Tania.co.za

The coming year

The past year represents one of the three or four big turning points in my life. I was in Dar es Salaam recently, and I'm returning there next year for a few days; I have also paid several more visits to Maputo since the last time I wrote about that. There have been many new friendships formed, and a lot of damage done to old ones, with slow healing and re-injury, as during a war. Very little of what I have experienced during this year has been documented here.

This blog will be replaced by four Web sites next year, each with a distinct domain.

One will be a blog devoted to Project Management, representing my professional interest.

Another will be devoted primarily to my passion for dancing, which more than any other single activity has kept me sane since 2006 -- and this in spite of the fact that at times other clubbers have mistaken me for someone on crack cocaine! I have often been asked, right there in a night club, by some stranger, "Teach me to dance like you dance!" because, unlike professional dancers who must push their bodies to painful extremes, forcing their last joy into a smile for a critical and demanding audience, my pleasure is real, others want it, and I want to give it. Last night a stranger came up to me and shouted above the music,"You rock!" I've had compliments before, but his particular choice of words warmed my soul because it represents a wordplay which he never intended, but which explains it all. 2009 was the year in which I at last understood the foundation on which I have been built, and to which I can now respond with exuberance: Of course I rock! I am autistic.

The third site will be ecclectic and personal, not distinctly themed, an agglomeration of shorter whim-based entries, and a mixture of seriousness and frivolity as befits any well-balanced human being. This site will not bear my real name.

The fourth, represented by the present domain, will be the place where I share family photographs and news for relatives and friends. There will be a link from this site to two of the others.

I am also hoping to finally get the Web zine at Magazine.co.za up and running, but that has been an "I'll do it in the new year!" goal for several years, so I am not sure whether I should trust this statement of intent until I have presented myself with a proper Project Initiation Document!

I also have the goals to take formal steps to support many of those marginalised or rejected in our society where my abilities could not easily have been substituted. I have found a niche where God can use me, and specifically me.

As 2009 draws to a close, see, I have begun formulating some New Year's Resolutions. I used to scoff the idea of having such a list, because I reasoned that if you want to do something -- lose weight or be a nicer person or whatever it is that people usually resolve to do -- why can't you just do it, and do it this year? The thing is, integrity -- following through on a promise to oneself or to others -- requires integration -- that is, providing oneself with a realistic plan and an environment wherein it is possible to implement the resolution, and then taking steps required for fulfilment. Developing a picture of the ideal future, the strategy for attaining it, and the project plan including a plan to deal with risk and change, requires considerable reflection and time. If you don't  have (or take) the time to think, you may not get much done, or you may get a lot done which does not contribute to your goals, and thus your labour diligent willl have been ineffective. Thus, I have New Year's Resolutions, and I hope that I shall be able to spend some time away from work at the end of December to reflect, plan and get going with these things which in theory could have started any time, but which in practice will have to kick off in 2010. (The pertinence of the football metaphor to the date was noted only upon completing the sentence!)

By the time that I return to this and other spaces, my position in society may have changed forever. I have committed a Great Taboo. Some people may forgive and accept me once they know; some may not forgive, because I shall not be able to apologise or to repent. I do not expect that I will ever be able to lead others from a sanctified moral high ground. If after December you choose to dislike me, if you choose to judge me for my choice, if you withhold your love, it is not with condescending magnanimity that I will accept and forgive you, but rather with cognisance of and respect for your paradigm, which forms the foundation of nearly every culture on earth. It is not that I am unafraid of your rejection: I do indeed fear it, and I fear particularly being rejected by those to whom I am close who see things in black and white and who must by force of neurological predisposition decide whether I am good or bad, a sinner or saint. I beg of you, though: Do not prevent me from serving, even if you believe that as a sinner I cannot be saved. I want to do good. I want to help. I want to save the world. Whoever is not against you, is for you. If the gifts are good in your eyes, permit the giver her giving, even if she is bad.

Tania buys a mini-skirt

In a rush on my way to have my laptop repaired by the congenial troglodyte in the basement of the physics building, I had to pass through the student shopping centre, and saw a skirt I liked.
"You can try it in the bathroom."
Two minutes later: "Thank-you, it fits. Now, can I have a pair of legs to go with this?"
"You mean leggings?"
"Never mind, I'll just take the skirt."

Gesprek in 'n nagklub

"Is dit melk wat jy daar drink?"
"Ja."
"Net melk?"
"Ja."
"Ek hoop dis ten minste 'n double."
"Dis neat, on the rocks."
Hy lag. "Hoekom drink jy melk?"
"Want ek is dors." (My ma sou dit 'n tipiese Aspergers-antwoord noem. Ek weet wat die doel van sy vraag is, maar ek aanvaar nie die onderliggende aanname nie, dus wil ek nie die vraag na sy verwagting beantwoord nie.)
"Nee, ek bedoel..." begin hy, maar hy laat dit vaar.
"Dis een van die dinge waarvan ek hou van hierdie plek," voeg ek by, sodat hy nie moet dink dat ek probeer lelik wees deur nie saam te speel nie. "Ek bedoel, hoeveel dansplekke is daar wat vir jou melk sal verkoop?"

'n Halfuur later sien ek 'n ou op die dansvloer wat 'n t-hemp aan het waarop daar staan, Celebrating Milk, en ek wys dit uit vir die outjie wat my uitgevra het oor my drinkgewoontes. Ek twyfel of die ou binne-in die t-hemp ook wel graag melk drink in 'n nagklub, maar ek behoort dit eintlik nie te betwyfel nie.

Irony

I had this conversation with the passenger next to me on the plane during my last trip to Mozambique. He was a French-speaking man of Arabic origin, and was on his way to Maputo from the DRC via Johannesburg. He had lived in Kinshasa for many years, and was going to Maputo to visit relatives.

My fellow traveler told me that he made a living by importing used clothes from Canada, and that there was a very good market for these goods in the DRC.

"Is it difficult to get new clothes in the DRC?" I asked, having learned three years ago from my landlord, a telecommunications contractor, that new clothes are hard to come by in the part of West Africa where he works. I thought it may be the same in the DRC.
"No," said my fellow passenger, "it's just that all the new clothes come from China."
"Ah," I said, "So is it difficult to import clothes into the DRC from China?"
"No, you can get them," he said, "but people prefer old clothes because they last longer."

Whisper to me

If we win the battle for understanding, we will change the world. So please stay strong while we learn to communicate within the language and customs of this planet. You have no idea how many people depend on us. We can fall down sometimes, but we must not give up now.

Dikaiosune

To whomever has ever had to choose between sin and insanity: Whatever you chose, I respect your choice. And I know, just as you perhaps still know, that no matter what choice you made, you sinned.

Jesus, I thank you that you have permitted me my sanity. I don't want to insult you by asking you to forgive it as well.

Mozambique

I'm back from teaching an in-house course in Project Management in Maputo. The client specifically wanted it in English because all of their project documentation is done in English (as a ligua franca with foreign contractors). I have nevertheless bought myself a book and some CDs to learn some Portuguese before I go back there later this month. I don't think I will be able to avoid looking like a South African, but perhaps I can at least appear a little less like a tourist this time, and more like someone who has the intention of going back to work there again and again. It's a nice city.


View from my hotel window in Maputo.

Wrong

I wasn't wrong to have believed you had the potential, but wrong to have hoped you'd have the will, and so very unwise to have forgotten that a low self-esteem often disguises the absence of a humble heart.

PRINCE2 Practitioner

Yeeeheee! I got 78.333333333333333% for my PRINCE2 Practitioner exam!

Kin

The lack of posting in the past two months belies the profundity of my experience in having found my tribe. It has been one of the turning points of my life, as deeply felt as a religious discovery.

For most of my life I have gravitated towards them unwittingly, even though to outsiders we may have seemed dissimilar. Scattered amongst the rest of the population, they, like I, also did not know who they really were. Yet I have felt empathy with them beyond that felt for them  by others. Now that I know we are genetically linked, everything is contextualised. I belong.

Ironically, the first friendship in my life which I consciously and deliberately ended -- about 15 years ago -- was probably with one of my own tribe. She is dead now, she was murdered last year, so I will never be able to involve my newfound kin in rescuing her from the bitterness which she felt towards those who had discriminated against her, and which subsequently drove even those who might have loved her away from her after that. But the fact that we parted also shows that I will not necessarily like everyone with whom I have this bond. Such is the nature of kinship.

Equally profound, perhaps, but far more frightening, has been the parallel discovery of how little understanding there has always been between me and the one person whom I felt most deeply understood me for so many years. Nor did I understand him. Nor did I understand so many like him, although I thought I did. We heard each other's words and saw each other's actions, and we thought we knew what they meant. But I am not sure what I know anymore, except for love.

And love changes everything.

Diagnosis

They named it, finally: Lewy body dementia and frontotemporal dementia. He has lost 25 kg. He weighs less than I do. Tomorrow they will tell him that he cannot drive anymore.

Empathy, sympathy... ugh, whatever.

You know what's ironic? Sometimes someone who is really kind, decent and sympathetic, and who says, "Tell me. Confide in me. I am a good listener. You need to talk about your problems! Try me, I have big shoulders. I will understand." can be the most stressful person to have around when I am at the end of my tether. The problem is, then I have to manage his feelings as well as my own -- if I don't want to talk, he will feel rejected, or he'll feel like a failure, or whatever. I actually slept at my mother's house last night instead of at my own flat simply because I did not want the stress of having to arrive at this building and then have a knock at my door and have to deal with someone else's invasive but well-intentioned and heart-felt concern for me.

What would have worked for me just fine would have been to play chess with some guy who doesn't know me well. In fact, I was going to play chess with one of my neighbours who has been keen to do so for a long time, but then my sympathetic friend would probably have arrived here and wondered why I chose such nonchalant company instead of having him who cares for me so deeply cooking supper for me, which he'd offered to do. So I just avoided the whole complicated thing by leaving town. I just didn't have the energy to explain it all.

I would like to thank my friends, the Wizard and the Princess, for the numerous occasions when I was feeling particularly frazzled and they invited me to join them for the day. Thank-you for not suggesting that I talk about my problems, but for allowing me to ramble on when I chose to do so anyway. Thank-you for laughing at my jokes. Thank-you for the hours upon hours of trying on clothes which we didn't really need, for gossiping, and for that exceedingly stupid video which you rented when I did not have the emotional capacity for watching the portrayal of anything resembling genuine human sentiment.

I would also like to say a special thank-you to my friend The Wallflower, for an SMS which he sent me one night long ago when I was feeling miserable and frustrated. "I just want to complain," I'd told him, "I don't want anyone to actually do anything."
"Kla soveel as wat jy wil," he replied, "Ek sal net mooi niks vir jou doen nie."

Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you to my friends for all the great, deep, and intense things which they have not done for me when I needed them not to!

The shrinking brain

You diagnose him with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and senile dementia, and then you want to prescribe an anti-psychotic indicated for schizophrenia and Bipolar Disorder, and contra-indicated for dementia in the elderly. Who is the maddest, you or your patient?

Me

It is horribly humbling, not to mention decidedly disconcerting, to learn at the age of 43 that nearly every vestige of one's individualism is attributable to a genetic predisposition.

Gesprek op 'n dansvloer

"So... wat is jou naam?"
"Toemaar, ek het joune ook vergeet."
"Dis CJ."
"CJ? Is jy seker? Was dit verlede keer ook jou naam?"
"Ja."
"O. OK. Ek is Tania."
"Tania, ja! Dis reg. Tania. Tania, hierdie keer gaan niks my keer nie. Want, sien, hierdie keer is ek nugter!"
"Dit maak nie 'n verskil nie."
"O. So... moet ek maar ophou probeer?"

Opening up the TV to talk to the people that live inside

My window faces a section of the building in which I know no-one. And I never intended to meet them either, because it works well this way. We are close enough to wave, close enough to talk even (if we did so loudly); but we don't ever acknowledge each other's presence as the neighbours in my own corridor would do, saying hello or waving or stopping for a chat. There's an unspoken convention that assures a strange sense of insular privacy on either side of the chasm, in spite of the fact that I have occasionally caught a glimpse of some unwitting person in his underwear. Generally the curtains will be drawn when modesty is required, so what happens in each window when it is open is usually simply like a random scene on a  TV that someone else has left on on in the background while I go about my daily life. It seems as though the same convention exists from their side, because I have never glanced up to find anyone looking at me. (Not since my first week here in 2005, and that fellow has long since left the building.) This disconnection from one another is such a comfortable convention that I often feel free to sleep with my curtain open, because we do not exist to each other as people with names, just as moving elements in scenes; and as long as there is nothing out of the ordinary going on, you can be sure that no-one is staring at you.

Tonight, though, they were playing some kind of heavy rock music, and although I couldn't hear it properly, I liked what little I could make out, the rhythm and the bass notes, and I knew if I didn't go there at once I would never find out what it was. I would have to talk to them.

So I crossed the bridge to the other side...

Special free briefing for aspiring Project Management Professionals

Do you want to become a PMP — a Project Management Professional recognised internationally by the PMI (Project Management Institute)? If so, attend our FREE half-day briefing in Cape Town on Saturday, 23 May 2009. Submit your details to the ProjectManagement.co.za to sign up for this event.

Agile

If there was a synonym for epiphany, I would use it now, because I hate to default into this fashionable resurgence of words like renaissance, evangelist and... ummm... epiphany.

OK, but for the lack of a better term, I am in the throes of an epiphany.

Actually epiphanies probably don't have throes. Mixed metaphor.

Never mind.

I have a lot to say, but I will say it in sandwich-sized chunks once I get my new blog going. One of the things I want to say, is that Scott Ambler is right: we are liars. And I intend to rectify that. Let's leave it there for now, with a confession. Repentance is going to take systems change. Like addictions. With some things you can't go cold turkey.

Project Management course in Bloemfontein

Don't have time for much these days! Just a quick note, therefore, to let everybody know about the post-graduate (NQF 7) short-course in Project Management which will be held in Bloemfontein from 18–22 May 2009. There are also courses in the rest of the country later in the year (see course schedule). The Windhoek course scheduled for April was fully booked, so another one has been scheduled for later in the year, and the Programme in Information Technology Project Management due to be held in Johannesburg is rapidly filling up.

Bottom line: To get onto the Bloemfontein course (or the IT Project Management course, for that matter), contact ProjectManagement.co.za as soon as possible.

Earth Hour

I think the whole thing was a great idea for getting people to talk about what can be done collectively around the world to conserve energy and preserve the environment.

I decided not only to switch off my lights, but also my radio, geyser and computer -- all my appliances except for the fridge -- and get into bed. After a while I heard some of my young neighbours shouting, "Skakel die #@$%&! ligte af! Ek smeeeeek julle!" Eventually the group seemed to grow, chatting loudly in great spirits.

