And so it was I moved to SA and struggled to settle, despite the best laid plans of Mrs 6k, her friends and family and the dear, dear Department of Home Affairs who made it abundantly clear that they would love me to hang around as long as I kept filling in forms and handing over money.
One of the things that made life a whole lot easier was joining up with The Firm. Now, this isn’t some scary Tom Cruise film whereby your company takes over your life, this is a football team. Because there’s nothing better than social football to get you meeting nice people, getting some exercise, drinking some beers and kicking seven bells of crap out of the oppostion on a Tuesday evening.

The Firm is often labelled as The Best Idea Larry Ever Had™, Larry being the guy in charge who had the idea of converting a group of Fantasy Footballists into a crack squad of 7-a-side footballers. The mix is just right: a hint of youth, a tablespoon of experience and a dash of competitiveness, all topped off with a dreamy helping of enjoyment.
We play every week; most we win, some we lose – occasionally we’ll bring home a trophy for our troubles. It’s perfection.

But then, if The Firm was The Best Idea Larry Ever Had™, the idea that Larry had on Sunday was probably The Worst Idea Larry Ever Had™. The plan, as usual, was to have a bit of a run out on a Sunday morning down at the Greek club. And hour of 5 on 5, whites vs coloureds (Shirts, people. Shirts) ahead of spending the rest of the day with family, on the beach or flopped on the couch in front of some Premier League action. But there was no slot free at the Greek club that morning until 11. And it was when Larry was told this that Larry had The Worst Idea Larry Ever Had™.

Cool. We’ll take it!

Holy crap. What a mistake.

Pulling into the car park at ten to, I noted that it was 36°C on my car’s thermometer. In the shade.
As I stepped out of my airconditioned comfort out into the Green Point sunshine, I was met by a wall of thick, still, hot air.
Some sort of sense of self-preservation should probably have kicked in here. But it didn’t. And so, armed only with several litres of cold water and a willingness to kick some balls, we headed out into the heat of the almost midday full sun.

It was horrible. One of the worst footballing experiences of my life. Within 2 minutes of running around, I was gasping, drenched through with sweat and feeling dizzy and nauseous. These, even by Cape Town standards, were extreme conditions. The ball wasn’t even flying through the air properly. I felt truly awful.
Some sort of sense of self-preservation should probably have kicked in here. But it didn’t. And so, with a couple of breaks, we continued to toil for an hour. What utter, utter idiots.

It killed us. I have heard no positive comment come out of the camp since the game finished. In fact, as one of the other protagonists pointed out last night – I’ve heard very little from anyone. He and I may indeed be the only survivors.
It literally took me two hours to cool down when I got home. Yesterday afternoon, I vomited twice, drank a case full of energy drinks and took a whole packet of Imodium and I’m still completely broken. I’m left frantically looking for some sort of Reset button for my body. Does anyone have the instruction manual, please?

Thing is, I’ve learned nothing from this experience. When the shout comes for next Sunday’s game, I won’t consider the weather forecast. I’ll be there and I’ll probably almost kill myself again.

So there you have it. If you’re looking to try and settle down in a foreign country, join a social football team and see if you can completely destroy your body on a hot Sunday lunchtime.

You’re welcome.

60% of world cocoa production, 20% of global gold production and shedloads of shale gas.
What’s not to like?
(apart perhaps for that 3% of global GDP figure…)

Actually, there really aren’t very many of them. It isn’t that important to me: after all, this is just rugby, it’s not football. But there’s always someone that suggests that because I’ve moved to SA, I must support the Boks. Yeah right, because when you guys go over to do your two years of bar work in Wimbledon, you all instantly revert to your colonial roots and cheer on “the Poms”, don’t you?

Of course not.

You might not like to know it,
You may not think it’s right.
But within your sea of green and gold,
There’s some proudly red and white.

Please don’t take it personally,
Or refuse to shake me by the hand.
Cos while I live in Cape Town,
I’m born and bred England.

