Tribesmen....Hmph!

The truth is that the hidden agendas in the western media are so entrenched and widespread, it's mind-boggling!



Typical image of tribesmen

I'm talking about the fact that some people who make the news are referred to as 'tribesmen' - as in Somali tribesman - and others by their official title - Queen of England - and others by their nationality - French. This has been scratching at me for a while now.

What am I?
Do I qualify as a tribeswoman, or...no, not a queen, darem a national. The question then becomes (leaving out queens and stuff): what is the difference between a tribesman(woman) and a national. Take Somalis, for example. Since all of them are referred to as tribesmen (sic), it becomes confusing to the viewer/listener which side you are referring to. Why don't they speak of the Somali Left and Somali Right, as they do in Britain?

My main point being that the use of 'tribesman' has several implications. It generally places the person definitely 'out-there', oriental (read Said's take on this) and not 'one of us developed ones'. It creates a fairly vivid image of someone brutal, potentially dangerous, definitely troublesome. It further tinges the picture with overtones of poorly educated, well armed, poor, and radical. That's what I see when the word is usually accompanied by a photograph of a man brandishing an assault weapon. Why? Does this mean that we (everyone who is not labelled a tribesman or tribeslady - I like that one), we should fear the tribesmen?



Typical Somalian news images



Consider who uses this terminology. 'Nuff said.

















Bear with me as I go through some of the steps of my argument, or idea-gnawing:

• Who would be referred to as 'tribesmen'?                           Offhand I could only come up with the afore-mentioned Somalis, Maasai, and several (not all, please note) Africans ethnicities; Native Americans (not usually First Nations Canadians, or are they too?); Australian aborigines; South American Indians; Filipinos; Fidjians, Kurds, Mongolians ... is there a pattern showing here?
• Okay, so, given the obvious darker spectrum of skin tone in the above, is that the criterium? It doesn't seem to be the only one, since dark-skinned Londoners are not referred to as British tribesmen, although the odd Scotsman might be (tee-hee - injoke, my paternal heritage is Scottish).
• So, if skintone is not the only criterium, could it have to do with more equatorial regions being more conducive to tribesman-formation? But then, what about Mongolians and Inuit? No - that is not the explanation.
• Could it have something to do with referring to rural, not urban? This seems quite possible, but then I am rural and have been for 35 years, rural within a small rural country (Namibia). But nobody calls me tribeswoman. [In fact they also don't call me Professor or doctor, which I am, but insist on Mrs.   Oi vey.] But I digress.  The point is that rural doesn't work too well if you think about a Native American clan chief - a tribesman making a press statement - who lives in the city lincoln, Nebraska, is a lawyer, and only visits the reserve occasionally to see family. He is not rural and knows next to nothing about cattle, horses or grain.

• I'm starting to struggle here. Ethnicity and culture. That must be it. If the Omaha chieftain speaks to represent his tribe, then he's a tribesman. It also encompasses being indigenous, so I think I've got something here, except ... why don't I read about Tribeswoman(lady?) Angela Merkel, who is I'm sure, ethnically, culturally indigenous German? Then too, the Greek leaders of the new anti-immigrant party should also be Greek tribesmen speaking up in parliament. Also what about Bill Clinton, American Arkansas tribesman, or David Cameron, English tribesman?

American tribesman?
I think by now my point becomes abundantly clear. The term 'tribesman' is MEANT to be a slur, an epithet.
It is specifically used by the Western press to create fear and distrust of all the 'other' and is racist as well as religiously biased as well as capitalist.

My question: Why is this never challenged by the moral racism-watchers?

 

Thanks to various websites for images, including Emotics.com, gazelleindex.com, monamakela, Dreamstime.com and Compass Rose for the lovely Somali Pirates image.

Chickenpox, cancer and lunch guests

Some diseases like to linger. They don't bother you most of the time, but a small trigger can make you suffer when you least expect it.

Since my brush with cancer, a disease that comes and goes like a bad cold, I've become far more chilled as a person. I have also become even more of a recluse and almost never go out. Just couldn't be bothered because going out at night from the farm always involves a lot of preparation and late night returns along a bad gravel road infested with wild animals that jump into the road.

