Oh joy! Africa’s only token compacter got out of the house today. Not to a restaurant or anything exciting, but far away enough from the compost heap; to the reassuring bosom of affluenza. What bliss.
The husband was invited, but he’s in the process of giving up smoking, care of Zyban, which has left him slouched in the corner dribbling and seizuring. What I mean is that it’s a potent drug that stops hardened addicts smoking basically by incapacitating them. Obviously I’m a little concerned, I’ll have to check on him later and I’ll have to keep an eye on him for the next 2 months of what I can only imagine is going to be unmitigated hell. There’s nothing as bad-tempered and mean as a quitting smoker, I know ‘cos we’ve been here and done this many times before, only this time we’ve enlisted Zyban the Zombie. I count the days.
So we, 10 of us, who have accepted or forsaken our habits; we talked shopping. How it’s just all about fantasy, most of our lives are just about fantasy, especially shopping.
I’m just thinking of those huge September bonuses London’s investment bankers receive; they were all over the newspapers a few months back. It seems their jobs are obviously totally exhausting; just a total slog. Then comes September with a gigantic bonus.
I can only imagine what keeps them working is the dream of spending the money; that’s why I gather they pay out only once a year – it keeps everyone hungry, it keeps the fantasy big and bright.
So if you’re the big fish with the obscene bonus, you buy the £8m yatch. If you’re not so lucky you put your name down for a Bugatti or whatever. For people like myself, to be seduced by Kurt Geiger is just about as good as it gets - in the big sea of life I’m like plankton - in my next life I’m going to catch me a nice city shark.
I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in a position to dump millions on a boat, but I’m sure that’s one hell of a fantasy. When I hear that someone gets like £1m for a bonus, I think Christ I would buy start a property portfolio and get to a place of independence as quickly as possible, so I could chuck that crap exhausting job, but for those wealthy ones a shoe fetish daydream is simply not enough. Fantasies’ expand to meet income.
Basically shopping’s about getting a huge dopamine buzz at the prospect of something new, exciting and challenging. Once the thrills over, we need to go find another buzz, by then we’re slaves to all the crap we’ve accumulated.
So, for me, the no shopping is about breaking this vicious circle, it’s about finding my self esteem and getting to know myself, so when I do buy something, whatever it is, an expensive car, a pair of shoes or a holiday house, I know it’s something I really want. I won’t be buying it simply to impress my friends; I won’t need to see the envy in their eyes to feel blessed.
And best of all, not spending means I’m saving and my next Big Purchase will be a holiday house in the south of France. Dream on girl.
Believe me compacting is for neither the young nor the fun. There is only so much enjoyment one can squeeze out of not eating out nor ever buying anything new for a whole year. Let me assure you it grows stale very quickly. So, if you’re young and still in the hunting, gathering stage forget this little experiment, rather join Greenpeace and blow something up, or if you still really want to heal the world, kill yourself. Obviously that’s the most effective answer and the proof’s with the Irish; why do you think they have a happy wake whenever anyone dies? They think ‘thank God, one less to plunder our resources’.
The rest of us keep saying ‘let’s rid the world of poverty, let’s rid the world of Aids and hopefully everyone will become healthy, wealthy, car driving, educated and reproductive. Except, the scientists tell us, the environment won’t cope, someone’s got to give. Mr Beavan will have to think of something a little more imaginative than forsaking the toothpaste.
We need a radical change in our attitude to death. We need Mr Beavan to go out there and see how many upper-middleclass New Yorkers he can convince to jump off the World Trade Centre. These damn writers, the Mrs Conlin-Beavan’s of the world, they’ve got to stop pushing investments in this life and start pushing their readers into thinking of the hereafter, the 72 virgins awaiting each of us on the other side. The paradise, please, we need some takers.
Naturally the environment is not my reason for becoming a compactor – I’m a liver not a die-er - I live on a continent where there’s only 1 television set per 349 people, where there’s approximately 3 computers between 1000 people; I can’t imagine much global warming coming out of this place and we’ve got about a million people living with full blown aids, 30% of pregnant women reportedly have aids, Christ we’re doing our best to die like flies, so don’t point grubby little carbon emission covered fingers at us.
