“Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life”
Pablo Picasso
Confession time (in case it isn’t obvious): my name is Anthony Stidolph (aka Stidy) and I am an art addict. It is my form of DIY therapy, my way of coping with what seems an increasingly dangerous and dysfunctional world. I am a believer in art’s healing properties, and its ability to refresh and reinvigorate. It can help the head, mend the heart (and – when it is not going the way you want it to – drive you to distraction).
When I studied art at school – obtaining a distinction at Ó’ Level – I always found myself naturally attracted to drawing rather than painting. I was certainly more proficient in it. My early attempts at putting paint (back then this was limited to prehistoric powder paints which I never got the hang of) on paper were mostly an unmitigated mess. And so pencil, pen and ink became my chosen instruments and when I decided to make a career out of my art, it was to cartooning I turned.
It was only later, with the prospect of retirement looming, that I finally plucked up the courage to venture into colour once more. Thinking big, I decided to go the whole hog and start with oils, which I had never used before. I did this mostly because I knew oil can stand much more abuse in its handling than other mediums (such as watercolour). Any mistakes or errors can be easily covered. You can constantly construct and reconstruct, at leisure.
My first efforts were very tentative and not too successful. Expanding my range made me only more conscious of my lack of experience in this field. I went through periods of doubt and self-questioning. Had I left it too late in my creative life to indulge my craving for colour and pick up the necessary skills to be any good at it? Held on a leash for so long, I did not know quite how to channel my creative energy.
I am nothing if not obsessive, however. I battled on doggedly. My moods continued to alternate between youthful enthusiasm and discouragement. Finally, I began to enjoy it. I discovered that if you are more relaxed, you can concentrate better.
Although I did not take up painting until the middle years of my life, intimations of a desire to do so appeared much earlier. In some ways, my long career as a cartoonist laid the groundwork for what followed. For a start, I had learnt that it is not necessarily part of the job to copy nature exactly as it is and that by simplifying it and omitting the superfluous you could signal just as much and also make your art more immediately accessible.
As with cartooning, too, you begin to develop your own style over time too, almost unconsciously. It is like a signature, your personal handwriting, something that develops without you having to think too much about it. Aspects of your personality, preoccupations and predispositions begin to shine through.
Having decided to take the plunge into oils, it was almost inevitable that I should be drawn to landscape painting. I grew up on a remote but beautiful farm in Zimbabwe’s Eastern Highlands. It was situated in a wilderness of mountains, kopjes and hills. In every distance stood strange shrouded landscapes, dotted with baobabs and inset with rivers and fleeting pools. Mysterious, unmortared, stone ruins, scarcely touched by archaeologists, stretched for miles upon miles along the valley floors and right up onto the mountain slopes into the narrowest of crevasses and the steepest cliff faces.
Pit enclosure, NyangaRuins on Nyahokwe Hill, NyangaNyahokwe Hill, NyangaThe road home…
These magical scenes provided a treasury of wonders for a lively, enquiring mind.
To take up landscape painting – or at least be successful – I think you have to have this inherent sensitivity or “feel” for scenery. This is the unteachable part of it. In my lifetime, I have seen way too many landscape paintings which, while technically competent, just lack this intrinsic thrill – or SOUL. It is merely painting by formula, there is no sense of an aesthetic experience, they lack the understanding that comes from constant association with a scene. It is landscape done through a tourist’s rather than a painter’s eye.
Over the succeeding years, I have continued to plug away at my painting, trying hard to establish a balance between seeing and imagining while exploring the possibilities and harmonies of colour and form. I lay no claim to having in any way mastered the subject. I am only too aware of my limitations and shortcomings (I battle with my greens, for example). However, I am not yet ready to throw in the towel or toss away my paintbrushes. I plan to carry on looking and thinking and experiencing and practising, knowing that in art, knowledge assists invention and helps you overcome creative obstacles.
The alternative – which I don’t fancy – is to do an “art detox” and quit…
PORTFOLIO:
Herewith is a selection of my paintings which I have divided into sections.
NYANGA SCENES
I have cherished my memories of the Nyanga landscape all my life so it was inevitable they should insinuate their way into my painting and that I should try to recapture the warm feelings I had about them.
World’s View, NyangaMt NyanganiNyazengu Gorge, NyangaSummit of Mt Nyangani.
BAOBAB PAINTINGS
With its gigantesque bulk and primitive appearance, the baobab is undoubtedly the tree of Africa. I also love painting them…
Baobab near Mopane, Kruger.Baobab at Makwekwete, Zimbabwe.
KZN SCENES
These days I don’t have to stray to find too far to find scenes to paint. The beautiful Karkloof Valley, where I live, is full of them…
Loskop, Karkloof ValleyKarkloof Hills from Kusane Farm
OTHER PAINTINGS
I still love travelling further afield though. The Bushveld and the Karoo are two favourite destinations…
Granite kopje, Mbombela areaKaroo scene near MurraysbergBaviaanskloofFarmhouse, Kouga mountains
It is a dramatic view in every sense. Directly below the hilltop viewpoint (once an old army base), on which I now stand, the wide-banked, sand-filled Shashe river has its confluence with the legendary Limpopo River, immortalised by Rudyard Kipling in one of his Just So Stories, The Elephant’s Child. In making this union, the two rivers provide a meeting point for the three countries that have provided me with a home, ingrained themselves in my soul and helped shape my life – Zimbabwe, South Africa and Botswana. From there, the now enlarged river runs eastwards through a series of hills and plains, broadening out in places, and narrowing in others. Behind and to the south of me, the land stretches back into the blue haze of the distant ramparts of the Soutspanberg mountain range.
Confluence of Shasdhe and Limpopo Rivers.
Having paid my nostalgic dues, I make my way back to the car. Overhead a Martial Eagle soars – a huge, unmistakable bird even to the naked eye. The leisure of its circles seems to express a total assurance in its power and domination of the amazing landscape below.
For we are in the heart of Africa.
I fell in love with Mapungubwe the first time I went there. I have always had an interest in archaeology and knew something about the region’s history. I knew that it was home to an important early Southern African kingdom whose trade links stretched to the shores of the Indian Ocean and beyond. I knew that one of South Africa’s most iconic archaeological artefacts – a gold rhino – had been found there. I knew that, for reasons that are still not entirely clear (climate change, exhaustion of resources?), it eventually fell into decline and was supplanted in importance by Great Zimbabwe.
Nothing, however, prepared me for reality.
Situated in the extreme north-west of the country Mapungubwe is a strange but fascinating place where everything seems for me infused with a mysterious significance. Each rock and feature and tree exudes its own peculiar energy. In this magnificent theatre of nature, you can still feel something of the ancient spirit of the continent.
A magnificent theatre of nature…
Each time I return – and I have now done so many times – I feel the same stirring of the soul and quickening of the senses. On this trip, I had an added reason for being glad to be back. My sister, who lives in Mpumalanga, had organised a reunion of the four siblings who live in South Africa. Given our mutual love of landscape (three of us are artists, the other a social anthropologist) – and in particular the bushveld – it was the perfect place for such a gathering of the clan.
Much of Mapungubwe’s magic stems from its convergence of habitats, geology and especially its dramatic red sandstone scenery – the rocks which glow like hot embers in the early morning and when the sun sets, only adding to its mythical, otherworldly feel. Stunted mopane dominates much of the landscape. From the Main Entrance Gate, the road passes through a tumbled landscape of heavily eroded and deeply gouged hills. Ghostly Large-Leafed Rock Figs (Ficus abutilfolia) curl around the rocks and send their enormous white roots shooting down through the fissures (hence their other name – rock-splitter figs). Further down, the scuffed and sparse terrain of the hillier parts gives way to rich and luxurious trees that grow along the Limpopo flood plain.
The LimpopoRocks with Large-leafed Rock Figs
It was here, between 900 and 1300AD, that the kingdom of Mapungubwe was established by Bantu-speaking people who had moved down from the north. It is now widely accepted as being southern Africa’s first state. At its heart was a large sandstone hill, flat-topped and kidney-shaped, with steep cliffs on all sides. Its summit was the exclusive abode of royalty with the commoners living in the surrounding low-lying land. According to Mike Main and Tom Huffman, in their book Palaces of Stone, this separation marked a “dramatic change from traditional ways…now the elite was no longer part of the commoners but physically separated from them”
I had hoped to climb the hill but because I was still recovering from a bout of flu which had badly affected my breathing, I decided not to risk I because of the steep climb involved – although the others did.
