Roof wetting the Cape Town Stadium

Cape Town Stadium - and the view FIFA demanded

So, I get this invitation – very glossy, very smart - very welcome drinks; followed by light snacks; followed by speeches; followed by concert; followed by supper; followed by more concert. I sort of knew it was going to be “popular”, so I didn’t take the instruction to wear smart clothes terribly seriously.

Parking was a bit chaotic – we were asked, in the middle of the street (before being requested to do a U-turn away from the site which was shown on the invite for parking), whether or not we were VIPs. So security, I would say, was a bit of an issue!

The outside of the stadium, now almost complete, looks like a large Afro-chic hat. The inside looks very much, to me - well, like a stadium! There is a green patch of grass in the centre, seats and a great halo of open space above you. The one thing which caught my eye was the grey colour of the seats. There are lighter and darker shades – randomly spaced, giving the impression of Mother-of-pearl, or the inside of a shell, or something like that. Of course, the entire effect would be lost if the stadium was full – but I thought it was quite a clever, and classy touch. (For almost five billion Rand – the very least I would expect was a nice touch, here and there.)

The speeches were as one would expect – everyone praising everyone who had anything to do with the construction of the stadium. Endless clapping this or that thought about how wonderful, how unique, how special and how beautiful it all is. The Premier, Helen Zille gave a rabble-rousing speech, preceded by one that was, (how can one put this gently?) less engaging, by the Mayor of Cape Town, Dan Plato.

Then on to the concert. Now, before I say anything, let me say how much I genuinely admire Richard Cock, the conductor. He is an extremely humble man and one who certainly knows how to bring music to the people. I don’t think he is a great conductor – but he is a populist supreme - and a gentle one at that. He knows what buttons to press amongst the musically uneducated and he really manages to get real rapport with them. This is a good thing – but I do have some slight problem about the actual level of musicality he seems content to allow in his efforts to do so.

Nevertheless, we started with what he called the “FIFA theme”. Apparently this is a piece of music owned by FIFA. (I was somewhat surprised that he didn’t announce that for the period of the tournament – FIFA owned ALL music – but he didn’t. Note to FIFA – this is something you may have missed for Brazil...). Needless to say, the FIFA theme was awful. Dreary, tub-thumping crashes and bangs which sounded not unlike the theme from “Dallas”. Indeed, it could have been the theme from “Dallas”, because who would remember the theme from “Dallas”?

Then we had the “Twenty Tenors” – (Geddit? Twenty Tenors???). Well, we had twelve of them, because (due to the fact that the stadium costs have ballooned from 1.8 Billion to a mere 5 Billion, in the space of three years),apparently the budget for the roof wetting needed to be somewhat limited. The singing was mediocre. But, and here is something worth noting, at least the singers were mostly black! They stood in the sharpest of contrast to the Cape Town Philharmonic Orchestra, which was, not to put too fine a point on it, blindingly white.

And then, there was a group called the “Sterling Electric Quartet”. It consisted of four women playing an electric cello, violin, viola and flute. They wore dresses the size of serviettes and they seemed to be doing practise moves for the filming of the female part to the Karma Sutra. The audience loved them. Cameras flashed. Men approved. They can play – of that there is no doubt – but dear Lord! Why did they bother? It was a bit like watching porn with strangely shaped musical instruments.

My overall impression was one of sadness. Not at the kind of music the majority of the crowd seemed more than content to endure, but at the fact that this huge stadium can really only be used for three things: Soccer, Rugby and concerts. No Athletics. No cricket. Perhaps the occasional boxing match – who knows? Why? It has no athletics track because when the price was thought to be R1.8 billion, it was thought to be too much, so the size of the stadium was reduced to exclude an athletics track.

And sad, because I don’t buy the argument that the stadium is in the right place. Greenpoint Common is not a central point for Cape Town and nor is it, in my opinion, a developmental node. It will simply benefit the already rich of the area, who are mostly white. I have listened to all the arguments, over the years and I have to say, that I just don’t buy them. The reason why the stadium was put where it is, was quite simply, because that is where FIFA wanted it to be. And FIFA wanted it there for the view of Table Mountain.

Seapoint nostalgia

Pix: Our children Joshua top, age 6. Gabriel below, age 7

Anyone who has lived in, or, I suppose, even visited Cairp Tahn in the good months of the year will know that promenading the beachfront in Seapoint is one of those things you have to do before you die.

The promenade is busy on good days. Joggers, those with good and those with indifferent bodies; walkers; strollers; amblers; beggars; parents kicking a football; children having a football kicked at them; dog walkers a-plenty; ice-cream eaters. There are a lot of people there, if the weather is good.

The actual beach should really only be looked at. It is completely shale, with jagged rocks and pools of slimy green, littered with a few plastic bags. But if you look beyond this – then, Ah! And if the sun happens to be going down, then double Ah.