I decided to emerge from my flat at about 21:23 and could see through the windows that most of the denizens of the other flats had indeed turned off their lights too, and that some were watching TV or working on laptops in the dark. I found the source of the noise, too: a small crowd of students had gathered for a spontaneous party in the corridor, and were dancing and setting up a hablis. To the annoyance of the security guard, they had not only switched off their own lights but also gleefully figured out where to switch off the corridor lights for our section of the building.

"Great! More people!" they called out as they saw me approaching.
"My name is Ania," said a girl wearing frayed Winnie the Pooh pyjama pants, "and this is my best friend, Zania."
"My name is Tania," I replied. "We should probably hang out together, even if only for the fun of introducing ourselves to strangers."

Some of the partygoers were wearing luminescent accessories, the kind one might find at a trance party.
"Daar behoort 'n bankie hier te wees om op te sit," said Ania, frowning. Since there was no bench, she and Zania each whipped out a coloured drinking straw as though they had done this many times before, and waved them as wands, instantly creating an imaginary bench, and sat down on what someone whohad not been subjected to the spell would call the floor. I complained that they did not make the bench big enough for three, but they insisted that it was indeed big enough, and moved closer to one another so that I could fit in. When they saw that this would not be a comfortable fit, they conjured up a seat for me, facing them, against the opposite wall of the corridor.

09:30 came, and with a shout the others switched on the lights, but it spoiled the mood, so they turned them off again.
"We should write to the United Nations and ask them to make it Earth Night next year. An hour is not enough!" said the 21-year-old Ania, fully determined to continue with the festivity.

When I realised that some of the girls were contemplating going to the smokkie for some booze, I decided to spare them the danger, and offered them a bottle of ship sherry which I had bought earlier with the intention of using it in seafood bisque. They were delighted at the opportunity of getting smashed risk-free, and promised to replace it. Then I left them and went dancing.

Like Meat Free Mondays, I think one can certainly build in an Earth Hour into one's schedule once a week. It's a good opportunity to just think without so much sensory clutter. Now imagine if all accoross the globe large numbers of people held an Earth Hour once a week, 52 weeks per day. Wouldn't that have some cool results?

Thinking democracy

A moral and ethical imperative

In order to make sound decisions and to devise workable solutions, it is necessary not only to be guided by moral values and ethical principles, but also to be in possession of good thinking skills, because the implementation of good intentions comes from good plans and appropriate responses to sudden change. Those of us who want to be good are thus morally obliged to develop our thinking skills.

The principle of democracy also places an ethical obligation on those who vote, to nominate and elect candidates responsibly, and this once again requires good thinking skills, as a good understanding of current realities and solutions for the future are all products of good thinking.

What thinking skills are required?

Essential thinking skills include:

Classification skills: The ability to (a.) say that this thing is like that thing, but not like that other thing, and to deduce that the things which have common characteristics may thus be subject (or subjected) to common rules; and (b.) To see that this group of things belongs to this other, larger group of things, and that they could therefore possibly be managed together.

Analysis and synthesis are an extension of classification skills. Analytical skill is the ability to identify discrete components of a system, while synthesis is the ability to put them together as a whole.

Logic: The ability to analyse a statement or argument and thereby to determine whether it could be true; the ability to formulate true statements or develop arguments based on facts.

Abstraction and conceptual thinking: The ability to formulate general ideas and principles independently from references to specific, discrete objects or events.

Systems thinking: The understanding that things are dynamically interconnected. Important aspects to be understood include an appreciation for complexity (which reduces the dangerous tendency to seek a single entity onto which to project hope or blame); the dynamic nature of systems (i.e., that even stable systems can gradually change); the concept of overshoot, and the ability to discern when a system requires repair and when it requires replacement. It is also extremely important to understand the difference between the current future and the ideal future, and the principle that the logic of the problem is not necessarily the logic of the solution -- and that in larger and more complex systems, strategies to bridge the gap between the present situation and the ideal future situation require project management.

Thinking skills alone are not enough

Important companion skills include the skills of observation and communication.

Observation (or more broadly speaking, empirical examination or investigation) is extremely important in preventing the imposition of preconceived ideas on problems -- that which is commonly called “jumping to conclusions”. It is possible to come to a perfectly logical, but incorrect conclusion about a problem, and thus to develop an equally logical but inappropriate solution for it, if your perception of the problem is skewed, inadequate, or not in accordance with the facts.

Observation sometimes requires standing back from a situation (objective observation), but at other times it requires immersion in the experience (subjective observation). It is the latter, rather than the former which tends to be lacking amongst problem-solvers -- people are not willing to feel what it feels like to live with the problem for which they profess to have the answers.

In many cases, observation requires a fair amount of time, as long as is necessary to determine the most salient characteristics of a system which need to be considered for systems change or for establishing communications with stakeholders -- but not so long as to permit the system to change significantly during the period of observation, unless it is change itself which is the subject of the investigation.

Communication should not be construed merely as “getting your message across” (although this is important too), but as a process of flux in which the sender and receiver keep switching roles, accommodating at times a commitment to change and at other times to stasis, and sometimes to both. In practical terms, such a commitment could be put into words in a statement like, “I still care about our relationship (stasis) and I am willing to do things differently (change) if that will help us to reach our mutual goal.” (Such things are, of course, not always stated in words, but can be conveyed in other ways as well -- the communications medium should suit the situation and the needs of the participants.)

The skills described as being part of observation above, form an important part of effective communication. If the communication is verbal, they will be referred to as listening skills.

Why thinking skills are essential in a democracy

In an enlightened dictatorship (a term so unfashionable now that many citizens of democracies do not even know what it means), the population is led by a wise ruler, because the common people do not have the knowledge or discernment to take responsible decisions on matters concerning the nation as a whole. This, at least, is the theory. It was the form of government practised by Biblical rulers (successfully, it would appear, by the likes of Hezekiah and Josiah, and in a less “enlightened” manner by others such as Ahab). It is also the essential reasoning behind the theocratic form of government to be found in some present-day Islamic states.

The lack of appropriate thinking skills within an electorate is the reason why even the modern Western philosopher Remington Norman suggests that a democracy is not a good form of government even today, if all the people’s interests are to be properly served. People have an idea of what they want, but they may not know what is good for them; and even if they do, they rarely have a good idea of how it can be achieved through government, and it is from this basis of ignorance that they choose their leaders. The notion of democracy’s inappropriateness to modern government is seconded by the contemporary systems thinking theorist, Dr. Elisabeth Dostal, but for different reasons.

The danger in a democracy is not that your neighbour will vote for someone else, but that you and your neighbour will not care about each other’s well-being (moral problem), that your respective rights and duties will not be adhered to in terms of your actions towards one another (ethical problem, or in its extreme form, criminal problem); that you will not observe a situation long enough with the necessary objectivity or subjectivity (perception problem); that you will not communicate effectively (communication problem) and will not be able to assess your situation sensibly or conceive of possible solutions (thinking skills problem). As a result of all these things, you will make poor choices.

Along with all these other aspects required to be a good person in society -- adherence to justice, open-mindedness, and healthy communication -- well-tuned thinking skills are therefore essential to the enactment of the good intent produced by good values.

In short, from a moral point of view, neglecting thinking skills in our education and self-education is, therefore a sin; and in a democracy (which is based on the principle that the will of the majority should ensure the good of all), such neglect is unethical -- and if left unremedied, a crime against the constitution.

As a citizen in a democracy, it is not your duty to persuade your neighbour to cast his vote for this or that party, but to develop your ability to think, and wherever it depends on you, to ensure that others do the same.

All that money spent on market research, but no interface with loyal customers

Dear Nokia

Your Web site does not provide me with any way of communicating with the people who could help. I am one of thousands of cell phone users, mostly between 40 and 70, who have chosen not to upgrade to anything else in many years. Many of these people have given their brand new contract phones to their children or grandchildren whilst continuing to use the Nokia 6310 or 6310i. If you had some way in which your customers could interface with you, you would be able to learn that nearly ten years after its release, people are prepared to pay more than the original price for this phone. If you were to re-launch this model, you could make the money which is currently being made by users on the various auction sites or by cell phone repair companies. If you really wanted, you could add more features to appeal to younger users. Pity you can't hear me.


Dear Sloggi

If you had chosen to respond to the mail I sent you via your Web site, I could have explained to you precisely why that product which you continued could still sell if only you understood the niche and its product loyalty. I would have explained to you what I was prepared to do, free of charge, to help you sell it to the rest of humankind if only you would continue manufacturing it. Pity the positive experience people have with your products is broken down by the negative experience with your responsiveness.


Dear Nike

Thank-you for following up on my request for the no-longer-produced Rhythm Lace range. It's a pity that I had to leave messages all over Facebook and that your Web site still doesn't have a way for me to reach the right people. It is equally a pity that there is no way of communicating the reasons why I think this range should be continued. People are still visiting my Web site in search ot this range, and in search of a way of contacting you via the Web. After all the trouble you went through in reacting to my request once I found you, it's a pity that other customers still have so much trouble in finding a way of reaching you.


Dear Froggie


Ugh. Never mind. I have decided not to buy Froggie shoes again even though I once liked them so much that I ran the only Froggie fan page on the Internet for some years. Too much of my time was taken up by being your middleman simply because you told me in no uncertain terms that you were not prepared to spend even the price of a pair of shoes to provide a way for your customers to reach you via the Internet.

I guess you are all just too big to talk to the little people -- your customers.

A short story on the whole power-dressing thing

This story is about a rough a conversation between me and Marius (my 61-year-old business partner) yesterday. I'll have to paraphrase, because I can't remember exactly how he expressed himself.

The context is this: Tomorrow from 09:00 to 11:00 we have an extreeeeemely important meeting with the CEO and CFO of an organisation with which we wish to enter into a formal relationship. My collagues and I spent about 65 man-hours writing the summary of our proposal. Whichever way the meeting goes will change the nature of our business.

Now, my outfits usually range between those of a pink fairy and a soldier of fortune, and on some fine days, large paneled silver rings and twisted bracelets to make me look like a Borg drone. Nevertheless, I do dress in a respectable, businesslike manner when the occasion demands it. When I lecture, for example, I have adopted a "uniform" of understated black so that the students will focus on the subject at hand, rather than on the person who is facilitating the learning.

My male colleagues dress... well, like normal people.

"So what do you think we should wear?" I asked, since the three of us would be going to the meeting together, and I thought we should reach consensus on the look demanded by the gravity of the occasion.
"You should paint your nails black and wear all your jewellery," he replied.
I laughed, but then I realised: "You're actually serious, aren't you? Don't you think I should dress more... professionally?"
"No," he replied, "that wouldn't reinforce the brand."
OK, I was surprised. The brand is ProjectManagement.co.za. My business card says I am the Director. And Project Management is not exactly a frivolous discipline. Even the Web site is completely understated in its design, to underscore its serious-business-ness.
"Businesspeople all wear such similar clothes that you can't tell their services apart from one another," he continued. "What you wear differentiates us."
"You know, you're right," I laughed. "When I see a smart-suited consultant with a smart car, I usually think: someone who wants to get away with doing as little as possible for a huge amount of money. I suppose I at least look like someone who is prepared to work hard!"

So tomorrow we will put Marius' theory to the test. If it works, we may be able to start a new trend, so that by 2015, the head of ABSA will be a Goth with multiple piercings in her lip, while the superintendant of Grootte Schuur will be a Rasta with dreads down to his bum.

Have spaceship, will travel

When I moved into this flat in 2005, I had no furniture, only a bed. Then I bought a fridge, and for a while I also had a hyperspace transporter in the middle of my lounge. Well, it didn't actually work, but I did go to stand inside it once or twice and imagined that I was going somewhere. It was made from the reassembled polystyrene mouldings that were used to protect the fridge during transport.

For the past four years I have been adding to my collection of polystyrene mouldings with the intention of mounting them on one or two of my bedroom walls so as to create the atmosphere of a cargo spaceship from a science fiction movie. This morning my collection got a big boost when I managed to salvage a particularly large piece of polystyrene with a matrix of bars. I don't think I deprived the trolley-pushers of their livelihood by removing it from under their noses, because they were looking for recyclable materials and items suitable for the scrapyard. I suspect that they thought I belonged on another planet, though, and in the light of the intended use of my find, such suspicion could be quite apt.

My cupboards and curtains don't look very spaceship-like. Nor does the hatbox on top of the one cupboard or the ironing board behind the door. But if a little girl can surround herself with images of unicorns and princesses and imagine herself transtported to a mythical bygone age even whilst sending an SMS via a 21st century gadget and being illuminated by an electrical light, then I too can be transported. In a transporter.

A fine day

It was a fine day. There is no better place for me to spend Christmas than with my parents and other relatives at my cousin Ilse's house. I don't like Christmas, for myriad reasons, ranging from religious doctrinal objections through to cynicism about all the evil and misery which Christmas brings into the world. But when we go to Ilse's house (which is now establishing itself as a biennial gathering -- whenever my cousin Renate has her daughter Kira for Christmas), my cynicism dissipates like mist in the desert sun, and for a few hours I stop caring about the suffering of the world. Ilse knows how to put together a great Christmas meal. She's not a great cook, but a generous Woolworths shopper with a wonderful disposition, and she and her husband have a receptive home.

It was a fine day. My father didn't drink too much wine, and he let me drive there and back; and nobody offended anyone. My uncle Chris, Ilse's father, launched into a religious history lecture at one point, and later started a similar one-way discourse on politics, and then on Michael Jackson. He and my father are great friends, so at least he had an audience to agree with him while the rest of us got bored with it all and started a second channel, covering the news about my cousin Nadya's husband Charl's polocrosse injuries, and about Ginger Baker, electronic drum kits, Wii and ADD. Ilse's son Ryan now attends a school where they the boys are allowed to wear their hair long, and where teachers are known by their first names. It sounds like a nice school to me.

It was a fine day. Marius finally got underway to the Karoo sometime very late today, not in great shape, but darem; Christopher spent the day with his sister; Dennis went off to Kleinmond. Since this morning I can gain access to only locally hosted Web sites, which means no Facebook and no Twitter. I guess some undersea cable must be broken. Pity. I had been hoping to communicate with the other Ryan. And with Anton, my brother, and his fiancée Liezel. But other than that, it was a fine day.

Oukersaand

Dis die vooraand van Kersfees, en so baie mense het so min. Hulle betaal die mense so min. As jy kan uitkom met kos en klere op daai geld, dan kan jy nog nie betaal wanneer daar iets voorval nie -- skielike siekte, of die herbou van 'n plakkershuis wat afgebrand het.