(cold sore image from internet - not me)

So it's unusual that I have recently had quite a lot of weekend visitors from out-of-country. This means cooking lots of food, which I enjoy, except under pressure. I only realized the pressure when my old but rare friend cold sores visited straight after the largest group lunch. Not just one sore but a row of blisters...not pretty! So the virus lingering in the cells after childhood chickenpox, strikes again. Most unwelcome when I still have a seminar and three meetings to attend to in the week. With an ugly bleeding sore on my lip. Eeuw.....

Just a reminder to me that cancer cells like to do the same kind of thing. It got me to thinking again.
I have now been in remission for 9 months and generally feel fine. People who saw me last year say I look fine too. But in my own mind, I find that thoughts about cancer still linger on.
How did it feel to be so sick? I remember the intense pain of chemo-shrinked tumours and difficulty of controlling body functions. I remember reaching a point where I thought I might survive, but if ever the cancer came back I wasn't going to fight. Palliative care - that's all.

I understand too, that the stress being sick gave my partner was intense, as is his current relief. The strange thing is that as soon as you are well, people expect you to be the same person you once were - that life now just goes on. But you're not, and it doesn't just go on the same way. You're probably not willing to be that previous person either. 

So I started wondering what changed during that sick period? I spent a lot of time lying around thinking, too tired to move. I had a close brush, as I had only weeks to live without the therapy (they said).
And I realize now that what changed was - that I kind of gave up. Yes, I know, one isn't allowed to say that or even think that, but it's true. I enjoy some things better than in the past, because I see many things as temporary now. I'm more selfish in a way, because I'm not willing to do what I don't think is 'good' for me. Good being something that either gives pleasure or makes me a better person.

Close friends and family - deal with it! No Calivinism around here.


(Image from Wikipedia)

A lovely young singer I met with yesterday told me that since her father recovered from his prostrate cancer treatment, he took up playing the church organ again, and goes around to places where he can thunder the organ. He gets much pleasure from this. How great is that!
My brother took up beer brewing - it generates income and provides a challenge. Another friend took a new husband...I kid you not!

I take pleasure in the beauty of my environment, and I lie on the bed a lot with my eyes closed and my dogs close by. I don't sleep. I just lie and enjoy being by myself. And I think.
These are things I didn't take time for previously. The cancer cells might pop up and demand attention any time again, probably when one least expects it. Stress is also a trigger. And so I lie on the bed and take pleasure in life as it is now.

And enjoy my wine at dinner time...to hell with all the health articles that say 3 small glasses a week. Hmphh!

 

Fairies in the garden

I love trees.
I have probably taken a picture of almost every interesting tree I've ever seen - from redwoods, doug firs and the oldest tree in the world (forget its name) to our doringbome and riverine trees in Nam.

As a child in Tsumeb, we had a tall bluegum tree in one corner, several jacarandas in front, bananas and papayas in the back. I tried to climb the lot. My favourites were the bluegum because it was the highest. I was small and lightboned, so I could reach the top - where my brothers couldn't get at me, hah-hah. Swinging in the wind against the thin branches up there I could see the school, all the neighbours' yards and right past the nearest stop streets on all side. I could almost see to the club - the main place in town for me.

I also loved the comfortable jacarandas - with their broad branches where you could gather with friends, snacks, and toys and spend an entire afternoon.

What I didn't tell my friends, and most of my family, was that there was a colony of fairies living in the grass and scrub of the hedge surrounding the garden. Because the little tropical town was too hot most of the year for fairies, they lived underground except in the wonderful, magical rainy season. (I actually had a suspicion they migrated to the northern hemisphere in the two dry seasons. All my books showed them in Europe at certain times of the year...)

Anyway, in the rainy season I would go to work at the bottom of the garden, clearing an area for them, and for some reason, always making them a double bed or two from leaves and flowers. The next morning I would rush out to see whether they had been there. Lo and behold - the leaves were always mussed, so I knew the beds had been used and the fairies were happy. If they were happy I was happy.

Agh ja.....

