Julius Malema on a dustbin!

This morning I dressed up smartly. It was one of those days where I knew ahead of time what story I would be covering and could therefore dress appropriately. I was going to cover the launch of the global report on Trafficking in Persons released by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime. It was all very civilized and elegant with the programme set to take place in an auditorium at Unisa followed by a break for refreshments. Quite lovely!

And then it all went pear-shaped. I got ripped off that story and sent instead to cover a protest at the airport. That not-so eloquent and not-so elegant youth leader, Julius Malema, was going to address the striking workers. Not quite so lovely!

So off I headed with PhotojournoSA to Airways Park . We were suitably early, eventually found a crowd all being raucous in a carpark and figured this must be the spot. Indeed we were correct, I found after speaking to one union rep named Stones. Fantastic.

So we sat down in the hot sun and waited for the man himself to appear. A mere 40 minutes or so after the scheduled start of the address “young” Julius was lifted onto his podium: an upside down dustbin, I swear to God.

He removed his apricot jacket and stood there in a pale yellow shirt and addressed the crowds, offering his sympathies.

“You are here to sell your labour and someone else benefits from your sweaty,” he told the dozens in front of him.

He electioneered, he jeered and he rebuked yet another government minister. It was less than a week ago that he said Naledi Pandor – she of the hot-potatoe British accent – was a spoilt minister with a fake American accent. Today he said Brigitte Mabandla was not doing her job either as she had not personally come to the airport to speak to these specific protestors about their woes. Maybe he’s going to get into trouble again.

I can only hope.

Boys, recipes and court stuff

This morning’s grey weather set the tone for the day as I once again headed off to the Joburg Magistrate’s Court to cover the ongoing trial of the High Court Judge accused of driving drunk, crashing his Jag into a garden wall and then fighting with the cops who came to arrest him.
The matter was set down for 9am, but in true tradition, it took more than an hour for proceedings to start. So for a good 60 minutes a bunch of us sat in the public gallery, twiddling our thumbs as we waited for something to happen. Fabulous Shoes was there, sporting a natty pair of black patent wedges fastened with fancy bows at the ankles. Two young guys in school uniform graced the back bench so we took to interrogating them. They were prefects from Parktown Boys High – the school that made headlines last week for its particularly violent initiation traditions. Bonus! They gave us great stuff, but it was all off-the-record. Ah well. Whatever.

We chatted about the merits of matrics bashing younger kids, of the proud traditions of the high school and it was all very pleasant.

Then Purple Jersey from the local news agency arrived. She joined us in our time-passing exercises by hauling out a copy of “French Women Don’t Get Fat” – a kind of guide to eating for pleasure.

“Check out the recipes,” she said, offering pages of no-holds barred recipes making generous use of sugar, cream, chocolate and all the stuff that should jolly well make French women fat like the rest of us but apparently don’t.

A little more idle chit chat and then in walked all the legal beagles and we all stood up for the Magistrate as he made his grand entrance.

We were ready. Today was the day we would find out the exciting new evidence the defence had uncovered and was going to use to blow the case wide open. Or else they were going to lodge an appeal to have the entire case thrown out of court because the state had messed up and failed to prove anything. This was going to be a cracking good story, baby! Gripping stuff indeedio.

And then it all fell apart. They took like 30 seconds to simply postpone it. To another day next month when we will just have to come back and hear why the case should be chucked out. After almost two years of hearings and postponements and evidence and testimony. The much-anticipated bright light at the end of the tunnel simply faded back to a tiny little dot far in the distance. Ah man!!!

Fanta

Being on the early shift on the Monday morning after the Oscars is, I can reliably inform you, really great. By the time you arrive at the office at 6am the long boring bits of the whole award ceremony are over and you get to watch the last, most exciting categories. In the newsroom. As part of your job! Because that, without a doubt, is the news of the day and what everybody is talking about. How cool is that?
And then when your colleagues skulk in at about 9am looking a tad ragged as is generally the case on Monday mornings, a casual mention of the impressive eight Oscars notched by Slumdog Millionaire sparks a brilliant conversation that gets you well into the morning. Excellent!
That was for sure the best part of the day. Just before lunch time the entire newsroom was summoned to the boardroom where some guys from the IEC gave us a powerpoint presentation on the elections. It was interesting, but not terribly exciting stuff. Like, did you know, for example, that party representatives at polling stations are not allowed to wear clothes with any kind of party emblems, slogans or pictures. At least that it's visible. As news ed C-for-Serious pointed out, ANC underpants are not forbidden as long as they're covered up.
And then we were kindly supplied with lunch - toasted sarmies and a cold drink each. You don't get to order what drink you want, you just have to grab fast for the good ones or else risk being left with, say, creme soda. As I was eyeing the cans, working out my strategy I spied a new kind of drink on offer. The Fanta logo was familiar, but looked a bit strange as the usual bright orange design was a pale pink.
Now Fanta is a brand we South Africans all know. It's bright, been around since Mandela was kid and is that comforting dayglo orange colour that comes from a dye banned in the more developed countries. Like the UK, for example, where their Fanta orange looks like an insipid urine sample. And they don't even have Fanta Grape. You have to buy it at the Safa shops for like 9 quid a can or something ridiculous.
I noticed a while ago that Fanta was becoming one of those fancy drinks that's expanding and developing as they have put out new flavours. Fanta Strawberry, Fanta Pineapple and some others. So I was fascinated to see this new one. I was blown away. I CANNOT see it taking off. In fact I think it should be reported as abuse: Fanta Ruby Grapefruit. Gak!
It kind of takes your mind off the elections.