Die ironie is dat as die vervaardigers sou outomatiseer, dit koste-effektief sou wees om die min mense wat dan daar sou werk, meer te betaal. Maar die aantal mense wat niks het nie, raak dan meer.

Gierigheid het die hele wêreld op sy knieë gedwing. Sommige van die knielendes bid.

Padongeluk

Qwattarrr! Die klank van 'n botsing in die hoofstraat versteur die nag se stilte, en my slaap. Ek glip dadelik in my rok in en probeer my brein instel om alles op te roep wat ek geleer het vir my laaste noodhulpeksamen op skool. Destyds was daar nie so 'n issue met bloed nie, want daar was nie VIGS nie. Soos ek my woonstel se voordeur wil oopmaak, besef ek dat die helfte van my bolyf nog onbedek is. Dis 'n warm aand, en ek is moeg en deurmekaar. Ek trek my rok reg. Ek besef ook terwyl ek my by die trappe af haas dat dit miskien nie so 'n goeie idee was om my selfoon saam te geneem het nie, want ek sal hom langs my op die teer moet neersit, en dan sal iemand hom kan gaps. Destyds met daai treinongeluk het ek toevallig 'n kopdoek aangehad, en ek het hom met die draf na die spoorlyn afgehaal om as 'n verband te kan gebruik. Ek moes eintlik nou ook vinnig 'n kopdoek gegryp het, maar ek is nou al op pad.

Maar wanneer ek onder kom, seker nie meer as twee minute na die slag nie, is die straat leeg. Daar oorkant die kruising staan 'n motor op die sypaadjie, en die mense klim uit. Hulle haal iets af -- 'n wiel of 'n ding. Almal leef en beef nog heel aanvaarbaar. Hulle begin sommer dadelik koersvat -- huis toe, neem ek aan. Niemand anders worry nie, lyk dit vir my.

Ek keer terug na my woonstel en soek na daai droom waarmee ek besig was.

Integrity, business integration and the bottom line

The paradigm of a marketing-production dualism

Many people who attend the social networking events which I frequent fall into one of two camps: the marketers and the producers. The producers are primarily programmers, systems administrators and the like. The marketers sell other people's services, and often also their own knowledge on marketing. The marketers have a holy regard for the producers, knowing that depending on how they manage their relationships with these people and on how they placate them, they could get rich. The producers know this, and have either a secret or a vehemently overt disdain for the realm of marketing.

"Oh, is that what you do!" someone once said to me at a networking event in a brief conversation about my work, "I always thought you were in marketing!"

"Marketing?" I replied, aghast at having been categorised as one of those hyenas of the modern business world. "Good grief, no!"

I cannot recall with whom I had that conversation, but whoever you are, and if ever you come across this blog, I have thought about it over the past few months and I take that back: I am in marketing. And programming. And network maintenance, training and information design. Marketing is an integral part of what I do in everything that I do, every day.

The need for marketing-production integration

Brand strategy flows from business strategy. Business strategy is the fulfilment plan for an organisation's vision. Underlying the vision is the organisation's values, which reflect the values of the people who drive the business. This is true regardless of whether these issues were ever formally thought through and regardless of what (if anything) was documented by the roleplayers to reflect the values or the vision, the mission or the strategy.

People act in accordance with what they believe. If they believe that marketing sits on top of what the business actually does or produces, then small wonder that their customers and employees soon begin to distinguish between the real features and benefits of the product or service and "that which the marketing guys will tell you". Whatever mission or value statement the company has on its walls (or in the boring part of their corporate Web site) becomes irrelevant, because the de facto versions of these statements speak through the actions of the directors and employees, the systems which the bosses have put into place to serve their employees, suppliers and customers, the type and quality of products and services which they deliver, and the steps they are prepared to take to do so.

The foundation for integration

Our organisation has reached a stage now where we need to document our values, our vision, and our business and brand strategy. We need to do this because we have grown and because we are growing, and writing something down with finely chosen words will help us to focus our thoughts and to develop strategies which allow us to target our actions towards, clear, sensible, worthwhile goals. We need to contemplate and formulate our values and agree as individuals on what we are prepared to do, and why. I have certain expectations from my suppliers and associates. These expectations flow from my own convictions on what sort of quality I should deliver. They come from my values. I am sure that my customers, partners, suppliers and associates also have some idea of what they expect from me. Documenting my own values will help me to communicate to these people whether or not they can expect a commitment from me to fulfilling their specific requirements. Only after my team and I have documented our personal values separately and individually will it be sensible for us to sit down and integrate these values into something to which we can collectively commit ourselves. If people have never given much thought to what they believe about life, the universe and everything else, it is difficult to get them to undertake such an exercise in order to address the issues affecting the business' bottom line. But I work with a core team of individuals who even through periods of religious agnosticism, moments of self-doubt and weeks or months of psychological collapse have always had strong convictions about what they regard as good and evil, what is important in relationships, and what sort of place the world should be. And it shows in how they live.

The business case for integrity

During the past few months there has been a huge debate about whether or not to keep the springbok as the symbol of the national rugby team. The emotional nature of the debate is a very pertinent illustration of the fact that a brand is not merely contained in its external manifestations such as a logo on clothing or the words of a song, but that it represents that which binds your customers to what you do or which turns them away from you. Whilst that which binds or breaks can sometimes be dissected into specific incidents and examples of good or bad products or service, the resultant customer experience is not merely a sum of the parts, nor even the result of a synergy between the parts, but an emotional response to a complex and dynamic system.

I would perhaps go so far as to say that every decision made by a customer -- indeed any decision made by anyone in any situation -- is an emotional one. Even if your criteria for purchasing are based on an objective checklist of features, the final thing which you will be checking is whether you believe that your expectations will be fulfilled when you buy. How many voters -- even educated, intellectual ones -- go and sit down to study a matrix of policies and audited performance reviews for all the available parties and candidates before they choose where to place their mark?

People want to be able to trust your brand. They want integrity. If people lose trust in a brand, or fail to trust it in the first place, your bottom line suffers. You could go out of business.

The best long-term strategy for getting people to trust you is to be trustworthy. There is a close link between the concepts of "integrity" and "integration", and this link is not merely etymological. In order to save, maintain or build a business (or a state department, a charity, a family or nation, for that matter) we need to understand the need not only to integrate that which we do with that which we profess, but also to integrate every one thing we do with every other thing we do.

The need for total business integration

My company produces and sells project management training. Our experience particularly over the past year has taught us a number of things -- inter alia, that the needs of real people out there, and the project management training available, are seriously out of synch. The generic courses available need to be completely overhauled to provide the necessarily relevance. If we do not start redesign our public offerings now, and if we do not put in place a plan for continuous improvement, we will not be able to continue marketing with integrity.

Another thing we have learned from working with numerous corporate customers, with governments, NGOs and individual students, is that in most organisations, there is not only an unhealthy segregation between marketing and production, but between most business functions. This is not entirely news to us, and the issue around functional silos is well-documented in business literature, yet not well addressed in business. Many organisations send their employees on project management courses while the bosses do not understand that projects are the things we do as organisations to execute strategy, and that they themselves are the ones who need to come for specialised training first, so that they can understand what is required of an organisation to ensure that project work integrates appropriately and that project managers can carry out their mandate with integrity. When we speak about buildings or cars, we speak about "structural integrity": the various parts must work together in such a way that they support each other. Without that integrity, the vehicle or edifice becomes dangerous to its users or to anyone who happens to be nearby. We endanger our customers, employees and suppliers if we do not do things in an integrated manner. We place the budget, the time-frame and the scope of a project at risk if we are not able to manage in an integrated manner. Since business strategy is driven through projects, poor project management is very bad for business. If we do not provide our employees with integrated systems based on integrated trans-functional business strategies, we make it difficult for our employees to keep promises to customers, and thus force them to compromise their personal integrity, and our own integrity as leaders becomes questionable.

Does that which you produce integrate with the claims you make in your marketing materials? Do your IT systems provide you with the capability of going the extra mile for the customer, if that's what your value statement says you are prepared to do? Do the e-mail messages which your staff send to customers look like lolcat whilst your corporate Web site reads like an essay by a 19th century capitalist? Do your business functions integrate? Do you have integrity?

The importance of appreciating complexity

Values are fairly simple. But as soon as we think that putting them into practice is easy, we will lose the plot. That's probably why the great religious writings of the world are fairly fat books rather than short ten-point tracts. By nature we want to simplify everything in order to be able to choose quickly. "Microsoft: bad. Open Source: good." or "White: good. Black: evil" makes it easy for us to take quick decisions and to move on with life -- but not necessarily to do what best serves our real values. I know of a large organisation who has many employees who are very frustrated and struggle to get their work done effectively via workarounds simply because their organisation has the strict policy to use only free open-source software, whereas some business functions could be far better served by actually buying a proprietary tool designed to do precisely that job efficiently. The policy was formulated no doubt as a result of their bosses' values, which centred around the notion of freedom. Yet by imposing the rule, they have created an environment for their non-technical staff which is anything but liberating.

The bottom line

Integrity comes from integration. Integration comes from integrity. If what you produce is bad, but you package it well, you are lying. If what you produce is good, but you package it badly, you are also lying. Every human being has a personal battle with hypocrisy, and we choose to fight this battle in different ways. Some set lofty goals for themselves, and live in constant confession of their imperfections and their need for God. Others make the same lofty claims about what they believe, yet are not prepared to entertain any counter-claims based on the evidence of their actions. Yet others present themselves up front as thoroughly amoral, so that no-one can be disappointed.

In business, and in government, and in all other organisations, the same constant battle with hypocrisy plays itself out on a collective scale. It never stops, and it should never stop, because even if we achieve all we claim to be, complacency will destroy us. I work closely with numerous partner organisations, amongst others an organisation which was once the best in its niche. Their marketing department is still riding on the momentum of that past glory, selling their own offering as the best one-size-fits-all shoe for every foot. Until recently no-one who works there had any idea that the big wide world out there had changed, that what they are selling addresses the needs of a generation that has gone and that modern man prefers shoes which fit the individual, or at least which come in sizes and a variety of styles to meet different requirements. Oh, these guys may still be the best, simply because their competitors are worse. That's probably why they still have sales. (People will return to the same junkfood vendor several times because they fear that the place across the road might be even less suited to their real requirements and they are not prepared to take the risk by spending the money to find out. Forgive the change in metaphor.) But being the best is not necessarily good enough. Had a few key individuals not started to see what was happening -- largely as a result of their own personal integrity and belief in integration (not to mention a lot of moaning from me and my team) -- a once-flourishing enterprise may have come to ruin within a year, as old competitors rose to meet the same mediocre quality standard, or as some new competitor emerged to really fill the gap. Integrity requires maintenance.

And I have a lot of work to do.

Geek Dinner

I have been in a really foul mood since yesterday. I tried Muse, and dancing, and other things, but it just got worse until eventually I almost wished I could beat someone up.

Going to the Geek Dinner tonight really helped. Thank-you, Marius, Graham, AJ, Jerith, Kerry-Anne, Arno, Christel, Wessel and Jonathan. And the staff at Adesso in Rondebosch were decent and efficient, and the boss was eager to please. Marius was impressed with the wine, which was supplied by Perdeberg. And super-impressed with Arno's trackball mouse. (When Marius used the word 'sensual', Arno started getting worried.)

Another thing that helped was hearing how Arno had a computer go down at half past five this afternoon, and how he then slipped on a dislodged floortile and in putting his hands out to break the fall, switched off four important Solaris production servers, which don't reboot easily. Suddenly the problems I had with Jonathan's computer this afternoon seemed less awful.

More about all this later when I have pictures. (They must have wondered why I was photographing the ground rather than the people; it was because the paving was from Pavatile, and the manufacturer was in our midst.)

16 Days of Activism

A year ago -- or was it two years? -- during that period known as 16 Days of Activism Against Woman Abuse (or whatever they call it exactly) I was on the run to another town with an abused woman whose dik-getikte husband wanted to kill her with a rapier. I am still angry about the lack of help we initially got from the local police, the inability of POWA to provide us with any useful advice, and the huge effort it took to to eventually get her into a safehouse. I am still cheesed off that she eventually phoned her husband to come to the safehouse to collect her. I don't know what I would have done differently under the same circumstances. All I know is that I would rather have 16 Days of Training for Police in Dealing with Abuse and a law like I have heard they have in America, where the police are obliged to investigate an abuse charge even if it is withdrawn. I see no purpose in wearing a ribbon with a pin to mark this time, or in encouraging my friends to join some Facebook group to show that they oppose the abuse of women. I can't see how it could help or change anything. Has any abuser ever seen his mate join such a cause and say, "Oh wow, Joe Bloggs is such an exemplary citizen that it makes me want to stop thumping my girlfriend"? I admire the character of Sarah Connor in Terminator II, and I would rather see ten women like her blasting their way out of captivity to save the world than seeing a thousand people sign a declaration saying that they oppose abuse while the abuse statistics remain unchanged by their sentiment.

Inspired

"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life..."

Shortly before the rand looked at the dollar and jumped off a cliff, I got a good deal on Muse's Hullabaloo Soundtrack and Origin of Symmetry from Amazon.com. I had owned the Symmetry album before, but unfortunately in the winter of 2007 I lent it along with a Leopold Hoffman CD to an elegant gentleman with whom I later formally cut off communications when, after numerous requests from me via various media, he failed to constrain himself from using flirtatious language.

Back in the Cape after two weeks in Gauteng, I listened to Symmetry yesterday non-stop and loudly wherever I drove and felt full of joie de vivre, a mood reinforced by a successful meeting with Scrum expert Peter Hundermark and one after that with an agency which I approached to service students from Nigeria, Tanzania, Kenya and other African countries who travel to South Africa to attend our Project Management courses.

Scrum courses from 2009

The outcome of the meeting with Peter Hundermark was, inter alia, that Scrum training (and even Scum master training), delivered by Peter and his accredited facilitators, will be available as a course option via ProjectManagement.co.za from 2009. Scrum is an Agile Project Management methodology that is becoming increasingly popular in the realm of software development. It is radically different from traditional "waterfall" approaches and is well suited to situations where customers find it difficult to define what they require, and where they need to see some kind of working version early along in the project.

My mood was dented slightly when Martin Butler, the presenter of our university-accredited Programme in IT Project Management, stood me up for a meeting. This morning, upon scrutinising the recipients of the memo in my electronic diary entry, I realised that I probably did not actually inform him of the date, although I diligently informed all my colleagues! We've now arranged to see each other on Thursday.

ProjectManagement.co.za's course for Wits

The first of my two recent weeks in Johannesburg was spent training administrative, academic and research staff at the University of the Witwatersrand. It's the third time I have presented this course at the Centre for Learning, Teaching and Development (CLTD), and doing it several times makes it possible for me to hone the content finely to the needs of the typical participants.