So now I have made sure my garden has the right spots for my grandchildren (my sons were more into rifles and airplanes). There is a climbing tree (jacaranda) and a mulberry tree - fruit is important. And there is a secret place where many blossoms fall on green grass - sorry, can't tell you where - for those who know how to make fairies happy. Smile.

 

the good, the bad, and the just plain rotten

Back to weddings - the good, the bad, and ...

I've had two weddings, only one real marriage. My first I can't deal with now. You wouldn't believe me anyway.  My second was fun, but kinda strange.

Jan and I were studying, 2nd time around. I was teaching at Uni Stellenbosch. We lived in Somerset West, but we wanted the wedding on the farm. I was happy with that. My family has always been spread all over, Jan's were at the farm, or some were.

Which for any bride would send up warning signals - beware, this is not your territory!

I dutifully wrote out handmade invitations to all and sundry in copperplate, and inserted nice little dried grasses. As a divorcee, I could dispense with the daughter of... and son of... stuff. It was just "Jan and I invite you". Nice and simple. New dress. New suit (only suit). Haircuts all round. Off we go to the farm in my little (meaning old) orange chinese car. Lots of hessian to decorate the food table for a 'rustic' winter lunch of goulasch soup in a large tureen, bubbling away scentsaciously...
crusty breads, cheeses, beautiful wine glasses and bottles, lots of cool crunchy greens and cherry tomatoes...you get the picture.

Jan entertaining the elderly

But no, that was not to be. Instead the farmers in the vicinity (not many of whom were invited, to be honest) would bring their special dishes. So we would have koeksisters, lasagne (mainly meat, no tomato or bechamel sauce), bobotie, and many more meats and baked puddings. No greens, no wine glasses (only tumblers) and warmish Capenheimer wine.
Definitely *No* hessian.
On the positive side, the food was hearty and familiar to everyone there, because only one of our friends (Amy Schoeman) could make it. She also did the photographs. Still happy with them, even though a bit faded pink now.

Jan's one sister was there, and my parents and an uncle - none of my brothers. Most of the neighbours came, the workers came (but were not invited in...at least they sang and laughed and danced, no other music!!!!) and Jan's lovely grandparents were there. So there were a lot of old people. Luckily we had Etienne - my son - who was then 5 years old and had a delightful, naughty sense of humour even then!

Jan's dad looks on nervously from behind us

But, as the adverts say "that's not all", not by far!

Congratulations

As disbelievers in religion, and because we both loved him, we wanted my father, a retired magistrate to marry us right there in the ample lounge of my future parents-in-law. Ta-daam! Alarms going off all around.

I arranged the temporary licence for Dad to perform the ceremony and got the books from the Magistrate's Office in Windhoek.

My parents and I were generously put up in an empty farmhouse which later became Jan's and my home. But at that stage it had no electricity, only a couple of chairs en three single beds, and NO HOT WATER! It was winter.
My bridal getting ready was seriously jeopardized! A very quick wash in cold water, no hairdryer, and no mirror for applying much needed make-up! Luckily the side mirror of the bakkie sufficed.
But not feeling at my best...

Arriving at Silwerstroom

Jan met us outside the gate with a big welcoming smile. Things started getting a little better.                            
Etienne was 'best man'.                           

But in the wedding ceremony, things got worse!

Unbeknownst to us, Jan parents had arranged for a 'dominee' from the Dutch Reformed church (to which I didn't belong) to come and officiate.
My Dad performed the ceremony saying " Let's get through this boring stuff as quickly as we can. The important things have already been promised and decided between you people". Made sense to me!


The minute he got up to congratulate us, the dominee stepped in and started a religious wedding ceremony, saying that the previous was not really legally binding before god. We were enraged, my father was humiliated, and I wanted to object. But they were my future in-laws...Oy vey.. we sat through it sulkily. Then we had some warm wine. Started smiling. Jimmy, Jan's brother-in-law, made a humourous short speech (thank heavens) about balls and chains - and we ate. Heavy but tasty. And the atmosphere turned out great!