What I’m doing is looking for value. Obviously it’s all about me. See my life’s lost a bit of meaning in the day to day routine. Think of your own life – how often do you throw food away, never wear clothes you buy? I do it all the time, I buy clothes that sit in my cupboard with their tags still attached. I have things and because I can replace them without thinking, they seem to have no value to me. Now that I’m on my little crusade I’m finding I love some of my stuff, its suddenly become meaningful. It’s a little frightening to think ‘what happens if my Marc Jacobs winter bag – the only really nice one I have for this winter – breaks or falls in the bath?’ I mean this is scary stuff.
And this feeling of appreciation is filtering into all parts of my life, it’s changing my outlook and that’s good. It’s not really about the money either, although I have to admit, when I turned the tap off, the money started pooling, it’s amazing how much money mindless spending takes. So for a year this is the new improved me and I’m going to try to keep writing here, not because it’s very interesting for you, dearest reader, the one and only little light of my life, but because I enjoyed the year I wrote before and I want to keep a track of how it’s going, not to mention that none of my friends or Roger for that matter are remotely interested in this boring new campaign of mine. What’s the point if there’s no payoff? Actually, now I think of it, what is the payoff to this? Well, time is no longer of the essence, so to speak, I mean its freely available to me in huge quantities. What with no shopping, no spending, no wasting. Basically I’m working, gardening, cooking, seeing friends and now, writing here. I’m living the microcosm. I told R the other day, ‘hey guess what? I’m an honest to God compactor! No more buying for a whole year.’ ‘Does that include facials, hair salon, travel and entertaining?’ he asked. So these are the rules,
Ok reader, whomever you are, that's enough now. I wrote this blog and i can tell you, you've finished reading this column, it only get's alot worse. Give yourself a break here.
I’ve twisted them around to suit me: NO:
• Buying clothes or shoes or handbags for a year; new or old, I’ll not interested in wearing someone else’s cast offs, although for some eBay is their new Wal-Mart.
• Eating out at restaurants. • Buying ready prepared, take away food. • Buy CD’s or books.
• No plants or fresh flowers What I’m allowed is this: • Anything to do with hair I’m allowed: cutting, colouring, highlighting, waxing, tinting – I can’t go a year without. • Any food to buy in and cook – anything and I have to say I’m enjoying the whole home experience.
• Home maintenance • Anything needed for work or health. • Anything Roger needs. • I’m allowed to borrow anything belonging to anyone else and eat out at others’ homes. • I’m going to Spain at Xmas – planned ages ago.
So last week I told the husband ‘Listen dearest we have to move out of the bedroom because they’re coming to blast out the en-suite and redo’. So he says ‘I thought we were compacting?’ ‘Yes precious’ I reply ‘Maintenance is allowed’. ‘By maintenance’ he informs me ‘they mean sticking a tile back on that’s fallen off the wall’. This is of course nonsense. Maintenance is something which is open to interpretation and mine includes upgrading the home. It includes travertine in the sunroom and the kitchen, which is going to be ripped out and sent on its merry way with the staff deep into the township somewhere to be bartered off for drink and drugs.
Lastly, what would happen if every American stopped buying clothes for just one year? Since it seems the whole garment industry now is in China I wonder how that would affect them?
So I guess what I really mean is: Its not enough to live; others must die.
Mr Beavan, a resident of New York, Fifth Avenue no less, has decided to forsake the tradition of lavatory paper as we in the Western world use it. Mr Beavan, as reported in the NY Times, much prefers the good old Arabian practice of hosing off, known as Qadaahul Haajah to those in the Muslim faith. And why shouldn’t he, I mean lets face it, Arabs have effectively managed to change the face of New York City and so why shouldn’t they have a say in New York toilet habits too.
I can only imagine most soldiers returning from their tours of Iraq will have mastered this hygienic habit; what better reason is there for going to war than returning home having adopted the best of the enemys’ customs.
