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[ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN SUIDERNUUS, 1 APRIL 2022] What is it that makes us think we are better than a bird? A dog? Another human being? What is it that makes one strive to outdo another person? Or to do someone in? To mock someone? To grind someone down? These questions make one feel a tad uncomfortable, isn’t it? We have on our minds the heartless xenophobia of the past week in Bredasdorp that saw a thousand people chased out of their houses, their belongings stolen, because they are foreigners. Never will I do such a thing, most people say. But the striving to outdo other people (even morally!), is born in the same place where the hatred of the other is born. And we all do it. We all harbour inside ourselves feelings of resentment towards others, even hatred, disdain and disgust. That place, psychologists will tell you, is a place of deep fear of being rejected; a place of yearning to belong. It is therefore the place where we put the most rejected parts of ourself that we would rather die than admit to anyone. We don’t even admit them to ourselves. We tuck away the rejected parts in ourselves in the believe that we will be more acceptable to others. But because we do not accept the rejected parts of ourselves, they must be acknowledged somewhere so we project them onto someone else, or onto another group. That means we ‘see’ the rejected parts in the other person or group and therefore we hate them. Heck, and don’t we know about this in South Africa, because our whole sorry legacy is built on the collective projection onto others of that which we reject in ourselves. And we still do it well: this one is so corrupt, that one is so incompetent, so-and-so is a foreigner who doesn’t belong here … The social psychologist Erich Fromm says the divide between good and evil cuts through the soul of every man. In other words, within us all we harbour an equal measure of good and bad. But we prefer to think of ourselves as only good and project the bad part onto someone else. In a manner then, that which was carried out in Bredasdorp this week, was also done on behalf of those who think themselves too good to act in such a way. And the one who shouts the loudest is the one trying the hardest to shout down some rejected part within. The brighter the sun shines, the darker is the shadow. If we want to do something for the world, we can square up to the rejected part within ourselves and take ownership of it. Take that part that you most hate in others and realise it is a part of you. That is the only safeguard against becoming susceptible to mob action of the kind we saw in Bredasdorp this week. Or in Nazi Germany during the Holocaust. Or cross-Atlantic in alt right terrorism against minorities, but also in the kind of mob mentality cancel culture has come to portray. The West’s Christian doctrine, which over 2 000 years has built up such a sophisticated civilisation, also has a dark side: it created hubris in the form of the ‘higher than thou’ attitude. Ironically, this attitude is especially alive among humanists – people who think themselves governed by reason and thus ‘post-religious’, but who claim to espouse the moral values born out of Christianity. It is best expressed in that hackneyed phrase used when someone of exemplary moral standing encounters someone wretched and fallen: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” (Or the humanists: “There, but for my own rational effort, go I.”) This moral highhandedness is plain wrong. The phrase should be: “There go I” because in the recognition of that which revolts us, we recognise an aspect of ourselves we deny, and therefore we see someone else living it out. The irony is that sometimes this part we do not want to own up to in ourselves is not even bad. It may be our greatest creative potential or, say, a proneness to lead that we deny because we fear it. But when we deny it, it becomes a destructive force in or lives. There is a Talmudic saying: If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? If not now – when? What this enigmatic saying expresses in a kind of a photo negative way, is that once one has taken care of oneself, in other words, taken ownership of the whole of oneself and accepted also those parts previously denied, at that point one is ready to take care of others, as in the biblical doctrine: Love thy neighbour as thyself. And if not now, then when? Best wishes, The editors

[OORSPRONKLIK GEPLAAS IN SUIDERNUUS, 25 MAART 2022] Dit bly darem maar lekker om spoggerig te kan voel oor iets. En in ons werk as nuusversamelaars, het ons die voordeel dat goeie nuus soms letterlik by die voordeur instap. Mense kom vertel vir ons van die dorp se suksesse, of hulle stuur nuus vir ons aan. Natuurlik hoor ons ook gereeld van die minder aangename dinge wat in die streek gebeur, en dan berig ons daaroor. Maar een ding wat miskien ’n bietjie anders is vir ons as ’n gemeenskapskoerant teenoor, byvoorbeeld, ’n nasionale koerant, is dat ons nie sensasie op die voorblad hoef te hê nie. Ons hoef nie lesers te lok met bloed nie. Ons kan ons streek se koerant maar gebruik om ’n bietjie onder mekaar te spog. En dít doen ons alte graag. In verlede week se uitgawe kon Suidernuus lekker spog met die streek se voorste atlete – van die naellopers tot die rolbal-kampioene en flinke fietsryers. Soms neem ons werk ons op uitstappies in die omgewing, en dan kan ons spog met die natuurskoon van die Overberg – soos verlede week toe ons ons liries geraak het oor die Nuwejaarsvleilande wat ’n groep boere in die gemeenskap beskerm onder die Nuwejaars Wetlands Special Management Area projek. In hierdie trant is ons nie bietjie trots nie, om