours of the Donald Trump sort have taken to positioning themselves as champions of the “real people” (even though their rich-man lifestyles suggest otherwise) while attempting to impose their own versions of reality on us, the need to find a way to counter the torrent of misinformation spewed out regularly from both politicians and countless other, often conspiracy-based, outlets has never been more urgent. The question, of course, is how do we do this? In this fascinating book, Peter Pomerantsev, an expert on contemporary propaganda, gives materials to help answer this.
He starts by travelling back in history where he finds a fascinating example of how one man, now almost forgotten, set about undermining the Nazis during World War Two..
The son of an Australian academic, Sefton Delmer was born in Berlin and grew up speaking fluent German, although the fact that he was always perceived as a foreigner prevented him from ever becoming completely accepted. As the correspondent for the Daily Express, before the war broke out, he won the trust of the Nazi hierarchy, who, at that stage, were still eager to curry favour with and impress the British. He was invited to attend their militaristic mass rallies; he also got to meet the Fuhrer, Adolph Hitler.
With his wide experience as a journalist and his understanding of Gernam – and in particular Nazi – culture, Delmer was, in many ways, the ideal man to take on the Nazi propaganda machine and in so doing help undermine the German war effort. Operating with his team from Aspley Guise, a village near London, Delmer chose to do this by attempting to outplay Joseph Goebbels, the German Minister of Propaganda, at his own game.
Just as modern-day populists and tyrants have happily jumped onto the social media bandwagon, Goebbels quickly realised how powerful a medium of communication radio was and how it could be harnessed to serve the Nazi cause. In this battle for people’s minds – as Delmer came to realise – hard facts, reasoned arguments and evidence play only a secondary role. The emphasis is on making people feel they are special, that they are a part of a common destiny. In other words, propaganda works not because it convinces or even confuses; it works because it creates a sense of belonging. There is no effective way to counter it which does not take into account the need to belong that propaganda satisfies.
Delmer also realised there was little point in trying to make his broadcasts appeal to the “Good German” because that would be a case of preaching to the already converted. His aim was to win over the ordinary citizens, those who considered it their duty to do what their government demanded even if they did not fully understand the implications. He did this by tapping into their lack of idealism, rather than any high-minded ideals they might possess.
Deliberately employing the course, salty language of the streets – and going out of his way not to appear in anyway pro-British – Delmer, used his broadcasts, to discredit the German leadership in the eyes of ordinary Germans by portraying them as well-fed parasites leading lives of amoral excess while they suffered. Later he would subtly adjust his approach to meet the evolving needs of the situation.
While it is still a matter of debate among historians as to just what extent this anti-propaganda helped turn the tide of the war against Hitler, Delmer’s broadcasts do appear to have been listened to by a remarkably wide audience inside Germany. In unpacking his life story, Pomerantsev also shows that there is still much we can learn from his insights and observations in the fight against authoritarian propaganda.
Indeed, one of the strengths of his quietly inspiring book is that it hums with contemporary relevance. In our polarised world of “us and them”, Donald Trump’s self-pitying speeches contain obvious echoes of Hitler’s in their emphasis on victimhood – America is exploited by immigrants and bled dry by foreign countries. He will change that if elected – make America great again.
A Ukrainian by birth, Pomrrantsev has also witnessed, first-hand, how Vladimir Putin – another self-serving character with grandiose dreams of recasting world affairs – employs similar tricks to manipulate the media and keep the Russian people in thrall of him. Following Putin’s brazen invasion of Ukraine, the author returned home to find a country, once more, under siege, where the barriers between the past and present had dissolved. Not only was Ukraine under military attack but the same patterns of propaganda, justifying the invasion, were being used – only this time Putin’s troops are insisting they have come to free their fellow Russian speakers from annihilation by the Nazis in Kviv…
What this all clearly demonstrated to him was that the need to find ways of offsetting these new versions of old propaganda put out by bullies and dictators while nudging people towards the truth remains as important now as it did back in Delmer’s time
published by Profile Books
At its height, the Roman Empire – which replaced the old Roman Republic in 27BCE when Julius Caesar’s adopted son, Augustus, set himself up as the sole ruler of Rome – was the most extensive political and social structure in Western civilisation. It left an enduring mark on the history and culture of the West; its legacy lives on with us today in areas such as government, law, architecture, engineering and religion while the antics, intrigues and supposedly bizarre behaviour of the various emperors (Nero, Caligula, Elegabalus and Commodus being the more infamous examples) continue to provide an inexhaustible source of material for writers (and film-makers).