Anyway, Mr Beavan intends practicing this foreign ritual for a year, maintaining that he’s contributing to the world’s well-being, his environmental footprint has shrunk he says. Like all authoritarian men who relish a good dogma Mr Beavan has directed that his wife, whom we are assured is gorgeous and Prada loving, as well as his young daughter, are included in this lifestyle. This double-barreled surname bearing wife works for Business Week and obviously understands fiscal matters better than environmental, not that she’s not making an effort. Anyone prepared to eat cold crud out of Tupperware needs to be respected.
You see Mr Beavan intends to write a book on his holistic lifestyle and he’s hoping each one of us is going to be so fascinated with his pitiful little existence; that we’re going to gorge ourselves on this anal retentive chronicle about how he survived his year of hardship.
This attention seeking desperado has taken environmental concern and turned it into a self promoting circus.
And the reason that upsets me is because I’m a dedicated compactor.
Yep, three weeks now, going on 4 and the reason I’m on this frugal road is directly linked to the United States of America, the world’s biggest consumer; San Francisco precisely, which funnily enough is where compacting began.
I’ll have to side step here and explain our travels and how I embraced this change of life.
Roger was invited to attend a meeting in San Fran sometime in Feb by a profit-swollen drug company who has been testing drugs on R’s patients here. They paid for his business class ticket, but not mine – obviously being the servile wife I offered to travel in the back with all the other schmucks, but my husband, knowing what’s good for him, said ‘no, no, you must come with me’. That’s my boy. Obviously this was pre-compacting days, when my footprint was obese, when I was a fat cat lapping it up off the gravy train.
So we, who have never had a holiday together, who have together accumulated literally 1000’s of good carbon emission free points, whose husband’s environmental footprint is that of a dung beetle; traveled from darkest Africa to the bright New World on a freebie.
Look, I don’t want to pretend business class is all its cracked up to be; yes, the seats lie flat; no, the food’s still disgusting and the loo’s even worse, in fact I couldn’t believe it – they’re exactly the same as in cattle class, with the same pee all over the place. You pay six times as much for such stuff.
But, there was a glimmer of hope …
Before I left home, friends, not believing we were actually going to go somewhere together threatened: ‘don’t even consider coming back home without having joined the mile high club’.
So, returning home we where in a brand new plane; we were seated with our backs facing forward; they have these two seats together, all sandblasted Plexiglas, you’re sort of enclosed in this little hokkie of a thing – just the two of us.
Before takeoff I have my complimentary glass of champagne, the doctor had his seatbelt on tight, practicing the fetal crash position. Naturally he wasn’t at his best, having just spent 15 hours San Fran to London without a cigarette and now could look forward to another 12 hours onto Jhb of breathing nothing but good stinky 3rd time inhaled, recycled air. So what better time to launch into the sexual seduction.
‘Hey this is a nice little hidey hole …. Look if I push this button the partition comes up and no-one can see us’ ‘Have you got your seatbelt on? Don’t play with the plane, we can’t afford to have it breakdown half way home.’ ‘Mmmm maybe later we can have sex in here.’ He lunges for my champagne all snarly, ‘give me that, you’ve obviously had enough, Christ what is wrong with you? How can you think of something like that at a time like this.’ ‘I was only joking’. ‘WELL IT’S NOT FUNNY’ he snarls. Mr Paranoid, Mr I Hate Flying, Mr Addict in need of a fix.
So my point being – don’t travel BC unless the company’s paying, because, quite frankly, you’re going to need a strong shot of Viagra if you’re going to manage to accomplish anything more than flaking out with the free booze and the inflight entertainment in the cramped, stinky confinement.
Rather spend your money on a fabulous hotel room and nice restaurants. And I have to say we had such a great time in SF. Roger’s a hardened Americanophile – I see there’s no word for ‘foreigners who love America’, I wonder why that is? He loves their loud confidence, their unselfconsciousness. He likes the order, the rules and regulations. After this wild place it’s comforting to feel secure.
