Nationalist Notes

Earlier today I found these two bank notes from the old country snuggled in the back of a dusty book. These were in general circulation between 1978 and 1990, and so would have seen me through the end of high school, my two years national service, my three degrees and my initial move to the UK. Fascinating times.

The note is supposed to depict Johan Anthoniszoon "Jan" van Riebeeck, but some National Party bureaucrat screwed up and the portrait on the old bank notes is of Bartholomeus Vermuyden, as painted by Dirck Craey (1650) and currently hanging in the Rijksmuseum. The actual van Riebeeck was far less glamorous as this portrait of him in the Rijksmuseum reveals. Researcher Jonkheer F.G.L.O van Kretschmar has also determined that the popular portrait of van Riebeeck's wife, Maria, was more likely that of Catharina Kettingh, wife of Bartholomeus Vermuyden. The real Maria van Riebeeck (nee de la Queillerie) was as frumpish as her husband - this is the portrait of her in the Rijksmuseum. Worse still, by all accounts the statue in Adderley Street, Cape Town, is not a likeness of Maria either, but of the "wife of the chairman of the Dutch committee that helped to organise the 1952 Van Riebeeck festival in Cape Town." (Giliomee and Mbenga, 2007, "New History of South Africa"). Incredible - you couldn't believe a goddamn thing under the old apartheid regime.

Interesting read here.

Additional images:

• Jan van Riebeeck
• Maria de la Queillerie
• Bartholomeus Vermuyden
• Catharina Kettingh

Cheers, MAlfaRK ©

Collective Drinks

* Originally published on Wednesday, June 14, 2000 *

Etienne said "I can sense another collective document coming on" and he was right! The following collective nouns were contributed by Massyn, Reeler, Posthumus and Pautz...and possibly some other drunken bums!

A gaggle of G&T's
A swarm of Screwdrivers
A herd of Rum & Cokes
A club of scotch & sodas
'n Kakhuis vol Klipdrift
A hurling of Heineken
A barfing of Becherovkas
An amnesia of Absinths
A blerts of Black Labels
A clutch of cocktails
A murder of Bloody Marys
A heartburn of Castles
A vomit of Vodkas
A tizzy of Tequilas
A shipwreck of Brandy on the rocks
A drowning of Dop-n-dam
A dronk of Old Browns
A suip of Sherry
A walg of Witblits
A verve of Vermouths
A jigger of Jack Daniels
A spit of Spiders
A bloody klap of Blue Caracou
A burp of Beers
A foray of XXXX's
A headache of Wallbangers
A froth of Fosters
A chunder of Chianti
A puke of Pimms
A hangover of Harvey Wallbangers
An armful of Amarula's
A trommel vol Tassies
A mumble of Merlots
A chunder of Chardonnays
A catatonia of Clarets
A suip of Sauvignons
A choke of Champagne
A crass of Caine
A yee-haa of Jägermeisters
A spew of Ciders
A piss-up of Piscos
An "IpromisenottotalksomuchREALLY" of Red Bulls
An upchuck of Ouzos

Cheers, MAlfaRK ©

Die Sand Paradoks

By Gerhard Elmar Schröder
Originally posted on Sunday, June 9, 2002

Die droë besembos jaag die miskruier oor die sand.
Hy stop...hy huiwer...hy sit stil…en slaan aan die brand!

Die wolke steek op! Dis dan 'n woestyn!
Die reëndruppels plof neer op die sand...word 'n rivier, word modder, word 'n fontein.

Die water was my binneste. Die water maak my koud.
Die weerlig helder my nag op, maar maak my benoud.

Die sand is mooi. Die sand is warm.
Die akkedis geniet dit, maar die sand bly arm.

Jou oë is swart. Jou trane is nat.
Jou trane word 'n stroom...ek wil dit vir my vat.

Jy streel die kind se hare. Die kind lag en speel met die sand.
Die kind vat die modder en bou iets...aan sy mooi kant.

Die saadjies in die sand skiet grasgroen blare.
Opgewondenheid en jubeling bruis deur die groen are.

