Saturday's Weekend Argus column, as submitted. -- AD
I READ the following in one of the newspapers this week: “If you spot one rider zipping past in a colourful Pedal Power Association (PPA) cycling shirt, then another and then 10 more, you will not be hallucinating.”
And more’s the pity, I suppose, for here at the Mahogany Ridge, there are a few regulars who fondly recall when the bicycle menace used to pass through the village.
In those days, the cyclists came barreling down Slangkop, hit the rough patches on the approach to the village, left the road altogether and plummeted down the mountain to come to a sticky end in the prickly vegetation specially grown for this purpose. As one old-timer put it, “Shame, but they don’t do fun like that anymore.”
Wisely, the race now avoids us altogether. But even though they don’t race here, the cyclists still practice here. In the last few months, the roads around the village have been thick with them, particularly on Sunday mornings. After doing their best to fall under the wheels of the boat trailers, they’d stop off at the local superette and, leaning against their cycles like cowboys, guzzle power drinks. They’d stare at us through mirrorshade wraparounds and we’d have to explain to our womenfolk that the bulges in the lycra shorts were really padding, a safeguard of sorts against saddle sores. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.
Sometimes, a few of the cyclists would actually wheel their racers into the superette and, cluttering up the aisle at the energy bars and chocolates section, have a loud debate about sell-by dates. Obviously these people were from Johannesburg and were worried that their ultra-lightweight, titanium-framed jobs would be pinched if they left them outside, and we’d have to tell them that it was okay, we’re all poachers here, we don’t steal bicycles, only fish.
Which is a bit of a porkie, of course. Although we say that’s we do here, just to freak out the visitors, we don’t actually poach fish. In fact, we are rather concerned about such activities, and the danger they pose to the planet’s dwindling fish stocks.
Think of it like this:
In 1968, the population of the planet was two billion. In July this year it will reach seven billion. It is, of course, not a question of space, but whether we can sustain such a population. Right now, potable water tables are falling, soil erosion is rampant, fish stocks are dwindling, and glaciers are melting. About a billion people go hungry every day. By 2025 that figure will have doubled.
Put another way, the world’s population increases by 180 people every minute, and the vast majority of those people -- some 97% of them, in fact -- are born in what is now referred to as the “developing” world, and that’s us, I’m afraid.
Which brings me to the point: can we afford to tolerate ANC Youth League president Julius Malema any longer?
Last weekend, he told followers that, in order to prevent “the revolution” from losing steam, they must have as many babies as possible. “Having babies is a revolutionary thing,” he was quoted as saying, “You must reproduce!”
A week later, and we’re still waiting for the youth league’s spokesman, Floyd Shivambu, to explain to us the “correct context” of Malema’s extraordinary call. But, in the meantime, we may choose to dwell on the news that some 17 260 pregnancies were recorded in KwaZulu-Natal schools last year, according to provincial education MEC Senzo Mchunu. That, by any measure, is a lot of revolutionary things.
However, and this may or may not signal relief for the planet and its dwindling stocks of fish or, indeed, expensive whiskies, but the unhappiness with Malema’s unhinged behaviour is growing within the ruling party.
Thabo Masombika, a former youth league leader who is now a senior empowerment manager with the Department of Trade and Industries, has done a bit of a Trevor Manuel on Malema, and penned an appeal to ANCYL members to vote their foolish president out of office at the league’s elective conference in June.
Although not as harsh as Manuel was in his open letter to government spokesman Jimmy Manyi, Masombika nevertheless makes the point that Malema’s growing arrogance and fascist behaviour, not to mention his utter vapidity and boorish drunkenness, have done the league and the party no favours.
The league, naturally, will draw ranks around Malema in much the same way as the ruling party has done around Manyi, and Masombika may find himself out in the cold for speaking his mind.
But he is correct. It is time we saw Julius off on his bicycle.
Showing posts with label poaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poaching. Show all posts
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, December 12, 2010
A Famous Grouse: December 11, 2010
Latest Weekend Argus column (as submitted, unedited) -- AD
THE other evening, at Mahogany Ridge, a chap came round with a petition about the rock lobster quotas for recreational fishing just as a discussion on the rampant poaching of same that takes place on an almost daily basis just a stone’s throw from the Slangkop lighthouse appeared to be edging towards a violent conclusion.
A letter had appeared in one of the community newspapers detailing a resident’s encounter with these poachers, apparently members of what is referred to in some quarters as the local Rastafarian community, although I fail to see how the sporting of dreadlocks and thuggish behavior makes one a devotee of this obsessively backward religious cult. It’s rather like calling paedophiles Catholics.