It was all good: the food, the weather, scenery, etc. The only thing that was truly obscene for me was the shopping. It was just too much - literally. We stayed down town, near Pier No 1; it seems all the mega stores are around Union Square / Market Street. I couldn’t deal with these acre sized stores with floor upon floor of clothes and shoes.
Watch this space for more on compacting and the environmental and social concerns of a white African living a post colonial life in the back of beyond. I intend living a Mr Beavan and Mrs Conlin-Beavan life. The race is not over until the book’s published.
The neighbours, on the other side of us, had a party last night and they didn't even invite us.
The bastards.
Not that we actually know them, but still. One would think for good neighbourly relations they'd have had the courtesy to think of us, especially since we shared their music, laughter and shrieking well into the early hours of this morning.
Well at least thats here in SA. I went to an interesting exhibition the other day: Unknown Installations by Jan van der Merwe.
Remember when rust was something of a scourge? When seen it was immediately overpainted by thick layers of shiny enamel paint. I suppose it still is, I mean if you saw it on your gorgeous cars bodywork, even on your bike for that matter it signifies disintegration, its like a disease, once a little bit has taken hold, it spreads and before you know it its devoured your car. It thrives on metal, its chromes worst nightmare. If you were chrome and you saw rust coming your way, you would run a mile and thats a fact.
Its interesting, the way rust disfigures metal, in a way its almost alive, it breathes without oxygen you cant get rust. The whole process is very much like us, we also oxidise, hence the manic preoccupation with anti-oxidants, especially for our skins. Rust is a stark and uncomfortable reminder about time and what it does to us, how it disfigures us, how over time we weaken, thus becoming more susceptible to diseases. We realise just how vulnerable and fragile we really are. However much we rally and fight against time and the final ending, in reality were helpless.
Jan van der Merwe is a South African artist obviously with a name like that. He builds installations out of junk, anything thats been discarded. He uses images, like videos which he plays through screens imbedded in these installations. The most striking material he uses are tins, rusted old tins, the type we buy at the grocery store. He flattens them and then forges them together to make objects we know, clothes, televisions, luggage and with these objects he creates a picture for us. And with the picture before us we think thoughts different for our usual run of the mill thoughts which run like a continual, endless stream through our heads, never allowing us the chance to deepen our emotions. I think this endless commentary running through our brain is why were so shallow these days, why Hallo magazine is the best seller it is, why weve got this preoccupation with silly little stars. Thats what art does for us, it makes us stop and experience something in a slightly different way. Its an emotional response to something visual instead of our usual adrenalin reaction.
This installation below is called Koeelwas, which is Afrikaans for Bullet wax. The installation comprises of a black and white TV monitor, video machine, a stand, a bullet proof jacket made of plastic, two small plastic cases, an illuminated plastic video cassette case, all filled with wax bullets.
Watching television is a universal experience, though which we share a second hand version of war and violence in the safe place of our living rooms, without the bullets leaving the screen and entering our real space.
The screen acts like a bulletproof vest preventing the bullets from causing real physical damage while we can share in the events. Like the wax bullets, that can melt and be transformed, these shared experiences on screen hit on a psychological level and leave us scarred.
There are analogies to the wax bullets, looking like crayons, how children are exposed to violence, the white binding around the childrens clothes suggests white chalk outlines the police use to mark out dead bodies.
The video monitor relays images of a hand holding a gun, firing shots repeatedly.
For me, especially with the 5th anniversary of 9/11 in a few days, just thinking back how we, here thousands of miles away, experienced the whole disaster through the television. Were so used to experiencing violence and war through this box that it was almost not real, and in a way thats right, it wasnt my reality.
Okay heres a terrible admission, I shouldnt even say it. Remember the plane on 9/11 that was brought down by the passengers? Well I was really pissed off with them, they totally spoilt my fun. I wanted to see a plane smash into the White House.
Thats the strange part of our lives now, we experience famine, earthquakes, tsumanis, the most horrific scenarios and at the same time we lose any emotional connection to those things. I remember when they first showed the starving Ethiopians, how shocking they were, now showing images of starving kids has become nothing more than hunger porn. So television is in a way is like porn, we need stronger and stronger visuals to get our adrenalin high. Were so scarred by violence that not much touches us any longer.