Jy is 'n skim in hierdie woestyn. My kind sien jou, vat aan jou skouer, Jy is weg.
My droom...jy en die woestyn word nou my kneg…

Die son is terug en brand hard neer.
Die blare krul om. Die kind se voete brand...seer.

Cheers, MAlfaRK on behalf of Gerhard Elmar Schröder ©

Mescaleros

* Originally published on Saturday, January 19, 2002 *

July 1979 – July 1981. Two years of hell in the South African Infantry, thanks to PW Botha. National Service they called it....hmmm....I spent my time trying to undermine the system, spending about a year in the Namibian "operational area". My diaries from that era are not easy reading, but provide an insight into how I coped. If you think that at that time I was reading books like the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, "Contact", "Space", "Wuthering Heights" and "The 1001 Nights of Jean Macaque", it's obvious how desperately I was trying to escape.

What I do know is that music was a big part of my coping mechanism. It helped me to escape the reality of where I was and what was going on around me. In those days before the Walkman, I had to beg and borrow portable tape recorders from my more affluent fellow-conscripts, and slink off into dark corners to listen to stuff on my own. No one appreciated my taste in music. After all, I was just a "Fokken Kommunis" and a "Kafferboetie" who listened to "Kaffermusiek".

Some of those memorable artists and groups were Frank Zappa, David Bowie, Marley and Tosh, The Selecter, The Specials, The Jam, Elvis Costello, Joe Jackson, Madness, Blondie, The Sex Pistols, Ian Dury & The Blockheads, The Pretenders and two new bands called Echo & the Bunnymen and U2. One of them that really stood out there was The Clash. Waaaahh! I was absolutely absorbed in their mélange of reggae, rockabilly punk, funk, and even disco. During my last stint on the "Grens" I became one with what I believe was their masterpiece – "Sandiniasta!".

I now own 4 copies of "Sandiniasta!" – two on CD and two on vinyl (one of the latter never opened as I wanted to preserve it in pristine condition). For 36 tracks on 3 LP’s the band tackled everything in sight, including waltz, gospel, disco, children's ditties, pop, funk, reggae, dub, punk, delicate instrumentals, psychedelic explorations and rock. It blew me away and the lyrics...!! The lyrics!!! The lyrics!!!!

Is the music of grove skin rock
Soaked in the diesel of war boys war?
Blood, black gold and the face of a judge
Is the music calling for a river of blood?

Beat the drums tonight, Alphonso
Spread the news all over the grove
The big meeting has decided
That total war must burn on the grove

Does it mean I should take my machete
To chop my way through the path of life?
Does it mean I should run with the dog pack
Is that the way to be the one to survive?

(extract from "Corner Soul", Sandinista)

The "Sandiniasta!" track "The Call Up" (played in a funeral dirge) really struck a chord up at Mpacha in the Caprivi Strip towards the end of my two years:

Hup two, three, four...

It's up to you not to heed the call-up
'N' you must not act the way you were brought up
Who knows the reasons why you have grown up?
Who knows the plans or why they were drawn up?

It's up to you not to heed the call-up
I don't wanna die!
It's up to you not to heed the call-up
I don't wanna kill!

For he who will die
Is he who will kill

Maybe I wanna see the wheatfields
Over Kiev and down to the sea

All the young people down the ages
They gladly march off to die
Proud city fathers used to watch them
Tears in their eyes

There is a rose that I want to live for
Although, god knows, I may not have met her
There is a dance an' I should be with her
There is a town - unlike any other

It's up to you not to hear the call-up
'N' you must not act the way you were brought up
Who gives you work and why should you do it?
At fifty-five minutes past eleven
There is a rose...

Hup two, three, four...I love the marine corps..

Joe Strummer was a wordsmith of the highest calibre, and I can still repeat just about every word of every song.

The reign of the super powers must be over
So many armies can't free the earth
Soon the rock will roll over
Africa is choking on their Coca Cola

It's a one a way street in a one horse town
One way people starting to brag around
You can laugh, put them down
These one way people gonna blow us down

(extract from "Charlie Don't Surf", "Sandiniasta!")