For myself, I have these really strong and close to overwhelming feelings of childhood nostalgia, because as a child of (I suppose 6 or 7) my parents and I boarded a train and headed for Three Anchor Bay – which is right next to Seapoint. The 2 day train journey (I remember) seemed utterly interminable. We had lorry loads of boiled eggs and flasks of rapidly cooling coffee. On the second evening on the train, we went to the dining car for our meal. There was silverware service, involving waiters in crisp starched white jackets with shining metal buttons. The train seemed to stop endlessly and the Karoo stretched on for mile after never ending mile.

I remember my mother “writing away” to the owner of our intended lodgings in Three Anchor Bay. I remember the answer arriving saying that we were duly booked. My parents would only call Cape Town in the case of a death in the family and even then, the tension caused by what was the imagined cost of the call was unbearable. The conversation would be clipped, fulfilling of all the required sympathies and niceties, but the receiver replaced as soon as was decently possible.

My nostalgia began, I think, when I suddenly remembered some of the stories I had heard about that trip. Like being rescued from the sea at Three Anchor Bay, when I fell off the rocks. Like me vomiting on (and consequently completely ruining) the carefully prepared Christmas dinner my aunt had made for us. Like the trips I had on the little miniature Steam Train. Like the huge live crayfish I and my father went to fetch from the fishing boats early in the morning.
And I remember how unimpressed I was at my first sight of the sea, because from the road along the beachfront, all you can really see from the car is the line where the sea meets the sky.

That was then. And then some 45 or so years got in the way. And when Leon and I are promenading on the Seapoint Beachfront, I can’t help wondering what, if any, nostalgia my children will be having in the year 2049.

Slave Mentality

I came across an article recently, by political commentator Andrew P Jones, which made a very interesting point, in the after-glow of the Obama victory. His point is that while indeed the Obama ascendancy to the Presidency has been great and historic, the unquestioning support which African-Americans have given him is something deeply rooted in a master-slave mentality.

African Americans, he argues, have proved themselves in the past, to be virtually incapable of rallying around the “ideas” of liberty (incorporating such issues as restitution and reparations for slavery and psychological independence from the majority) but when a charismatic leader such as Obama comes along, they will follow him, blindly, to the end.

Jones relates conversations he had with his grandfather, who was born in 1861, four years before slavery was abolished. His grandfather had many recollections of the history (which largely preceded him), given to him by others. Most startling was that, contrary to popular belief, many slaves did not hate their white masters. Indeed, slavery was unbelievably hard, but rather than see their masters as tyrants, they saw them as benefactors who looked after them, so long as they acted like slaves. Slaves, he contended, had much more affinity with their masters than they did with other slaves, whom they treated with contempt – since the only way you could survive as a slave was by doing others down.

Most slaves didn’t have any concept of freedom, because being slaves was all they knew. Rather than being free, the fantasies they harboured was about living in the big house, and being the master. Jones’ grandfather had said to him that slaves didn’t want to be free. They wanted to be the master.

I have thought about this startling comment quite a lot recently as we enter a period of elections in this country – particularly in the context of the rather toxic politics of the Western Cape. And I have said before, in this column, that their Obama and our Mandela are not the same thing, by a very long shot. Obama had whites voting for him a-plenty. Mandela most certainly did not – however much they might now love him – I doubt whether they will, even now vote for his party the ANC, in any significant numbers.

But Jones’ argument puts a whole new perspective on it all. What he is saying is that African-Americans, in general, have voted for a master. Behind this master are all the institutions (political and otherwise) which are not in the control of blacks, but rather remain in the control of whites. This is very different from South Africa, where the black majority, once it gained political power immediately set about the task of remaking those institutions. To quote Jones:

“…white people, I submit, via their institutional control of the political system in the United States, elected their first black president, just like black people did … (in South Africa)... We African-Americans, on the other hand, because we do not have that kind of institutional control, nor the mentality that would create it, chose ourselves a master whom for now we shall treat like a king.”

In the Western Cape, slavery has left its mark in the psyche of the majority of the people, in a way in which it simply has not done in the rest of the country. Jacob Zuma’s ancestors were never slaves. They were oppressed, but they were never slaves. And yes, both have suffered immense oppression, but there is a psychological difference between them which plays itself out in the politics of the present (among other things). Because I would bet my bottom Dollar that what the majority of people in the Western Cape really want, and will demonstrate at the polls, is not freedom. Not real freedom - political, institutional, social and psychological - which they build for themselves, from scratch if necessary. What they want, is a master to look after them well.

25 January 2009

The Article referred to in this column is Andrew P Jones: “A people chained by a slave psyche” in The Argus 20 January 2009.
Andrew P Jones is a political commentator and author of the book Barak Obama: America’s Saviour or Judas Goat, Diary of a mad black voter