And it has paid off. We've always had good feedback from Wits, but ProjectManagement.co.za got fantastic feedback from the November course. All the participants stated on their post-course questionnaires that the training exceeded their expectations. One of them, a strategist involved in an AIDS education-through-drama programme which trains students from all over the SADEC region, actually flew from Durban to Johannesburg to attend the training because of what he said was an "immense improvement in the work performance" of his two colleagues, Jill and Amira, after they attended the previous course I taught at Wits. Another participant. Esther Price (a lecturer in Psychology) was able to leave the course with a pretty good initial project plan which she could put on the table in a meeting the following Tuesday for a conference which she has been tasked with planning for 2009. The plan for an additional Wits language unit also got a decent kick-start during the step-by-step project scoping session.

America's new president

Barack Obama was elected president of the USA during my time at Wits, and a colourful diversity of perspectives emerged in the conversation during around the urn and coffee mugs early the next morning. The participants hailed from a variety of countries and continents either through birth or through ancestry. Said one dark-skinned participant, "You can say that Barack Obama is America's first Black president, but being Black is not about your appearance, but about your culture. He was raised by his White grandmother, so he is actually White," to which the equally dark-skinned Esther Price replied, "Well, I was raised by my White [presumably adoptive] grandfather, and I am certainly Black."

Then the darkest man of all, an engineer from the DRC, spoke up. "I am not glad he won," he said "I would have preferred McCain."
With Wits being a well-known liberal university, and this man being black no matter whether you based it on genetics or enculturation, the rest of the participants thought he was joking. When he saw that they were smiling in appreciation, he explained himself: "No, I mean it. I am conservative. Next they may just ban Creationism in schools." Now much as I would have thrown in my lot with the Obama supporters, I had to admire this man's boldness and convictions and appreciated him all the more for it.

And I came to the conclusion that the local equivalent of Barack Obama being democratically elected by Americans would be if a White man were raised by a Black adoptive grandmother and became the democratically elected president of South Africa.

ProjectManagement.co.za's course for Krones

On my second trip to Johannesburg I was accompanied by MC Botha, who presented the Cost and Time Management component of our course to a group of engineers, project leaders and other staff from Krones who came from all over Africa for training at the company's Johannesburg office. We used several real projects, such as the modification of existing bottling lines to comply with the new warning label legislation, and the overhaul of a series of 30 production lines in 6 plants throughout South Africa, as vehicles for studying the various Project Management tools. I have done this exercise with groups on in-house courses before, but the Krones group who handled the project about the installation of a filler and flash-pasteuriser prompted me to award a special prize. I have never seen such a professional presentation produced by any group in such a short period of time using Project Management skills which they learned during only a few days.

Working with MC was pure joy. He is not only bright, but also extremely likeable, and I think it stems from his love and respect for people. He is easy-going and has a sense of humour which everyone can relate to, and that is something extremely rare. I am not naturally good at maths, so I appreciate it when people don't go through calculations at a level suited to experienced physicists. MC's explanation of Earned Value was the best I have ever heard. I also loved the way he explained the Critical Path Method by starting with the Gantt chart and then shifting tasks according to their float, which is not the way that most people would have done it, but I think it brings home the value of the method so much more clearly. After that, the forward pass and backward pass made sense to everyone.

Back in the office, we have had a surge in enquiries from all over Africa, and I am knee-deep in developing proposals for in-house courses and public seminars.

And still blasting Muse to the world from my car, with my windows down.

Impasse

Thus says the Lord GOD: I swear I am coming against these shepherds. I will claim my sheep from them and put a stop to their shepherding my sheep so that they may no longer pasture themselves. I will save my sheep, that they may no longer be food for their mouths. For thus says the Lord GOD: I myself will look after and tend my sheep. As a shepherd tends his flock when he finds himself among his scattered sheep, so will I tend my sheep. I will rescue them from every place where they were scattered when it was cloudy and dark.

Their ardor alternated between a vague ideal and the common yearning of womanhood; so that the one was disapproved as extravagance, and the other condemned as a lapse... Here and there a cygnet is reared uneasily among the ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind. Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some long-recognizable deed.

How different my life could have been if all these years I hadn't let it matter so much that I am an unrepentant sinner, if I had simply acted upon my obstinate and irrational convictions for the good of others, in spite of the fact that sooner or later I would have been accused of hypocrisy, selfishness and evil by almost every system of faith and probably by nearly all who know me. Too often those who have a conscience are paralysed by it, leaving those who have none, to act.

How different it could have been if I had not been so bound by the real and imagined need of my gender, to be led; if I had reasoned instead like Deborah or Jael, found a cause, led a battle or done a deed that resulted in a great salvation. How different things might have been now if I had brazenly revealed the secrets of my faithless, unfaithful and faithful heart.

Yet in doing so I would have risked not only my own life, but also the lives of others, prior to the establishment of a platform for righteousness.

And so I continue to make only the most ordinary sacrifices whilst waiting for someday.

Project Management Fundamentals and Microsoft Project (Part-Time) (NQF level 6)

We will finally be in a position to offer the course that people who can't take time off work, have been asking for.

The course will be held in Cape Town over a series of Saturdays (7, 14, 28 March; 4, 18 April 2009) and will cost R8 900 (incl. VAT). Lunches, teas, and course handbooks are included in the fee.

The course is actually a bundled programme consisting of two modules interwoven with one another and presented by the same lecturer. The hand-on Microsoft Project module carries a university certification on NQF 6, whereas the Fundamentals module does not have an assessment component.

The course will be restricted to a maximum of 20 people to create opportunities for individual attention and more effective groupwork.

If you are interested in registering, provide us with your details so long so that we can send you an information pack and application form when bookings open at the end of November.

You can check out the other Project Management courses here.

Project Management, Scrum and everything else

If it weren't for BarCamp, I would not have had an early exposure to Agile Project Management; and I would not have gone to a Geek Dinner. If it weren't for Geek Dinners, I would not have met Peter Hundermark and started paying attention to Scrum. If it weren't for Geek Dinners, I also wouldn't have met Joe, and if it weren't for Joe, I wouldn't have started going to SPIN meetings. If it weren't for all of this, I would have missed last night's informative and entertaining presentation on Scrum by Peter and Sue Bramhall. We even played a cool ball game to illustrate the workings of Scrum -- a game which I think probably works far better with a bunch of nerds than it would with a scrum consisting of rugby players. (Not being rugby players, we did pretty well.)

What Peter doesn't know yet is that I am going to ask him to come to explain and advocate Scrum at an event next year... watch this blog for details in January to see if he says yes. From my rudimentary exposure to Scrum, I can see why it would be applicable to projects in many other industries. In fact, I am even going to recommend it to a team of nanoscience researchers I have been talking to during the past week. (Why does it seem to me as though so many educational institutions are decades behind in their thinking about Project Management? Grrr...) I will write a bit more about this later.

Meanwhile, for the construction industry professionals, events managers and all the other project leaders for whom Gantt charts, Critical Paths and the like would be valuable tools, we've got an extra Programme in Project Management on NQF level 7 scheduled for 3 to 7 November in Cape Town, because bookings for the course at the end of November filled up completely quite a while back. (We still have 17 places left for the same programme in Johannesburg, but I expect those to be filled pretty quickly too.) The course also covers topics such as matrix organisation structures (i.e. cross-functional management), stakeholder analysis and the scenario comparison model -- senior management stuff which you wouldn't typically find on a methodology-specific or tools-only course in Project Management. Click here if you want us to send you details.

Additional Project Management course for Cape Town

The Programme in Project Management at the end of November is full, so an additional course has been scheduled for the beginning of November. There are also still spaces left in Durban (October) and Windhoek (October) and Johannesburg (November).

A week in the life of South Africa

Amongst my family, friends, neighbours and colleagues you'll find a diversity of political opinions, ranging from apathetics and cynics, through those who believe that religion is the answer and that the institutions of man are of little significance, to poor-Whites who still talk about 'kaffirs', well-read FF+ voters, ex-Nats turned DA, traditional DA liberals, disillusioned longstanding ANC supporters with struggle credentials, and active enthusiastic card-holding members of the ruling party. (What I have not come across within my sphere of regular association are any ID or SACP members or die-or-kill-for-Zuma groupies, so unfortunately I can't say I have experienced the full spectrum first hand.)

A week ago as I was checking in to a flight on our state-subsidised airline competing with low-cost private enterprise airlines, I was handed a newspaper with the headline, 'OUT!' Indeed, Thabo Mbeki's announcement that he would be leaving office in accordance with the wishes of his party sparked a wholesale nationwide freaking out, exacerbated by a general misinterpretation of the politically correct 'resignation' of the Minister of Finance, Trevor Manuel. I think that many people, not understanding the workings of the Constitution, initially assumed that if Thabo Mbeki went, Jacob Zuma would immediately take his place. It also appeared that many members of the public who had been adamant that Jacob Zuma should vacate the vice-presidency when he was initially charged with corruption, were now adamant that Thabo Mbeki should stay in spite of the fact that he was now under suspicion for political interference! This inconsistent stance and sudden support for a president who had never been good enough for them before was apparently motivated not by any change in performance on the part of the man himself, but by a better-the-devil-we-know attitude which had already started brewing in the lead-up to the Polokwane conference next year. I remember a friend (and old ANC member) sending me an SMS following Jacob Zuma's first televised interview after his election as president of the ANC: "Mbeki at least had a position with which I could agree or disagree. This man has nothing!" (When I recently reminded the same friend to register to vote, he dejectedly replied that he wouldn't even know who to vote for -- in spite of having actively participated in the fight for universal suffrage. Only when I 'nominated' my hero Emile Jansen for president did he seem to cheer up a little.)

Even before the freshly-hatched president announced his Cabinet, one of my colleagues (who is not an ANC supporter) said, "I am going to make a prediction now, and you know me, I am usually right about these things. This is a clever guy. He is not like the rest of the crowd who took over at Polokwane. Kgalema Motlanthe will unite many of these factional elements. He won't just pass his time in office, he will actually work while he is there. Within five to seven months, he will be so popular that people will want to keep him there. You will see."

Well, it seems that he is right so far. Whilst those working at senior levels in government -- not only those in the legislature, but also the various directors and their superiors in various government departments -- will no doubt be shifting and shuffling around for a few weeks, the rest of the non-Zuma-supporting portion of the nation (give or take a few thousand Mbeki supporters who boycotted the ANC's Provincial Congress at the CTICC on Wednesday) seems to be adjusting remarkably well -- and quickly -- to the sudden appointment of Kgalema Motlanthe as president. The events of the past week remind me of how, when we were children and my parents went out for the evening, my mother would leave hidden gifts for us with a series of clues in treasure-hunt fashion, giving us something to look forward to. The new president immediately endeared himself to many of his pouting subjects (as well as to a host of people who previously had no idea who he was), by rebuking the ANC's resident loose cannon and rebel-always-looking-for-a-cause, Julius Malema, and by removing the unpopular Manto Tshabalala-Msimang from her position as Minister of Health. In the words of Kieno Kammies pretending to be the president making a speech (paraphrased according to my recollection): "But she still needs the money, so I haven't fired her, I have moved her to the position of Minister in the Office of the President, where I can keep an eye on her." Kieno's speech, and the effusive response of the TAC who serenaded the new Minister of Health outside her flat that night, attest to a new uncharacteristically South African spirit of looking on the bright side of politics.

That's life

Since I spent the weekend in Gauteng, I took the opportunity to visit three friends whom I hadn't seen for years. On Sunday, as per my request, my long-lost friend Anni took me to visit our mutual friend Colette in prison, where she is serving a life sentence. Anni's children are young, and although they play games featuring cops and robbers and going to jail, we don't think they know that the place where they sometimes go with their mother to visit "tannie Colette" actually is a jail! Anni has decided that there is no need to explain anything to them yet. I suppose with so many Gauteng residences being fortified, it would take a very long time before they realised that the intention in this case is to stop the residents from getting out.

Colette was pretty chirpy in spite of two recent suicide attempts. Her recent bout of depression had been triggered by having decided to write down the accounts of the rapes she experienced in her youth, and this led to nightmares. Her feelings of distress were apparently exacerbated by the gang activity around her. Although the prisoners can see a doctor whenever they want, there is no resident psychologist who is willing to serve the thousands who live there (or so Colette says, anyway), so the position has been vacant for some time, and if you can't organise yourself a private psychologist, you're a bit stuck.

I always knew that Colette had been the victim of regular sexual abuse by a specific male relative when she was a child (as well as other forms of abuse by female relatives), but until now I had not been aware that all in all she had been raped by twelve different people, including other close family members. She recently started talking to her abusers about what they did, and although she says some are pretending not to remember anything, others have apologised; yet others admit what they did, but show no remorse. As the victim of childhood molestation (although my own experience was really only once-off and nowhere near as severe as hers), I could relate to her approach in dealing with the perpetrators. She has tried to ensure that the families of her abusers would not be affected by her choice to confront her abusers. She told me that when a specific couple recently visited her in prison, she used a moment when his wife popped into the tuck shop to speak to the man alone, and in that time she managed to elicit an admission and an apology from him.

We also spoke briefly about those rapists who were potentially repeat offenders, and the duty of speaking out in order to prevent the abuse of others.

Colette said that many prisoners are victims of past abuse. One of the women whom she regards as a mentor, Heila, is an example. All six of Heila's children were regularly being raped by their father, and when Heila confronted him about it, he simply said that she wasn't giving him what he wanted, and that it was his right to get it where he pleased. With the aid of the children she eventually killed him, but although the entire family was arrested, Heila vehemently denied the children's involvement in order that they might live free. She alone is now serving a life sentence for the murder, and is pretty much at peace.

I am not using real names, because there are various people whom Colette wants to protect. She had been writing an account of her life with the intention of publishing it under a pseudonym, but after a recent attempted escape by one of the other prisoners, everyone was strip-searched, and the manuscript was confiscated as a precautionary measure, because the authorities suspected it could contain a description of the prison's layout. In spite of the fact that the text does not mention anything of the sort, Colette does not expect to get it back, and has therefore decided to start writing the whole book from scratch again. (I have occasionally thought of transcribing the letters she has written to me and posting them on the Internet, because she expresses herself pretty well and it makes for interesting reading, but I don't really have time. If anyone feels up to the task of occasionally doing the typing for a separate "Letters from Prison" blog, let me know. Maybe a typing teacher at a school is looking for a class project?)