For the last six months of my army days, and throug much of the seven years of my university career that followed, I carried a photocopy of the lyrics around with me. Sad but true! Actually, a few months ago back in South Africa I found my university work folder...and the lyrics were still there! It was a sad day for me when The Clash threw in the towel in the late 80’s.

Living in London in 1989-90, I was lucky enough to make it to a Joe Strummer concert with my mates Eduard and Mark Murray. Yeee-haa!!! He played a brace of old Clash songs and it was great to see the guru in action..."Earthquake Weather" was a good but undersold album. For me, Strummer then disappeared into obscurity for ten years...until 2000 when I caught him on Jools Holland’s TV show with his new group, The Mescaleros. The live set was OK, but didn’t really impress me at the time.

Fast-forward. Earlier this week I was killing time in the FNAC record store on the Champs Elysee in Paris. It was after midnight and I was aimlessly browsing...and then I heard it! The unmistakable voice, intonation and lyrics...yup...Joe Strummer was being piped through the store’s system, and it was new stuff that I did not know. It took me a while but I eventually found the CD: Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros: "Global A Go-Go". Last night I played it for the first time...and then played it at least five times more, pouring over the full lyric sheet (a-la The Clash). Wow!! What brilliant stuff! The eclectic mix of musical styles is outstanding and the lyrics are as masterful as ever, reflecting the same concerns that have always inspired Strummer’s music. I got to bed close on 04h00 this morning...with a broad smile on my face.

Advice: get online, spend the US$ 13.99, get the album, settle down with a bottle of whisky and the lyric sheet...and enjoy!! One of the best albums I have listened to in years. Really.

Cheers, MAlfaRK © Saturday, January 19, 2002

P.S. No, I am not earning a commission from Hellcat Records!! ;-)

P.P.S. If you would like to read all of their lyrics, take a look at the excellent "The Clash Song Lyrics by Albums" page.

P.P.P.S. Tragically, Joe Strummer died of a heart attack on December 22, 2002, eleven months after this was written. I hope he got to read it...

Waar Is?

By Gerhard Elmar Schröder
Originally posted on Sunday, June 9, 2002

Ek staan hier hoog op 'n krans en staar uit oor...wat 'n oseaan behoort te wees. My voete staan op...wat 'n sagte groen mos moet wees. My gesig en hare is klam van...wat sagte druppels uit die wind moet wees.

Ek staan...

Liewe Heer waar was jy? Ek het wel gesien daar is bloed aan jou sy. Is ek, was ek of gaan ek? Ek kyk hier in die groot spieël wat die agterkant van my oog vir my hou. Ek sien lag, ek sien ek maak 'n verskil, ek sien...wat de fok sien ek? Ek doen dan dit wat U gesê het ek moet doen…gee.

Shakespear gooi roekeloos sy advies oor liefde: "Jy kan net dit gee wat jy het." Mooi William! Wat as jy so lank als gegee het en skielik is jy leeg! Wat maak jy as dit wat jy gee aan haar waaroor jou lewe gaan, boring is of as 'n depressie in koerantpapier toegedraai word of as manlike wellus verag word of sommer in sinus snot as laf beskryf word. Waar hy, wat vir haar die koning was, sy kleed moet gebruik om die vals saad van skaam eensaamheid van sy grot se vloer af moet afvee? Besef jy dat dit 'n leeg is wat iemand wat gemaklik is met alleen wees oor die vreemde terrein van eensaamheid terg?

Jy klop...en die lag binne hou net aan lag, niemand maak oop nie. Jy skraap die moed van die verworpe koning bymekaar...gryp die trompet wat jou donkertyd uitbassuin...niemand vra iets uit oor die fucked-up deuntjie nie.

Die trompet se liedjie het vae woorde...iets wat dit beskryf wat opgebottel het: Jy tas uit na dit wat heilig is, daardie simbole wat dit wat jy jou lewenstas mee gevul het, wat die NG man beskryf het as 'n eenheid...dit is "walglik" is die snyende opinie, jou hand word 1000 maal weggeklap. Die waslap van verwerping moet hierdie rituele walging wegvee. Die Bybel sê "draai die ander wang"...beteken dit dat dit op almal van toepassing is, selfs vir daai kus wat die eenheid moet verseël?