dié week ’n onderhoud te kon voer met Odette Curtis-Scott, wat haar lewe daaraan wy om die raar, maar besonder ryk Renosterveld te beskerm. Ons is ook trots op Linda Booyse se dansskool wat wonderlik gevaar het by die Overberg Eisteddfod. Ons vertel ook graag stories oor gemeenskapslede wat aktief by die gemeenskap betrokke is en probeer om die lewe vir ander om hulle net so ’n klein bietjie beter te maak – ongeag hoe groot of klein die projek of gebaar. Hierdie week kan ons spog met ’n plaaslike sokkerspan wat deur Timothy Jende begin is. Die doel van dié span, is om tienerseuns van die straat af te hou en aktief betrokke te kry by opbouende aktiwiteite. Dié span is nou bo-aan hulle liga, ondanks die feit dat hulle soms moet las en pas om uitgerus te kom vir ’n wedstryd. Verlede week het ons besoek afgelê by Müller Retief, Hoërskool Bredasdorp se skoolhoof, om met hom te gesels oor sy fietsryery (lees hieroor in volgende week se Suidernuus). Ons sit in sy kantoor, en hy is sélf trots op wat die skool en sy kinders vermag. Hy gesels oor oudskoliere wat nou doktorsgrade in ingenieurswese het, en oor projekte waarby die skoolkinders betrokke is om ’n verskil in die gemeenskap te maak. Hy glimlag letterlik van oor tot oor wanneer hy gesels oor prestasies uit die streek, en oor die streek se natuurskoon. Nie dat hy wegkyk van die probleme wat ons in die gesig staar nie. Inteendeel. Hy is self betrokke by projekte om ’n verskil te maak; om gemeenskap saam te smee. Maar soms is dit mos lekker om net ’n bietjie te kan gesels oor die dinge waarop ons as Overbergers trots mág wees. So, ja. Ons spog graag oor die streek en sy mense. En ons wil graag hê ons lesers moet saam spog. Indien jy meen daar is iets wat nog spog verdien, laat weet ons gerus. Stuur ’n e-pos aan suidernuus@isat.co.za, of kom vertel ons sommer. Ons luister graag. Mooi wense, Anneli en Mathabo

[OORSPRONLIK GEPLAAS IN SUIDERNUUS, 25 MAART 2022] ’n Klompie jare gelede het ek in my navorsing gestrompel oor die werk van Hans Ulrich Gumbrecht. Hy is van Duitse herkoms, en werk as letterkundige aan die Universiteit van Stanford in Amerika. Die boek van hom wat my oog gevang het, het ’n fênsie titel: Production of Presence – What meaning cannot convey. Ja, dis ’n akademiese teks. Maar daar is iets beeldskoon aan dié boek. In hierdie boek (en ek parafraseer ruim) gebruik Gumbrecht akademiese redevoering om te verduidelik waarom hy meen dat ’n suiwer akademiese benadering tot die kunste iets van ons roof. Wat dit van ons steel, as ek nou kan aanhou parafraseer, is naamlik daardie oomblik waarin ons as leser of kyker die kunswerk as iets moois of besonders ervaar. Daardie oomblik waar ’n mens hoendervleis kry, of ’n blos op die wange, of dalk sommer goed ergerlik raak. Sy punt, kortom, is dat dit dikwels so in ons ingedril is om te probeer om die betekenis van ’n boek of ’n gedig of ’n kunswerk vas te stel, dat ons onsself ontneem van die kans om weggevoer te raak deur die skoonheid daarvan. Ons laat nie meer toe dat die kunswerk of die poësie ons aanraak nie, want ons wil dadelik verstaan waaroor dit gaan en wat die skrywer daarmee bedoel. Hy wil darem nie die baba met die badwater uitgooi nie. Sy voorstel is Boekerubriek Anneli Groenewald bloot dat ons nie onmiddellik moet oorgaan tot ontleding nie, maar onsself eers moet toelaat om die kunswerk te ervaar vir wat dit is. En hy het dit nie net oor kuns en skryfwerk nie. Hy is ook ’n groot aanhanger van Amerikaanse voetbal, en sê daar is ’n ewe sterk krag teen w oordig ten aanskoue van ’n atleet wat meesterlik is. Dink maar aan die oomblik wanneer een van jou gunsteling Springbokke lostrek doellyn toe en met fyn voetwerk die opponente se ganse agterlyn systap. Die hele stadion oombliklik op hul voete! Dit is na daardie oomblikke dat Gumbrecht verwys. Wanneer ’n kunswerk of ’n gedig of ’n rugbyspeler speler of swemmer iets met soveel tegniek, talent en toewyding doen, dat dit jou wegvoer. Stel jou nou voor dat jy daardie oomblik probeer briek om eers vir ’n oomblik te wonder wat ’n bepaalde drie beteken, eerder as om saam met die skare te vier? Dít, as ek Gumbrecht se argument reg verstaan, is die oomblik waarvan lesers hulself stroop as hulle ’n briljante stuk skryfwerk lees en dan – pleks van om toe te laat dat dit hul meevoer – dadelik begin kantaantekeninge maak oor die betekenis, styl en struktuur van die teks. Natuurlik is daar party rugbyspelers wat baie beter is daarmee om die skare op hul voete te kry as ander. Spoed, vernuf, die vermoë om die spel en die ander span te kan lees, dra alles by tot die perfekte oomblik wat ’n bal onderskep word en ’n speler pale toe nael. Dieselfde geld, by wyse van spreke, vir skrywers. Gumbrecht meen dat daar bepaalde elemente in skryfwerk is wat daardie briljante oomblikke teweeg bring. Goeie skrywers wend hul vaardighede op só ’n wyse aan dat die leser as’t ware in die skrywer se strik val. Sulke skrywers kan byvoorbeeld met onder meer die gebruik van leestekens bepaal teen watter spoed of ritme jy lees (en die leser sal dit nie eers agterkom nie). Hulle kan só oor kos skryf dat jou mond sal water. Die leser het dalk die ambisie om ’n teks te lees sodat hulle dit kan ontleed. Maar voordat jy jou kom kry, is jy geheel en al meegesleur deur die teks – dis daardie oomblikke wanneer Breyton Paulse afsit doellyn toe. Jy vergeet dat jy lees vir tegniek, en vir styl en struktuur. Jy staan ín die wêreld van die boek en eers ’n paar bladsye later besef jy die potlood lê doer. Maar jy weet dat wat jy tans gade geslaan of gelees of na geluister het… jy wéét net dit is briljant. Meesterlik selfs. En dan kan jy terugkeer na die eerste bladsy en begin kyk na wat dit dan is wat hierdie bepaalde skrywer anders gedoen het as ander skrywers.

[ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN SUIDERNUUS, 25 MARCH 2022] When founder and director Odette Curtis-Scott started the Overberg Renosterveld Conservation Trust (ORCT) in 2012, saving one of the country’s most threatened ecosystems was “a dream that seemed impossible”. Renosterveld was already 95% lost, mostly due to agricultural development. In celebration of the ORCT's tenth birthday, Anri Matthee asked Curtis-Scott about her work and her legacy. Odette Curtis-Scott, founder and director of the Overberg Renosterveld Conservation Trust. Photos: Supplied / Odette Curtis-Scott “I still can’t quite believe it and have to pinch myself to remember this is real,” says Curtis-Scott. “We have made major inroads to protect Renosterveld over this time.” Despite its reputation as the “ugly sister to fynbos”, Renosterveld is the richest bulb habitat on the planet and is home to “incredible diversity and life”. In the effort to protect the severely fragmented 5% of Renosterveld that remains, her work is more important than ever. SN: Where did you grow up and how did you end up here? OCS: I grew up in Cape Town – in the City Bowl, in Tamboerskloof. At first, I was doing fieldwork out here on Black Harriers and spending a lot of time here. I just absolutely fell in love with it. So, 15 years ago, I decided to move here. How and why did you become involved in nature conservation? Because I had this pull towards doing it. I can’t really explain exactly why… I didn’t grow up in the bush or have all that exposure when I was a child. I just watched documentaries of David Attenborough… nothing romantic, like, “Oh, I grew up doing this!” I was moved to do something about what’s going on on the planet. What exactly is Renosterveld, and where can it be found? Renosterveld is part of the fynbos biome. It’s like a vegetation type of fynbos, but it’s also being recognised more and more as its own biome. Basically, what makes it different from fynbos is that it’s found in clay soil – relatively rich soil – compared to fynbos, which is found on the mountains and on the coastal sites, which are sandy and poor soil. It’s basically the clay, rich, fertile lowlands of the Western Cape. That’s Lowland Renosterveld. So, where you see the Overberg and Swartland wheatbelts, those are what would have been Renosterveld. What makes Renosterveld so special to found the ORCT? It’s incredibly unique, but also very overlooked because it’s not as attractive as fynbos throughout the year. It’s been horribly neglected because of how unattractive it is to landowners. So, it’s this incredibly diverse system which is severely fragmented and severely threatened, but also very, very rich and not receiving the attention that it needs. What work does the ORCT do; what do you hope to achieve? The most important work we do is working with farmers across the wheatbelt in the Overberg to change attitudes. There is a misconception that Renosterveld is just a wasteland. The idea is to change that perception first. We mostly do that by exploring the sites that we visit and putting together a detailed inventory of everything we find – a biodiversity report – which we then print out as a nice glossy report for landowners to share with them what they have on their own farms. Most of them don’t like Renosterveld, because they don’t know what’s in it and how special it is. So, that’s the first step towards changing attitudes: sharing and showing people what they have, and getting them excited about what they have. The next thing is to establish partnerships with landowners that are willing and concerned about their Renosterveld and conserving it in the long term. That’s where the easement programme comes in where we offer landowners with enough Renosterveld an opportunity to sign a title deed restriction – a conservation servitude that is put onto their title deed, which keeps their Renosterveld safe in perpetuity. In return, this enables us to assist them with managing it. Then we put resources into managing it for them and with them so that it doesn’t cost them money to conserve it. Odette Curtis-Scott's four-year-old daughter, Molly, often accompanies her mother in the field and shares her new-found interest in spiders. "She knows what a crab spider is versus a jumping spider, and such things, just from being in the veld enough,” says Curtis-Scott. What is your proudest accomplishment with the ORCT? It’s definitely the 4 000 hectares of Renosterveld that we’ve secured – 6 000 hectares altogether of other vegetation types, but over 4 000 hectares of Renosterveld secured through easements. I would say that’s our biggest achievement. What keeps you up at night? Definitely the illegal ploughing, and the ignorance about it and therefore the abuse that happens. The ploughing, overgrazing, degradation and all the stuff that is based mostly on ignorance – to a lesser extent, also the arrogance of “This is my land. I can do with this whatever I want.” Lack of awareness and concern go together. And the fact that we only have 5% of Renosterveld left. So every piece that is removed or degraded has an impact on the future conservation potential of this landscape. And what gives you hope? The fact that we’ve seen so many landowners change their attitudes and their undertaking to conserve instead of take and abuse; and landowners who have changed their minds once they’ve seen what they have, turned around and said, “Geez, I had no idea”. And the fact that there are landowners who are willing to commit at such a high level that they’ll put a conservation servitude on their title deed. What gives me hope is that there is still a willingness to change and, even beyond that, a willingness to commit. How can the local community help make a difference? There are various things. Obviously, we’re a nonprofit, so we always need funding. So, if anybody would like to get involved in fundraising for us, there are various ways this can be done. We’ve just launched the bequest programme – that’s of course for longer term stuff. We’ve put out a call in our last newsletter to ask people to consider becoming fundraisers for us, or hosting a dinner or something like that, to raise funds. And then the awareness – spreading the word about the book and the specialness, our video – all those things that help people to see the other side. How can Suidernuus and other newspapers contribute to what you’re trying to achieve? I think by keeping awareness going, especially amongst the farmers and the community around why this is so important – and getting this message across that while you may be the landowner now, you are not the landowner in perpetuity. What you do on the land now affects everything in the future and the little time that you are the landowner can determine the fate of this vegetation, of this habitat for these natural systems and everything that lives in them. So, awareness – keeping that going – and the positive news, the positive message. A lot of times we only hear “This guy got nailed for illegal ploughing,” and then the farmers start to feel resentful, like, “Why can’t I do on my farm whatever I please?” But the thing is, you are the custodian of the land. You are a steward, and you’re only a steward for a very small amount of time in the bigger scheme of things. So, the idea is to respect what’s around you and to work with it, learn about it and grow to love it rather than despising it because you can’t plough it. I think that's an important message and a positive side of it. There’s a lot of negativity in the news and sharing positive stories is important. You co-authored the Field Guide to the Renosterveld of the Overberg. Why was its publication so important? A lot of farmers – and other people just interested in the veld and the fynbos – had been asking for a book for so long because there was nothing yet that filled that niche. There were books that covered parts of it, but not specifically the Renosterveld. I think it has brought attention to the incredible diversity that we have and also kind of made it sexy, you know. Here’s all this vegetation type that looks so drab if you don’t look properly and then, when you look closer, this is what you could find if you just spend some time there, in the right time of year, with enough patience. It’s kind of put it on the map.