According to the newspaper’s correspondent, a group of maybe ten dreadfuls had hauled out about a thousand or so mainly undersized crayfish, and were busily loading black dustbin bags full of their spoils into a bakkie when he came across them.
It was the poachers’ stupid and rather aggressive comments when confronted -- “The ocean is for ever!” “Don’t interfere with our work!” “We know where you live!” -- that had set us off at the Ridge, and it was perhaps not a good time to flap about a piece of paper and call for signatures demanding that decent, law-abiding folk have a more sensible crack at what’s left on the ocean floor.
Two distinct factions had emerged, both of them largely unreasonable.
One was of the opinion that it was futile to bother oneself with notions of marine conservancy, or any form of action aimed at protecting our wildernesses for that matter, because the environment had been plundered to the extent that it was now only a matter of months, if not weeks, before the Atlantic was as barren as the Sahara.
Therefore, to avoid missing out on the spoils, become a poacher yourself and get in at the death, as it were. Everyone was doing it, and, as experience has shown, no-one would stop you, certainly not the authorities.
This was where the other group differed, loudly opining that it was not yet too late to make a difference -- although drastic action was needed, such as banning fishing altogether. Well, within a 50-kilometre radius of the lighthouse. (Please note: the consumption of alcohol had little to do with the formation of this opinion.)
I liked the thinking here, and where it was going. More of that in a moment. First I must admit that I fail to see the point of crayfish. It’s not even a fish, so why call it that? To my mind, there’s something distastefully gluttonous about the culture of eating these things. Anyone who has ever seen the aftermath of an all-you-can-eat Mozambican prawn binge on a Sunday afternoon in Johannesburg’s southern suburbs will get my drift. It’s not pretty, all those greasy faces, the peri-peri and lemon butterstains, the shells in the laps, the wheezing and wind-breaking at the table. It means little to me, therefore, if I never see a crayfish again, and I’d rather they were just left alone in the sea to scurry about and eat waste.
I realise, however, that this is a minority viewpoint. But I don’t care. This is not an age of consensus, and anyway, most people don’t know what’s good for them. Which is why our plan to save the village from the crayfish menace will probably come as a surprise to the residents and ratepayers’ association.
True, they may object to having been ignored in the process altogether, but they’ll shut up soon enough when our radical cell gets its Lotto funding.
We’ve asked for a lot. Ordinarily, you’d think the tom would be more appropriately doled out to charities and various other worthy concerns, but events this week have shown otherwise. If the National Youth Development Agency can get R40-million for its anti-imperialism beano, then we too should be allowed a fair whack of the Lotto cake to implement our scheme.
Our plan is simple really. And when you’re dealing with the National Lotteries Board it has to be simple. That’s a mistake often made by those waiting in vain for money for Aids hospices or lunatic self-help schemes aimed at empowering rural women -- too complicated by half.
All we want to do is ban all forms of boating here. No exceptions. Poachers and people who buy from them will be forced to eat their catches on the spot. Then they will be put in stocks on the slipway, and small children will be encouraged to throw rocks at them.
It may seem excessive, unpopular even, but, you know, one day, you’ll thank us.
THE other evening, at Mahogany Ridge, a chap came round with a petition about the rock lobster quotas for recreational fishing just as a discussion on the rampant poaching of same that takes place on an almost daily basis just a stone’s throw from the Slangkop lighthouse appeared to be edging towards a violent conclusion.
A letter had appeared in one of the community newspapers detailing a resident’s encounter with these poachers, apparently members of what is referred to in some quarters as the local Rastafarian community, although I fail to see how the sporting of dreadlocks and thuggish behavior makes one a devotee of this obsessively backward religious cult. It’s rather like calling paedophiles Catholics.
According to the newspaper’s correspondent, a group of maybe ten dreadfuls had hauled out about a thousand or so mainly undersized crayfish, and were busily loading black dustbin bags full of their spoils into a bakkie when he came across them.
It was the poachers’ stupid and rather aggressive comments when confronted -- “The ocean is for ever!” “Don’t interfere with our work!” “We know where you live!” -- that had set us off at the Ridge, and it was perhaps not a good time to flap about a piece of paper and call for signatures demanding that decent, law-abiding folk have a more sensible crack at what’s left on the ocean floor.
Two distinct factions had emerged, both of them largely unreasonable.
One was of the opinion that it was futile to bother oneself with notions of marine conservancy, or any form of action aimed at protecting our wildernesses for that matter, because the environment had been plundered to the extent that it was now only a matter of months, if not weeks, before the Atlantic was as barren as the Sahara.
