Walking in My Shoes - a trip and a loss.

Right now, in a tiny fishing village on South Africa’s arid West Coast called Doringbaai, my favourite shoes are living an entirely new life.

With the affection others reserve for beloved pets, loyal and by your side through thick and thin, I regarded my little black flats. They have literally toured the world with me. I confess that I can’t remember what country I bought them in originally, but I quickly discovered that they were more comfortable than slippers, yet worked in almost any scenario. And being flat and pliable, they packed so well too!

I have always had a difficult relationship with shoes. My wide feet and painful hereditary bunions (what a word), (thanks for that mom), have always meant that I’ve had to respect function before fashion. Most heels are excruciating and dainty shoes with thin straps across the foot are OUT in my world.

Then I found THE SHOES. Made by Nike – but never to be found again, despite searching in every mall ever since – they were crafted from real soft leather, flat, chinese slipper style, with a solid, athletic hidden sole. They were my saviour in so many situations. My comfort on long walks, in shopping malls, on rough trails, on my feet for hours at trade shows, dinners, cocktails, long plane rides across continents, office hours, party hours, market jaunts across Africa. How many shoes can say the same?!

So naturally I took them along (as always) on my latest trip – a meeting in Johannesburg, followed by a tack-on, sanity restoring, leisurely holiday to Cape Town.



We decided once in Cape Town, that having toured most of the Southern Cape, it would be a new adventure to travel northward up the west coast. It was a great trip. Unlike the touristy garden route and numerous wine routes, the west coast is dotted with genuine, hard working fishing villages.

The roads out to the coast from the main highway, branch like spindles on a spiders web, each country road opening up to the raging waves of the Atlantic, with a small settlement at each, clinging to the history of fishing that has been their livelihood and defined them all forever. It was quaint, and sometimes beautiful. It was small wooden brightly painted boats and toothless smiles. It was Afrikaans signposts and tiny galleries, small local restaurants and a persistent mist that blanketed the area each evening by 5.




We walked and walked, we shivered basked in the sun, and investigated all the corners we could. We met some great locals. We ate some fresh calamari. We saw the sets of seasonal campers from local inland towns, come to the coast for their seaside holidays.
My little black flats accompanied us everywhere (there they were below, on one of our last days together).



And then we came to Strandfontein.



The northern most stop on our trip, before the 5 hour journey back down the main highway to Cape Town. It was a sterile little town, built up a sloping hill, populated by a mosaic of modern guest houses and holiday retreats. The beach was long and flat and gorgeous. We knocked on some doors, inquired about accommodation for one night, found a friendly flat manager and booked in to a full little apartment.

We asked of restaurants and discovered there were none. We were told that 5km down the road, in the ‘coloured village’ of Doringbaai, there was a great little seafood place, run by an Afrikaans ‘tannie’ (aunty) and we should head over to book. We took a drive over to have a look. It was a tiny, non-descript village, built on the small fishing industry, and teeming with workers from the next town.


South Africa’s history, as we all know, is uncomfortable to say the least, when it comes to races and race relations. All over the Cape, there are coloured towns and villages. These people are truly a mixed group, each carrying blood from the original Kung San, Afrikaans whites, Malay, Indian, black and others. Despite the fact that the wide mixes mean that everyone looks so different, they are a distinct group with a certain accent, culture and community. They refer to themselves as coloured, so I had to overcome my North American hesitation, given the history of the word on our side of the world!

The fact is, that the coloured communities remain relatively poor, despite apartheid ending close to two decades ago. Laws can change overnight, but societies take a lot longer!

The small, majority coloured community of Doringbaai, are mostly fishermen and many work as domestics in the houses down the road in Strandfontein.

As we arrived for check-in, we met two of them. Both were maids, taking a no doubt well deserved break, after a day of cleaning. We greeted them, put down our things and headed out. The next morning we saw them padding along the road to start work as we left, and waved. Little did I know I’d left a piece of myself behind in that bedroom, that would link us forever. My favourite shoes.

I’m of course assuming here, that anyone would want my old beaten up shoes, as people’s forgotten gems are surely part of the job perks of being a maid in Strandfontein. I can only hope that they were in fact discovered, scooped up and brought home, the 5km stretch down the dirt road, to a little block house, full of life and chatter, and that someone has their soft reassurance under foot, even now.

My shoes will never see another continent again. They will not tread long arrival halls in Toronto or Dubai. They will not find themselves tucked into a suitcase, off on another adventure, ready to hit the streets of a new city somewhere else.