And then we went on a marvellous honeymoon to Lesotho....horses, iced waterfalls, warm fires

and 32 years later, here we still are :-)

Thanks Jan!

the past, goggas, and family stuff

Aargh! I somehow deleted the entire blog I had written a few weeks ago and intended uploading today. So I compromise and post this sketch instead. Hope you enjoy!

Many of us listened to family tales as children, but we rarely think to put them out there...
I would like to try to do this, so I started writing a book about them. Actually started years ago, but just couldn't get the format right as fiction. Now I am merely writing down the stories as I remember them.

This one is a short sketch of life in southern Namibia in 1912-1915.

My father, Donald John Stewart, was born at the turn of the twentieth century, 1903, and spent most of his long life in Namibia, previously claimed as Deutsch Sud-west Afrika, later South-West Africa.
When in the right mood, he had many interesting tales to tell. I cannot vouch for the accuracy of his memory, nor mine, but this is how he described the place they lived circa 1912 or 1913.

As a young man at his boarding house

“Itsawisis,” he would say, drawing out the word with sibilant s’s and rolling the ‘w’ across his lips as though tasting something not quite pleasant. “You must understand that we lived there for years! As a child I mean.
We might have thought our earlier life in the slums of Cape Town was difficult, but we didn’t know what was waiting for us at Itsawisis. There’s nothing else like it. A mere a train stop in the scrub desert. No town - Keetmanshoop, the nearest, was about 30 miles to the south - no transport, no permanent population.
Our family and a few Nama goat herders, were the only inhabitants. We had only the borehole water provided for the steam engines my father served, and basic rations of maize meal, tea, sugar, soap and tobacco that were traded from the transport riders who passed on the route between Windhoek and the Union of South Africa."

This was the Keetmanshoop Post Office in early days

"The station name, Itsawisis, was etched out on a board alongside the track. One of those square, red, flat metal tanks was lodged on top of a steel tower. My father [his father was a 'strongman' from Scotland] built our little house from stone packed with clay and some wooden shuttering when he could find some. For the rest, the plain on which Itsawisis lies stretches way beyond the furthest horizon – on and on. Itsawisis was the local name of an omuramba (ephemeral river) lined with bushy thorn trees. When the river flowed, maybe three times a season for a couple of hours each time, the trees turned a vibrant green and created a shady oasis for us. Where the Itsawisis River and the railway line crossed, the German railway constructors had sunk a borehole, you see. Always amazed me how one could find water in that dry region. But they, of course, observed where the Nama people found water for their animals by digging in river beds at certain places. This borehole delivered a surprisingly strong and steady stream of water, although slightly brackish. You can always see when someone has grown up around there because they have strong teeth, but stained brown from the water."

[Germany had colonised the area and was set on 'developing' the country, by means they thought honest or clever, but which were often nefarious. They 'bought' or negotiated land from the indigenous people and settled their own farmers in the area, thereby making nomadic life almost impossible.]

"You wouldn't understand what it was like. My Da was always running off, my Ma couldn’t keep our stomachs filled, we had to work like adults as kids in those days – helping with the huge water pipe for the locomotives, digging and weeding in the garden (that’s why I still hate gardening), looking after Ma’s goats, and the heat! My God, the heat was always there. Except in winter of course. Then we couldn’t get enough.
We literally had a cooking stone that stood in the sun. Nice and flat. And at lunchtime you could cook eggs on it. If we managed to get hold of an ostrich egg, we cooked the whole bloody thing on that stone – just lying there in the sun. Scrubbed it a bit first in the morning, though.

You had to do everything in that searing damned heat. You don’t sweat much, because the heat just dries it immediately. I always laughed in the Hollywood films when the soldier staggers through the Sahara and wipes sweat off his face. Never man!
But the salt accumulates and you stink. Very quickly. If you drink too much water, you get dizzy and you must sit, your head pounding. And meanwhile, the flies. Flies everywhere because of the goats of course, and because of the water. Mosquitoes, huge big moths after the little bit of rain that comes once a year, scorpions, hell, you should have seen the scorpions and snakes – always around in summer. The scorpions weren’t these quite harmless things with big pincers and tiny tail. No, by God, they were the kind with a huge black tail. One sting and a biggish dog is dead. That’s how my Laddie died. Nothing we could do. If it stings an adult human, that man has incredible pain. Foot and leg swells up. Terrible! If there’s infection of course he would die. That happened to one of the transport riders that stopped along the way.
Never saw it happen to the Nama people though – they knew how to be careful. Wore the right kind of shoes too, like leather velskoens."