And yes, I have a soft spot,
For Johnny Smit and chums.
But I’ll be wearing red and white,
When the final comes.

Just to reiterate my stance here, once and for all:

I will happily support the Boks (or any South African national team)
unless they are playing England. 

I happen to think that that’s pretty fair, but if it still remains an issue for you, may Martin Johnson have mercy upon your soul.

Stellenbosch Hills is the first cellar to combine two proudly South African delights with their Biltong & Droëwors Adventure to be enjoyed in the cellar door. The art of drying meat nowadays is as specialised as the art of wine making. Our aim was to create a competition where three of South Africa’s most popular products – wine and biltong and droëwors – could be combined.

Wait. What? Let’s just review that again: the plan is to combine wine and biltong and droewors?
It’s only the best idea to come out of the winelands since Big Concerts decided not to have the U2 concert at Val de Vie.
And enjoying them (the food and drink, not U2) in the cellar door may also yield some small degree of protection should a Kiwi-style earthquake unexpectedly hit Stellies.
They’ve thought this through.

So what’s it all about?
Well, essentially, it’s a biltong making competition, which I was alerted to by twitter user @Tara_L_B. Good work, Tara.
And, as Stellenbosch Hills notes (seemingly with a hint of disappointment):

Somebody has to win ….

and by “win” they mean “win” the fat R60,000 worth of prizes for the biltong which best complements their 2007 Shiraz. Surely to do that though, one would have to eat loads of biltong and drink loads of red wine in the name of research?

Damn.

As regular readers will know, I’m a bit of a biltong fan and I have been rubbing my meat with spices, hanging it out, letting it dry and giving to friends and family to nibble on for several months now. In fact, only this morning, I unhung some of my best work so far.

Using Freddy Hirsch spices together with my not-so-secret Sheffield-based (or should that be “Sheffield-Baste”?!?!?! LOL!) (sorry) ingredient, I like to think I have crafted an ex-pat masterpiece, capable of beating even the most ardent of local biltong craftspersons.

So – could an outsider, a rooinek, a soutie - really slip in and nick the R60,000 from right under the local’s noses?

Usurper can like to be my middle name.

Better bring your A-game, Boland, ‘cos I’m in it to win it.
(terms & conditions apply)

If you don’t know what a sacrificial anode is, allow me to enlighten you:

A galvanic anode is the main component of a galvanic cathodic protection (CP) system used to protect buried or submerged metal structures from corrosion.
They are made from a metal alloy with a more “active” voltage (more negative electrochemical potential) than the metal of the structure. The difference in potential between the two metals means that the galvanic anode corrodes, so that the anode material is consumed in preference to the structure.
The loss (or sacrifice) of the anode material gives rise to the alternative name of sacrificial anode.

Basically, in layman’s terms, it’s a chunk of metal which is attached to another submerged piece of metal (like an oil rig leg) and rusts so that the other stuff doesn’t rust. It lays down its atoms so that the oil rig leg (or whatever) doesn’t have to.

And last night, I suddenly realised that that’s what I’ve been doing: sacrificing myself in order to protect my wife. Not by rusting, you understand, but by lying next to her in bed and being bitten by a succession of mosquitoes, which bite me in preference to biting her.
Of course, she claims that it’s purely chance that with a single mozzie in the room, I wake up looking like I’ve had an overnight attack of chicken pox, while her gently tanned skin remains smooth and soft and…wait… sorry – where was I again? Ah yes – she says it’s just chance, but I’ve done some rudimentary calculations and statistically, it seems that I have been imported solely the purposes of baby-making, lawn-mowing and to be a sacrificial anode. Of sorts.
Oh – and to prop up the previous ailing South African brewing industry, which I have now almost single-handedly turned into a global success story.
(It’s ok. No thanks necessary.)