They are home forever in South Africa’s West Coast. They will see harder times and more work, will be filled with sand and the scent of the ocean, and hopefully they will be a soft comfort.

They live in Doringbaai now.

Wavin' flags - Soccer rallies the world!

Just returned from the 'rainbow nation' - South Africa. The hype leading up to the FIFA World Cup was tangible. People from all walks of life - from the vast squatter camps outside each major city to the highly secured Sandton gated communities, people were excited, happy, proud. Elaborate handmade fan head gear, made from construction hats took over the streets and stadiums.

I care next to nothing about soccer normally but the enthusiasm and energy is addictive. Intoxicating. In South Africa they call it 'Gees' (pronounced with a gutteral G, then EE-us. It's Afrikaans but has been adopted by all, including advertising campaigns around the country. All the worries about whether the massive stadiums would be completed in time, the various corruption allegations over the years they were built, and the ever present threat of crime against all the visiting soccer fans (in a country with over 18,000 murders per year) just disintegrated in view of the impending first match of the historic tournament.

This song, one of the few 'official anthems' played over and over, and continues to play in my head. Thought I'd share...

We waved the South African flag for the opening match in Johannesburg, and the Ghana flag Sunday for the defeat against Serbia.


The vuvuzelas took over the country like herds of dying cows at 130 decibels. How could we resist joining in?



We've got invites from the Ambassadors to watch the Ghana vs. Germany and Ghana vs. Australia games in Accra, so the flag waving and World Cup hype has just begun!

'Dragging' Caster Semanya through the media

Two weeks ago when the gender controversy about South Africa's 800m runner Caster Semanya was bubbling, the biggest concern out of South Africa was the humiliation that she would feel, with her gender and indeed her entire sense of self being questioned.

Numerous sources cited other examples of how this public scrutiny could damage a person's psyche - the most poignant being the recent case of Santhi Soundarajan who was stripped of her silver medal in the 800m in 2006 after failing a gender test, and later attempted suicide.

All interviews with Caster's family, friends and community at large have described her as a tomboy - a girl who favoured trousers and football to lipstick and boyfriends... They were all adamant that she is a girl, and that the world should abandon the ridiculous and judgemental notions of what a girl should look like, be like...

So it shocked me today when I was flipping through the channels on DSTV (the South African pay-TV platform that broadcasts across Africa), and came across a commercial for YOU Magazine. The woman's weekly mag was promoting their latest issue, "WOW - LOOK AT CASTER NOW! Athletics star Caster Semenya as you’ve never seen her before – transformed by YOU from powergirl to glamour girl". The photos show a glammed up Caster, looking about as uncomfortable as humanly possible.

What pathetic exploitation! You take a very masculine woman (her appearance and interests being the main aspects that brought about the questioning to begin with), and then completely take the humiliation to a new level by dressing her up in sequin dresses, dripping make up and size 13 stilettos...


I'm guessing Caster's appearance in this photo shoot is about as far from her personality and style as is possible. Whatever possessed them?

It completely makes a mockery of the athlete. The bottom line is that, in order to try to prove to the world that Caster is female, they have made her a laughable media pawn, looking more like Wesley Snipes in drag in the comedy 'To Wong Foo', than any glamour girl.

Sad. To me, it seems all they have done is perpetuated the rigid gender roles that someone like Caster never fit by nature, and forced her into the mold - the result being a complete disaster, at the expense of yet again, her identity, dignity and sense of self.

If I Were a Boy... the Caster Semenya Controversy From All Angles

There has been quite a debate raging at my office and in the house, and I’m sure it reflects discussions going on globally this week. It’s about Caster Semenya, the gripping controversy surrounding her 800m gold medal win in Germany, and the subsequent doubts as to her qualification as a ‘true’ female.

It’s actually quite amazing that this story has become such a globally followed issue, but for me, as for many others, it is so interesting because it involves both the human side and the not-so-simple science of sex and gender.

I’m sure there was a day not so long ago when gender was viewed as a cut and dry issue by the majority of us – if a person had the external sexual organs associated with either sex, it was accepted that the person was that gender. Since then science has delved further and discovered a variety of cases where this simple identification is just not as straightforward as we’d thought. There is a very interesting 'Intersex' association in North America that answers many of the questions here.

In terms of sexuality, more and more people are identifying themselves as transgender – and are convinced that they are ‘in the wrong body’. There are a myriad of combinations of sexual orientation, along with gender identifications. One of my favourite stand up comedians, Eddie Izzard, commonly wears traditionally ‘female’ clothing and identifies himself as a ‘male lesbian’ or a ‘straight transvestite’. Are these people right or wrong? Who are we to judge?