[OORSPRONLIK GEPLAAS IN SUIDERNUUS, 18 MAART 2022] Die Colombiaanse skrywer Gabriel García Márquez is veral bekend vir sy boek One Hundred Years of Solitude, met daardie lieflike openingslyn: Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. Dié boek word deur baie beskou as die maatstaf vir die magiese realisme – waar dinge in die storie gebeur wat jy wéét wetenskaplik onmoontlik is. Maar om een of ander rede glo jy dit. In die Afrikaanse letterkunde tref ons die magiese realisme veral aan in Etienne van Heerden se Karooboeke. Die wonderlikhede wat in hierdie tipe boeke kan gebeur, en die vernuf waarmee dit aan die leser opgedis word sodat hulle daarvoor val, maak vir heerlike leesstof waar dit soms voel asof jou verstand net so ’n aks op sy eie as skuif. Brandarm joernalis Márquez, wat na ’n roemryke skrywersloopbaan en ’n Nobelprys in Letterkunde in 2014 oorlede is, het sy loopbaan begin as brandarm joernalis (soos die meeste joernaliste). Sy kleurvolle lewe van kerkmuis tot enigma is opgeteken in die outobiografie Living to Tell the Tale. Waarby ek eintlik wil uitkom, is egter ’n klein boekie met die titel The Fragrance of Guava. Dié boek is ’n optekening van ’n gesprek tussen Márquez en sy vriend, Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza – ook ’n joernalis en skrywer. Hulle gesels oor Márquez se familie, hoe hy dink oor die skryfkuns, wat hy lees, voorbodes. Sulke goed. En natuurlik oor die magiese realisme. Man met die geel skoenlappers Márquez beweer in hierdie boekie dat daar nie ’n enkele sin in sy romans is wat nie in die werklikheid gebeur het nie. Het jy al ooit One Hundred Years of Solitude gelees, sal jy weet dat dit nogal ’n stelling en ’n half is. Mendoza daag hom hierop uit. “Are you sure? Some very bizarre things happen in One Hundred Years of Solitude.” Márquez staan egter vas en gebruik die voorbeeld van ’n karakter in dié boek, Mauricio Babilonia, wat altyd omring was deur geel skoenlappers. When I was about five, one day an electrician came out to our house in Aracataca to change the meter. I remember it as if it were yesterday because I was fascinated by the leather belt he used to strap himself on to the poles to stop himself falling. He came several times. On one of these occasions, I found my grandmother trying to shoo away a butterfly with a duster, saying, 'Whenever this man comes to the house, that yellow butterfly follows him.” That was Mauricio Babilonia in embryo. Mendoza wys Márquez egter daarop dat Europese (oftewel Westerse) lesers gewoonlik baie bewus is van die magiese in sy werke, maar nie soseer die realisme daarin raaksien nie. Márquez het ’n antwoord gereed: This is surely because their rationalism prevents them seeing that reality isn’t limited to the price of tomatoes and eggs. Everyday life in Latin America proves that reality is full of the most extraordinary things. Die ‘hele sirkus’ waai weg Hy gebruik dan die voorbeeld van geweldige sterk suidpoolwinde wat op ’n keer ’n “hele sirkus” in die suide van Argentinië weggewaai het “…and the next day fishermen caught the bodies of lions and giraffes in their nets”. Márquez verduidelik dat enige goeie roman eintlik maar net ’n poëtiese vervatting van die werklikheid is: Yes, I think a novel is reality represented through a secret code, a kind of conundrum about the world. The reality you are dealing with in a novel is different from real life, although it is rooted in it. The same thing is true for dreams. Dieselfde geld dan vir One Hundred Years of Solitude. Maar die uitdaging is om daardie “extraordinary” in die lewe te kan raaksien. Om verby die prys van tamaties en eiers te kan kyk, en die skoenlappers rondom die elektrisiën te sien fladder. Om die subversiewe te kan raaksien – byna te kan vóél – in ’n wêreld waar ’n kameelperd in ’n visserman se net gevang word. En daarvoor hoef jy nie ’n skrywer te wees nie. Márquez was op die snelweg op pad om saam met sy vrou , Mercedes, en sy kinders vakansie te gaan hou in Acapulco, toe hy besef dat hy One Hundred Years of Solitude moet vertel soos wat sy ouma ’n storie sou vertel. “I would start with that afternoon when the little boy is taken by his grandfather to discover ice,” sê hy. “A linear history where the extra ordinary fuses, in all innocence, with the commonplace.” Hy het die kar net daar omgedraai, huis toe gery, en ’n jaar en ’n half lank aan die boek geskryf. (Die kar moes hy verkoop om die gesin aan die lewe te hou.) “It’s true, I never got to Acapulco.”

[ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN SUIDERNUUS, 18 MARCH 2022] No one would knowingly give their children drugs. Then why do people knowingly consume newspapers? Tricky question to start the editors’ letter of a newspaper, no? Well, it’s not our question but one posed some 80 years ago by the eminent psychologist Carl Gustav Jung. Explaining his thinking, Jung says newspapers tend to bring all the worst news they can muster together in one place where people then wallow in that toxic misery, with catastrophic effect for their emotional wellbeing. The world doesn’t work like that, says Jung. Yes, there is misery, violence, viciousness and corruption. But there is also meaning, beauty, kindness, joy. And there is the plain simple mundanity of the day-to-day and work and duty and afterwards play. The world is a play between all these different dimensions. If you only emphasise one – like newspapers emphasise tragedy and misery – you do not get an accurate picture. We wonder what Jung would have said if he could see how we live now. Never in the history of the world have people been materially so well off. Yet, the hatred and polarisation in our time has reached fever pitch – without a doubt spurred on by social media. And, no, it’s not us who say this, we just reiterate study upon study. In any case, we got a note via Facebook from a reader earlier this week asking why we – unlike “the other local newspapers” do not report about “holiday owners [sic] and holiday makers whose money gets stolen” and whether Suidernuus “is unaware of what goes on in Struisbaai/Agulhas/Suiderstrand”. The short answer is: No. We have positioned Suidernuus precisely not to carry every single crime story that hits the