When we feel shocked at least we feel, I think many of us live lives in a pretty numb way going through the motions, but not fully taking part. Most probably its a consequence of frenetic city life.
Van der Merwes works interesting, its very much about looking back into the past, its about preparation and anticipation: a wedding dress laid out on a bed awaiting the big day, a laid out uniform of a soldier awaiting a war, luggage on a carousel awaiting collection. All these activities point to uniting people in some way: marriage, war, travel. How we all have expectations which, if they dont happen leave us feeling redundant and wasted and if these undertakings do occur, we have to perform adequately, within a marriage, war, whatever. Often our fantasies are shattered and we feel disillusioned with ourselves; our flaws are exposed, often in public and usually by others.
Kainomania is an obsession with novelties, little trinkets; things wed buy on a holiday to take home to remind us of our good times. As the years pass, these trinkets on the mantelpiece begin to look sad and desperate, a futile effort to reclaim youth and the good times. It's kind of desperate, the way we keep our wedding pictures in an album, take the baby videos, take endless videos of our holidays.
Maybe its a way of canning our experiences, reminding, or proving to ourselves were alive during those dead days when we're just going through the motions.
I love it when South Africans get together and have an intellectual debate about topical issues, to me we always seem a little naive. I love the guy who says 'no it's not that there're more sharks, it's just our binoculars are better'.
Lifeguard Achmat Hassiem bears no grudge against the Great White shark that severed his right foot in a deep-sea struggle off the False Bay coast two weeks ago.
"He got my foot, I got his tooth. It's only fair, we're even," quips the bulky 24-year-old, holding up the broken point of a ragged-edged incisor doctors removed from his mangled lower-leg.
Hassiem appears bemused by renewed calls for shark culling following his near-death encounter with a Great White off Sunrise Beach on August 13. "You can't blame them for what they are. They are a top predator. They don't have hands to feel. They use their mouths to feel, and unluckily as humans we bleed."
Hassiem is one of seven people to have been bitten by sharks off the greater Cape Town coast in the past five years. There were another six attacks on small sea craft in the same period.
Three people died, including 77-year old Tyna Webb who was killed by a shark while swimming at Fish Hoek, also in False Bay, in November 2004.
Shark experts say there has been a rise in the number of attacks, but this must be seen against the background of more people venturing into the water, especially with the rise of sports like kayaking and water-skiing.
From an average 0.1 incidents per year in the 1960s of people or their personal craft being bitten by sharks off the Cape coast, the rate increased to 0.3 in the 1970s, 0.6 in the 1980's and 0.7 in the 1990s, said Natal Shark Board research department head Geremy Cliff.
Eight such incidents were reported between 2000 and 2005, translating into an average of 1.3 per year.
A recent shark "hype" in the local media was illogical if one considered these numbers, suggested Cliff.
"Thousands of people are killed on the road, but nobody stops driving."
Putting up shark nets was not an option, he said, as they were very expensive, difficult to maintain, and indiscriminately killed sea animals.
Culling was also not a solution, as Great Whites were a protected species.
Shark Working Group spokesperson Gregg Oelofse said culling would have little impact on human safety in any event.
"It would be little more than a symbolic response to appease angry people. If you wanted to be truly safe you would have to cull every shark in the sea. And nobody knows how many there are."
Oelofse said there was no reason for hysteria or for people to stop swimming and surfing.
"I can relate to people feeling under threat. But we need to recognise that for as long as we use the sea for recreation, there will on occasion be an attack."
Surfing events administrator Paul Botha disagrees. "Something needs to be done. There has been enough talking."
He claims to have observed a huge increase in shark numbers in False Bay, something he blames on the Great White's protected status combined with a food imbalance caused by over-fishing.
"We have created a problem. We have an over-population of sharks with not enough to eat."
As solutions, he cited the introduction of a sonar system to alert swimmers of shark activity, or a "shark flying squad" to keep the fish under surveillance and kill aggressive ones.
Surfing South Africa general manager Robin de Kock said there was no evidence of the existence of rogue, man-eating sharks.