But when it comes to the case of Caster Semenya, if we look for a minute beyond the personal side – beyond the fact that the media coverage her case has attracted is no doubt humiliating and demoralizing – there are the complicated yet unavoidable scientific and ethical issues.

There are pictures all over the Internet of Caster now, with everyone trying to scrutinize every aspect of her appearance. The fact is that she has the complete outward appearance of a male.

Her speech and mannerisms confirm that view.

So when then is a girl not a girl? If Caster identifies as a female, who are we say she is not?

If Caster is subjected to all possible tests, there will be one of many possible outcomes; anything from true hermaphroditism (where a person possesses both male and female sexual organs, internally and/or externally, to variations like male pseudohermaphroditism or a type of gonadal dysgenesis. The bottom line is that it goes far beyond a simple physical inspection of someone's 'private parts'!



There have been numerous cases in the western world, where these conditions are diagnosed at birth, are closely monitored through childhood, and the child is gender assigned, based on their tendencies. I believe if Caster Semenya had been born in different circumstances – i.e. not in a rural village with no access to expensive modern medicine, she would have been one of these people.

Accounts of Caster’s life only reinforce this. She is said to have identified always with boys – and competed on par with her male peers in school throughout her childhood. However, due to the fact that she had no visible penis (and this is really the only reason), she was assumed to be a girl.

The biggest question is an ethical, moral and philosophical one. It has been my opinion that if a person is found to have a Y chromosome, to possess more than 3 times the testosterone as the typical female (as in the case of Caster), then they have an unfair biological advantage over other females (in terms of muscle development etc.), and hence it would be unfair to compete against 'entirely female' women, especially at this level.

Another perspective (that of JW) is that if the person has been classified at birth as a female, with no outward evidence that this is not the case, then she should be able to compete regardless. Her biological advantage is something she is lucky to have, in the same way that people with higher IQs have a biological advantage to others when it comes to academics – yet we all compete on the same level, regardless of the advantages of the smarter people.

It is a very intriguing debate!

However, this is not a theoretical issue. There are victims. The very sad side of this story is Caster herself. As far as she is concerned, she is a woman. Despite any questions she or others she knows have had about her appearance, she is simply a tomboy… however, the IAAF has strict guidelines that may just determine that she is not in fact female. This would mean they would have to strip her of her medal. Imagine the devastation! Not to mention that the whole world (including me) is currently debating her gender. It is a controversy that she has found herself trapped in, through no fault of her own.

I believe that the South African ASA could have dealt with the issue discretely in advance, completing the tests before the Berlin race, so as to eliminate all the aftermath, but their conduct has been uneducated, boorish and infantile. They have accused the IAAF and international media of being racist, despite the fact that these tests have been carried out on female athletes globally, regardless of race or origin, for decades. In interviews, Leonard Chuene, President of the ASA repeatedly ignores the complex issues at hand.

In 2006 Santhi Soundarajan from India, was robbed of her silver medal after the same type of controversy about her gender. Raised as a woman, this blow devasted her and soon after she attempted suicide.

Gender may not be as simple and straightforward as we’d once believed, but it remains a delicate and taboo subject, and when questioned, can have devastating effects...

"We can't all be heroes - someone has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by"

The most inspirational thing I did this weekend was manage to leave my computer in it's bag, while we took off to a friend's beach house for some family time (read: lots of Scrabble, walks on the beach and over indulging)...

On my return to 'civilisation' I got a mail from a friend who is also one of the greatest teachers at my son's school (sadly he'll be leaving next school year, but that is the nature of International schools!). It appears some people accomplished a wee bit more over the Easter holiday!

I figure everyone can appreciate the inspirational value of a true story like this - of a regular guy with the right amount of determination and positive energy - achieving a lifelong dream! Excellent - have a read below. Go Johnny!!!

Friends!

Years ago, I swore that I would run a marathon before I turned 40. Well, I never really got around to it and I never really pursued this dream, partially because I don't really enjoy running. I've always liked running after a ball or a frisbee but simply running for the sake of running always seemed a little futile to me - and boring. And, if I'm honest, I've had a standing policy to avoid pain at all costs (which explains my steadfast reluctance to get any tattoos or piercings) and running for such a long distance looks and sounds painful to me.