region. That does not mean we do not have empathy with people wat deurloop. But there are enough little WhatsApp groepies and Facebook blaadjies where people bemoan their lot about these crimes. As must have become apparent since we have taken over, we have a gemeenskapsbou approach with the newspaper. We want to draw people together, not set them up against each other. We want to foster love, not hate. We also want to zoom in on things we think make people read with pleasure not growing anger: stories, traditions, heritage, memories, news about nature, about great ideas and projects that help other people, create jobs and solve problems. In other words, we will not shy away from the problems, but we want to bring a constructive approach to them. In this vein, our fibre optic story (11 March 2022 edition) contributed to prompting the Cape Agulhas Municipality (CAM) to this week exceptionally invite a resident – Roux Crafford – to address the municipality’s infrastructure division, the municipal manager, all councillors and all other managers on issues of public infrastructure generally. But more specifically also the issue of Crafford’s concern about the way the subcontractors of fibre optic operators flout their wayleave stipulations, as we reported last week. Crafford has been driving this issue since last year as a concerned resident to ensure ratepayers’ interests are safeguarded. We believe through dialogue constructive solutions can be negotiated and we hope it will have such an outcome also in this instance. We wonder sometimes, though, about the catastrophes people create with the power of their minds. It was another psychologist, the Auschwitz survivor Edith Eger, who said that the biggest concentration camp is our own minds. And each of us holds the key that can get us out of it. Or as Gabriel García Márquez remarks in The Fragrance of Guava, and we paraphrase: people’s rationalism prevents them from seeing that reality isn’t limited to the price of tomatoes and eggs. One can look past the mundane and see the extraordinariness of life. (see p.8) Some thoughts to ponder. Best wishes, The editors

[OORSPRONLIK GEPLAAS IN SUIDERNUUS, 18 MAART 2022] Wonder jy soms waarom sommige graanlande gebrand word? Of waarom party graanlande vol stoppels staan en ander nie? In hierdie splinternuwe Suidernuus-rubriek, gesels Marius Swart oor waar in die landbou-siklus die Overberg tans is, en wat jy sou sien as jy nader aan die lande staan. ’n Trekker met kalkstrooier. Foto's: Marius Swart Dis verstaanbaar dat mense liries raak oor die Overberg se landskap. In die vroeë lente is daar die blokke geel kanola, groen koring en blink gars wat al die handelsmerk van ons distrik geword het. Dan verander dit in reëlmatige rye platgesnyde graan wat ewe gou weer wegraak soos die oes ingesamel word. Maar nou is ons aan die ander kant van die seisoen, in wat sommige mense sien as die “vaal en lelike” tyd. Niks is meer so mooi groen soos net ’n paar maande gelede nie. Staan jy egter ’n bietjie nader, merk jy op dat alles tog nie heeltemal dieselfde lyk nie. Hoe lyk dit op die oomblik? Daar is lande met lusern waarop skape wei, en ander lande is bewerk om die grond los te maak vir die komende koring-aanplanting. Klippe word afgery sodat implemente nie beskadig word nie, grond word gelykgesleep. Daar lê hope kalk, gips, hoendermis, kompos en ander aanvullings om die grond se voedingstatus en gesondheid aan te help. Jy sien dalk selfs die strooiers waarmee dit op die lande uitgestrooi word. Ons praat van “kalkstrooiers”, maar kalk is maar net een van die goed wat hulle kann toedien. Plek-plek sien jy dalk ’n land wat van hoek tot kant afgebrand is. Minder as twintig jaar gelede was dit nog in groot areas die norm en is strooi elke jaar uitgebrand en die grond aggressief bewerk – ons is voorgelig dat ’n skoon saadbed sonder enige oesreste die beste oes sou lewer. Vandag kry ons nagmerries oor wat dit aan die grondlewe gedoen het. Om te brand is nou ’n laaste uitweg, maar steeds ’n belangrike hulpmiddel in spesifieke omstandighede. ’n Land wat tydens ’n veldbrand afgebrand het, met kanolastoppels in die voorgrond. Oesreste, opslag en onkruid Op die meeste graanlande wat laas jaar gesaai was, is daar graanstoppels van die vorige oes, en basies niks anders nie. Hier word groot moeite gedoen en koste aangegaan om vog en voedingstowwe te bewaar vir die volgende oes. Hier en daar het probleemonkruid, soos ons sê, “deurgeglip”. Van die tipiese kandidate in die somer is die kakiebos, wat na ’n baie klein kersboompie lyk, en die skraalhans, ’n regop bossie met harige grysgroen blare en fyn wit blommetjies. Daar is nog ander ook. Baie ander. Maar ons praat ’n ander keer oor hulle. Buiten onkruid en stoppels, is daar ook opslag van die vorige jaar se oes. In Engels noem hulle dit “volunteer”, maar die Afrikaanse woord is meer beskrywend. As jy mooi kyk, sal jy sien dat hierdie opslag in reëlmatige stroke oor die land loop. Dit is waar die stroper laas jaar die strooi en kaf gegooi het, hetsy fyngekap of heel, en daar is ’n groot konsentrasie graan- en onkruidsaad wat dan van die somer se reën ontkiem. Op sommige lande lê dit in small stroke van ’n meter of twee breed – hier is die strooi waarskynlik gebaal en weggery. Op ander lande vorm dit breër bane – hier is die oesreste oopgeslaan vir ʼn deklaag. Gars, koring en kanola Die stoppels self is nie altyd ewe lank nie. Gars en koring word heelwat laer afgesny as kanola – hoogte van ’n koeldrankblikkie, en laasgenoemde op kniehoogte of nog hoër. Kanola se stoppels is ’n langer, dikker, wit stok, terwyl gars, koring en ander kleingrane ’n korter en fyner stoppel het wat teen hierdie tyd al taamlik verweer en verkleur het. Op sommige lande staan daar jong, groen lusern tussen laas jaar se stoppels. Kyk mooi, en jy sal sein dat die lusern baie keer juis tussen kanola se lang, wit stoppels staan. Die rede waarom hierdie twee saam loop, sal ek oor ’n paar weke verder bespreek. Die landskap is dalk nie nou so fotogenies soos in Augustus en September nie, maar moenie dink daar gaan niks aan net omdat dit vaal en droog is nie. En dis juis amper saaityd – of soos jonger millenniërs dit noem, “planttyd”. Ons praat binnekort verder.

[ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN SUIDERNUUS, 18 MARCH 2022] The purple heron, oh the purple heron! The goshawk that I didn't see. Bustard, larks and little grebes. Flamingos from a dream of me: My mother when she clipped her nails, out flew a thousand pink flamingos that through the gray house did me chase. The purple heron & flamingos. Photos: Heather D’Alton & Fraser Crighton Can one get drunk on pure white sky? Come under the spell of grace, like the mellow mood induced by ine. ’Tis indeed an adorning grace, the heady sweetness of this place! The Nuwejaars Wetland area unfolded like a John Clare poem before me when recently I visited there. We went a-birding but as we passed from camp to camp, the fynbos belt rolled out, like emeralds strewn in the veld, and interspersed an intricate web of wetness stretched into a shimmer. ’Tis true, more than wings and feather alighted there. Liquid gossamer lay a-quiver! Hippopotami, as many as eight, waded nose-deep in the cool dark wet, as if await. And farther passed three quagga stags that after the manner of Rau were bred as if out of the silent veld crept from a crack again the long since dead.* But it was for birds we came and birds to us a-greeting came that chill, sweet morn of Saturday last week: The purple heron, oh the purple heron! The goshawk that I didn't see. Bustard, larks and little grebes. Fish eagle and flamingo. Blessed were we to see her queenly strut: the African swamphen. And pleased to meet the bashful Southern Black Korhaan, if only for the merest second. I tipped my hat to the Cape Longclaw, and to each one of the Cisticolas we saw – Cloud, Zitting and Levaillant. The lark of Agulhas sang from its long, long bill and said to me: me too, I belong down here. Only there remained at bay, the little fynbos buttonquail. Bashfully tucked away in frail fyn bush. Even as we trawled with arms spread wide, tread'd so as to not break plant or fragile egg, hearts pounding wild, the buttonquail her little freckled face did not unveil. * Ruthlessly hunted on the plains of southern Africa, the quagga went extinct when the last mare died at the Amsterdam Zoo on 12 August 1883. Found to be genetically linked to the zebra, a selective quagga breeding project started in 1987 to ‘breed’ the quagga back from extinction. The Rau quagga (named for the instigator of the project, Reinholdt Rau), is considered a near subspecies of the Plain quagga. The Nuwejaars Wetlands Special Management Area is one of the hosts of this project. (Information obtained from Eugene Hahndiek and University of Stellenbosch's www.quaggaproject.org) ** My sincere thanks to Heather D'Alton for inviting me on a bird-watching trip in the exquisitely beautiful Nuwejaars Wetlands Special Management Area, and for giving the birding greenie a list of the birds we saw. Thank you also to Fraser Crighton who picked me up in Bredasdorp and to Eugene Hahndiek who was our guide on the day. The ode is, of course, dedicated to the Wetlands area, her inhabitants and custodians. The SME is located at Haasvlakte Hall, along the R43, outside Bredasdorp (close to Elim). Tel: 079 517 9032.

[ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN SUIDERNUUS, 11 MARCH 2022] The Canadian social commentator and iconcarver, Jonathan Pageau, describes technology as “layers of skin”. By this he means that everything we think up to make our lives easier and more bearable, can be seen as a layer we add between ourselves and the outside world. Pageau borrows this idea from the early church fathers, who, in turn, adapted it from the allegory of Adam and Eve who were given animal skins to cover their nakedness. This covering, this protection, is an ancient idea that underpins our humanness. As human beings we stand naked in a hostile universe. And because we are conscious, we are aware of this vulnerability. But equally, by our skill and wit, we are able to craft technology that we can use to protect ourselves against this hostile world. Our technology starts from the simplest things: our clothes and our language; our huts, houses and vehicles of transport, and so it circles out to technology of the greatest sophistication: electricity, medicines, televisions, cellphones, cloud computing, nuclear weapons … Our technology is really humankind’s crown. But ultimately it can also become our greatest weakness, because with technology in tow we don’t need to maintain innate strengths we had before. Think of it like this: if you always dress warmly and never expose yourself to extreme weather, you weaken your resistance to the cold. Or here’s one all of us are acutely aware of: since we save numbers on our cellphones, no one keeps numbers in their heads any longer. Our capacity to memorise is compromised. You will respond that we don’t need these capacities anymore, because machines store the memories for us. But what is it that defines our humanness? Is it us? Or is it the machines we build with our memories in them? It sounds like the tail wagging the dog rather than the other way around. It sounds like humans wrapped in so many layers of skin that we cannot recognise our humanness any longer. With our increased dependence on technology we lay ourselves bare again – this time not to the hostile universe, but to the coldness of the machines that rule our lives. And what if they fail us? Something to think about as we go into another period, it seems, of crisis level loadshedding, courtesy of Eskom. Sometimes it is good to come to standstill and hear the silence; to not be incessantly urged on by the unceasing call of the technological distractions we have created that clutter up our lives. But, hey, when the power goes out these days, the silence does not last long. Before long, the neighbour’s generator kicks into gear and fills the air again with clunky noise. Layers of skin creating the need for more layers of skin … Best wishes, The editors

[ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN SUIDERNUUS, 4 MAART 2022] Ek het eenkeer gelees dis wetenskaplik bewys dat mense aan alles gewoond raak, behalwe twee dinge: meganiese geraas en borsinplantings. Daarmee meen hul nou: vir vroue wat borsinplantings gehad het voel ingeplante borste altyd soos nuwe speelgoed. Ek sal nie weet nie, want ek het nog nie een gehad nie. Ek kan wel beaam dat ek van geraas my lewe lank las het. Nee ek jok: dis ’n marteling. Ek sal nooit daaraan gewoond raak nie. Trouens, as enigiemand my sou vra om in hul outograafboekie te skryf, sou ek Arthur Schopenhauer se opstel On Noise aanhaal. Ek voel so sterk daaroor ek kan sonder aarseling daarop aanspraak maak as my persoonlike hymne. Schopenhauer skryf (ek parafraseer): “… Die oorvloedige tentoonstelling van vitaliteit, in die vorm van ’n geklop, gehamer en getuimel, is ’n lewenslange marteling. “Daar is mense wat skouers ophaal oor sulke goed want hulle is ongevoelig vir geraas. Maar hulle het presies die soort gehoor wat ongevoelig is vir kop- en kunswerk, die woord, poësie of ’n goeie argument. Dis omdat die weefsel van hul brein van besondere growwe kwaliteit is.” “Die skandaligste van alle geraas is die klap van die sweep – dit maak ’n dekselse lawaai in die smal, weergalmende stegies van ’n dorp. ’n Vreedsame bestaan is haas onmoontlik want die stilte waarin idees gedy, word aan flarde geruk. “Dat die klap van die sweep hoegenaamd veroorloof is, bewys die sinloosheid, die genadeloosheid van die mensdom. Niemand met die kiem van ’n gedagte kan anders as wesenlik gekwes voel as ’n sweep klap nie. “Dit verlam die brein en verbreek die spinnerak van bepeinsing. Die uitwerking op denke is rampspoedig. Die sweepklap sny deur die senings van ’n idee nes ’n byl ’n veroordeelde se nek klief.” Hoe verheugd sou Schopenhauer nie wees om te hoor die sweep het in ons tyd in onbruik verval nie! Maar hy sou nie wou leef in die smal, weergalmende stegies, of eerder op die breë hoofweë van ons moderne tyd nie. Want die volume gekap, gehamer en getuimel het duisendvoudig toegeneem, aangevuur deur tegnologiese vooruitgang, sonder twyfel uitgedink met die doel om mense, hande oor die ore, die harnas in te dryf. Dis ’n kakofonie wat bulder uit padbrekers, kragbore, dieselenjins, rotohamers, slopingsballe, sweismasjiene, staalsnyers, slypmasjiene, sandspuiters, betonbeitels, beitelbore, kettingsae, kragopwekkers en duisende ander meganiese goed waarvan geeneen die name meester is nie. Die nuutste speelding is woerende blaarblasers. Die punt van dié verplasing van vuilgoed van een punt na ’n ander ontgaan alle sin en rede en sedert ek hier kom bly het, lyk dit of elke buurman dié blaasding aangeskaf het en beurte neem om, soos honde maak, vuilgoed in mekaar se domein in te blaas. Geen besem doen meer ’n eerlike steek werk nie. En dan is daar karre en ander rygoed. Op Bredasdorp: trokke. Og, die trokke! En karre met stukkende exhausts en pompende musiek. En bowenal word Schopenhauer se sweepklap geëwenaar en getroef deur die lawaai van motorfietse. Dié verduiwelse geraas is nie beperk tot ’n enkel sweepklap nie. Danksy tegnologiese vooruitgang duur die klap nou voort. Die herrie is eindeloos! Slegs afstand maak dat die duiwelse klap wyk! Die wonder van ons tegnologie oorstyg nou by verre die perke van ons taal! Maar Schopenhauer was verkeerd. Dit is nie die growwe kwaliteit van mense se harsings wat hulle by die duiwelse geraas laat berus nie. Dit is hul vrees vir die Stilte. Die Stilte wat oor alles hang. Die Stilte waarheen ons almal stadig maar seker teruggaan. Vooruitgang en ontwikkeling het die mensdom nie bevry van hierdie vrees nie. Dié vrees het net afgesink in die silt van ons binneste. Waar dit omgeroer word in ons slaap. Wanneer dit donker is. En stil is.

[OORSPRONLIK GEPLAAS IN SUIDERNUUS, 4 MAART 2022] Een van die groot tragedies in die lewe, is dat ons as individue onsself heel dikwels moet besig hou met dinge wat regtig nie vir ons lekker is nie. Soms is dit dalk ’n aspek van ons werk (nasienwerk, byvoorbeeld), soms is dit ’n administratiewe verpligting (ek moes op ’n keer in 2007 by die verkeersdepartement in Langlaagte, Johannesburg gaan tou staan vir ’n nuwe bestuurslisensie – ek kan beswaarlik glo dat ek nou, 15 jaar later, al uit daardie tou is), en soms is dit huishoudelike verpligtinge (vuil potte skuur, in my geval). Maar soms bevind ’n mens jou in ’n situasie waar jou hele wese skreeu teen dit wat jy dag in en dag uit moet doen. Aan die toeval oorgelaat Die Turkse skrywer Orhan Pamuk verstaan iets hiervan. Sy hoofkarakters bevind hulself dikwels in loopbane waarin hulle gedwing is, of waarin hulle toevallig beland het. Hulle is dikwels ’n slagoffer van omstandighede. Hulle bevind hulself dikwels in loopbane wat op die oog af geweldige herhaling behels, maar waar die karakter homself dan ingrawe in daardie rol (sy hoofkarakters is gewoonlik manlik). Passie is gewoonlik nie betrokke by die persoon se werk nie. Maar wel toewyding. Of soms misplaaste lojaliteit. Heel dikwels word dit later selfs passie. (Of verwar ek trots met passie?) Maar hoe saai die hoofkarakter se loopbaan dan nou ook al mag lyk, hy is gewoonlik smoorverlief op 'n vrou wat veel mooier is as wat aanvaarbaar sou wees vir die hoofkarakter se klas of amp. Die joghurtsmous van Istanboel In sy boek A strangeness in my mind wat in 2014 verskyn het, is die hoofkarakter, Mevlut, ’n joghurtsmous in die strate van Istanboel. By ’n neef se troue vang die bruid se jongste sussie sy oog en hy is onmiddellik smoorverlief. Die sussie is verby mooi. Sy is verruklik. Mevlut begin ’n briewewisseling met die sussie, onwetend dat sy ander neef hom gekul het. Sy ander neef het self ’n oog op die verruklike sussie, en het toe vir Mevlut in ’n briewewisseling met die derde suster – die lelike eendjie – betrokke gekry. (Soos wat einige leser sou kon vermoed, het hierdie fnuikery 'n tragiese einde.) Dié briewewisseling dra egter vir Mevlut terwyl hy sy diensplig in die Turkse weermag moet uitdien. Hy het die mooi sussie voor oë. Hy droom die mooiste frases op vir die briewe wat hy vir haar skryf. En sy skryf terug. Die briewe lees hy gaar, min wetend dat dit van die verkeerde suster af kom. Dit is tydens sy tyd in die weermag dat die joghurtsmous tot ’n groot insig oor die lewe kom. Before he became a man, Mevlut never used to distinguish his body from his mind and soul, thinking of all three together as “me”. But in the army he would discover that he was not necessarily the sole master of his own body and that, in fact, it might be worth surrendering it to his commanders if