"If sharks were really out to kill people, they would be having a great feast."
The experts said there was no proof of increased shark numbers.
"We see more sharks simply because our binoculars are better," quipped De Kock.
Sharks were not "cruising around waiting to bite people", added Cliff. Some mistook humans for their natural prey, while others "mouthed" people out of curiosity.
"Unfortunately we have very thin skins and we don't take very well to these 'gentle' mouthings."
As for Hassiem, he is eager to get back in the water.
"I won't lie, I am a bit scared. It's going to take a while to get used to, but eventually I'll be out there again." - Sapa-AFP
Alex and I were to dine at Moyo’s that particular day, the day the husband’s car got stuck - not partly due to the fact that the said husband refuses to fix anything until it’s broken.
He believes not one jot in maintenance - of any form. He would categorically state if pressed that what is the point of fixing anything unless it is broken. This ground breaking philosophy runs the gauntlet through to teeth, he once puffed up like a hamster and, doubling up on paracetamol and agony, he eventually asked for a needle, he was going in alone. He is a surgeon after all and he trusts doctors and dentists not with his life, nor his teeth. He knows they laugh and jibe at patients’ pathetic pain thresholds and he’s not to be on the receiving end of that kind of treatment. So after a quick DIYsession in dentistry and root canal exploration, with the aid of the said needle and a magnifying mirror, he grunts, collapses to his knees and disintegrates into a pool of tears and whimpering. He eventually begs me to organise the dentist, now, now NOW!!
To return, Moyo’s is an establishment for the upmarket tourists who have the courage to roam the streets of our fair city. I have to say I enjoy being a tourist here more than being a native; they definitely get the better end of the hospitality industry. Why is it the tourists get better treatment than us? Could it be the pound speaks in more affluent tones than the rand? I have no idea but from now on I’m going to model myself on an English chav visiting this gorgeous country wif me hoodie ‘usband, who’s on the run for doing summink nasty to them coppers. Yeah, he right belted one of ‘em at the footie game, yeah, like that’s ‘ow he got that big lump on his cheek, dinnt he.
So there we are, sitting at this fancy establishment which is a play on the Africa meets nouveau colonialism theme, with a touch of swank it up with an outrageously expensive menu. Doing the North African cuisine, with a soupçon of southern African just to keep it all strictly authentic.
On the menu there was this saying about this being an eatery for the movers and shakers. This place is surrounded by the banking set and by God, I’ve never felt more at home. This is me, sitting in my Sunday best, cellphone at the ready, high heels and dark glasses, hell I’m cool. Surrounded by people who matter in the world, yeah, people whose throw away comments can move the stock market. Those who’ve been in Style magazine at least once, who’ve bought Hallo magazine and hidden it under the mattress so’s they know wot the posh people are wearing. God this is me, in my element.
It reminds me of a story Harry Oppenheimer told (yeah, this is me, just a bit of a big name dropper, that’s wot we do, see) he said he was out to lunch at an establishment I guess very much like the one I was embracing, when he went off to the loo. A guy followed him in and said he was lunching with a client and he wondered whether Harry, who, as you know, was Chairman of the greatest mining company in the world, Anglo American, so he wondered if Mr Oppenheimer could just pass his table and say ‘Hi Jack, nice to see you’. It would make a huge difference to his client and the business at hand. So Mr O says sure, no problem and the guy goes back to take his place. Mr O comes out and walks over to pass the table and says ‘Hi Jack, nice to see you again’. Jack says ‘Oh hi Harry, yes great, listen I’m just busy at the moment, I’ll call you tonight’.
Mmm, I guess you had to be there. Hint – mover and shaker. Moi.
Anyway, the food was great. Ambiance Great, Moving and shaking, fabulous. There was even some ugly tourist, rich international type of woman, 40-ish with that tanned, leather lined skin one gets from too much St Tropez-on-the-yacht sun. Anyway she was there with her shrivelled friends and the body guard was hanging about, watching us all. Neurotic we may just steal her handbag. I mean no one was going to touch her. Ugh.