I completely lost track of time in there, because they don't let you take cell phones into the prison, and I don't wear a wristwatch. I thought the wardens would chuck us out at a specific hour, but they allowed us to stay on way beyond the official end of visiting time, so I was terribly late for meeting my friend Gabriela on the opposite side of the city. (By then there was no transport back to the entrance of the prison, so we walked back carrying the children, and then eventually managed to drive to the highway. I admire Anni immensely for not getting flustered in that maze of roads.)

Gabriela took me to her home and made me supper before taking me to the airport. I'd last seen her more than twenty years ago, and the reunion (initiated by her search for me on Facebook) brought back some interesting forgotten memories. Also interesting was the contrast between Anni's free and easy home (where children play in a garden bounded by a low wall, and neighbours regularly get together to braai in the middle of the street and that of Gabriela, who has been robbed and hijacked on numerous occasions and who carries a 38 Special wherever she goes -- and a 2nd Dan.

At the airport I was offered a newspaper and learned that the president had resigned, and that there are two nice Nokias available on a single offer from Nashua Mobile.

The management of Fox Fitness and Leisure in Bellville...

... have once again promised me that their salespeople won't phone me again. I wonder why I don't believe them this time either.

So you think you can dance?

This, apparently, is the name of a TV programme. I have no TV, but what I have heard about it sounds interesting to me. So I entered a competition and won two tickets to the recording of the finals of the South African version of the show. In order to justify the cost of flying there -- this is in Johannesburg, and I am in the Cape -- I scheduled some business meetings there too for tomorrow. Fun!

Update

Ironically, it is often the issues of the least consequence in my life that get the greatest prominence on my blog. It is usually because when something really significant is happening, I am too overwhelmed, busy or tired to write about it, and afterwards I am often too exhausted by dealing with it to make a public statement. Tha past two months have been full of "significance". And, as usual, the events and insights have left me too exhausted to write more than a few seemingly unrelated snippets of various degrees of importance and unimportance. Since the end of 2006 I have bought several contemporary music CDs. Their covers and inserts are indicative of the meshing of relevance and irrelevance, reverance and irreverance, randomness and connection which we have come to accept (usually unquestioningly) as subjects of the Postmodern Zeitgeist (think of how many blogs have titles like "Random musings of..."). Most of this is wrong. And dangerous. But I will get back to that on another day -- perhaps once I have finished reading Paul Cilliers' and Remington Norman's books. In the meanwhile, this new tradition gives me the precedential (is that a word?) excuse to do the same. Herewith, then, a a few thoughts and events of varying significance from my life during the past month or two, in no particular order...

Emotionally exhausted, I went on two short holidays, one alone, and one with my mother. The second one was particularly refreshing, but I think Dennis is right: getting back to fullness is going to take two seasons. If I find the energy sometime and decide not to spend it on something else, I will share what he told me.


Snapshot from my first holiday.


Snapshots of relatives and their friends from my second holiday.

The end of the world

As far as I know, the world ended on schedule this morning when the Large Hadron Collider was switched on. The event was interesting in that I did not experience a difference in my perception of reality before compared to after I ceased to exist. This goes to show not only that there is life after death, but also that it does not differ in any way from life before death. Descartes was probably wrong. Whether I think has nothing to do with whether I am.

Integration in rock music

I was at a live rock music performance at Mystic the other night (Die Mystic Boer in Stellenbosch -- I'm not linking to their site, because it's down at the moment).

I arrived feeling tense and unhappy, and the music worked very well in smoothing out my emotions. I enjoyed all the bands, and particularly Shy Guevaras (I'm not linking to them either; their site is down too). I'd never heard them before. Their lead singer has a sense of personal appearance-styling which I find entirely unappealing, and when they started singing about getting stoned together, I used my moment of cognitive dissonance to go to the toilet. (Hey, you never know, maybe it was an anti-drugs song, but I'd stopped listening.)

I liked everything else about them. Although I enjoy rock, I usually couldn't be bothered with the sound of a small live rock band; I like something which is musically rich and layered (like Queen or Muse, although some of my friends tell me that Muse doesn't really count as rock), without too much texture (death metal just doesn't work for me); and a heavy, significant bass is a must. As the group was playing, I was surprised that they were able to produce such a well-integrated sound with so few instruments. No doubt the drummer and bassist must have been providing the foundation for that sound, but I think the rounding off was provided by the intricate guitarwork (including several delightful arpeggio's and wow-wow-wows) and the lead singer, whose slightly rough voice fitted the rock style very well. In fact, it is this roughness that makes up for the lack of backing vocals. (well, hey, if the other guys were actually singing, I didn't notice!) I made a conscious decision to bear the after-effects of a late night the next day by staying till their last song.

On the same subject (and by contrast): I have two CDs of a group called Foto Na Dans, and what's missing for me in their music is integration -- unless that's changed on their latest EP, which I haven't heard yet. Granted, their style and instrumentation is different from that of Shy Guevaras, but there's still something that doesn't work for me, even within their own style, and  I don't think this is a sound engineer thing -- I think it is a singer thing. The lead singer "sits on top" of the music. His voice stands away from the rest of the band and soon becomes tiresome. Besides that, I don't like the way in which the lyrics are fitted to the music at all. There are too many stresses on insignificant syllables which would never be stressed in speech. If they ever brought out a karaoke version of their music, I would give away the CDs I have of them and listen to the same stuff, sans vocals!

I started to wonder also why this particular style of music seems to be a predominantly male thing -- evidenced inter alia by the composition of the bands as well as the audience that night -- but I will leave my thoughts about that for another day.

Liefdesbriefie in die donkerte

Ek verlang na jou.

Never thought of telling my parents, Part 3: I was molested by an adult

Well, I wrote the story in all its detail and then I couldn't bring myself to post it. The next day I asked myself why, and this reflection revealed, inter alia, several reasons why one sometimes chooses to protect the offender, and also his family; so I wrote that story. But I couldn't post that one either.

Never thought of telling my parents, Part 2: Fear of being caned

My brother would perhaps want to correct me if I have the story slightly wrong, but here is how I remember it.

The corporal punishment system

Anton and I went to school in the days of corporal punishment. What it amounted to at our school was that if a boy was naughty, the teacher, headmaster or housemaster could take him into his office and beat his bottom with a stick. The physics teacher, Mr. Victor (also known as Skowwe or Skovo), had the reputation of imparting the most pain. Allegedly he had calculated which part of his stick provided the optimal amount of vibration for maximum impact, and delivered the blows accordingly. I think the stick even had a name.

The punishment was metered out in increments of two whacks, and the maximum that you could get for a single misdemeanour was six. For example, a number of matric boys in my brother's class were caught drinking booze after the Matric dance in 1985, and they were all given "six of the best". Since they were all hit (or "jacked", as we used to say in school slang) by the same teacher in one scheduled session, they arranged for a fellow-pupil with a camera to meet them in a suitable place afterwards. There they lined up, pulled down their pants, put their arms around each other and recorded the row of bruise-striped bums on camera. A second picture, taken pants-up from the front, showed the identities of the culprits. There was no digital photography in those days; the photographer printed black-and-white samples in the school's photographic lab, and these were secretly circulated amongst their schoolmates, who placed orders for larger prints. When the teachers found out that the boys who were supposed to have been shamed by their punishment were in fact acquiring status as celebrities, they were livid. My mother, who was also a teacher there (but teaching at the junior school during that time), was secretly and unofficially slightly amused by the story, and my brother (who was not amongst the boys who got jacked, but who was friends with all of them) has the pictures in his album to this day.

The alternatives

I cannot remember ever having spoken to any schoolmate who thought that corposal punishment was wrong per se. (Now the fag system, in which younger boys in boarding school were "apprenticed" to older boys according to a tradition of ritual abuse and slavery -- albeit with "protection" from other older boys by their fagmasters -- was indeed opposed by many who experienced it. Typically, the abused later perpetuated the abuse against a new generation once they grew older.) At our school, and I imagine it was the same at other co-ed schools at the time, girls were often given detention (extra homework, done under supervision, for example, on a Saturday) or gated (denied permission to go out, if they were boarders) in punishment for the types of activities which would have got boys jacked. The majority of girls objected to what we saw as unfair and unequal treatment, and collectively pressed the teachers for the right to be jacked instead, the same as the boys. We would rather have borne the pain on our backsides than go through the tedium of three weeks of detention or a month of being gated.

Our request was not granted.

Fear of going to school

All that happened much later, when we were older. But it was not so funny at first. When Anton was about seven years old, my parents discovered that he was afraid of going to school. My mother asked him why, and he said he was afraid of being caned (the word "caned" lost vogue and was replaced by "jacked" a year or two later). My mother assured him that if he was well-behaved, this wouldn't happen, and after establishing that he had not done anything which would warrant a caning, she left it at that. It was only after some time that my mother's reassurances had no effect; his fear of school was increasing, with an effect on his schoolwork. Now, my father occasionally gave us a hiding, but we were not uncommonly scared of him, so my mother concluded that my brother was probably afraid of something more than a mere hiding, and she probed a little deeper.
"Why are you so afraid that the headmaster would hit you?" she asked.
"If it was just hitting, it would not be so bad," Anton replied, "but I am scared of being caned."
"But caning is hitting," she said.
"No, it isn't!" he cried.
"Well, what do you think caning is, then?" she asked.
"They hit you with an iron ball with spikes!" he replied.
"Who told you that?"
"Robert."

Robert was a year older than Anton. He had bullied him, and had somehow threatened him into believing that if he "split" (i.e. if he reported the bullying), he would ensure that Anton was "caned"; and he provided him with a definition of caning that would serve as a definite deterrent.

My mother restrained herself from hitting Robert and his mother using an iron ball with spikes.

Never thought of telling my parents, Part 1: Fear of the 9 o'clock siren

Introduction: The little blood-filled boot

When bad things happen to them, some children would rather not share their experiences with their parents simply because they don't trust their parents to be very supportive. As a child of Ukrainian refugees in post-WWII rural England, my former husband had to do manual farm labour from a very early age. One day when he was four years old and they were building haystacks, he accidentally pushed the pitchfork right through his foot. His boot filled up with blood, but he kept on working in spite of the pain, and it was only when his godmother noticed that he was limping that she managed to extract from him what was wrong. He had been too afraid to tell his mother of the accident, because they were very poor, and he thought she would be angry with him if she found out that he had made a hole in his boot. He was surprised when his mother, upon being told of the injury, showed far more concern for his foot than for the boot! (Nearly 50 years later he still has the scar.)

When parents don't know

But fear of a parent's reaction is not the only reason why children don't confide in them. Sometimes, kids just don't realise that their parents are unaware of the way they see things, and therefore the notion of telling them doesn't seem relevant. As young children, both my brother and I struggled with fears we believed were known to everyone and for which we believed there was no remedy. What follows is an account of a fear I had as a toddler. Over the next few days, I will write the account of my brother's fear of going to school and finally also the final account is of an incident of sexual abuse by an adult which I experienced when I was around 12 or 13 and somehow never thought of communicating to my parents at the time. My reflection on these experiences has made me realise that it could be good if parents were to occasionally ask their children in a supportive manner what they fear and hate and what makes them angry or sad, because these questions may reveal things with which children are needlessly struggling.

The man with the axe

I have recollections of very early childhood. According to my mother, some incidents which I have described to her took place prior to my second birthday. I do not know in which year this practice was abolished, but when I was very little, there was a curfew in place in South Africa which required Black people to leave the White areas and go back to the location (i.e. what today would be called a township) every evening. At 9 p.m., a siren would sound indicating that the curfew was now in force and that any Black person who was found out and about was going to be in trouble. Being very small, I somehow got the story wrong, and that made a big difference to my bedtime.

Now I wasn't like other children of my age who would run around all afternoon in the garden getting dirty, and then fall sound asleep after a bath at 7 p.m. I preferred drawing, and later also writing, and playing school-school, and after 7 p.m. my mind was still full of vivacious anticipation of another round of bed-time stories and songs. My poor exhausted mother had to supply to my demands. Suffering from post-natal depression, dizziness and occasional amnesia following the birth of my brother, she would sometimes fall asleep in the middle of a fairytale, but she would keep talking in her sleep. "Neeeee!" I would complain, "Dis verkeerd!" ("Noooo! That's wrong!") as her account of whatever she was dreaming would interfere with the plot. Sometimes by 9 p.m. I was still wide awake, and, eager to draw the line somewhere so that she could finally go to bed, she would say, "Luister, daar is die beuel, dis nou nege-uur, kinders behoort al te slaap." ("Listen, there's the bugle, it's nine o'clock now, children should already be asleep.") This usually filled me with sufficient fear to at least pretend to be asleep, although I thought it was really quite unfair, because trying to actually sleep just wasn't going to work, and in my heart, I thought that the government was mean to impose such a rule on people for something they could not change. What I did not realise was what the rule really was, and that it was being imposed on Black people, not on White children, and not on me. See, in Afrikaans, the word for bugle (beuel) and the word for executioner (beul) sound the same. So what I understood was, "Listen, there's the executioner, it's nine o'clock now, children should already be asleep." In my mind, therefore, this meant that a man dressed in a black raiment and wielding an axe would come from door to door to check whether children were dutifully sleeping. Since this was his profession, he was probably already quite skilled in establishing which ones were faking it. And one day, he might come for me.

When as an adult I once mentioned to my mother that this was what I had believed as a child, she asked, "But why didn't you ever tell me?" The thing is, as a little girl, I thought she knew. I thought she believed it too and accepted it as a fact of life. What was the point of telling her if I had no hope that she would protect me from the executioner?

Liefdesbriefie

Jy sal seker nie in die nabye toekoms hierdie woorde lees nie, maar wanneer jy dit eendag lees, sal jy weet dit was net vir jou bedoel: Ek het jou lief, vir altyd. En jy sal wonder wat dan so spesiaal was aan 7 Augustus. Die antwoord is: niks. Niks is besonder anders as gister nie. Dis maar net een van die baie dae waarop ek jou liefhet, liefgehad het en sal liefhê.

Big stuff

I am fascinated by large industrial structures. More fascinated, I am beginning to think, by the scale and the shape than by what these things do precisely, although the fact that they do actually perform a process function contributes to my fascination. (I am definitely not equally excited by large monuments.)

I am currently teaching a couple of engineers and their planning assistant the nitty gritty of project planning and tracking using scheduling software, including how to allocate resources, view the budget and cashflow, how to handle a resource that works at different rates under different conditions, best practices for deadline-driven scheduling, and so on. My client is Sandvik, and the picture below shows what the team I am teaching is working on. The stacker reclaimer they are building is located in Saldanha and it is made to do the stockpiling of the three different grades of iron ore brought by the 3 km long train from the open pit mine at Sishen near Kathu in the Northern Cape. (I've actually taught people at that mine too — and at a zinc mine a couple of hundred kilometres to the west.)