Nothing good ever came out of being sacrificed. The chunk of metal only lasts a certain number of months or years before it is gone – eroded and corroded – and replaced. The sacrificial lamb is braai’ed, devoured and forgotten before you can say “Mint Sauce” and no-one ever remembers which actor played “Expendable Exploration Party Member 3″ who was pushed into the flaming lava pit by the African tribesmen to appease their Gods in 1921′s The Adventures of Tarzan, now do they?

But with the baby-making completed and SAB-Miller back on an even keel, maybe I should be happy that the grass is still growing and the mozzies are still biting. The way my joints feel these days, maybe the corrosion metaphor is more than just a metaphor and I should be grateful that I still have a role in this place and that I’m not about to be replaced by a shiny new lump of zinc.

After all, although it is a fundamental element in making babies, zinc can’t mow the lawn and zinc can’t attract biting insects.
I think I’m safe for now…

And it’s not just a bit slower, either:

Research by broadband comparison website Top10.com found that Railway Hill in Barnham, Kent, had an average download speed of just 0.13Mb per second.

And when I (eventually) got a result from speedtest.net this evening, it was this:

Whoosh, it ain’t – unless you happen to be a Railway Hill resident, then you’ve never seen anything quite this fast before: “Moy Goodnars!” (Note the retracted first element and slight monophthongisation of PRICE vowel there – that’s Kent for you.)

Let me be honest here, I could get faster if I wanted. But it would cost a lot of money – an extra R300 a month on top of the R300 I’m already paying for this digital equivalent of amputee tortoises sleepwalking through cold molasses. And so while I had to ask myself whether it was worth paying twice as much to get a speed which is still only around one fifth the UK average, I replied to myself with a firm no.

Broadband is hugely expensive here in SA. It’s a luxury and I’m grateful to have it, but I’m paying through the nose for it as well. For only slightly more than I’m paying for my service, my parents are getting 30 Mb/s, which is shortly to be upgraded (at no extra cost to them) to 40Mb/s. For the non-mathematicians amongst you: yes, that’s 100 times faster download speed than I’m on here. And included in that package is phone line rental and a fair few (most?) phone calls as well.

It’s frustrating that even as prices start to come down and speeds start to go up here, we still find ourselves lagging (no pun intended) further and further behind the “developed” nations.

But then I look at it like this – perhaps, in a way, I’ve traded in affordable, super-fast  internet access for Table Mountain, Kirstenbosch and the Constantia Wine Route; for late night dips in the pool and for Castle Milk Stout and Carling Black Label. And while I might only be able to manage a measly 0.43Mb/s; while it might take me 2 months to download a movie, things could be worse.

Because when I open my curtains tomorrow, I’m not going to be looking at Kent.

Glass half full?

Glass brimming, methinks.

But no, today marks the day seven years ago that I arrived in South Africa and began my role as the country’s favourite import. It’s a bit of a weird one, but we have celebrated it each year since I’ve arrived.
People are never quite sure what to say when we tell them that it’s n years since I came over.  ”Congratulations” is all very nice, but what are they really congratulating me on? “Well done on making a decision to move house”? Or perhaps “Amazingly, you’ve survived more than a few hours in this crime-ridden hellhole.”

Hellhole. Why would anyone come here? I mean really…

Whatever their reasoning, what is the correct response from me? “Thanks for having me”?

It’s been a busy few years: getting married, building houses, playing with TB and making children, but it’s been an amazing few years as well.
And no, I – we – have absolutely no plans to live anywhere else, so you may as well stop asking (or praying). With its vast array of entertaining politicians, days full of decent weather, friendly people and cheap beer, together with the flat mountain, the superb lifestyle and the huge range of public holidays: this is very definitely home now.

One thing we did catch this weekend was Nik Rabinowitz’s You Can’t Be Serious stand-up show at the Baxter. Very funny guy, with a keen eye for observing and finding the funny in South Africa and South Africanisms. It’s humour I wouldn’t have understood if I hadn’t been here observing the same stuff for seven years.