Mapungubwe Hill. Pic courtesy of Nicky Rosselli.The climb. Pic courtesy of Nicky RosselliSummit of Mapungubwe Hill. Pic courtesy of Sally ScottView from summit of Mapungubwe Hill. Pic courtesy of Sally Scott
Fortunately, my sister had also arranged for us to visit an archaeological dig at an old settlement, that was being supervised by one of her university colleagues, to the south of the Mapungubwe complex. We set off for it the next morning.
To get there, we drove down a rough dirt track crisscrossed with game and elephant tracks and surrounded by a sea of mopane trees out of which rose balancing rocks and oddly-shaped sandstone islands. I saw one that looked like a fossilised terrapin, another that resembled a crocodile and a third which looked like it had swallowed a large fish which now lay there, entombed until the very end of time. Even though it was still mid-winter I could feel a steady thickening of the heat. In front of us, the clouds were piling up like castles in the sky. A great baobab thrust itself up from the earth in front of us, dwarfing all the surrounding trees.
One which looked like a terrapin…
Nestled at the base of a long ridge of stone, entirely hidden from the world, lay the site where a now-vanished people had left their traces in the patches of dry stone walling, clay-lined huts, grain bins and shards of fired pottery. There was evidence of a more recent occupation. For want of decent clay, the swallows that nest under its arch had constructed their nests out of what appeared to be elephant dung.
Watching the team of students laboriously sifting through the sand while keeping an eye out for something which might reveal a tell-tale clue about the past, I got a real whiff of history, a tentative and somewhat blurry outline of how this area must once have been.
The dig A bit of stone walling where a hut once stood
The original inhabitants of South Africa were, of course, the San who had travelled and hunted in this valley in small nomadic bands since time immemorial. Their cultural presence is conserved in the many cave paintings that lie scattered throughout southern Africa. Not far from the dig lies a boulder-strewn canyon which contains some wonderful samples of their rock art.
Kaoxa’s Shelter. San rock art site
A hot climb bought us to the ledge under the overhang, also well hidden from the rest of the world, where the paintings are. We stood before them in a line, awed by the artistry. Painted mostly in red ochre, the site contains images of 16 species of animal among its roughly 200 images including rare depictions of locusts, mongoose, spring hare and a hippopotamus. Alive to the constant movements of nature, spirits and human moods, others show supernaturally potent animals and various ritual activities. Some of the paintings are believed to be thousands of years old.
San rock art. Kaoxa’s Shelter.
It would be interesting to know how the San reacted to having to share their ancestral ground and what sort of dealings they had with the Bantu-speaking people, one of whose old settlements we had just visited. A fundamental continuity would, presumably, have been the hunting of wild animals although the introduction of cattle into this habitat might well have provided a point of friction, as they competed for valuable grazing. There is some evidence to suggest that the new settlers regarded the San as powerful rain-makers and made use of these skills. In a low rainfall area such as this, it must have been a useful talent to possess.
Hopefully, further archaeological investigation will reveal more about this
What is beyond doubt, however, is that when the first Europeans arrived in Africa they regarded the diminutive race in a very negative light The concept of private property lay outside the world of the San and this, alone, would be enough to condemn them in the eyes of the Europeans, with their clear notions of orderly land use and rational planning. Nor did their mobile lifestyle fit in with European ideas. There were inevitable clashes and confrontations while the “primitive” San’s apparently haphazard and wasteful ways provided justification to stereotype them as ‘savages’ and drive them out and, in other instances, exterminate them. The treatment of the San provides one of the most shameful footnotes to South African history.
After visiting the cave, I clambered breathlessly up a large nearby boulder-topped kopje that provided a stunning view over the surrounding hills which included several other important archaeological sites – Leokwe Hill, K2, Little Muck – and tried to imagine the landscape as it must once have been when this was still a relatively well-inhabited area.
Then, I did what any sensible twitcher would do in such a situation. I went in search of birds – for Mapungubwe – situated at an environmental crossroad where any bird could turn up -is just as good a place for birding as it is for its cultural history. Although we arrived in winter when all the migrants were away there is still plenty to see. For a start, there are the dry-land specials you don’t get in my neck of the woods – Pied Babbler, Cut-throat Finch, Great Sparrow, White-browed Sparrow-Weaver, Red-billed Buffalo-Weaver, and Chestnut-backed and Grey-backed Sparrow-Lark. In the riverine forest and along the water line you get unusual species such as White-crowned Plover, Maeve’s Starling and – most eagerly sought after of all – the Pel’s Fishing Owl, as well as several predominantly Zimbabwean birds whose territory extends just across the river into South Africa (Tropical Boubou, Meyer’s Parrot, Senegal Coucal and Three-banded Courser – I have seen this relatively uncommon bird twice in the park). This is also great bunting country. Our lodge supported a huge flock of Golden-breasted Buntings who gathered at the swimming pool to drink each morning and evening along with an assortment of doves, Mocking Cliff Chat, Arrow-marked Babbler, Glossy Starling, Striped Kingfisher, Red-headed Weaver, Lesser-masked Weaver, Dark-capped Bulbul and a family of squirrels. Strangely enough, there was also a resident Klaas Cuckoo. It had obviously decided not to join the annual migration northwards (unlike other Cuckoos some Klaas Cuckoos do overwinter).
There was more to be discovered. The next day, I came across both a Red-crested Korhaan and a Kori Bustard, the largest flying bird in the world. In the Western section of the park (Mapungubwe is split into two) a solitary African Hawk Eagle sailed overhead, followed, a bit later, by a flock of White-backed Vultures looking for suitable thermals to take them up still higher into the heavens where it would be easier to spot recent kills. On the drive home, an African Hoopoe floated alongside us. I am always pleased to see them – they are considered to be good omens in some societies, messengers from the gods. I can believe that.
And then there are the animals. Because of its arid climate, Mapungubwe doesn’t support the density of population you get in wetter parks, like Kruger, but they are there to be found if you look for them. As you drive through the park, the heads of giraffes can be spotted. gently swaying above the tree tops, pausing every now and again to nibble on the leaves. A sudden cloud of dust might indicate the direction a herd of Zebra had taken after being spooked by some phantom in the shadows.
At the Maloutswa Hide, we watched a group of warthogs trotting in file down to the water’s edge, followed shortly afterwards by another family. Having checked to ensure there were no predators lurking around, a herd of Wildebeest joined them.
A family of Warthogs.Wildebeest
Heading from the hide towards the Mazhou campsite, which lies alongside the Limpopo, we were greeted by a great company of elephants coming out of the woodland. They paid not the slightest heed to our presence as we sat in the car watching their slow-stepping mass crossing the road in front of us, heading towards the denser bush that demarcated the course of the river. The largest cows were on the outer flanks and the bulls and young calves scattered in between. Closer to the river, impala, bright rust red in the falling light, frolicked and scampered over the roots of the massive Nyala Berry trees that are a common feature of the flood plain on which the nearby campsite has been built…
A great company of elephants…
On our final night, my three sisters and I put some drinks in a cool box and drove to a viewpoint, on the crest of a stony ridge, to watch the sun go down over a labyrinth chaos of rock. Apart from the sudden trumpeting of an elephant, somewhere down in the valley below, the magnificent scene that greeted was intimate and peaceful. There seemed no limit to our vision. As it sank through the thin layer of cloud and over a line of jagged hills directly in front of us the dying sun put on a spectacular light show. Except for the birds and animals, it felt like we were all alone in this mythical kingdom. When the air grew cold we came down off the rocks. Although the sun had departed an enormous full moon was shining overhead lighting up the random boulders and ground around us.
Sunset over Mapungubwe.
I looked and listened, felt the air, and wondered if there is an evolutionary explanation for the deep sense of affinity I feel for this place. Our past is composed of images, experiences, and memories. I knew that someplace around here my ancestors (including my grandmother, then a very young child) crossed the Limpopo by ox wagon on their arduous trek * up to Gazaland in the old Rhodesia. Could this provide another connection?