One of the interesting aspects of my work is that the scale of the projects on which our various customers work differ so greatly from customer to customer, and the management considerations differ accordingly. Some budgets are in the thousands and others are in the hundreds of millions. For some of the people with whom we work, the cost of time is the greatest factor to be considered in day-to-day Project Management; for others, money and time are not as important a consideration as is delivering precisely the right thing.

We have different courses and different lecturers to meet the variety of customer needs, and MC and I are currently the two who do most of the traveling. There is a growing and pressing need for Project Management training throughout Africa, and we are busy expanding our operations to meet that need.

Part of that involves taking on new people. Christopher Swart, whom I have known as a friend for some time and who has a good success record in EPWP-type projects, is finally joining us as a full-time associate later this month, initially to drive our own SAQA and PRINCE2 accreditation projects, and later to focus specifically on Project Management training for the Extended Public Works Programme and to act as liaison officer for the Programme in Project Management for Local Government.

Part of it also means radically changing suboptimal business processes, including those which involve external partners. What this will also mean is that we will have to develop a new integrated PRM and CRM system. The "we" in this case mostly means "me"... I have a strong feeling that the build-or-buy decision is going to result in "build", and I am going to have to be very careful about the Project Management process that I follow. The RADD offered by Lotus Notes has worked very well for us in the past in the balance between time, money, quality, process and resources required to actually do the job and maintain the infrastructure.

To Jerith, on the off-chance that you ever just happen to stumble upon this paragraph amongst the myriad paragraphs on the Internet: Before you think of passing any comment, even just in sotto voce to yourself, you are jolly well first coming to my office to see a slice of my life!

Part of it means introducing new courses. Some are industry-specific (such as our soon-to-be-launched Programme in IT Project Management on NQF level 7), whereas others are focused on a more general market (inter alia, I am currently putting together an intensive part-time course on NQF level 6 for general public booking, hopefully to be delivered in Q1 of 2009).

Part of it means scheduling courses in new places. We are once again going to have scheduled Project Management courses on NQF level 7 in Durban, Johannesburg and Bloemfontein in addition to Cape Town, Pretoria and Windhoek, and we've scheduled the first one in Nigeria for 2009. I also want to put together systems to better service our foreign students who come to South Africa for Project Management training.

The ProjectManagement.co.za Web site will provide details of these offerings as they become available.

My illustrious sporting achievment

I don't think I reached the second round in any sports event since the under-13 inter-schools athletics, but last night I managed to get through to the semi-finals of the...



...before being beaten by a student.

Project Management courses in Bloemfontein and Durban

Due to the still-growing demand, more courses have now been scheduled for this year. In addition to the courses in Cape Town, Pretoria and Johannesburg in the remaining months of 2008 there will also be a course in Durban in October and Bloemfontein in November. There will be courses in all those cities in 2009 as well, and also in Windhoek and Abuja. (Well, that's so far. If I have my way, we will also see courses in several other African cities towards the end of 2009.)

ProjectManagement courses fully booked; even more additional courses scheduled

"Fully booked" is a phrase I have frequently posted on the ProjectManagement.co.za Web site this year. This morning Claire told me that August's Programme in Cape Town is also full now. The next Cape Town Programme would be in November, and that, I knew, was filling up rapidly too, so I asked her if we could have another one in September. I think she must have then spoken to MC (the lecturer) immediately -- and he is a snappy decision-maker -- because next she copies me on memo to a dozen people to say that an additional Programme in Project Management has been scheduled for Cape Town, to be held in September 2008.

Now that word is out regarding the new Programme in Information Technology Project Management scheduled for 2009, enquiries for this course have also been coming in steadily. I have been mailing the dates and fees and a course overview in the meanwhile to those who enquired before they appeared on the Web site. This is just to bide the time until registrations open officially, though; I don't even have a proper course outline to give them yet, but a number of prospective students are already eager to pay now to ensure that they get in. (We're not taking their money yet, though!) Looks like it's going to be a popular course, so if you want to be on the first one, you may have to ensure that you send your details in early.

The joyful art of exhibitionism

When I moved into this building at the beginning of 2005, my neighbours' parties did not disturb me unless they were playing rugby pop or gangster rap. I listened to Mozart, Claude Bolling and Nina Simone. I would never have imagined that only a few years later I would be the owner of a CD by some bulky nigga (his word) with Florida tattooed over his entire back and two full-bottomed wenches beside him, rampant. Or, for that matter, that, having committed myself to go up the West Coast to provide training to a group of mining engineers over the weekend, I would bitterly lament my situation upon discovering that this clashed with the dance-offs at the African Hip-Hop Indaba at the Good Hope Centre.

How on earth could a 43-year-old professional blonde woman get her mind into such a culture-warp?

When I was a child, my family used to put on records and we would all dance at home -- parents, kids, and visiting relatives. The father of one of my school friends had a steel band, and whenever the audience was too shy to get up and dance, my friend's mother would fetch me, and we'd go to the front and get the thing going. I took dance lessons at various stages -- ballet, salsa, whatever -- but I did not really excel at anything except for national dance (a term which back then referred to the folk dances of Europe).

Although my husband I and interacted just fine on the dancefloor, he seldom wanted to go out, so I in about 17 years of marriage we probably went dancing fewer than 10 times. The only time I'd dance (albeit with greatly limited movement) would be if I was in supermarket or post office queues when I could not keep still.

After my divorce, I attempted to get back into dancing, initially with disastrous results: I joined a dating Web site purely to make new friends and to go dancing; but, although I had no desire for any form of romantic entanglement, it soon emerged that respondents care very little whether you say "friendship only" on your profile -- if you avail yourself there, you should be prepared to date and mate.

Having moved back into the student town of Stellenbosch, I eventually discovered that social dancing had changed, and that when young white people go out to dance nowadays, a partner is an optional extra; Black and Coloured women tend to go out dancing with friends of the same gender, whilst their male counterparts join in as an act of solicitation and foreplay. I also eventually learned that the parallel tradition of solo dancing which had emerged from the Breakdance and Flashdance styles of my own youth had given way to a myriad popular new styles. And so, with social conventions finally providing a gap, I started dancing alone, first in the crowd, and eventually, as my confidence grew, arriving earlier in the evening, so that I might have the entire space to myself until the rest of the crowd had gained sufficient Dutch courage to take to the floor. Having been a nerd all my life, I knew little about the differences between pop, rock or anything else, let alone the subleties of sub-genres. I developed a taste for what my friends tell me may be classified as British alternative, but found that on the odd occasion I was quite happy to dance to heavy industrial as well. I also developed a distinct disdain for house music, which seemed to me like a formulated conspiracy to turn people into prancing puppets. On the few occasions that I went dancing wearing high-heeled shoes, I imagined that I probably looked like a pole-dancer, and became so embarassingly self-conscious that I tried to stick to flat shoes and tomboyish outfits to avoid developing an unwanted reputation. (Being thought of as weird is one thing; being taken for a floozy is another thing entirely.)

One night whilst on a business trip, I switched on the TV in the guest house as they were doing a short feature about a new dance movie. I was inspired by the interview with the Chinese director, as well as by a dance scene featuring a hip-hop song that had both the pace and the bass which have always managed to resonate with me, as well as a sufficiently melodious chorus to allow it to pass for a proper song. Although I promptly forgot the name of the movie and the director, I was lucky enough to pass a poster for it a month later when I was back at home, and dragged a friend off to see the film. It was called Step Up 2, and the song was called Low. As I expected, the movie plot was a collection of clichés, some of them so ludicrously strung together that the entire story was completely devoid of credibility; but I enjoyed the dancing, and something that the director had endorsed with a twinkle in his eye: street dancing as "an opportunity to show off". Until that interview, Calvinist modesty had dictated a sense of guilt in me; but this statement, and the endearing character of the female lead, finally liberated me into believing that showing off can actually be OK. From that point onwards, I began searching for dance contests. I had reached the limits of my own repertoire of solo moves -- a combination of ballet, hip-hop, folk dancing and everything else I'd been exposed to through the years -- and was looking for inspiration from people who reckoned they have something to show. But I knew no-one who was doing what I was doing, and could find no events relating to my pursuit in Cape Town. Vacca Matta seemed to have discontinued the exciting dance entertainment they used to provide, and although I found plenty of inspiration on the Internet at sites like DanceJam.com, I could find no local events.

I tried out the funk class offered by Jazzart at the Artscape, but the young instructor, undoubtedly a good dancer himself, was inexperienced as a teacher, and taught sequences rather than moves, without any communication of the lesson plan. I am a slow learner of this sort of thing anyway, so I was hopelessly lost by the pace of the lesson, and decided not to go again. However, I was keen to stay in touch with him, as it appeared that the type of street dancing for which he had a passion was not really endorsed by his dance academy -- a theme similar to that of the movie I'd seen. He seemed genuinely surprised when I said that I was not really interested in the academic stuff at all, but passionately interested in to coming to Mitchell's Plain to see real guys doing the real thing.

Ballroom, Spanish, even "contemporary" dance -- it has all been formalised, and has become very serious. Dance as therapy perhaps offers room for self-expression, but it seems to be more of a private thing, without the confident joie de vivre offered by public exhibitionism. Hip-hop, on the other hand, is dynamic and constantly evolving, and although some manifestations of this sub-culture are characterised by an oppressive set of tribal taboos centering around an extremely carnal and materialistic set of values -- not to mention violence and other forms of crime and just plain interpersonal nastiness -- the inherent primitive rivalry seems to stimulate the development of dance, including both the refinement of technique and the invention of new forms.

On Saturday night, crews from throughout the country will be competing with one another for right to go to the international championships in Germany -- and I won't be there to see the battles! At least the whole exercise has finally led me to the people who organise this sort of thing. So maybe somewhere, somehow, someday...

Big demand for Project Management training on NQF 7 in Johannesburg

As I predicted in February based on the number of enquiries via the ProjectManagement.co.za Web site, it has been necessary to schedule at least three more courses for 2008. Due to the length of the waiting list for the additional Programme in Project Management in Johannesburg, another course has now been scheduled there for 17–21 November 2008. There's also still limited space in the Pretoria and Cape Town (see options). This Programme will also be held in KZN, the Free State and Nigeria next year (see dates).

Walk

I know you are weak. But my legs have broken from carrying you all this time. Don't you understand why I flinch and retreat from you when you try to lean on me? You need to strengthen so that you can walk walk on your own, because you are a giant and I am an elf, and I cannot bear your weight. Don't you understand why I begged you so many times to let us get more support? I can only walk along the same road as you once you can do it without me. (And once I too can walk straight again, without stupidly stumbling and falling into holes.)

 

Pink Monday: A story about customer service

The one thing I seldom buy on impulse is a pair of shoes. It took me many months to find a pair of sporty shoes that pleased me. For about two weeks I wondered whether I had done the right thing, because they cost far more than I am usually prepared to pay for shoes. Besides, they had a well-known logo on them, and I am such a reverse snob that I actually considered camouflaging it with a black clothing marker. But they grew on me, both figuratively and literally, and eventually I was deeply in love. They were my favourite shoes both for teaching and for dancing, having a good flex, a snug fit, not too much grip for pirouettes, yet enough grip to bounce off the walls.

Earlier this year I made an error in judgement, and here is the lesson: never ever pack a pair of black Nike Rhythm Lace shoes into your checked-in luggage!

Upon my return home, I set out to replace the pair which had been pilfered from my suitcase, but the range had been discontinued. I managed to find a pair on sale in an unpopular colour (baby pink) which I bought anyway. I could find none in black, although it seemed that various shops still had the odd pair or two, but I would have to know where to look. I even bought a pair of black Nike shoes in a different style and tried in vain for an entire week to wear them in as I had done with my Rhythm Lace shoes. (As a result I now have an eternally painful toe!)

By now I was phoning shops as far away as Gauteng. See, although I was prepared to dye the pink shoes black, I also realised one pair would not do, if these shoes were no longer being produced and I would not be able to get hold of a new pair in the future. I decided to contact Nike's head office in South Africa, but this proved to be very difficult, because not only does the Nike Web site have no contact number, but it also has no Web form or other manner of sending a message to Nike! So I tried something else: I began lamenting the situation on the wall of every Nike fan club I could find at Facebook. My persistence paid off. A representative from Nike South Africa contacted me and arranged to get me a pair of those shoes.

From that point onwards, three wonderful things happened. When they phoned me to ask where the shoes should be delivered, I thought of nominating a sports shoe shop in the town where I live. No, they said, the shoes would be delivered to me by courier; I simply needed to specify my address. Wonderful; but I now began to fear the price, because my previous two pairs, the stolen black ones as well as the new pink ones, had been bought at discounted prices. So I was expecting to pay the full scary retail price for the pair which Nike was sending me. I asked how they wanted me to pay -- by EFT, or in cash to the person who delivers the shoes? No, came their reply, I was not expected to pay at all!

By now I felt like someone who'd just been told she'd had won the grand prize in a competition, but that wasn't all. When I arrived at work on Monday, the courier had just delivered my package. I wondered why Nike had sent the shoes in such a large box, and when I opened it, I was met by the final surprise, which coloured any hint of a blue Monday the most wonderful shade of pink: although Nike had not managed to get me a black pair, they had sent me two pairs of these shoes, one pink (which I shall dye black), and one white, at no charge.

I still think Nike should make themselves more contactable via their Web site, and I think that other style which I bought should be examined for its potential as an interrogation aid. But the gift which they sent me thrilled me into such brand loyalty that I will not consider deleting the swoosh off any Nike item ever again; and it showed that good customer experience is not just about having good systems in place, but also about caring enough to go the extra mile, and finding ways to exceed the customer's expectations even when parts of the system are suboptimal.

Why I won't deal with the dealers

When you sell a litre of milk to a criminal, are you feeding his crime? If not, then how would you feel about selling karate lessons to his staff?

There comes a time when a personal belief turns into a corporate policy, and today is such a day. I have now finally been confronted with the question I have discussed with my colleagues before, but thought I wouldn't have to deal with so soon in terms of a final decision. Many of my friends smoke, and I hate what they are doing to themselves; I have a major moral problem with the tobacco industry. This morning I got a Project Management course enquiry from a company that sells tobacco products and smoking paraphernalia. Does the fact that I have allowed my friends to light cigarettes with the matches I keep around for lighting candles make me a hypocrite in wanting to turn down business from the merchants who supply them? Whichever way, I have decided not to accept the work.

My reasoning is as follows:

If a notoriously horrible government wants our organisation to train its officials in Project Management, I could still feasibly say yes; after all, their mandate is to provide services to their citizens, and perhaps by training these guys, I could help them to be better at that. If they then also choose to use the same knowledge to run a campaign to exterminate their political opponents, then it would be unfortunate, but then nearly anything intended for good can also be turned into a weapon.