I already knew how hot and full of creepy things southern Namibia was. He hadn’t even got around to the deadly desert adders and puff adders, ghastly things. Nor had he mentioned the sandflies in the clean-looking sand of the southern dry riverbeds, the crawly bugs and bitey things in the trees, things that fell on you and bit you if you sat in the shade. The spiders were another test at night in summer. Huge hairy brown ‘baboon’ spiders with large gleaming eyes that jumped at you if annoyed. Palm sized reddish hairy creatures that resembled spiders but were actually insects with sharp biting mouth pieces. They could run at high speed and loved to run across one’s head when you were sleeping. Sometimes they left a trail of something like acid that burned and festered if not immediately treated. They were called red romans, for their colour.

 I knew all of these interesting little creatures because we had encountered them all when ‘camping’ in river beds or along the road. I put camping in inverted commas, because we merely used to park our car to create a wind barrier and privacy from the road, light a fire and sit on stones around it to cook, eat and drink. Our ablutions consisted of brushing teeth in a cup with a bit of water, or in Dad’s case whisky. Our toilet needs were satisfied by going a little distance from the fire and squatting behind a bush, if necessary using leaves or stones to clean ourselves, and covering the remains with sand, so as not to attract jackals. Dad always called this “walk in the bush” vovelavush, as in “I’m going for a vovelavush”. Then others knew not to go in the same direction.

In story-telling mode

My father continued: "Da’s job was to unhook the locomotive and fill both with water. In actual fact, it was me and Willy had to do a lot of the work, him watching. You know what it meant to water the locomotive? Remember, I was about ten years old, Willy maybe twelve. 
The train would stop more or less next to the tank and then manoeuvre backwards and forwards until the locomotive’s water tank was right next to it. Then we had to untie the pipe. It was huge! About as thick as a young lady’s waist, red reinforced rubber, with a heavy metal clamp at the front end. One of us had to wait on top of the locomotive, along with the driver. The other passed the front end of the pipe to him and he then had to fit it to the opening of the tank.
One of us, usually me, worked the tap on top of the tank. It was a big tap, about a foot, foot and a half in diameter. This bloody thing had to be turned and turned until the water flowed fully, and then turned all the back again, without leaving it leaking.
It was tight as hell and I sure couldn’t do it all on my own at first, so Da would help. I say help, but all he did was put one big hand out occasionally and add a casual pull, then give me a slap around the head for “being a bloody little weakling”. Probably that’s why Willy always preferred being on the other end of the pipe.

Dad's Ma (my grandmother) whom I never met

"Occasionally Ma would sell some of the pumpkins, carrots, tomatoes, and small sour figs from the trees in the river bed, if they flourished. Of course, first we had to eat, and extras were also cooked and bottled for winter. But some of the stuff she sold to train passengers on their three day trip between Keetmanshoop and Windhoek. This was how she sometimes had money.
She also baked bread and made sandwiches that could be sold to passing passengers. But most of her farming attempts were maar a struggle – lots of work, little result. We were living in a goddamn desert, after all! The majority of the goats she bought died - from heat, hunger, thirst, or frost. If it wasn’t the one it seemed to be the other. How the Namas managed, I don’t know.”



Modern Nama women constructing a reed mat hut

"I was ashamed" my father said  "to see how my mom used to run up to the train, trying to sell her vegetables. Even at the market in Cape Town, the women would never behave like that. But my Da made her do stuff like that, digging in the ground, even clambering up on the water tank, like a man. Everyone laughed and the Namas said she was a half man. Later on, when we could count money, Willy, Elaine and I did that job, the train. So there was always work. And it was there my little sister contracted erysipelas. She died."

I used to love listening to stories like this when I was a child. Of course, my next question was what happened then? What was her name? What is eri-, erisi..something? But enough was enough. Usually not as much as I've written down here.