I was still thinking about all this when we got back into our car and headed home through the dusk…
*Footnote: The wagon train was held up in Macloutsie, on the other side of the river, by foot and mouth disease and many of their cattle became so weak they were devoured alive by the hyaena that prowled around the camp. Thomas Moodie (or “Groot Tom” as he was known) the leader of the trek and brother of my great grandmother, died of blackwater fever within a year of reaching his Promised Land – Melsetter in the Eastern Highlands.
GALLERY:
More Mapungubwe scenery:
Limpopo from viewpointLimpopo near Poacher’s CornerLimpopoOld SADF bunkerRock with what looks like a fish entombed in it
More San paintings:
Pic courtesy of Sally ScottPic courtesy of Sally ScottPic courtesy of Sally Scott
More Mapungubwe birds (and a butterfly and some terrapin):
A man of great intellect and boundless drive, energy and vision, Jan Smuts’s contribution to the creation of modern South Africa has been rather glossed over in recent years probably because it doesn’t fit into the current political narrative. It is a situation which author Richard Steyn – a former editor of the Witness – sought to redress in Jan Smuts: Unafraid of Greatness. His book struck a responsive chord. Since it was first published in 2015 it has sold over 20 000 copies and has now been reissued.
Born in Riebeek West in the Western Cape in 1870, Smuts had a fierce intelligence and focus that assured success at virtually everything he turned his hand to. After a distinguished academic career, he rose to political prominence when President Paul Kruger appointed him Transvaal State Attorney at the tender age of 28. Although vastly different, the two men established a good working relationship based on mutual respect for one another. As a guerilla leader, fighting against the English in the Anglo-Boer War, he displayed great physical bravery and a good grasp of tactics even though he had not trained as a soldier.
At the end of the war, believing the best way forward was to attempt to reconcile Boer and British interests, Smuts would play an instrumental role in the formation of the Union of South Africa.
At the outbreak of the First World War, Smuts returned to his role as a military leader helping to drive the Germans out of South West Africa and then taking part in the East African campaign. Lionised abroad for his achievements, he would go on to become an adviser to numerous leaders and heads of state and served in the British War Cabinet.
At the end of hostilities, Smuts, almost alone among Allied leaders, argued that it was a mistake to place a crippling burden on defeated Germany because he believed it would ultimately backfire. In this, he would be proved correct. Adolph Hitler would later exploit this sense of grievance.
After becoming Prime Minister, he lead South Africa into the Second World War as part of a pro-Interventionist group, further alienating himself from large sections of the Afrikaans community. The British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill made full use of his talents, however, and he became both his trusted confidant and adviser. More than any other Commonwealth leader Smuts commanded Churchill’s respect and affection in part, no doubt because he appeared to share the British world view.
The massive disruption and carnage caused by both wars had a profound effect on Smuts. Believing that the world could not carry on like this he set out to transform the whole international scene by advocating the establishment of the League of Nations which later morphed into the United Nations.. In many ways, it was an impossible ideal but it initiated something we are still trying to do: put the pieces back together.
Like Thabo Mbeki, much later, Smuts enjoyed far greater fame and prestige overseas than he did back home where he remained a divisive figure despite his best efforts to unify the nation. Failing to read the mood of the country, he was eventually defeated at the polls in 1948 by the more hard-line, pro-segregationist National Party who took over the reins of power. It was the end of an era.
In charting his astonishing career, Steyn does an excellent job in rescuing Smuts and restoring him to his rightful place in history. Although largely admiring of the man’s achievements, he does not spare us his failings: he could be aloof and high-handed, paternalistic and patronising. Although far-sighted in other matters, he never really got to grips or acted decisively on the race issue
Deeply researched, but light of touch and rich in insight, Steyn succeeds in performing one of the main duties of a historian (and a journalist for that matter): he provides a highly readable narrative.
Published by Jonathan Ball
As Governor of the Cape and High Commissioner of South Africa, Alfred Milner was a man who cast a long shadow and it is largely as a result of his, often devious, machinations that the country came to exist in its current form.
Having already written several acclaimed books on the era, including one on Louis Botha as well as the recently re-released Jan Smuts: Man of Greatness, Richard Steyn – a previous editor of the Witness – is the ideal candidate to resuscitate and re-examine Milner’s contribution and place in history. While researching and writing his recent series of books, Steyn has acquired a terrific knowledge of the subject and in Milner: Last of the Empire Builders he tackles the political circumstances, the personalities and the rationale behind their actions.
Sent to South Africa to try and resolve the heightening tensions between the Boers and the Uitlanders in the Transvaal, Milner was and remains a controversial figure. Entrenched in his belief in English racial superiority he was, as some commentators have mentioned, the wrong man to handle the country’s complex, multi-layered, problems. In negotiations, he showed little concern to appease grievances or try and bridge the gap between the two camps. Driven by his messianic belief in Empire his overriding aim was to unite the whole of Southern Africa under British rule.
What seems beyond doubt is that he was ready to go to war to achieve this goal and thanks to a bit of political skulduggery on his part he achieved just this. It soon emerged, however, that he had misjudged his adversary and instead of the hoped-for quick, decisive victory what he got was a long, clumsy, chaotically fought campaign that left him a detested figure in the eyes of the Boers, for whom he never showed any real sympathy.
As a man, Milner embodied a contradiction. A brilliant scholar, he could be warm, personable and charming (although he married late he seems to have been popular with women) but when it came to his life work he could, as an imperialist ideologue, be arrogant, haughty and single-minded. Convinced of his rightness and confident in his powers of persuasion he was not easily swayed from his chosen course of action.
He was hardly exceptional in his crusading zeal. Nowadays, it has become quite commonplace to look upon Empire as a bad thing but back then a whole generation of, often very gifted, young men grew up believing themselves to be the true heirs to the Romans and considered it their duty, as Englishmen, to bring civilization to decadent or barbarian people – by whatever means necessary.
(An irreverent aside: it has been observed elsewhere that the rise and fall of the British Empire coincided with that of the British moustache so it is interesting to see that most of the main protagonists in this book – Milner, Lord Roberts, Kitchener – all sported very fine examples of these).
After he left South Africa, Milner’s vision of a unified South Africa was partly realised by the group of carefully selected young administrators he left behind him – his Kindergarten as they came to be known. Back in England, he remained a prominent and respected public figure although not without his detractors. Steyn makes a convincing case that, as War Secretary in Lloyd George’s five-man War Cabinet, he played an instrumental role in shaping an Allied victory. In so doing, he not only cemented his legacy but partly redeemed himself for whatever damage he may have done to his reputation in his often high-handed handling of the South African crisis.
In writing about his achievements, Steyn has found a single life that illuminates a dark chapter. For any biographer, it is a fascinating story but the author is exceptional in bringing not only a thorough knowledge but also an elegant style and a gift for narrative,
In the same week that Eskom implemented yet another round of load shedding, the Msunduzi Municipality announced it had assigned a team to investigate what was suspected to be a coordinated campaign to sabotage its electricity and water infrastructure. Ongoing outages caused by a persistent lack of investment in maintenance further added to the problems, continuing to cripple an already battered local economy.
The KwaZulu-Natal Department of Economic Development, Tourism and Environmental Affairs (Edca) revealed that while 97 rhinos were poached in 2021, a startling 60 rhinos were killed between January 1 and March 25 this year. Ezemvelo KZN Wildlife blamed budget constraints for the inadequate resources to curb the scourge. Meanwhile, COGTA MEC, Sipho Hlomuka announced additional support measures – including an amount of R25 million – for the embattled Msunduzi Municipality, still struggling to address crippling electricity supply problems and growing pothole challenges.
According to the latest data from the Central Energy Fund, petrol and diesel prices looked set for large increases in the first week of June. Grain prices also sky-rocketed on the back of shortage fears also brought about, in part, by the ongoing conflict in Ukraine.
Nature’s wrath struck again as the second bout of floods damaged homes and infrastructure in parts of KwaZulu-Natal. The weekend’s heavy rains came as many of the April flood victims were still trying to rebuild their lives while others searched for their loved ones who had been washed away.
Businesses and consumers would have to tighten their belts as the recent fuel price hikes were predicted to have a devastating effect on everyone. They would also have an effect on the country’s repo rate as the government struggled to rein in rising inflation.