But the mandate of a tobacco company is to sell tobacco. And they don't generally do so by making it into leafy umbrellas; people smoke it. And unlike booze, which is fine unless you drink too much of it, tobacco is always bad for you.

Now to figure out how to politely word the reply in a manner that shows no disrespect to those who have made the choice to work there...

PRINCE2 training in South Africa

I forgot to mention earlier, the ball has now also started rolling with regard to accredited PRINCE2 training. At this stage if you want us to arrange it in Cape Town, you'd need to book an in-house course, but there are regular scheduled courses in Johannesburg (in Sandton, to be precise) for Foundation, Practitioner and the associated exams (which get sent to the UK to be marked there).

The PRINCE2 methodology takes Project Management three-letter acronyms into new volumes. You have to understand that you are dealing with an ATO (which should preferably also be an ACO, if you want proper follow-up with the implementation) before you even get into a training room. It's going to take some time before we have the new sales processes properly set up and all the correct credentials, accreditations, affiliations and associations explained on the Web site, but in the meanwhile, all you need to know is that if you send us a PRINCE2 training or consulting request, it will be followed up promptly with proper APMG compliance.

Course dates for Programme in IT Project Management

OK, we now have dates for the new course in Information Technology Project Management: The first one will be run in Cape Town from 2 to 6 March 2009 and the next one from 28 September to 2 October 2009. (The course will be on NQF level 7, i.e., post-graduate, but an undergraduate degree will not be a prerequisite.) I should be ready to put a preliminary course outline on the Web site at the end of the month. (Sorry, not before then because I have scheduled a nervous breakdown for myself from 21 to 30 July. I deserve it, I have earned it, I have postponed it three times already, and no-one is jolly well going to deprive me of it this time.) I am still very excited about the fact that we can finally have this course, and particularly chuffed that Martin Butler is going to be the presenter. If you want to be notified when the fees, course schedule and other information are available, make sure we have your details.

Kaalvoetjies

There's a girl -- I guess she's around 20 -- who likes to play fooze at the place where I go dancing. She is cute and friendly but a bit elusive; she is often barefoot and looks free-spirited. My flatmate and I like her, and refer to her as Kaalvoetjies, but I did ask her her real name once. Sometimes she comes there with a much older, slightly bookish but kind-looking man; I am guessing he must be her flatmate. I like that about her: she chooses her own company, and often it is not who you'd expect. But usually she's in the company of others her own age.

There's been a university vac and many of the regulars at the club were away for several weeks. This weekend many of them came back and the place started feeling right again. On Friday night Kaalvoetjies was there too. There was an older woman with her too, a woman around my age, a woman with a slightly dented nose.

But what I couldn't get over were those dark patches under her eyes. And how fast her face is ageing. She didn't look like that when I last saw her. Slightly stoned sometimes, maybe, but not this. What did she tell her mother these holidays, I wonder? "Ag ma, I have just had a lot of late nights studying, it's no big deal, I am fine"? Would her mother even know enough about coke and tik to recognise the signs and know that she is just plain flat lying? And if she could see it -- what next? If even I feel that I want to grab her and smack her across the head and hold her and hug her and save her from destruction, what does a parent feel? And how do you save your child when she's no longer a child?

How not to talk to your bank

Here is some correspondence between me and my bank. I have removed the names of the people who mailed me, and truncated some of the responses a bit.

I would like to ask anyone who thinks they understand my question how I should phrase it so that the bank will understand it as well. Or am I just too uneducated to understand the replies?

Me:	I currently have a silver credit card and I recently received mail from ABSA saying I could have a gold one instead if I wanted, and explaining the benefits. I would like to see a feature comparison between the two before I decide. Could you assist?
Absa Person Number 1:	Herewith the information as requested. Unique Advantages Preferential debit and credit interest rates. Reap the Benefits Free optional Global Calling Card. Free BP FuelMaster Express available to garage cardholders. Balance transfer available at 1, 5% less than prime for the first 12 months. *Terms and conditions apply Combi facility - link your card to your Absa Cheque or Savings Account. Up to R3 000 per day can be withdrawn at an ATM from your credit card (per branch arrangement). Secondary Cards are available, which are convenient for a spouse and children. These members share the same limit with the primary cardholder. Garage cards can be linked to Gold Credit Cards and can be used for petrol, oil, spares, repairs and tollgates. Accepted at over 24 million merchants worldwide. Up to 57 days interest-free credit. Monthly electronic statements available. The following insurances are available to Gold Credit Card holders Lost Card Benefits are included in the monthly service fee. Optional Card Life Plan - covers outstanding balance up to R50 000 in the event of Death or Permanent Total Disability, and 10% of outstanding balance for 4 months in the event of Retrenchment (Terms and Conditions apply) [ Silver, Gold, Platinum and Private Bank cards) Automatic Basic Travel Insurance whenever travel tickets are purchased with the Absa credit card. (Optional Extended Cover also available, call 0861 ABSATI / 0861 227 284) Should you require any other assistance or information... (etc.)
Me:	Thank-you, Absa Person Number 1, but the mail which I received already did include a unique feature list. What I am looking for is a feature comparison between that which I currently have, and that which I could get. For example, if I currently get X% interest on a silver card, I could be getting Y% interest if I had a gold card; or if I am currently paying X per month in fees, I could be paying Y, and so on. To give a more specific example, the gold card means that I get up to 57 days interest-free credit, while the silver card means that I get only... (how much)?
Absa Person Number 2:	Please find attached a comparison between our Absa Gold and Silver Credit Cards. Kindly note that the monthly service fee for a Silver Credit Card is R9.99 and R13.50 for a Gold Credit Card. We trust that this is in order.
Me:	Absa Person Number 2, I don't understand. I want information that will enable me to decide which card I would want by comparing the benefits and obligations. The only differences that I can see in that document are that the gold card is a different colour, and the annual income is bigger, which presumably means that you must be richer to have one of those. The monthly charge on a gold card is also higher, as you say. So does that mean that it is better to have a silver card? If you were in my position, and someone sent you that attachment, then based on that information, which card would you choose, and why?

University-certified Programme in Project Management for Local Government (NQF level 7)

The course dates have changed as follows:

Cape Town: 1–5 September
Gauteng: 22–26 September 2008

Click here to submit an enquiry.

New law to curb unsolicited marketing via mail, e-mail, SMS, and telephone

"According to soon-to-be legislated law, any company embarking on a direct marketing campaign will be required to run its list against the opt-out register and ensure that any names on the DMA register are deleted off its database. The register has been developed by the DMA in response to required Government legislation to professionalise the industry and curb unsolicited marketing messages via mail, SMS, email, telephone and post to unsuspecting consumers." Read the full article here:
http://www.bizcommunity.com/Article/196/11/25773.html
It was published only a few days ago. According to the article, the management of the DMASA opt-out register has also been improved to meet with the requirements of the law. Visit www.optout.co.za to see the new options.

Follow-up on my attempts to opt out of the National Consumer Database

Liberty Life got back to me with a call from their legal department, and they are investigating my report; they said they'd revert in a day or so.

I also heard from Prima-Data regarding the National Consumer Database, and they said I should contact a company called Effective Intelligence. The person they said I should speak to, Simone Ardagh, is away until 14 July, but I mailed the person designated by her automated out-of-office reply, David van der Merwe. I also found this Web site, www.dontmailme.co.za, which I think they run, so I entered my details.

An interesting note in the FAQ on that site, is this one:

Do lots of consumers “Opt Out” of promotions?

No, very few people elect to restrict the promotions they receive. It is difficult to give accurate statistics but we estimate that only 1,000 people have elected to opt out from at least 50 million mailing pieces (from all suppliers and all major companies) over the last 10 years.

I think the reason for this is simple: The steps have been made very convoluted by users of the National Consumer Database -- companies like AIG, Liberty and others of their ilk. I say this because it has taken me many months to find out how to opt out, and I am not all that sure I have even succeeded. "Don't mail me" doesn't mean the same thing as "don't phone me", so I don't know if registering at the site is going to stop any cell phone calls. I believe that many more people would opt out if they knew how to, or if they trusted the process.

On the other hand...

My right hand is bruised. I put ice water on it last night, and kept it warm today, so it doesn't hurt unless I touch it. I think all four punches may have been done with my right hand; I should practice punching with my left hand. Also, the last one was a back-hand punch, and that is not as powerful as a straight forward punch which allows you to put your full weight into it. And anyway, I wasn't fully committed, and that is part of the problem. You feel half sorry for the person, and then you don't pull it off forcefully, even if you're trying to hit as hard as you can. The thing is, though, I used to be able to knock someone to the ground with the first punch, a simple backwards flick over the shoulder, so I get cheesed off now when I can't drop a person to the ground even with a much harder punch than that -- which all goes to show that practice is required, and I am really out of practice. On the other hand, ballet dancers aren't really supposed to beat up the audience in the first place.

Project Management courses in Nigeria

It has been so difficult for our Nigerian participants to come to South Africa, what with the visa situation and all that, so we have decided to go to Nigeria. I don't have any dates or prices yet, but what I can say is that we are planning to offer training in Project Management (probably with credits on a university masters level), and possibly also some hands-on training in Microsoft Project, sometime next year in Abuja. If you want to submit your details so that we can keep you updated, fill in an enquiry at ProjectManagement.co.za.

As long as you give in to spam, people will continue spamming you

This is what Primadata (or Prima-Data) has to say about Prescon, the guys who run the National Consumer Database: "The majority of [Direct Mail Respondents] have taken the time and effort to send a 'not thank you' [sic] response to one of Prescon's offers. Don't be put off by that due to the fact that when Prescon mail them again with the same offer they are three times more responsive than the average list."

In other words, they are saying that they do not care about your time and effort. They will continue to contact you anyway, pressurising you until you buy. So, in case I have not said so enough already, do not buy. As long as you give in to extortion, extortionists will continue to do this to you and to everyone else.

Getting in touch with the guys at the National Consumer Database

OK, I am getting somewhere at last. NextMark is not the company that has this list, and have no control over the content of lists; they are simply a software company that provides the technology to promote and find lists that are available on the market. Prescon List Management is the company promoting this list. The email address for the person who promotes the list through the Internet is b_baker@mweb.co.za, but I do not know if this is the correct contact for removal. However, this person may be able to point me in the right direction, so I have sent him a memo and will see what happens.

It seems as though Prescon List Management once belonged to Moneyweb. Their annual report of 2006 states that "on 1 April 2005, the list division of Prescon Publishing Corporation (Pty) Ltd was sold for R200 000. The decision to dispose of the division was based on the fact that selling of lists is not part of Moneyweb's strategy."

That sounds like a company selling off its shady drug dealing division because they have decided to go straight.

National Consumer Database: Dodging the law by running it offshore?

I have just learned something. The South African National Consumer Database (used by AIG, Liberty Life and others), complete with people's telephone numbers and other intimate details, is available from an American company. I don't know if they are the sole providers, but if so, the fact that it is being run from outside the country may explain how they get around the law which requires them to remove people's names upon request.

Liberty Life is in on the plot

How's this for coincidence: As I was busy adding detail to my article about the National Consumer Database, I got an unsolicited call from a Liberty Life salesperson. This time I did not lose my cool. I asked him to remove me from their list, and to tell me where he got my details. He said that he was not authorised to have me removed from their list, or to tell me where my details were obtained; nor was he authorised to give me the contact details of any person who could do so! He did, however, make mention of -- you guessed it -- the mysterious "National Consumer Database"! I got him to write down the details of the legislation which his company is infringing, and to pass it on to his superiors, and to notify them of my intention to take action against them for refusing to grant me my privacy.

My suggestion is this: Unless you are happy to be contacted in this manner, I would suggest to you to refuse products and services from companies who make calls of this kind, and to specifically state that this is the reason why you do not want to deal with them. As long as people respond positively to this type of solicitation, marketers will continue with such campaigns. Only once they understand how negatively their choice of marketing channel impacts on their brand will they learn to respect the wishes of the public.

How can I get my name removed from the National Consumer Database?

There is no National Consumer Database. This is the conclusion I have reached after following up several leads over the past few months. It would appear that if somebody told you they got your details from the National Consumer Database, they are not telling the truth.

[Note added 2008.06.20: I was wrong about this. See other entries for the full story. I have, however, kept this article in its original form in spite of the fact that I now have additional information.]

If the organisation that contacted you is a member of the DMASA (Direct Marketing Association of South Africa), then in theory you should contact the DMASA directly and ask to be placed on the Don't Contact Me list. However, it has been my experience that if one of the members of the DMASA contravenes the arrangement by contacting you anyway, the DMASA will not follow up your complaint.

If a particular organisation keeps bothering you, you could probably lay a criminal charge against them, but as far as I know no such charge has ever led to a conviction. Your local police station may be more accustomed to dealing with robberies and assault, so you would probably have to be very specific. Tell the police you want to lay a charge in terms of Section 45 of the Electronic Communications and Transactions Act (Act 25 of 2002), which you can download from the government's Web site. In terms of this Act, an organisation which contacts you has to tell you, upon request, where they got your information, and upon your request they have to remove you from their list. So if they tell you they got your information from the National Consumer Database, then, as far as I can figure out, they are breaking the law, because there is no such Database and therefore no way of breaking free once they start bothering you; and if they want you to send an SMS to them at your own expense to be removed from the list (a form of "micro-extortion" on a massive scale), then if you like you can do what they say, but remember that by law they are actually supposed to pay for that SMS, so once again, they are breaking the law and you have reason to lay a charge against them. If they are found guilty, then according to the provisions of the law, they could receive a fine or even a prison sentence. But, as I said, I don't know how successful you would really be.

If you prefer, you could contact the offending organisation's complaints department, but the problem with this approach is that you will only be stopping the problem only for yourself -- two months down the line, your colleague, housemate or ageing mother may be the next victim. If that matters to you, and if you have the time, you could start class action. This means you write a letter to the newspaper or on the Internet saying that you are interested in hearing from others who have had the same experience with regard to a specific company. You get everyone to tell you their stories in detail and to provide proof (e.g. "On 6 June I received an SMS from... saying... I have saved the message on my cell phone as proof"). Then you can contact the police on behalf of the group.

One of the problems with laying a charge, either as an individual or as a group, is that court proceedings can become expensive and time-consuming, while the whole object of the exercise in the first place is actually to stop wasting your time your time and money rather than to be further inconvenienced. A less expensive way to vent your frustration is to start or join a group which provides media pressure against the offender. One of the best-known groups of this nature is Hellkom, the organisation famous for allowing consumers to express their frustration against Telkom (and now also Eskom). You need to understand your rights and duties in terms of freedom of speech if you want to do something like this, though. Telkom is a monopoly, which is why the law protects the public from libel charges in the Hellkom situation. You cannot mercilessly attack a small company with hateful and defamatory public statements and not expect that they will want to defend themselves in terms of their own rights within the law. For a quicker route, try HelloPeter.com, which transfers both complaints and praise from consumers to various companies.