to do so at least allowed him to save his soul and keep his thoughts and dreams to himself. In die weermag het dit dalk vir Mevlut gevoel asof dit sy liggaam is wat hy moet opoffer. Maar in verskeie stadiums van sy lewe moes hy verskillende dinge opoffer. Gewoonlik júís sy drome en ideale. Hy het telkens lank daaraan probeer vashou (soos dat hy dalk tóg eendag skool sal voltooi). Maar mettertyd het hy gewoond geraak aan sy lot, en stelselmatig het sy drome en ideale eers onwerklik en later onmoontlik geword. Soos met sy werk (dit het hom oorgekom eerder as dat hy dit gekies het), aanvaar hy byna gelate dat hy in die liefde gekul is, en slyt hy sy lewe met die lelike sussie. Later raak hy gewoond aan haar, en later toegewyd. Later raak hy selfs lief vir haar – al kan hy die mooi suster nooit vergeet nie. ‘Strangeness in my mind’ Miskien is die mooi suster 'n bietjie soos Mevlut se gewete. Altyd iewers op die agtergrond besig om hom daaraan te herinner dat hy nie kon kies soos hy wou nie. Nie in die liefde nie, en ook nie in sy loopbaan nie. Maar ook dat hy nie nee gesê het nie. Dat hy sy lot aanvaar, en sy drome stelselmatig laat sterf het. Hy dwaal maar so deur die lewe met daardie “strangeness in my mind” waarna die titel verwys. ’n Vae vermoede dat dinge nie vir hom uitspeel soos dit moet nie. En dat hy dus soms dele van homself moet afstaan – soos sy liggaam aan die weermag – as hy enigsins wil probeer om iets van sy siel en van sy drome vir homself te bewaar. Maar soms boet hy ook sy drome in. En soms, vermoed 'n mens, sy siel. Dis seker nie verniet dat die titel van die boek geïnspireer is deur die volgende strofe uit William Wordsworth se The Prelude nie: I had melancholy thoughts… a strangeness in my mind, A feeling that I was not for that hour, Nor for that place

[ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN SUIDERNUUS, 4 MARCH 2022] When we put Suidernuus back on the shelves, we started looking at what else is on the shelf. Who are these brave people who put koerante wat jy kan vashou on the stands in a time of Facebook, WhatsApp en Twitter? There are, of course, the stalwarts people read to know wat gaan aan in die land – Die Burger, The Cape Times and The Daily Sun. Sondae is daar Rapport en die Sunday Times. On Fridays: Daily Maverick, the paper Branko Brkic launched at a time when others are closing them down. Give that man a Bell’s! In our closer community there are also a few plucky papers: There is Gans-Berg News, whose journalist Hardus Botha has a fine soul. Like us (Editors’ letter, 18 February 2022), Hardus has also noticed the power of the elements (‘The unpredictability of nature’, 18 February 2022). Dan’s daar TransOverberg, wie se Sydney Armoed duidelik sy vinger op die pols het van die gemeenskap op Caledon en omgewing. He writes with a fervour and frankness that most won’t have he guts to show (‘Wanneer gaan iets hieraan gedoen word?’, 17 Februarie 2022). Op die rak is ook Twee Oseane Nuus van Jannie Marais wat sorg dat die hengelaars nie afgeskeep word nie. But what was our surprise great when we saw on the stands a community newspaper that traditionally has nothing to do with our region! Its area of coverage is Hermanus and surrounds. Every now and again there’s a verdwaalde storietjie oor iets wat gebeur het in die suider-Overberg and soms a few kiekies when our school kids excel. Otherwise the news is irrelevant for us. Ja, Hermanus Times word versprei hier in die suidelike Overberg. Distributed is a misnomer. What we’ve witnessed are plastic packs of some 50 papers apiece, dropped off everywhere you can put something down: the police station, the library and every single shop that would have them. For comparison: We drop off two copies of Suidernuus at the library on Fridays and Adjudant-offisier Jakobus Marthinus, Bredasdorp police’s communications officer, picks up his copy at our offices. The thing is, Hermanus Times is given away for free. Gratis en verniet. This sounds like a great deal, no? However, everyone we have spoken to – and we’ve spoken to many! – tells us they don’t read the paper. Not our news, they shrug. One shopowner in Bredasdorp has told us people come pick up stacks of the paper when they move and want to wrap glase en porseleinbeeldjies. Or they use it to lay out the cages of their marmotjies, papegaaie en kokketiele. Or, worse, they use it to pick up hondepoef. We’d be ashamed if Suidernuus were used to pick up hondepoef before it’s even been read. But maybe it’s just us. All of this sounds amusing. And, yes, it’s anecdotal. But there’s a reality behind the geskerts that is pretty awful for us. You see, when community newspapers want advertisements from big retailers, soos byvoorbeeld Checkers, OK en Pick n Pay, we have to work through a central agent who represents us based on a profile of our circulation and the area where we distribute. Ons mag nie vir onsself praat nie. These retailers obviously look at circulation when they make their pick where to place an ad. Because they don’t know us and what we look like inside, gaan hulle mos nou, obviousy, hul advertensies sit in die koerant wat die meeste verkoop. Of die meeste verniet weggee. Now, currently we print just short of 1 000 copies that we sell for R7 apiece. Most are sold. Ons hoop ons is reg as ons glo mense wat ’n koerant koop, lees hom. Hermanus Times, we have been informed by someone in the know, distributes 5 000 koerante in die suidelike Overberg! Regardless of whether these newspapers are read or used to line kokketiel cages, doesn’t matter. When the retailers in Jo’burg and Cape Town hear the number 5 000 and compare it with Suidernuus’s >1 000, they pick the kokketiel-cage liner. So, no surprises, then, that we have not had a single ad from a large retailer since we have resumed printing. (Ag, we can’t even get on the shelves of one of them, also because of “centralised headquarter decision issues”! But that’s another story we covered in our editors’ letter of 11 February 2022.) Die storie klink dalk silly. Maar hou in gedagte: koerante het advertensies nodig om geld te maak. Of, as hulle baie klein is, eenvoudig om te oorleef. Laat mens dink, nê? Dis ’n tough life om ’n klein koerantjie te wees. Nogtans. Ons bly op die rak. Best wishes, The editors