Then I heard about the Two Oceans Marathon in Cape Town, which is not really a marathon at all. It's two races: a half marathon (21.1 km) and an ultra marathon (56 km). The idea is that one has the opportunity to run by two oceans, along the Cape Peninsula, which features some of the world's most stunning scenery imaginable. I decided to try my luck at the half-marathon, which seemed like a happy medium: not too long and hopefully pretty enough to warrant some reward beyond simply finishing. I had wanted to do it last year, but got sidetracked in my planning. Then, I wanted to do it this year but it turned out that I would be taking 14 students to Cairo the previous weekend, which seemed like a difficult combination of trips to make (Cape to Cairo in reverse, Rhodes must be turning in his grave). And yet, almost in the last moment (mid-February to be exact), Amber and I talked once more and decided that it might be worth spending our Easter holidays in Cape Town, a town we've always loved for its climate, scenery, amenities and friends. I registered for the half-marathon and suddenly I was faced with the daunting task of getting into running form in less than 10 weeks.

As I mentioned before, I've never run before and it was a whole new experience for me. But I conscientiously got up before sunrise three times a week and ran before school. At first, I ran for 20 minutes, then 40 minutes and finally I actually ran for 70 minutes a few times. All in all, I only ran on 16 occasions and only once in the two weeks leading up to the race because I was traveling. According to my estimates, the longest distance I had run in training was 10 km - about half of the distance of the race. But I started to get better and actually felt OK about trying this insane experiment (I still maintain that running makes little sense unless you have a destination in mind or at least the possibility of scoring/preventing a goal). Nonetheless, I arrived here in Cape Town full of great ambitions: the cut-off time for the half-marathon was 3 hours and according to my calculations, I was hoping to complete the race in about 2 hours 45 minutes - just enough to qualify but not so fast that I would hurt myself.

A couple friends of mine had also registered for the race and they had each run several full and half marathons, so they were clearly well ahead of me in many respects. I had no idea what to expect and the 24 hours preceding the race, I became increasingly withdrawn and pensive, as the anxiety of attempting (and possibly failing at) this challenge approached. On the morning of the race, we woke up at 4:00 a.m., ate some granola bars, drank lots of juice and water and headed off to the start of the race, which was scheduled to kick off at 6:00. By 5:15, there we were, with 10,000 other contestants, in the pre-dawn dark, eagerly awaiting the start of the race. When the gun finally sounded (in the distance, because we were a good 500 meters from the starting line), I was almost bursting with anticipation because I simply had no idea what to expect from this crazy endeavor.

The start of the race was a bit hectic, as everyone jockeyed to establish their position in the line-up and within minutes I lost sight of my friends. From then on, I was on my own and it was a strange type of solitude, among thousands of strangers, both in the race and along the side of the road, cheering us on. At first, the only ones cheering us on were the volunteer marshals showing us the way, a few prostitutes plying their trade in the early morning hours and quite a few homeless, who rubbed their sleepy eyes in disbelief as thousands of panting athletes intruded upon their sleeping quarters. But as the sun rose over Table Mountain, providing us with a majestic view of this stunningly beautiful natural monument, the first spectators stumbled out from their homes, many still in their pyjamas, clutching their coffee cups and breakfast croissants, nodding approvingly and perhaps offering a word or two of encouragement to this or that runner. But as the sun rose steadily and the day began in earnest, the streets started filling with an increasing number of spectators and soon the roads became alive with the sound of cheering people, bands playing music and open barbecues roasting bacon and eggs. The race numbers pinned to our chest and backs had our first names printed on them, so every now and then, I would be spurned on by the seemingly random call of a "C'mon, Johannes!" or "Lookin' good, Johannes, keep it up!", which was truly encouraging. I could usually barely muster more than an acknowledging nod and a smile but it really made you feel special to be recognized - even if it was temporary and fleeting.

I am not a fast long-distance runner. Literally thousands of people passed me and I was astounded at the various body types that participated in this race. Normally, when one thinks of runners, one thinks of lean, thin and diminutive statures; you know, the stereotypical Ethiopian or Kenyan athletes, who are little more than bones, sinews and aerodynamic calves. But every single type of body was visible in this crown of runners - and most of them were significantly faster than me. But that didn't matter because my goal was to not stop to walk at any point in the race, even if it meant running at a snail's pace (which was definitely my speed going up the hill on Southern Cross Drive, which in my mind will now always remain synonymous with the term "hell"). But I kept running, even passing some other runners, much to my (and their?) surprise. By the time I reached the finishing straightaway, I was more tired than I had ever felt before and felt pain in parts of my legs (and biceps, strangely enough) that I had never even knew existed.