On An Overgrown Path: From Gaddafi guerrillas to Grammy winners

On An Overgrown Path: From Gaddafi guerrillas to Grammy winners

farmers and predators

Young farmer in death wrestle with cheetah

I kid you not. This is a true tale - happened a few weeks ago on a neighbour's farm. It started like this (I wish I had pictures because some of the pictures in my head are hilarious!)

Neighbours - let's call them VdM's - were having tea on the stoep, when they saw and heard the workers' women come running over the hill, screaming and cursing. Behind them came the herd of goats, also running like hell, but not as fast as the women. Right behind, at a lope, came a large cheetah.

The young man E, just starting to farm, ran to grab a rifle and called his dog, a bull terrier/Staffordshire cross. The dog was of course already on high alert. E took aim, fired, and the cheetah dropped. He walked closer with his dog, who was very excited about 'his kill'. However, as he grabbed hold of some skin in his teeth, the cheetah, who had only been stunned by a shot against his ear, reacted. He bit back.
The two started rolling on the ground, growling and kicking up dust and sand in a fierce battle for supremacy, making it impossible for E to fire.

this picture borrowed fom Getaway

Realizing that his dog was likely to lose, since the cheetah by now had the dog's head in its mouth, E took action. He ran closer, grabbed the cheetah's jaws and tried to force them apart.

Now I should tell you that E is not a huge man. He was always called klein E (small E) at primary school with my sons. He was a laatlammetjie (last child). Significantly, his best sport at school was wrestling. As a grown man, he still stands at about 5ft 4inches, and is sturdy but not massive.

So here's E with the cheetah's mouth stretched open and the dog's head released. Now what? If he let's go he'll be killed. As it was,  the cheetah got in a couple of bites through his hand. In a final surge, he managed to turn teh animal's angry head to one side and tried to get a grip on its throat. Nothing much happened. They were tussling and struggling and E was starting to tire. Then, as the animal tried to throw its body around to get back at him, he managed to get his leg in between the cheetah's hind legs. He now had a grip.

He choked it to death.

For any of you who say, "Ah, the poor animal!", I agree. I am very fond of cheetahs and they rarely cause trouble for us. But when one starts chasing your employees and their herds around, what do you do? They can claim an unsafe environment and demand recompense unless you remove the danger. Probably (more likely) the guy's hunting instinct just kicked in. Can you believe?

Years ago, we had several incidents with rabid animals - kudus, jackals and occasionally cattle. One Sunday afternoon we were also entertaining guests and the small kids were playing out at back. They came to complain that there was a jackal who was not afraid of them and came into the yard. We realised the animal was probably rabid and told them to call if they saw it again. Our son Etienne, who was at that stage very competitive in archery, took his bow and a couple of hunting arrows and decided to follow the jackal. He saw it and took aim, but the animal didn't stop. Just trotted right up to him, too close to shoot. Deciding this was a different kettle of fish, Etienne scooted off home.

Jackal scavenging

I was making coffee. As I walked down the passage from the kitchen to the stoep, carrying a tray of coffee mugs, I saw the jackal coming my way in the passage! He'd walked right past the people on the stoep without their noticing. I squeeked something and dodged into a doorway to allow it to pass. Jan came to see what was wrong and immediately realised we had to corner the animal. He opened our bedroom door and the animal went inside. We immadeiately slammed the door shut.

Now we all wanted to see this, so we went around outside to the bedroom window. There was this animal, ripping down the curtains, slashing bedding to bits with its teeth. I tapped on the window and it leaped straight at me, gnawing uselessly at the glass, it's anemic gums clearly visible, leaving toxic trails of saliva across windows and bedding, the animal went crazy. Eventually we got a hold of a couple of weapons, like a machete, pistol, and knife, and formed a row. Holding a blanket infront of me, my task was to open the door and 'encourage' the animal out in the opposite direction where the others were waiting. The machete got him. Tests confirmed advanced rabies. Children and guests were excited and bedroom was treated to a scrubbing down and replacement of bedding.

Such, unfortunately, is much of the contact between humans and predators who are themselves constantly under threat from humans. So hard to choose when you're in that spot, isn't it?