Questions were raised about whether President Cyril Ramaphosa was involved in criminal behaviour after former SSA director-general Arthur Fraser opened a criminal case against him. Fraser alleged that Presidential Protection Unit head Major-General Wally Rhoode and Ramaphosa were involved in a cover-up of a burglary on the president’s farm in 2020.
The public furore over the burglary of alleged millions from President Cyril Ramaphosa’s Limpopo farm just before the ANC holds it its crucial provincial conference has left his enemies in the ANC – mostly the Jacob Zuma-aligned RET faction – scenting blood. A delegation of secretaries and chairpersons from all eleven of KwaZulu-Natal’s regions immediately descended on Nkandla to confer and receive “wisdom” from the former president.
The four-and-a-half-year State Capture Enquiry finally came to an end when Chief Justice Raymond Zondo released the final part of his voluminous report. Former president Jacob Zuma, who condemned South Africa to state capture, remained the golden thread running throughout the report although Zondo also said that President Cyril Ramaphosa could have done more to lessen its grip.
It is not news that classical liberalism is under assault, across the globe, from both the political right and left. In an age when the dumbness of many plays into the hands of the scheming few it has become the convenient whipping post for populists (as well as social theorists) everywhere.
In this devastatingly reasonable critique, Francis Fukuyama lays out the case for the defence of what he prefers to call “humane liberalism” and explains why it would not be a good idea to ditch it at this point. Fundamental to his argument is that it is a doctrine of moderation, a means of governing over diversity and in its purest form it prioritises public-spiritedness, tolerance, open-mindedness and active engagement in public affairs
His belief in liberalism does not blind him to its shortcomings, past and present. As he puts it – if liberalism is to be preserved as a form of government, we need to understand the reasons it has generated opposition and criticism. As an example, Fukuyama admits that the neo-liberal policies that became dominant in the 1970s were not an unqualified success. Amongst other things, it led to excessive inequality and financial instability. As a result, life got harder for most people.
In admitting this, however, he takes issue with those critics of the system who insist that liberalism must lead inevitably to neoliberalism and an exploitive form of capitalism. He shows how, historically, liberal societies have, in many cases, been engines of economic growth, creators of new technologies, and producers of vibrant arts and culture
He also acknowledges that the checks and balances that liberal regimes place on the exercise of power prevents radical redistribution of power and wealth – but then counters that by pointing out these same checks and balances prevent autocratic abuses of power.
In taking us on this fascinating journey through the history of liberal thought, Fukuyama displays a masterly understanding of his subject and in a book that combines scholarship with readability, he proves himself to be the perfect guide. Even when dealing with the more abstruse theoretical positions, he never reveals anything but a lively and compassionate engagement with the subject matter.
Fukuyama is probably shouting across too great a gulf to win over anti-liberal nationalists and authoritarians of the Putin, Orban, Erdogan and Trump mould – to say nothing of our disgraced ex-president Jacob Zuma and his RET crowd – but in the increasingly polarised and uncertain times we live in the books release could hardly have been more timely – or pertinent.
Published by Basic Books
The constitutional guarantee of individual freedom of religion and speech lies at the very heart of Western rationalism and democracy. As developed by thinkers like Locke, Mill, Thomas Paine and others, the liberal notions that underpin it have proved the most effective antidote to tyranny and arbitrary injustice.
In the last few decades, though, it has found itself very much on the back foot. Not only has liberalism become the scapegoat of contemporary political and cultural discourse but the whole concept of Free Speech has come under increasing question and threat. The belief that it is now a moribund ideology has been given further traction by the advent of the new communication technology which has given access to those previously unheard and in the process amplified division, sown distrust, and unleashed a flood of unmediated disinformation (and hate speech) and eroded trust in public institutions.
No less a figure than Barack Obama has warned that an unrestrained internet and social media pose “the single biggest threat to our democracy”. It is a claim that is being echoed around the world by others.
The argument that free speech breaks down respect for authority is, however, one that has been used countless times before by the ruling elite and is one we still need to be very wary of according to author Jacob Mchangama. A telling reminder of just how fragile the liberal political order is, his book,Free Speech: A Global History from Socrates to Social Media, offers an admirable historical summary of how we got to our current position, the sacrifices that have been made along the way and why we should fear the forces of reaction and repression.
Although its roots go back far in time, it was the ancient Athenians, of course, who first made the right to free speech an inherent part of their political system and civic culture (although women, foreigners and slaves were specifically excluded). During the Middle Ages, it was, interestingly enough, in the Islamic world where the ideas of the Greeks were rediscovered and where a more fruitful environment existed for the cultivation and dissemination of rationalist philosophy and science. In Europe, it was a different story. For centuries the continent remained in the grip of despotic powers, such as the church, the nobility and various absolute monarchs, all of them intent on preserving their hold over their subjects and not having their authority questioned. Here and there, however, and in ever-increasing numbers, people began to challenge the prevailing orthodoxies. For these free thinkers, government existed not to preserve privileges but to advance the equal rights and freedoms of the people.
Mchangama extols some of the early pioneers and intellectual heroes in this struggle for the freedom of conscience. He stresses, for example, the role played by the invention of the Gutenburg Press in spreading new ideas and of Martin Luther whose proclamations ushered in the Reformation even though, later on, he came to regret the forces he had unleashed.
Not surprisingly, Mchangama devotes a fair amount of space to that great document of liberalism, the US Constitution. On the flip side, he also shows how The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen that launched the French Revolution gave way, in turn to the Reign of Terror.
Mchangama concludes his book with an extended warning about the growing abuse of power and how our hard-won liberties are being eroded around the world, even in countries once seen as bulwarks of freedom, like the United States and Britain. He makes a strong point and one we ignore at our peril.
Ignoring warnings that a massive cold front was headed in the same direction I packed my backpack and, full of optimism for the journey ahead, headed south to join a group of equally intrepid hikers who were planning to hike the Mtentu section of South Africa’s iconic Wild Coast. Organised by local adventurers, Ian and Mandy Tyrer, it was a journey I had done the previous year (see Stidy’s Eye) but this time around we had decided to reverse the order – instead of walking from the Wild Coast Sun to Mtentu we would hire a local taxi to Mtentu and walk back from there.
We opted to use the small coastal resort of Trafalgar as our staging post because of its close proximity to our starting point. The next morning we all gathered in the Wild Coast Sun’s underground car park. It was an interesting mix of faces and personalities that milled around, most of them – like me – well past the first flush of youth. They seemed a mellow bunch – not given to postures, prepared to accept what lay ahead. Over the next few days I would get to know them better, the quiet and the talkative, the funny and the serious.
There were two bakkies into which we all squashed, like peas in a pod. Promptly, at seven, we were off, initially on tar and then down a rude dirt track. The road was in an awful state, made even worse by the recent April floods but at least the drivers were considerate edging their vehicles cautiously through the washed-out sections and all the ruts and bumps. It didn’t help. About halfway through the journey, the front vehicle ground to a stuttering halt, plumes of white smoke belching out of its cab. A fan belt had broken. The drivers remained completely unperturbed by this turn of events. Within fifteen minutes they had miraculously conjured up a replacement vehicle, seemingly out of nowhere, and leaving the broken truck parked in someone’s backyard we were off again to our destination, still several hours off.
Breakdown…
Our accommodation for the next two nights at Mtentu was a prefab – the Fishin’ Shack – run by the friendly, effervescent Kelly Hein and set amidst a scattering of huts and brick and cement buildings, huddled together as if for mutual protection from the elements, their interiors smoky from cooking fire. On the other side of the sagging fence that marked off our bit of turf, a large hairy black pig snuffled around looking for edible items. An assortment of chickens, dogs, goats, cattle and even a solitary horse also milled about, using the walls and roof overhangs for shelter from the rigours of the climate. The resident old woman shuffled past off to perform her daily chores while a gaggle of kids giggled and chatted and played games with one another. On the top of the hill, alongside, stood the local shebeen from which the occasional burst of drunken hilarity emanated.
I was delighted to be back.