Therefore, to avoid missing out on the spoils, become a poacher yourself and get in at the death, as it were. Everyone was doing it, and, as experience has shown, no-one would stop you, certainly not the authorities.
This was where the other group differed, loudly opining that it was not yet too late to make a difference -- although drastic action was needed, such as banning fishing altogether. Well, within a 50-kilometre radius of the lighthouse. (Please note: the consumption of alcohol had little to do with the formation of this opinion.)
I liked the thinking here, and where it was going. More of that in a moment. First I must admit that I fail to see the point of crayfish. It’s not even a fish, so why call it that? To my mind, there’s something distastefully gluttonous about the culture of eating these things. Anyone who has ever seen the aftermath of an all-you-can-eat Mozambican prawn binge on a Sunday afternoon in Johannesburg’s southern suburbs will get my drift. It’s not pretty, all those greasy faces, the peri-peri and lemon butterstains, the shells in the laps, the wheezing and wind-breaking at the table. It means little to me, therefore, if I never see a crayfish again, and I’d rather they were just left alone in the sea to scurry about and eat waste.
I realise, however, that this is a minority viewpoint. But I don’t care. This is not an age of consensus, and anyway, most people don’t know what’s good for them. Which is why our plan to save the village from the crayfish menace will probably come as a surprise to the residents and ratepayers’ association.
True, they may object to having been ignored in the process altogether, but they’ll shut up soon enough when our radical cell gets its Lotto funding.
We’ve asked for a lot. Ordinarily, you’d think the tom would be more appropriately doled out to charities and various other worthy concerns, but events this week have shown otherwise. If the National Youth Development Agency can get R40-million for its anti-imperialism beano, then we too should be allowed a fair whack of the Lotto cake to implement our scheme.
Our plan is simple really. And when you’re dealing with the National Lotteries Board it has to be simple. That’s a mistake often made by those waiting in vain for money for Aids hospices or lunatic self-help schemes aimed at empowering rural women -- too complicated by half.
All we want to do is ban all forms of boating here. No exceptions. Poachers and people who buy from them will be forced to eat their catches on the spot. Then they will be put in stocks on the slipway, and small children will be encouraged to throw rocks at them.
It may seem excessive, unpopular even, but, you know, one day, you’ll thank us.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Famous Grouse: November 13, 2010
This is the unedited column I submitted to the Weekend Argus for Saturday, November 13. Due to some or other problem with templates, it had to be drastically cut, and in the process 150 words or so were lost. I'm going to be posting some of my WA columns ("A Famous Grouse") for the benefit of those who can't get the newspaper. -- AD
DEAR venerable and perhaps aged tycoon-type men in Asia. Greetings from a small fishing village at the bottom of Africa.
I trust that you are all well and in rude health, particularly in the pants department, because frankly we’re fast running out of rhino here trying to keep up with your keeping up demands, if you know what I mean, and I rather suspect that you do.
Now, it is not my place to question customs and traditional beliefs. We have the ubuntu here, you know, and we have been taught to look the other way in a respectful manner when confronted with unacceptable behaviour. Nevertheless, I’ve never understood how you could kickstart the mojo by ingesting keratin -- because that’s all rhino horn is, made from the same stuff as our hair and nails.
And forgive me for asking, but how do you take it? Is the horn ground into powder and smoked? Sprinkled on the noodles with the pepper and chilli? Or do you just snort it off some bored woman’s mams? Once you’ve finished the sushi, that is? You may be pleased to note that this particular aspect of oriental culture is now all the rage with the elite and one can hardly move at the better sort of social gatherings for all the models lying around with sashimi poking out of their underwear.
But back to the horny business. Who got the stuff that was stolen from one of our museums in 2008? You may not have read about this, but it was disturbing news here. Thieves made off with the horns of two rhino that were stuffed way back in the 19th century. The thing is, those horns, as was the practice with taxidermy back then, were steeped in arsenic and DDT to prevent insect infestation. Take that, and you may just have the wrong sort of stiff on your hands.
Which brings me to a point. Please, we’re desperate about keeping our rhino. The few that we have left. Given the rate that you guys are killing them -- and it is you lot, not some raggedy-arsed poachers, who’re ultimately to blame here -- it won’t be long before the only place we’ll see rhino is on a ten rand note. Which is sad, really, considering that a ten rand note is only worth R4.50 these days.
However, we understand your needs, we really do. What is the point of being an impotent potentate? How humiliating that must be. And, whether placebo effect or not, who are we to doubt that the consumption of animal parts refreshes those parts that Viagra can only dream of reaching? So, I’d like to suggest a compromise.