Here he is on the BBC’s Mock The Week in June last year:

The thing is, though he does the languages thing very well (although the knock knock joke is wearing a little thin now), all he is actually doing in this sketch is repeating the local football commentary. Because yes, that’s exactly what you will hear on a Xhosa radio station when the football in on. And yes, I suppose it’s quite amusing if you’re not used to it.

I can’t help but think, however, that my UK stand-up act would fall flat were I to bring my rendition of some English football commentary and a knock knock joke to South African television.

The thing is, South Africa does have a problem with violent crime – anyone who says it doesn’t is being ridiculous and you can tell them I said so.  But as a local or as a tourist, you can limit your chances of becoming a statistic by not doing foolish (and by “foolish”, I’m just being polite: I actually mean “utterly stupid”) things.

I covered this over 3 years ago in the now infamous Big South African Crime Post.

Don’t wave your iPod around in downtown Cape Town – it might get nicked. As it might in downtown New York, Amsterdam or Sydney.
Don’t wander round Nyanga on your own late at night. Or Harlem. Or the Manor Estate in Sheffield.

Yes, I said Nyanga and that’s just next door to Gugulethu, which is a place I would not be going to in a branded luxury hotel shuttle bus at 11pm on a Saturday night. While what happened to this couple should certainly not have happened to this couple, questions must be asked about what on earth they were doing there. Even if they weren’t aware of the risk they were putting themselves at, the hotel driver should have told them and refused to take them into that area.
Something isn’t quite right with this “detour into Gugulethu to see the nightlife” story in my mind.

Some will say that having “no go” areas shows how dangerous South Africa is, but I disagree with that sort of ill-considered exceptionalism. In exactly two weeks time, I’m heading up to Newcastle-upon-Tyne (in the UK) for the day, just to relive some of my old memories from University days. I’m going to visit several areas that day, but I’m not going near Benwell, because it’s a (seriously) high crime area and that would be putting myself – my possessions and my health – at risk. Sure, I might not get hijacked or shot, but I might get mugged or stabbed. Forewarned is forearmed.

This incident puts a huge dent in the good publicity that came out of the World Cup earlier this year and it frustrates and depresses me, because there are so many reasons that it shouldn’t have happened.
And while it might not seem a very sensitive thing to say right now, I feel that there’s enough publicity about South Africa’s crime problem for visitors to take some responsibility for their safety as well.

The fact that no-one took that responsibility on Saturday evening cost Cape Town a hit to its reputation and it cost Anni Dewani her life.

UPDATE: Some good safety tips on the Portfolio Collection Travel Blog.

We took the time out this weekend to head out into the beautiful Southern Cape,which has rapidly become a firm family favourite for weekend getaways. White sands, turquoise seas and deserted beaches where the kids can play safely and happily, Mum can read her latest crime thriller and Dad can wander about taking pictures and helping with the rockpooling – it refreshes the soul.
Less refreshing were the queues down Sir Lowry’s Pass on the way home, but even they might be a thing of the past once PAWC has mended Somerset West.

Such is the attraction of the place and the difference it makes to our family life that we’ve pooled together all we have and invested in a little plot on which will soon sit a tiny fisherman’s cottage. It won’t be much, but it will be ours (once we’ve given the bank a lot of money) and we went to have a look at the foundations this weekend. It’s surrounded by fynbos, beach and National Park and there is wildlife galore. There is electricity and water, but there’s no phone line and certainly no cellphone signal. It’s a far cry from busy city life and it really is going to be the perfect place to get away from it all.

This weekend was a good example of that – the only issue was the sunburn from Sunday morning’s shoreline quest – who knew that several billion tonnes of super-hot exploding helium could hurt so much? Even the SPF40 wasn’t enough to protect my unweathered and pale English skin. I’ll be ok in a few weeks though.

Probably.

More photos here.