That afternoon, with the sky blackening and curdling around me, my hiking companion and I took a stroll down to the nearby Pebble Beach. Halfway down the hill, a grey cat decided to join us and then, a bit later, changed its mind and wandered back. A dog came bursting out of a yard, yapping its head off. Women with large bundles of wood on their heads strode through fields along slender paths. We carried on down the path to where a brown, brackish sea lapped against a beach littered with storm debris and driftwood and piles of multi-coloured stones scattered across the beach like an assortment of Smarties tossed aside by some rich giant’s spoilt, thoughtless kid.
Pebble Beach.
I had promised my sister I would collect a few of these beautifully smooth pebbles to place on the grave of her much-loved dog who had recently died. I was certainly spoiled for choice. but made a selection, just glad that this time I wouldn’t have to carry them all back (we had arranged with the taxi owners to carry our gear for us).
With the sun – or what we could make out of it – about to go down we hurried back. Huge clouds were beginning to stack themselves in the south.
The approaching storm...
That night, the predicted rain duly arrived, sheeting down something awful on the corrugated roof under which I lay. There had been no bed available for me inside the shack and so I had made a little home for myself in the corner of the stoep. Sleep was out of the question as I stretched out in my sleeping bag on its cold hard floor with the wind periodically gusting fine sprays of rain onto my face.
Towards dawn, the storm gradually faded away but I could hear the steady pounding of the waves against the rocks on the seashore down below us. In my drowsy state, they sounded like a medieval army on the march. As my consciousness flickered between sleeping and waking, some lines from Matthew Arnold’s On Dover Beach slunk into my head.
Listen! You hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence, slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
In this famous poem, the sea symbolises religious faith with the poet acknowledging the diminished standing of Christianity, unable to withstand the rising tide of scientific discovery. The cycle of belief and unbelief. More than that, the poem is about the battle against darkness, something which seemed to me as relevant now as it was back then.
As I watched the rain dripping off the roof, I reworked the poem’s lines through my imagination, adjusting the sentiments to our present time. With war raging in Ukraine, there was little doubt about the nature of these modern demons. Like the poet himself, I was overcome by a sense of sadness at the pointlessness and mass stupidity of it all:
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
But there was no time to brood. It was time to get up. There were lots to explore. Our team leader decided he wanted to check the size of the river we would be crossing the next day so I volunteered to join him.
The sky was full of biliousness, the clouds unable to decide what shape they wanted to be. Out over the sea, wisps of mist were chasing one another. Every now and again the odd squall of rain would hit us but with nothing like the intensity of the night before.
We walked on. The land rolled and sloped away down to the sea with the occasional hunched tree sticking its head above the sun-burnished grass. Scattered over the hillsides were the odd settlements and small groves of Pondo palms. A flock of goats came striding purposefully by, off in search of the day’s grazing, studiously ignoring us as they went. Two black bulls nudged one another in mock combat, trampling the grass underfoot.
The sun was cutting through the cloud and sending golden bars dancing on the sea surface as we made our way down a grass embankment, that was oozing water from all the rain to the fat, curling river. Several cows were grazing along its banks.
With its treacherous currents, hidden reefs and unpredictable weather the Wild Coast has, over the centuries, provided a graveyard for countless ships – and, sure enough, lying on the beach, on the side of the estuary, were the skeletal remains of one such vessel. Some aspiring graffiti artist had painted a skull on its boiler. It seemed an oddly apt metaphor. Good artwork too.
Old wreck.
Having satisfied ourselves that the river was fordable, we set off back.
In the afternoon I elected to walk to the viewpoint that provides a panoramic view over the Mtentu Gorge. With cliffs that tower above the river, it is a compelling sight. Just to the left of where we stood a beautifully clear side river tumbled over a series of steps and then fell down into the main river. At the base of the cliff and along the gorge slopes grew a dense mass of vegetation, the trees and bushes crowding together, pressing out over the water to gather the direct and reflected sunlight. In front of them, Mangrove trees stood in the saline shallows. I spotted a pair of Egyptian Geese having a domestic quarrel on a spit of sand way below and then several Trumpeter Hornbill came flapping heavily over the forest canopy, shattering the peace with their extraordinary calling. As if on cue, an Eastern Olive Sunbird piped in with its far more tuneful little melody.
Standing on the edge of the cliff, looking along the river and then out to the choppy sea gave me an extraordinary uplifting feeling, one that immediately banished from my mind the sense of impending doom I had felt earlier on. For me, God is the Great Outdoors and the view certainly made me feel like I had ascended to a loftier plane of being. Here, surely, was the real meaning of holiness?
The Mtentu river and gorge.
Back at the Fishin’ Shack, I discovered we had been befriended by a dog. Because of her gentle, trusting, respectful nature, she was immediately dubbed Lady. The owner of the Fishin’Shack asked us if we would mind taking her back to her rightful home – our next stop along the way? Having all developed a deep fondness for the animal, we could hardly refuse.
Lady the Dog who became our constant travelling companion.
Lady seemed excited at the prospect of joining us, slotting in happily behind us as we set off the next day. Hiking along a beach like this, you soon settle into a steady rhythm. Behind me, I could hear a steady stream of chatter but I was content to be alone with my own lonely, mystical thoughts. We walked, hour upon hour, along the shoreline with all its shifting moods and then up over roller-coaster hills which led us, eventually, through the strangest of apparitions – a Mars-like, small red desert. For a moment it made me wonder if our host had slipped something into my meal which was now causing me to hallucinate? A desert? Here?
The shoreline – in all its shifting moods.
The stark beauty of these dunes could prove their undoing. The reason the sand is so red is that it contains titanium. Loads of the stuff. And several rapacious, international, mining companies are keen to get their hands on it even if it means destroying this undeveloped slice of paradise in the process.
The Red Desert
The Pondo, who have lived here for generations and see themselves as stewards of the land, have opposed any attempt to let them do so. Instead of siding with them, which would seem the morally right thing to do, the Government has, in the past, tended to back the mining corporations (just as it recently did with Shell’s plans to carry out seismic surveys off the Wild Coast). When it comes to the exploitation of natural resources and the possibility of making a massive profit, the noble principles on which the ruling party were founded and which were so well articulated by Nelson Mandela seem to have been quickly forgotten.
Once again my thoughts returned to On Dover Beach and the cold evil flooding every corner of the world. Greed.
We trudged on, Lady still trotting uncomplainingly behind us. Eventually, a raggle-taggle of brightly-coloured huts set up on a ridge dotted with strange rock formations and small ravines came into view. This was our final night’s accommodation. Just beyond it, lay the Mnyameni River gorge (with its stunning waterfall) where we would go for sundowners that evening.
Our final night’s accommodation.
We were a little disconcerted to discover, however, that there had been a misunderstanding. This was not Lady’s home. Nor was the owner in a position to adopt her. So a member of the group nobly offered to do just that. Lady, the rural Transkei hound, was now Hilton bound and about to discover a whole new level in healthcare and lifestyle.
My luck was running in the opposite direction. I had begun, by now, to realise I was seriously unwell. Somewhere along the way, I had picked up a chest infection. Feeling poorly, I retired to bed early that night. Unable to sleep, I lay in my tent and looked out into the star-smattered sky, as a bright, luminous moon rose out of the sea, looking like a large tangerine (Where the ebb meets the moon-blanch’d sand – Arnold again). The air smelt slightly wet and tainted with the faintest taste of wood smoke.
The next morning was warm and welcoming with not a cloud in sight as we set out on the final leg of the hike, taking Lady with us. She seemed pleased at the prospect. So did I. Energy levels can rise and flag on a strenuous journey like this but right now – wonky chest notwithstanding – I felt good. In the early morning glow, the countryside looked radiant, and the sea was as wild and dramatic as any romantic painter of scenes such as this could have hoped for. The waves were collapsing and wheezing along the shingle. I was excited to spot a Black Oystercatcher, ferreting around in the rock pools as the sea thundered behind it. Up until then, I had been a little disappointed by how few birds I had seen.
Black Oystercatcher.
The whole scene was wonderfully free of the crass commercialisation that typifies so much of the South African coastline although there was plenty of that just to the north. I was happy to cling to the illusion there wasn’t.