A fairytale...

Here is a play, inspired by approximately 1000 viewings of the Disney DVD "Sleeping Beauty".
Scripted by: Little One
Directed by: Little One
Narrated by: Little One
Starring: Little One in the lead role as Princess Aurora
Co-stars: Papa as Handsome Prince Phillip
Nana as Bad Queen Millificent
Jozi Journo/Mom as The Good Queen/Aurora's Mom
Setting: At home, in the lounge and kitchen with the height of the action taking place on the kitchen counter top between the two rooms.
Here we go then....

The scene: Nana and Papa sitting in the lounge, JJ in the kitchen making tea.

Little One as Narrator: One day there was a beeeeyooootifull princess and her name was Aurora. Do you want to see her hey guys?

Quick disappearance and she re-appears wearing her white net skirt decorated with coloured silk ribbons, a plastic silver crown and her clunky shoes. We are talking plastic heels that make a racket on the floor and have her walking like a troll in her efforts to stay upright and be elegant at the same time. But never mind.

Princess Aurora (speaking in the same high-pitched voice used by Little One's alter egos Christmas Fairy and Barbie): I am beeyoootifull Princess Aurora. (Voice returns to normal) Mom, you can be the Good Queen. Nana you are the Bad Queen Millificent. You are not allowed to smile okay. You just sit there and look baaad.

Narrator: Now Handsome Prince Phillip - you must stand up Papa. The handsome prince has gone away to slay dragons in the forest.

Exit Papa to dining room after standing stiffly, bowing regally to the princess who bows back as she has not yet learnt to curtsy.

Princess Aurora then climbs onto the kitchen counter where she sits and surveys her kingdom/lounge as Millificent and the Good Queen start to giggle.

Narrator: THIS IS NOT FUNNY! NO LAUGHING!
Silence, solemn faces all round.

Narrator: Then one day Princess Aurora did prick her finger on a poison needle. Now where's my poison needle.
JJ grabs a fork and holds it out.
Narrator: No mom! That's too sharp!
JJ grabs a teaspoon and holds the handle out and uses it to prick Aurora on her finger.

Aurora stands on the counter, puts the back of her wrist to her brow, stumbles a little, twirls around and then lies down with her lies closed.

Aurora: Now I am dead. But just sleeping dead. Not squashed dead. Bad Queen, you must be happy. Phillip, where are you? Phillip you must come here now.
Enter Prince Phillip from the dining room, walking stiffly and bowing.
Aurora: Phillip, you must kiss me now.
Prince Phillip plants a kiss on Aurora's forehead.
Aurora sits up, stretches and smiles happily.
Narrator: Now the prince and the princess have to get married and they live happily ever after. But Aurora still stays with her mom so the Good Queen has to come and live with them. But no the Bad Queen. Not you, Millificent.
The End.

Contemplating cargo...