Die intelektueel verhewenes vee 'n kwas van opvoeding...vrouens ervaar seks meer emosioneel as mans. Ek verdoem hierdie vals profete met die groen brommers en wurms wat dit verdien. Ek is nie 'n vrou nie en dit is nie seks nie. Dit is die seël van die NG man se "eenheid". Hoe kan dit vir 'n uitgerekte agt jaar vassteek en eenvoudig op die yskas geplak word as nog 'n huistakie wat verrig moet word? Is die kinders se oppasser dan belangriker as die fluweel van verkoeling en genesing wat 'n naweek weg kan bring? Is die vroeg huistoe kom, geskenke, boodkappe, oorvluisters, skimpe, drukkies en luister dan alles verkeerd en kritiek?

Was U kruis ook oortrek met antibiotiese splinters en epileptiese drogbeelde? Het U ook nagte wakker gelê omdat dit wat U probeer sê het mense woedend laat wegstorm het?

Ek is stil. Waar de fok gaan ek nou? Waar het ek dan opgefok? Hoe moet ek dan gee, of mis ek die boodskap. Moses het sy boodskap teen die rotse stukkend geslaan. Waar's die rotse? Wat de fok is die boodskap? Wat moet ek stukkend slaan?

Cheers, MAlfaRK on behalf of Gerhard Elmar Schröder ©

Grumpy Old Man on the Music of the 70s

I'm a grumpy old man in my mid-50's and, like many of my friends, have a soft spot for the music of the 70's - my teenage years. We tend to romanticise the era and its music, waxing lyrical on the proto-metal groups (Black Sabbath, Deep Purple and Uriah Heep), the mould-breaking glam rockers (David Bowie, Marc Bolan & T-Rex, Kiss), some of the pompous Prog Rock acts (Focus, Pavlov's Dog, Rick Wakeman, Led Zeppelin), the punk ground-breakers who blew it all away at the end of the decade, in under 2 minutes 59 (The Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Ramones, Ian Dury & the Blockheads) and the electronica that came of age in parallel to it all (Kraftwerk, Gary Numan, et. al).

Nice. All good and well. But - fucking hell - it wasn't all good music in the 70's. And being isolated in a pariah state at the arse end of Africa, under draconian international sanctions and with censored, state-controlled radio made it even worse. At the time, I hated the effing-70's. We had no TV, very little international exposure and on the radio, we didn't hear any of the bands I've mentioned above. The politically-approved dross (disguised as music) that we were fed, was abysmal and the only way that I heard about the music scene in the rest of the world was via the large antenna I constructed on the roof of my parent's home to pick up the feint "LM Radio" signal from Mozambique, and the UK music magazines that I encouraged my mother to buy for me, in lieu of a slice of my pocket money.

It was through these publications that I got a peek into what was happening beyond the borders of apartheid, and where I first read about metal, Bowie, Bolan, Slade, Kiss, punk, Marley, Tosh and reggae (although I had no idea how to pronounce the latter as I'd never heard anyone actually speaking the word)!

So just how bad was mainstream music in the 70's? I trip to my local charity shop a couple of weekends ago quickly reminded me of the crap that your average man in the street was listening to back then. For 99 pence I bought an original 1975 pressing of "16 Chart Hits - Volume 19"...purely because I saw that it included Kraftwerk's seminal track "Autobahn".

So I got the album home and, while cleaning it up, noticed that the disk did not match the sleeve - instead I'd got "Volume 17" with only one vaguely redeeming track, namely BTO's "Rolling on Down the Highway". But surely there must have been at least a few more listenable tracks on the disk?

Dear friends - if you want to remind yourself just how bad Joe Public's music was in the 1970's, dig up one of these old albums. The music was formulaic, insipid, honey‐lipped, mealy‐mouthed crap! Sickening...and it flashed me back to those brown corduroy bell-bottoms that I hated so much! Urrgh - get out of there. Come to think of it, in an era where manufactured boy/girl groups dominate the airwaves, we've probably gone full circle. Utterly depressing, and I look forward to the next Sex Pistols / Nirvana to step up and kick the music industry in the bollocks :-)

Cheers, MAlfaRK ©