With the sun growing increasingly hotter in a brilliant blue sky, some of my earlier enthusiasm began, as the waves alongside me, to flow away as we toiled on along the beach. By now my face was as pink as a prawn from my laboured breathing and the physical exertion. There was to be no easy let off. Because of all the rain, we were unable to ford the Mzamba river at its mouth as was the normal custom and were forced to make a long detour inland to another crossing point upstream.
The hike to the top was steep, hot and seemingly endless but eventually, we staggered to the edge of the gorge. Then we plunged down a track that looked like it had been designed by a committee of goats to the river below which we crossed via a suspension bridge. The last few kilometres back to the Wild Coast Sun were sheer hell. My feet ached and thanks to my infected chest, my breath came out in slow, asthmatic gasps. My throat felt like I had accidentally swallowed a roll of sandpaper and it had got stuck there. As I hobbled into the parking area I felt like some ancient pilgrim who had just been forced to pay penance for his sins.
The final stretch…
Judging by my fatigued state, I must have sinned a lot too. As I flopped down, exhausted, I reckoned I had purged the whole lot from my soul.
Inside the parking lot, it was a tender moment watching Lady driving off to her new home where we knew she would be well-loved and taken care of. Then it was our turn to drive out of the gate and I found myself shaken to be plunged back into a tumult of traffic headed north to Durban. After our three day hike, during which we had not encountered another soul on the beach, I found it quite unnerving. What could be more depressingly different than driving down a motorway? I drew comfort, though, that somewhere, far away from the shrieking commotion, lay the healing magic of waves crashing on a deserted shore…
GALLERY:
Seascapes
Village Life
More Village Life
The Passing Scene
Lady gets a helping hand…Lady enjoying the sunset…
As international tensions rocketed over the invasion of Ukraine, Russia reminded South Africa about its own role in the fight against apartheid. Earlier, International Relations minister Naledi Pandor called on Russia to withdraw but appeared to be then overruled by President Cyril Ramaphosa, supported by the ANC, who called for mediation – not withdrawal – creating tension among the political leadership and uncertainty surrounding South Africa’s official stance on the conflict.
Disruption in water and electricity supply in Msunduzi Municipality continued to keep both residents and businesses at their wit’s end. The outgoing municipal manager, Mdoda Kathide, admitted the city is now in a state of disaster while the Pietermaritzburg and Midlands Chamber of Business (PMCB) said it was in economic ruin.
uMngeni Municipality is owed R2,5million by government departments with most debts sitting on over 90 days. Democratic Alliance Mayor Chris Pappas, who has been vocal about money owed to the municipality, urged residents to pay their accounts “to help bring the long-waited change in uMngeni Municipality.
Opposition parties blamed the governing ANC – particularly the fumbling Department of Home Affairs – for the recent rise of xenophobia, exemplified by groups like Operation Dudula. The matter was being debated in Parliament.
There was a rapid increase in the cost of the household food basket in KwaZulu-Natal according to the Pietermaritzburg Economic Justice and Dignity Group (PMBEJD). “The surge in the Brent crude oil price (which is an output in everything from the farm to the plate) including the higher cost of wheat, sunflower oil and other foods and agricultural outputs which South Africa imports, will drive prices up as the conflict in Ukraine continues,” said Mervyn Abrahams, the PMBEJD programme coordinator.
Msunduzi Municipality’s proposed rates and tariff hikes were met with fierce opposition from residents who said they were “excessive” and “unjustifiable”. They pointed out that service delivery and maintenance of infrastructure had deteriorated significantly over the last several years and residents had been forced to deal with these issues themselves rather than wait for council.
Addressing the nation on the government’s response to the catastrophic floods which have devastated parts of KwaZulu-Natal and the Eastern Cape, President Cyril Ramaphosa said the Finance Minister had made R1billion available to go towards rebuilding the affected areas. Instead of gratitude, the announcement was met with an overwhelming cynicism with most people believing the money will simply be stolen – as had happened during the Covid-19 pandemic.
With a fifth Covid-19 wave approaching, the Department of Health said it was keeping an eye out for new variants of concern. The warning came at a time when Covid fatigue had resulted in many disregarding the health protocols that are meant to protect them from the virus.
I grew up in an era notable for its love of musical novelty. A new assertive youth culture had come to the fore and their desire to push back the boundaries and challenge middle class values was reflected in the sort of music they listened to. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who and other British invasion groups had gone back to the roots of American music, reinterpreted it, and fed it back to an eager audience. In the US, itself there was also regrouping and experimentation which led to an explosion of sounds – folk- rock, psychedelic rock, country rock, jazz-rock, progressive rock, Southern rock, hard rock and heavy metal.
Stuck in my remote corner of the former British Empire, I lapped it all up. In the stifling atmosphere of conservative Rhodesian boarding school life, it filled a void and opened up as a whole web of influences and reactions. It was my ticket into a more exciting world.
When I moved on to university I started to listen to even more kinds of things and one song led me to another. I loved nothing more than ducking into a record shop and spending hours browsing through album covers looking for new artists, as well as ones I was already a fan of.
The first album I ever bought……and the second…and some others I bought.
Over the many years that have passed since then, rock music has continued to transform and evolve, not always for the better. Inevitably, it has been affected by changes in technology, media and demographics. More and more rock music has become a business. The old spirit of youthful rebellion has now mostly gone.
In American music folklore, it was, of course, the legendary Delta bluesman, Robert Johnson, who sold his soul at a crossroads to learn how to play the guitar. In his book, The Mansion on the Hill: Dylan, Young, Geffen and Springsteen and the Head-On Collision of Rock and Commerce, author Fred Goodman argues that a similar fate befell the entire rock n’ roll industry in the early seventies when the counter-culture movement allowed itself to be hijacked by the marketing men and bond dealers, losing, in the process, not only its old spirit of adventure but most of its more naïve illusions about itself as a force for social change.
As Goodman writes: “The underground scene started in earnest when rock assumed the mantle of meaning and intent from folk music, and it was founded on a search for authenticity and an explicit rejection of consumerism and mainstream values.” The man who played a pivotal role in this crossover of musical styles was a scrawny, young singer with a high nasal whine who passed by the name of Bob Dylan.
Dylan marked a turning point. Before him, most rock singers confined themselves to singing about such traditional adolescent concerns as “dancing or driving or teenage love lost and found”. Not only did Dylan bring a new thematic weight to his songs but he gave rock a sense of moral purpose and a direction it had never had before. The new music confounded all the old stereotypes with its sense of aesthetic urgency and pointed social comment.
Where Dylan led the way, others followed. In his book, Goodman focuses on a handful of the more influential of these – in particular Neil Young and, later, Bruce Springsteen – although there are a whole host of others one could easily add to the list.
In Goodman’s view, however, Springsteen marks a departure. Heralded as the keeper of the flame, “the Boss” – as he was nicknamed – was savvy enough to retain the air of rebelliousness that has always been such an ingrained part of rock’s appeal but he also benefited from having a very shrewd manager, in the intellectual Jon Landau, who knew just how to market him. “Colombia did not ‘make’ Dylan,’ Goodman writes. “His reputation owed everything to his artistic genius…Springsteen, the merits of his music notwithstanding, was quite a different story. By the ’70s the record companies had recognised the massive commercial rewards that the music had to offer, and they learned a great deal about how to sell it.”
These days it seems highly unlikely that anyone musician or band will ever again have the enormous influence of a Dylan or the Beatles or become so universally known as to be able to unite a generation. There are several reasons for this. The proliferation of dedicated TV channels and radio stations, as well as modern marketing techniques, has ensured that music is now divided into a whole series of sub-genres each with a specific audience that is ferociously targeted.
The internet has further changed the nature of celebrity. Like everything else, music has become fragmented in our social media-saturated society with a whole galaxy of stars vying for our attention. With music having become so niched, it is thus possible for a musician to have millions of followers on, say, the video-sharing YouTube but remain completely unknown to a large section of the population. With algorithms confining, defining and determining our tastes and “suggesting” what we should be listening to, there is even less chance of you hearing something you didn’t expect to hear or to cross over from one musical boundary into another.
The nature of fame has become more fleeting, illusory and superficial. Joni Mitchell, one of the ground-breaking singer-songwriters Goodman writes approvingly about in his book, expressed this well when she recently said: “I heard someone from the music business saying they are no longer looking for talent, they want people with a certain look and willingness to cooperate. I thought that’s interesting because I believe a total unwillingness to cooperate is what is necessary to be an artist – not for perverse reasons but to protect your vision. The considerations of a corporation, especially now, have nothing to do with art or music. That’s why I spend my time now painting.”