But as I approached the final 100 meters or so, I could not help laughing out loud, pumping my fistin the air and clapping exuberantly because I was so extremely proud of what I had accomplished. Granted, there had been thousands of people finishing before me and people probably thought I was a little pathetic in my childish joy (and maybe I was) but I couldn't care less because I had made it! I cannot describe the feeling I had crossing that finish line and I don't know if anyone will ever understand but for me this was a great personal triumph. I couldn't contain my happiness and went around patting other runners on the back, simply because I had this irresistible urge to share my joy with others. We congratulated each other and I simply could not stop smiling, despite the throbbing pain in my legs and the aching in my entire body. I was rarely as proud as I was when I was filing by the race officials handing out the bronze medals that all finishers receive, even though I was one of thousands. Oh yeah, my finishing time was 2 hours and 33 minutes, faster than I had expected, which was also cool - but totally secondary to the achievement of reaching the finish line in under 3 hours.

I soon ran into my friends, who greeted me with a great big hug. We exchanged high fives, congratulations and soon found the beer garden to celebrate with a cold drink. We then watched the winners of the ultra marathon arriving (only 30 minutes after me, even though they ran almost thrice the distance!), which was inspiring as well. But in the end, it was simply a great experience to have been a part of. I don't know if I'll ever run a full marathon because I don't think I would have the discipline necessary to train for it. Then again, I still have another 20 months before I turn 40, so perhaps I'll get crazy again and feel the urge to embark on such an adventure. For now, I'm basking in the glory of having completed this task and that is plenty of gratification for me at this point.

Now I gotta put my feet up and do something really unhealthy, so I can feel like myself again. Yours,

Johnny Enzian
Irreverent Reverend (Johannes Schwerk)

A toast to you Johnny -


for giving us all a kick in the proverbial butt - what are our dreams? Live them!!!!

Failed hero - Oprah's school continues to abuse young vulnerable girls

Oprah’s infamous South African School in the news again for a sex scandal…. Just makes me wonder… as I do… why the Hollywood heavy hitters get involved in all these ‘aid’ and good will projects by throwing heaps of money at the problems and taking snapshots for the press with semi-starving, but eternally grateful looking poor kids – when they are clearly in over their heads. There are cultural and systematic problems of epic proportions that they could not hope to understand when they ‘reach out’ in their naïve self congratulatory efforts to raise the quality of life of the poor in the ‘developing world’.

Oprah Winfrey has quite an impressive CV – according to her wiki profile, she is an American television presenter, media mogul and philanthropist. Her internationally-syndicated talk show is the highest-rated talk show in the history of television. She is also an influential book critic, an Academy Award nominated actress, and a magazine publisher. She has been ranked the richest African American of the 20th century, the most philanthropic African American of all time, and was once the world's only black billionaire. She is also, according to some assessments, the most influential woman in the world.

And yet, the most important philanthropic project of her life is an absolute disaster. Since it’s inception, the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for girls, has been riddled with scandal and controversy.

What Oprah hoped would be a leading school in the country, with state of the art facilities, at a cost of $45m, has been exposed as a shady den of sexual misconduct both by matrons, charged in late 2007 with various indecent acts on the students, and now the students themselves.

Yes, I’m on Oprah’s case again. I covered the earlier story in 2007 with my usual skeptical perspective, but this new scandal just throws the whole concept up into the light once more.

Oprah can be, and definitely has proven herself, as the hero of middle class women in developed countries who stress about their self esteem, yoga vs. pilates, low fat or low carb, and what book to read next.

Time has proven that despite her supposedly valiant efforts, she CANNOT be the hero of the poorest, most vulnerable girls in the world, who live halfway across the globe - who’s problems range from possible starvation, lack of water and electricity and the Aids epidemic - to physical, sexual and mental abuse in a crumbling increasingly corrupt country with a dubious future. Even the walls around her bright Academy couldn't protect them....

The Frightening new South Africa

South Africa of 2008 is crime ridden, the electricity doesn't work and corruption permeates all levels of public service and government. The promises of hope and glory in 1994 have evolved into mayhem and despair. The poor have gotten poorer and more desperate and yet another black government in Africa is letting it's people down.

Watch this disturbing video, produced by a reputable 60 minutes type program called Carte Blanche in South Africa - describing the current state of affairs.

There is mass exodus of whites and this video explains sadly why...