In this highly entertaining read, Mary Beard, the Professor Emeritus of Classics at Cambridge University, re-enters this familiar territory but comes at it from a slightly different angle.
While careful not to fall into the revisionist trap of completely rewriting history, she warns that many of the stories that have been passed down to us from the days of the Roman Empire should be taken with a pinch of salt because they often emanated from hostile historians who wanted to curry favour with the deposed emperor’s successors. As such, they can amount to little more than gossip, slander, hearsay and urban myth, sometimes written long after the events described.
Rather than concentrate on his individual foibles and failings, Beard is more interested in building up a picture of what the emperor actually did, the challenges he faced managing a vast empire and how he addressed imperial problems. In so doing she creates a colourful and impressionistic panorama of the ancient Roman world, with thematic chapters on how one-man rule worked, where the emperors lived, what his job entailed, what they did abroad, the role of women etc
Beard does not entirely ignore the juicy stuff or leave out the more scandalous bits that most ordinary readers might find interesting. She is interested in how many of the stories about the emperors arose as it is unlikely the empire would have been as mighty as it was and survived as long as it did if it was ruled by a series of deranged despots. Included in her text are many familiar tales of anxious rulers, artful poisoners, assassins, ambitious heirs, scheming mothers and wives, as well as loyal and disloyal servants.
While cautioning that we shouldn’t necessarily judge the Roman emperors’ behaviour by today’s standards, Beard also shows how they still provide us with important lessons on how to rule and a warning on how not to.
With the rise of autocrats in our age and with an emperor in the making – in the form of one Donald Trump – threatening to turn America into a dictatorship, the parallels between then and now become strikingly obvious…
KwaZulu-Natal opposition parties described Premier Nomusa Dube-Ncube’s State of the Province Address as an “election speech”. In her speech, Dube-Ncube focused on the provincial government’s recent achievements, as well as tracing the ANC government’s achievements from around 2024 when ruling party deployees assumed key positions in the KZN provincial cabinet.
In a blow for cash-strapped consumers, there was another steep increase in the fuel price with petrol going up by R1,20 per litre while diesel increased by R1,18.
Despite promising that they would not include ANC members who have been implicated in State Capture, a number of them made it back onto their nomination lists for the 2024 elections.
Election season got into full swing with the various parties all promising they had the solution for the country’s myriad problems.
Former ANC member veteran and African Radical Economic Transformation Alliance (Areta) leader Carl Niehaus was among the top candidates on the Economic Freedom Forum (EFF) list of people headed for the National Assembly after the elections were held. Niehaus joined the Red Berets after dumping his party, Areta, which he founded after he left the ANC.
ANC leaders close to corruption accused National Assembly Speaker Nosivwe Mapisa-Nqakula of encouraging her to resign to save the party the embarrassment of defending her during a pending motion of no-confidence.
The Electoral Court overturned an IEC ban and declared former president Jacob Zuma free to stand in the 2024 elections despite his criminal conviction.
Higher Education Minister Blade Nzimande said he had dissolved the embattled National Student Financial Aid Scheme (NSFAS) board because of the member’s inability to carry out basic responsibilities, including the payment of student allowances.
On the campaign trail in KwaZulu-Natal, President Cyril Ramaophosa vowed there was “no turning back on the implementation of the NHI”, which he said was part of the ANC’s programme to bridge the gap between the rich and the poor.
Stidy's Eye 