With the Covid-19 pandemic shutting down music venues and stadiums, the reliance on social media as a way of accessing and listening to music has grown even more pronounced. It has been estimated that lockdown has boosted streaming by 22% as more and more people resort to passive listening at home. Rather than bringing people together, as it once did, music now keeps them apart. As Duncan McLean sadly notes, in his otherwise highly entertaining, book, Lone Star Swing: “Music doesn’t change people’s lives today…it confirms the life you’ve already chosen, or had chosen for you.”
REFERENCES:
The Mansion on the Hill: Dylan, Young, Geffen, Springsteen and the Head-on Collision of Rock and Commerce by Fred Goodman (published by Jonathan Cape, London).
Lone Star Swing by Duncan McLean (published by Jonathan Cape, London)
For most of my life, I have lived with uncertainty although I have not always been consciously aware of it.
Indeed, as a child, growing up in a remote part of Rhodesia’s the Eastern Highlands my world seemed as secure as the mountains that surrounded our farm. With a sweat-stained hat on my head, veld skoens on my feet and wearing the regulation khaki shirts and shorts that had got too worn from continual use to take back to school, I would set out in the early morning, a gun cradled in the crook of my arm. In front of me, the farm dogs would range freely back and forth, panting happily. They were not trained to hunt but were still good at flushing out the birds, sending them clattering into the skies, a trail of feathers and bitching noise drifting behind them.
Returning home with Bonzo the Pointer.Feeding the cattle on our Nyanga farm. Mt Muozi in background.
Often I forgot that I had come to shoot, striding cheerfully across the bush through waist-high grass and leaping over rocks and feeling my life ahead of me while all the worlds ‘birds seemed to be calling. Sometimes I would disturb a duiker or startle a small herd of kudu or see a klipspringer peering down at me from some tall pillar of rock but I felt too exulted by their presence to want to put an end to their lives.
I always found the bush a good place to go to when I was upset or needed to sort out my feelings about the world.
Our local radio station and the occasional newspaper we bought did, of course, give us some inkling of the ferment and tensions created by new ideas and awakened hopes but, at that stage, these “troubles” seemed to be confined mainly to the cities and urban areas. Walking on my own across the farm I never felt a moment’s uneasiness.
The fact that I would shortly be witness to the last days of White Rhodesia did not occur to me. Nor did I realise how beleaguered the farming community would soon become, with farmhouses turned into mini-fortresses, equipped with Agric-alerts and surrounded by security fences, while their owners rode around heavily armed over dirt roads that frequently had land-mines buried in them.
The reality of what lay in store would, however, hit home when I received my call-up papers.
My drafting into the Rhodesian Territorial Army on the 3rd January 1972, came at an auspicious moment in the country’s history.
A fortnight earlier, ZANLA forces had launched what would become known as the second chimurenga war (the first being the 1896 Shona uprising against white colonial rule) with an attack on Marc de Borchgrave’s d’Altena farm in the Centenary district during the course of which his nine-year-old daughter, Jane, received a slight wound in the foot.
Although there had been several military incursions in the 1960s from neighbouring Zambia these had been easily dealt with by the Rhodesian Security Forces leading most whites to believe that the country’s small defence force could defeat any conventional invasion or guerilla infiltration.
While hardly a resounding military success in itself, the attack on de Borchgrave’s farm signalled a new phase in the war of liberation, one that saw both a change in direction and a gradual intensification of the conflict. The liberation army had obviously learnt from their previous mistakes. Avoiding direct confrontation with the enemy they now employed classic hit-and-run tactics, attacking white farms, mining dirt roads and going all out to undermine the government’s authority and hold over the tribes’ people.
The growing fears about the country’s security led, in turn, to an increasing militarization of civilian life.
It was my bad luck, too, to be called up for the army (Intake 129) just as the government decided to increase the initial period of service from nine months to one year in response to the growing threat. For me, that extra three months was destined to seem like an eternity.
Waking up in the bush. National Service 1973.
This was only the beginning. Between 1974 and 1975, the years after I completed my National Service, worked for the District Commissioner’s Office in Wedza and then went to England for a year’s holiday, attacks on whites other than farmers still remained relatively rare. This all changed, however, with the overthrow of the government of Portugal by a junta of disillusioned officers which led, in turn, to a rapid transfer of power in Mozambique, where independence was recognised in 1975. This had the immediate effect of opening up the entire Eastern border of Rhodesia to guerilla infiltration.
Most of this area was mountainous and wild making it extremely difficult to monitor and patrol. As someone who had grown up in the area, I knew only too well, just how difficult it would be to police or stop any groups of heavily-armed soldiers from slipping undetected into the country. Because of its extreme isolation and close proximity to the border, my family made the decision to get my mother off our cattle ranch in Inyanga North, which she was then running all on her own. Although my mother was understandably reluctant to leave, it turned out to be a wise precaution because our only two neighbours were subsequently killed.
Mountainous terrain. Nyanga, Eastern Highlands.
Over the following months and years, thousands of insurgents would come pouring over the border in an escalating conflict that saw minds and bodies shattered, and many left dead. I was to discover just how much the situation had changed when I returned home from an extended holiday to England and found myself back in uniform within days of stepping off the plane.
For the purposes of this particular call-up, we were deployed to the Sipolilo (now Guruve) district, a fairly remote farming area that stretched up to the edge of the Zambezi escarpment and which was known to have been heavily infiltrated by ZANLA guerrillas. Arriving at our base camp – an old farmhouse that had been recently abandoned by its occupants after they had been subjected to several attacks – our major wasted little time in sending us into action. At 10 o’clock that night we clambered aboard the waiting convoy of trucks and headed off, under the cover of darkness, into the white commercial farmland. To keep the element of surprise on our side we were dropped off at another deserted farm homestead and then proceeded to march, in single file and as silently as we could, along an old footpath that led us deep into the adjacent Tribal Trust Land.
The track wound up through great blocks of granite fringed with trees and across the dusty stubble of ancient mielie fields. As I walked I tried to empty my mind of everything except what I could see and hear around me. I had no desire to be caught with my defences down. Despite growing fatigue, I was aware of the adrenaline coursing through my body.
Every now and again a breeze would spring up and I would smell the smoke drifting across the veld from countless wood fires. There was something both eerie and beautiful about the night. The moon was vanishing behind the distant hills but everywhere the dogs were barking. High up on a ridge ahead of us we could make out the dim shapes of a group of conical-shaped huts. As we got closer the phantom dogs, picking up our scent, grew more hysterical, breaking into a series of short, angry yelps.
Drawing alongside the hut line, a dark figure suddenly emerged from the central brick building, paused, looked carefully about and then stepped quietly and purposefully towards where we had all ground to a stop. To our collective astonishment, he then proceeded to call out the archaic challenge: “Halt! Who goes there?”
In a different, more chivalrous, age this might have been an appropriate response. In this war, it was signing your own death warrant. Not needing any further prompting we all dived for cover. There was a moment’s silence and then all hell broke loose as the fire of thirty rifles was bought to bear on the sentry who had called our bluff.
As the mass of lead buzzed towards them, a group of dimly lit figures came spilling out of the huts and darted for cover from whence they began to return fire at us. Lying low on the ground I fired off several volleys of my own even though I had nothing clear to aim at.
And then there was silence once more. I gripped my rifle and lifted my head carefully above the grassy verge, on the side of the path, behind which I had tried to conceal myself. I could see no sign of movement. At the platoon commander’s say so we rose and moved forward cautiously, in extended line, through the settlement but it soon became obvious that the enemy had fled. We decided to clear out of the area as quickly as we could and find a good defensive position in case they returned with retribution on their mind.
Floundering around in the impenetrable darkness our stick somehow managed to get detached from the remainder of the group. Realising it would be dangerous to keep moving blindly around we opted to stay put and hide as best we could in the surrounding bush.