I have been working on a feature article on drug trafficking which this week led me to the cop set-up at OR Tambo International Airport's cargo section. Those guys, I discovered, are pretty amazing and their work is really interesting. Although I imagine it could get boring once you get passed being surprised.
So photographer Taliban and I meet up with the unit boss and he escorts us into a high-up boardroom for our interview. Taliban makes himself at home on the floor in the very furthest corner as I begin with my questions. Apparently such strange distance and angles makes for interesting pics.
JJ: "So, Superintendent, what is your first name?".
He is obviously caught off-guard by this cunning question, posed so early in the process and stammers a bit.
Boss Guy: "Erm ... yes ... well, you can call me Steve."
JJ: "Yes, well I can call you anything. But the thing is, I actually need to know your name."
Boss Guy: "O ja. Okay. Well, these guys call me Steve. So just put it down as Steve."
Methinks someone is reluctant to reveal his name is Stephanus or Stoffel or something equally uncool.
So the interview gets underway and I learn some astounding stuff like:
* Drug syndicates have, in the past, got cocaine into the country by having it surgically implanted into dogs which are then imported to Jozi where they are killed by dealers wanting their stash.
* There is a huge market for stolen laptops in Nigeria.
* It is suspected that someone recently tried to smuggle dope in the corpse of someone who died overseas and had their body shipped home.
* Detectives have discovered that organised criminals are bringing in fake Zam-Buk and counterfeit Bic pens. This I found quite unbelievable because Bic pens are such plastic cheapie rubbish and I mean, who would want to buy genuine Zam-Buk and what would they do with it? I shared this interesting bit of info with my colleague Boulders who immediately hauls a fake Zam-Buk out of his pocket and tells me you buy it on the street for R5 a hit. (For my international reader *ahem*: that would be three fake Zam-Buks for one Euro or two for a US dollar).
There you go. Something new every day!

mushrooms and fruit

The food at the canteen in our office is one of those hit-and-miss issues. One day you will get something that is so utterly lovely that it has you dashing back every day in the hope that you will again find something equally lovely.
Lately, however, the food has been more science experiment than delectable delights dished up by Nigella. There have been some strange concoctions as suppertime peas reappear cold in a bowl at lunch as a salad, pieces of fish are mashed up with pasta and a bit of mayonnaise as an interesting side dish - stuff like that.
One of the most alarming discoveries of late has been the introduction of copious amounts of oil. It's not always immediately noticeable, and that's how you get lured into paying for it. But often the trip from the canteen to the newsroom is all you need for a nasty surprise as oil leaks out of your stir fry or roast chicken into a glossy pool on the bottom of your polystyrene plate. It can bring a grown woman to tears - at least almost.
But enterprising colleagues have taught me ways of dealing with this. One is to grab hunks of soft white paper off the giant loo roll thingie in the subs room and use it to mop up the offensive seepage.
The second, lengthier but more economical option, is to go back to the cashier in the canteen and simply state "I cannot eat this" as you hold the shining specimen out in front of you. There is no need for raised voices, threats or demands. The plate is whisked away faster than you can slop glop in a bowl and you are quickly handed back your money or even a little more if you are lucky. It's the cheapest way to go as by then your appetite is long gone and there's no way you will go back for more!
Lunch today was not bad. Then C-for-Serious and I hit the salad counter in search of healthy options. There lurking in a bowl was the most astonishing dish to date. I thought it was plums, but C was unsure and labelled it "fruit of some kind". Purplish plum-like fruits sliced up and mixed with mushroom bits and covered in an unknown dressing. I swear!
We are intrepid journalists. We have braved bullets and seen scores of dead bodies. We have ventured into mortuaries, riots and political rallies.I fought my way out of having to cover the trial of the tea-drinking judge today, for heaven's sake. However neither of us was brave enough for that!

Blue Monday

The trial of the High Court judge accused of getting drunk, driving and then crashing his car into somebody's garden wall - a matter which has now been dragging on for more than two years now - was back in the Jozi Magistrate's Court today. So once again colleague Diva and I headed off early to court, but parted ways as she went to cover the sentencing of a woman convicted of beating her 2-year-old adopted daughter to death.
Court proceedings where I was began a mere 30 minutes late, and the investigating officer took the stand and told how much of a tough time she'd had identifying people who had been on the scene, tracing witnesses, convincing reluctant ones to speak and pacifying those who believed that testifying would put their lives in danger.
That done, and it was the defence advocate's turn to cross examine. Using the devious tactic of boring the prosecution to death, he proceeded to ask each question 45 times over. I was almost asleep when an exciting SMS came through from Diva - drama in the courtroom below!
I immediately dashed down to see if I could assist, and found Diva and our friend Fabulous Shoes (in strappy, navy, muscle crampingly-high stilettos) sitting outside collapsed with mirth. Angry family members of Child Basher had called on security to throw all journalists out of court. Security had refused, family members then felt humiliated and were now hiding out in the less-than-fresh public toilets. The drama had ended when Basher's sister tried to hit our photographer and he dodged.
So I missed out on the only action of the day and returned miserably to my drunk driving trial. I cheered up slightly when Fabulous Shoes decided to totter along with me. At least there was someone to chat to during the many smoke breaks. Another TV news reporter joined us and a radio reporter too.
By the end of the day the prosecutor had failed in his second application to have mystery witness Mrs X testify. Down, but not out, he promised that tomorrow morning he will be back to try a third angle.
I will find a reason NOT to be there!