Rock pigeons.
Did you know that like their beaks are made primarily of a calcium compound -- very much like nails? Five will get you ten that the beak of a rock pigeon is just as good a muti as rhino horn. And unlike rhino, there is no shortage of rock pigeon here.
Take my place, for example. My garden is cluttered with the vermin. The pepper tree is so full of them, it’s a wonder the branches don’t break. They freak out my dog, Bob. He’s a Lavender Hill special, and trust me, he doesn’t need freaking out. But the pigeons splash about in his drinking water and eat his crunchy chicken-flavoured pellets, and it drives him nuts and he lunges away at them in fits and bursts.
They make me pretty mad, too, the way they drop their guts on everything. Friends visit, and next thing their cars are streaked in bird stuff. In fact, the pigeons are so cavalier in this regard, that I worry they may be a bad influence on Bob, who has the toilet manners of a cat, and is very particular about where he does his business. His middle name could be Fastidious, but not really, because he only has the one name.
Bob has, on the odd occasion, caught a pigeon. The mess of feathers and soggy bits afterwards was not pleasant, but the experience gave Bob a certain spring in his step, a cockiness, if you will, that made me think of you guys. You too could proudly strut about and do the houri if you had a bit of beak in you.
It’s just a thought, but let me know either way. Yours, etc.
DEAR venerable and perhaps aged tycoon-type men in Asia. Greetings from a small fishing village at the bottom of Africa.
I trust that you are all well and in rude health, particularly in the pants department, because frankly we’re fast running out of rhino here trying to keep up with your keeping up demands, if you know what I mean, and I rather suspect that you do.
Now, it is not my place to question customs and traditional beliefs. We have the ubuntu here, you know, and we have been taught to look the other way in a respectful manner when confronted with unacceptable behaviour. Nevertheless, I’ve never understood how you could kickstart the mojo by ingesting keratin -- because that’s all rhino horn is, made from the same stuff as our hair and nails.
And forgive me for asking, but how do you take it? Is the horn ground into powder and smoked? Sprinkled on the noodles with the pepper and chilli? Or do you just snort it off some bored woman’s mams? Once you’ve finished the sushi, that is? You may be pleased to note that this particular aspect of oriental culture is now all the rage with the elite and one can hardly move at the better sort of social gatherings for all the models lying around with sashimi poking out of their underwear.
But back to the horny business. Who got the stuff that was stolen from one of our museums in 2008? You may not have read about this, but it was disturbing news here. Thieves made off with the horns of two rhino that were stuffed way back in the 19th century. The thing is, those horns, as was the practice with taxidermy back then, were steeped in arsenic and DDT to prevent insect infestation. Take that, and you may just have the wrong sort of stiff on your hands.
Which brings me to a point. Please, we’re desperate about keeping our rhino. The few that we have left. Given the rate that you guys are killing them -- and it is you lot, not some raggedy-arsed poachers, who’re ultimately to blame here -- it won’t be long before the only place we’ll see rhino is on a ten rand note. Which is sad, really, considering that a ten rand note is only worth R4.50 these days.
However, we understand your needs, we really do. What is the point of being an impotent potentate? How humiliating that must be. And, whether placebo effect or not, who are we to doubt that the consumption of animal parts refreshes those parts that Viagra can only dream of reaching? So, I’d like to suggest a compromise.
Rock pigeons.
Did you know that like their beaks are made primarily of a calcium compound -- very much like nails? Five will get you ten that the beak of a rock pigeon is just as good a muti as rhino horn. And unlike rhino, there is no shortage of rock pigeon here.
Take my place, for example. My garden is cluttered with the vermin. The pepper tree is so full of them, it’s a wonder the branches don’t break. They freak out my dog, Bob. He’s a Lavender Hill special, and trust me, he doesn’t need freaking out. But the pigeons splash about in his drinking water and eat his crunchy chicken-flavoured pellets, and it drives him nuts and he lunges away at them in fits and bursts.
They make me pretty mad, too, the way they drop their guts on everything. Friends visit, and next thing their cars are streaked in bird stuff. In fact, the pigeons are so cavalier in this regard, that I worry they may be a bad influence on Bob, who has the toilet manners of a cat, and is very particular about where he does his business. His middle name could be Fastidious, but not really, because he only has the one name.
Bob has, on the odd occasion, caught a pigeon. The mess of feathers and soggy bits afterwards was not pleasant, but the experience gave Bob a certain spring in his step, a cockiness, if you will, that made me think of you guys. You too could proudly strut about and do the houri if you had a bit of beak in you.
It’s just a thought, but let me know either way. Yours, etc.
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