Lying half concealed in a grove of trees, my ears tuned to any sounds that might indicate what was out there waiting for us, the cold reality of my situation began to sink in. It was a strange sensation – as if time had suddenly stopped and the past had become as irrelevant as the future. I found it hard to believe that only a week before I had been sitting in the dim-lit, cosy Red Barn pub near South Godstone sipping pints of English bitter, reflecting on how good life was while listening to rock music.
Hoping to provoke a reaction, the guerillas fired off a few mortars in our general direction. After what seemed like an eternity – actually only a few seconds – I heard the flat blap! blap! of their explosions as they landed harmlessly, some distance from where I lay huddled in a ball. Shortly afterwards a machine began to traverse but again it seemed they had no real idea where we were. Not wanting to give away our position, for fear of attracting a more accurate barrage, we refrained from returning fire.
This was to be but the first of several contacts we had over the next six weeks of intense patrolling through this remote, chequerboard landscape of hills and fields and villages. What I saw was enough to convince me that the war had become a whole different ball game from what I had previously experienced and that the insurgents had established a big foothold in the country. I also realised that this was but a warm-up for what lay ahead as we desperately tried to hold the front line. This war was not going to be over any time soon and I knew many similar call-ups and a lot of intense fighting lay ahead…
And so it proved to be.
About to head off on another call-up…On call-up at Hoya, Zambesi Valley. I think this was the only time I ever wore a helmet.
On the 21st December 1979, the seventh anniversary of the attack on Altena Farm, the end finally came into sight with the signing of the Lancaster House Agreement by all parties. In terms of the agreed-to cease-fire, the Rhodesia security forces were to be confined to their bases while the Patriotic Front was supposed to bring all their forces into the proposed sixteen Assembly Points which would be administered by the British Monitoring Force.
Edgy and distrustful, the guerilla forces, initially at least, showed little inclination to enter their designated AP’s fearing, no doubt, that if they did they would be providing a perfect target for the Rhodesian Air force. For a while it looked like the whole operation might be doomed to failure. Despite the supposed ceasefire attacks on civilian targets also continued.
It was also becoming increasingly obvious that many of those entering the APs were not genuine guerrillas but ‘mujibhas’ (collaborators) and that their more experienced troops had been instructed to remain at large in the countryside
At this crucial point, the British Monitoring Force who had been tasked with ensuring an orderly and peaceful transfer of power suddenly got cold feet and decided to pull their troops out of the Assembly Points. As members of the Rhodesian Territorial Army, we were ordered to step into the breach. In a sense, we were being called upon to supervise our own defeat.
And so, in a final ironic twist, I found myself back at Mary Mount Mission (Assembly Point Charlie) in the extreme North-East corner of Rhodesia, the very place where I had had my first real encounter with the enemy back in 1973– although we had barely got there when we were given orders to redeploy to Assembly Point Alpha at Hoya in the Zambezi Valley.
Close to the Mozambique border, it was an area of intense heat and thick bush. The ZANLA forces already at the Assembly Point had taken good advantage of this, spreading themselves out, no doubt with an eye for both attack and defence, over a wide area. A few of their commanders did set up camp near us but the rest of their troops remained hidden well out of sight. Knowing they were out there somewhere, probably very suspicious and trigger-happy and with their weapons pointed towards us, was not a comforting feeling. To say we were both outnumbered and outgunned would be an understatement – there were over 1 600 ZANLA guerillas and only 26 of us, living under tents supplied by the US Army.
Assembly Point Alpha. Our entire force……versus theirs. We were outnumbered and outgunned.
Although on the surface, we were able to establish a sort of peace between us there was no escaping a deeper atmosphere of distrust and hostility. This was hardly surprising considering how long we had fought as bitter enemies. This would lead to several scary incidents – including one when I had an AK47 barrel shoved up against my head by a drug and alcohol-crazed guerilla who threatened to blow my brains out as another soldier and I were escorting him and a group of his unruly comrades down the infamous Alpha Trail. Fortunately, he toppled over backwards and passed out before he could carry out his threat
Meeting of opposing armies, Assembly Point AlphaComrade “Chippie”, officer in charge of discipline, rallies his troops. In conversation, it emerged he and I had been involved in a shoot-out earlier on in the war.
I can’t say I was sorry when it all came to an end with Robert Mugabe’s victory in the election or that, in spite of winning so many little battles, I had wound up on the losing side. Most soldiers like clarity and in the end it had become increasingly difficult to work out just what we were fighting for or hoping to achieve. I had long ago realised that we just did not have the resources or manpower to contain the conflict. Certainly, the situation on the ground wasn’t improving, in fact, it was getting worse. Nor was it possible for me to convince myself that we held the moral high ground.
I was just glad it was all over and that I had got out of it alive and in one piece. I did not have a coherent plan of what I was going to do with my future. Mostly this was because I had been so deep in the war I had closed my eyes to everything else.
All I knew was that, in the interim, I wanted to go somewhere quiet, a place where the eyes of the world might overlook me. More than anything I wanted a little peace. Bowmont – the small farm near Kadoma where my parents had recently retired to – seemed the ideal fit. For the next four years, I holed up there although my stay would be steeped in sadness because my father would finally succumb to the form of bone cancer that had ravaged his body.
Bowmont farm, Kadoma.
Much as I loved Bowmont I came to realise it was time to close this chapter of my life. And so I joined the general exodus to South Africa, knowing full well that country was also in political turmoil and that I faced an equally uncertain future down there (if I had any sense I would have left the continent but Africa has this way of gnawing itself into your soul). Driving. on my own, down that familiar road through an empty landscape where only a few years before I would have run the risk of being ambushed I found my mind drifting back to the war.
From the very outset, I had had my doubts as to the justness of our cause. Although I could never be sure whether my decision to ignore these niggling feelings was just another form of moral cowardice I had done what was expected of me.
I had stayed on through basic training, I had sweated it out in the “sharp-end”, I had resisted the temptation to stay put in England when I went over on holiday, I had remained (sort of) cool under fire. I had lost a few friends and found a few more. I had discovered how much I could take and still carry on.
The first of three volumes making findings and recommendations about state capture was officially handed to President Cyril Ramaphosa. The report put former president Jacob Zuma front and centre of the capture project saying he actively advanced the interests of the Guptas, intervening in operational matters to help them.
KwaZulu-Natal opposition parties slammed EFF leader Julius Malema for calling on the government to lift all Covid restrictions. Addressing EFF supporters in Durban Malema said the only purpose of the restrictions was to shield President Cyril Ramaphosa from his political opponents. Malema’s comments contradicted his earlier stand on the issue.
Former president Jacob Zuma continued to accuse the judiciary of being captured while he launched baseless litigation to attack the legitimacy of any process that sought to hold him accountable.
President Cyril Ramaphosa’s ongoing silence and lack of decisiveness on a wide variety of issues continued to be a cause of concern amongst commentators and the public at large. It almost seemed he was hoping that if he ignored a problem it would go away on its own.
The findings released in the second tranche of the Zondo Commission of Enquiry into Allegations of State Capture unleashed yet more shame on a government mired in charges of corruption. The report detailed how billions were extracted from Transnet and Denel but the themes from Zondo1 remained the same: ex-president Jacob Zuma was at the centre of it and the ANC helped the Gupta network.
President Cyril Ramaphosa called for unity against those who are “tearing the country apart” in a State of the Nation Address (SONA) that didn’t gloss over the myriad problems facing the country – the floundering economy, corruption, and the state’s incapacity to quell the July unrest chief amongst them. He accepted the government could have done better…
Replying to the debate over his recent SONA speech, President Cyril Ramaphosa expressed his confidence in his beleaguered cabinet. “I preside over a Cabinet of ministers that are committed to their responsibilities, minister in whom I have the greatest confidence…” he said as heckles rose up from the opposition. His blanket of approval presumably covered Police minister Bheki Cele, one of the subjects of a damning report into the July unrest, who had just been ordered to apologise for and retract unwarranted accusations he had made against EFF leader, Julius Malema.
In what has been referred to as the “darkest hour since World War II”, Russian forces unleashed an attack on Ukraine on the orders of Vladimir Putin. The invasion sparked an international outcry with UN secretary-general, Antonio Guterres, urging Putin to “give peace a chance”, amidst widespread fear it could be the start of a war in Europe on Russia’s demands for an end to NATO’s eastwards expansion.
Stidy's Eye 