Some of the organisations that have consistently continued to contact me in spite of the fact that I have expressly asked them not to, were AIG, Nedbank, Fox Fitness and Leisure in Bellville, and a certain organisation that raises funds for the blind. There are also some computer training colleges and PABX providers that do not keep a record of people who have asked not to be contacted; nor do they apparently keep a record of people who have indeed done business with them in the past, so you can expect a cold call from them every time they appoint new sales reps. (Inter alia, this has been my experience with New Horizons.) Eventually, after numerous requests, I did manage to stop AIG and Nedbank. (I am not sure whether the others will stop contacting me, though, as for many years they have always promised to do so, only eventually to repeat their behaviour after six or twelve months.) But that's just me. If you are still being troubled by the same people, then I would suggest that you contact either Cape Talk or its sister station, 702. These radio stations have been following up on such stories for more than a year, and although nothing much has come of it so far, I think in the long run there may be some results if they continue doing so.

And of course, boycott the companies that do this kind of marketing, and encourage your friends to do the same.

My profile at MyGenius

Dear Tania,

Please note that MyGenius requires a photo of you in your profile that shows other members who you are – and of course we consider the best way to encourage an engaged business community is for members to have a head and shoulders photo that best reflects your personal brand.
We don't consider your current photo to reflect that and have consequently deleted your photo and hence downgraded your membership until you have uploaded a suitable photo.

We look forward to upgrading you again soon and allowing you to take your business to a new level!
         
The MyGenius Team

Thank-you for explaining your terms. I try to avoid doing business based on appearance. I find that it fosters a type of bias and prejudice which I do not like. A head and shoulders photo of myself would therefore be the opposite of what I stand for. Our company Web site deliberately does not have any photos of our associates either. If I were to continue using MyGenius, I would upload a picture of a face disfigured by burn wounds, and I do not think that would be acceptable. If those are the terms of the site, therefore, I would rather not use MyGenius at the moment. If you wish, you can delete my profile.

Tania

PRINCE2 courses available soon

ProjectManagement.co.za has been approached by the powers-that-be to offer formal PRINCE2 training and certification not only in Cape Town but also throughout the rest of Africa via the official affiliate programme. If all goes well, this could be up and running within a few weeks.

Somtyds, net somtyds...

...wil ek graag 'n werk aanvat in 'n ver land waar ek binne 'n paar maande soveel geld kan verdien dat ek jou losprys kan betaal, sodat ek binne hierdie leeftyd vir jou kan vra om my vas te hou wanneer ek jou nodig het, en dat ons binne hierdie leeftyd die tyd kan hê vir verstaan, saam kan opstaan, saam kan hulp vra, saam kan hulp gee, saam kan bid.

Maar die meeste van die tyd is ek kalm en bereid om nog tien, twintig, dertig jaar, ja, die res van my lewe vir jou te wag. Want daar is niemand soos jy nie, en niemand wat my so liefhet soos jy nie.

Overheard in Andringa Street, Stellenbosch, on Saturday morning

Middle-aged guy to Coloured policeman as a group of five or six Goths passed by: "Lyk soos 'n kerkraad uit die apartheidsjare."

My very own nine hours

Nine hours. Nine precious hours were mine today to be alone, to do as I pleased. Seven of them are already gone, what with shopping, lunch, doing the dishes and the laundry and sitting down for a while. I feel sad today. There is still so much more I would have liked to have done: tidy all my cupboards, vacuum my bedroom, put on clean bedlinen, sew my own outfit, sort out my receipts, take a nap, invent a new style of dancing, defrost the freezer, draw a cartoon, mop the floor and just sit and think. I will only have time for one or two of these. Three loads of laundry will be ready to be taken out of the drier soon, and there is no space in here to spread it all out and deal with it systematically. Someday, someday when I grow up I want my very own weekend.

Deflection

Daardie woord was so koud per private SMS, 'n groot swart harde drieletterwoord op 'n klein grysgroen skermpie.

Ek verwerk dit en kleur dit in met warmte deur vir myself te visualiseer dat jy dit eerder vanuit emosionele en fisiese uitputting skreeu terwyl ek sowat vier meter van jou af staan, en op daardie manier kan ek dit ervaar as 'n uitdrukking van jou pyn, frustrasie, vasgevangenheid en woede, gerig aan my en teenoor my, maar nie met die bedoeling om my daardeur te vernietig nie. Daarom verdedig ek myself ook nie. Deur gedurig daardie prentjie voor my geestesoog te hou, "bewaar [ek] ons liefde, vernietig [ek] ons pyn, bly [jy] so 'n feesland vir ons drome". (Breyten Breytenbach)

My Monday

Exhaustion. Expl...

My Saturday

Expectation. Emotion. Exhaustion. Explosion. Entropy. Empathy. Encouragement.

My Friday

Expectation. Exhaustion. Emotion. Explosion. Entropy. Empathy. Encouragement.

Visit to Harmony Park refugee camp

I neglected to mention that I saw Agrippa on the weekend. I had contacted him a while ago to find out whether he and his family were OK and whether they needed anything. After first assessing the situation for a couple of days to see if it would change, he contacted me and told me that they needed additional blankets, so I bought some and took them over to Harmony Park on Sunday afternoon. (I didn't check anywhere else, so I can't compare, but the prices at Pep Stores were pretty good, IMO. I think it was R39 for Polarfleece and R27 for those grey makwetha-type blankets. I bought mainly Polarfleece but topped up with a couple of grey ones.) I also took some of my clothes. We had a good chat which showed that he had lost neither his sense of humour nor his philosophical realism and insightful political perspective. He had also managed to return to work for two days, and was making a plan to move to a place of temporary accommodation with his wife, while his relatives (two men and a woman) would remain in Harmony Park for the time being.

While I'd been waiting for them in the parking lot, I asked a woman about the VISITOR sticker she was wearing. We spoke in Afrikaans -- she was Coloured -- and she told me she was visiting her fiancé, originally from Mozambique. "Ons het 'n huis," she said, "maar nou moet ek hier kom kuier, want dis nie vir hom veilig by die huis nie." I asked her if they had children together. "Ons het 'n dogtertjie van sewe," she replied. "Sy mis haar pa en vra wanneer hy dan gaan huis toe kom."
"Maar hoe is die lewe vir haar onder dié omstandighede?" I asked. "As die mense so is oor hom, maak hulle nie die lewe vir haar ook moeilik nie?"
"Ag," she said, "sy is al haar hele lewe lank daaraan gewoond. Sy sê vir hulle: 'Ek is trots om 'n kweri-kweri te wees.'"
Then the woman left to get ready for work as Agrippa and the other men came through the gate.

Benefits of stress

Occasionally, stress has some useful side-effects. I lost 3 kg in less than a week, without picking up any weird eating disorder. The benefit is that two pairs of pants which last fitted me before the Wizard and I ate so much pizza at the KKNK more than a year ago, now fit me again.

If I lose another 2 kg, I will be able to sit down in them too.

Der rettende Rat

About 22 years ago I was a student of German, and we studied a very short story by Franz Kafka, simply titled Kleine Fabel. This is the story:

"Ach“, sagte die Maus, "die Welt wird enger mit jedem Tag. Zuerst war sie so breit, dass ich Angst hatte, ich lief weiter und war glücklich, dass ich endlich rechts und links in der Ferne Mauern sah, aber diese langen Mauern eilen so schnell aufeinander zu, dass ich schon im letzten Zimmer bin, und dort im Winkel steht die Falle, in die ich laufe.“
"Du musst nur die Laufrichtung ändern“, sagte die Katze und fraß sie.

After the class had discussed the tale for a while, finding no sensible interpretation, the lecturer practically gave us the moral of the story: "Der rettende Rat kommt von der vernichtende Instanz." (Literally translated: "The saving advice comes from the destroying party.")

That's what it feels like when...

The fight

Norman and some of his colleagues are back at work, but the situation remains tense. I managed to track down Agrippa and his relatives to the Harmony Park refugee camp. (Harmony! What an ironic name!) He took several days to return my message because he was still trying to figure a way out of the situation without having to request help. They don't have enough blankets, and I said I would do my best to take them some on Saturday afternoon. I have been stretched thin over the past few days and did not manage to complete Sunday's undertaking to assist with the refugees in Stellenbosch. My bank account was empty until a friend repaid a debt this morning, and I got a hefty parking fine yesterday. The stories which Victoria has been telling are shocking. They now have to travel a long way to buy basic commodities at a high price -- items which could be cheaply bought from the Somali shopkeepers in the neighbourhood before these people whom they knew and saw every day were chased out. But her neighbours still speak of taking things further. "Just listen to yourselves," she pleaded when one of them, swept up in the conversation over what had been started, said, "We must get the Coloureds next!"

Fox Fitness and Leisure

This is an open message to Fox Fitness and Leisure in Bellville. Since you have not listened to my numerous requests throughout the years to both sales agents and management to cease phone calls to our offices, I will tell the story of what happened to me when I signed up for a gym membership to the world.

If you check your records (although it seems that you do not keep records, otherwise you would have it on record that I do not want you to phone me anymore to get me to sign up with you again), you would note that I signed up for only one reason: I have lymphoedema, and I understood that I would be able to get treatment for this included in the cost of my membership, which would save me having to drive to Wellington every week for expensive treatments. I told your consultant how happy I was that this is what would be possible and signed the membership papers. A few weeks later I realised that what I had paid for was a lengthy gym membership with Fox Fitness and Leisure and only a single once-off lymph drainage massage. So, not only would I still have to pay for my treatement in Wellington, I would also now have to pay for a gym membership which I did not need. You would not refund my money, so I decided to try to make the best of what the gym had to offer. The first insult I got was from one of your trainers who insisted that I wear "proper gym clothes" instead of stretch jeans when using the gym. I have lymphoedema, don't you get it? This is an embarassing condition, and there are parts of my body I don't like to expose to other people. Every time I came to the gym there was some new little clothing rule I didn't know about, and eventually I just decided to call a loss a loss and not come again. Towards the end of my contract, I signed the remainder of it (two or three three months' worth) over to a colleague, but he did not use it in the end.

As you turn over sales agents (I guess this must be an unpleasant job, having to cold-call such unwilling prospects), you do not seem to pass on the fact that I hate being phoned by your people, that I have a bad feeling about your company and never want to hear from you again. Why don't you spare them the waste of time and money by keeping a database of people who don't want to be phoned? In fact, you could simply get hold of the DMASA's Do Not Contact database and that would tell you that there are many more people out there who do not want to hear from you.

Finally, I would advise everyone who intends to sign up with Fox Fitness and Leisure to have the contract scrutinised by an independent attorney prior to signing, and make sure that what he explains what you can expect to get, and what recourse, if any, you have if you are not happy.

The zigzagging boundaries of selfishness

Once upon a time there was a woman who had three daughters. Their father worked in a war-torn country and was away from home for long periods during which he did not have contact with his family. The two youngest daughters were happy children, but the eldest, who was twenty-one, was often depressed and, following a series of hurtful and disappointing relationships, began taking drugs. When she told her mother of her problem, her mother assisted her in joining a support group. Eventually the daughter tried to commit suicide, and her mother encouraged her to move back home for a while.

"Please keep up your visits to the support group," said her mother. "I am out of my depth with this. I need assistance in taking care of your emotional needs."

But the daughter did not want to go. "One of the other girls there invited me to visit, and said that she would phone me, but she never phoned. I don't want to go back."

"Then please let me take you to a psychologist," said the mother.

But the daughter answered, "I have been to psychologists before, and they do not understand me."

So the mother did the best she could without assistance, and her daughter became increasingly emotionally dependent on her. As time went by and she became busier and busier at work, she seldom saw her friends, spending most of her free time with her daughter.

The daughter did many things for her mother around the home. Not only did she cook and clean when her mother was at work, but she did many extra things, like arranging flowers, and putting little chocoloates on her mother's pillow. Although talented in the arts and well qualified in science, the daughter failed to find permanent employment. She contributed to the household income whenever she earned money from short-term part-time jobs, but her depression grew worse every time she was rejected for a full-time position. This pained her mother too, because she admired her daughter's abilities and longed to see her happy. "You are my best friend," her daugher told her, "and I love you more than anyone else in the world."

"I love you too," the mother would say, and hug her, and smile at her. They spent many hours together, chatting until late into the night after the younger children had gone to bed, and going to town together. They enjoyed each other's company.

But it wasn't easy.

"You always talk about your friends and what fun you had when you went to tea with them!" the daughter would say. "But I feel that you judge me because I can't talk about the things they talk about! And they judge me! People always judge me! I don't want to go out with you when you are with them, because I don't fit in. And the superficial things that excite you don't excite me, and it feels like unless I share those interests, I am not good enough for you!"

And so there were many occasions on which the mother would try to reassusre her daughter, but the reassurance would last only a while, and then there would be some new source of insecurity.

One night, after many weeks of working hard for long hours, the mother came home tired. Her daughter came in shortly afterwards, having gone out to buy milk, and found her mother lying on the floor crying.

"You always comfort me, now let me comfort you," she said.

The mother accepted her daughter's hug for a while, and then she said, "Please let me go now. I miss your father. I want to go to the bedroom to think about him and long for him. I need to be alone."

Her daughter withdrew and as her mother was about to close the bedroom door, she said, "You have to do what you have to do. Understand that I also have to do what I have to do. I know that you care about me and pity me, but what you feel for me is not love. If I can't be the person you love the most, I need to go out now and take whatever substance will kill the feeling of rejection I have."

What happened next was wrong. But if I had known the right thing to do at the time, I would have done it.

Behind the curtain of my tears

Mourning on Africa Day

I could not have have guessed a year ago that I would have set my alarm clock for four in the morning to mourn over something like this.

Yesterday was Africa Day. How I would have loved to celebrate it in my heart. Those who know me well will know how I have been scheming to visit Tanzania and the Southern Sudan and all the other countries in Africa that would have me. I speak two of the languages native to Africa, but whenever I have met someone who speaks any of the others, I have tried short-cuts to learning them as well -- Venda, Siswati, Zulu, Kiswahili, Setswana -- knowing that I will never be able to speak them all, but searching for the commonalities and being fascinated by the differences.

About two weeks ago, out of the blue, a friend sent me an SMS asking me whether I would leave South Africa if I could. What a curious question, I thought. I can leave South Africa. I am educated and experienced; I do not think I would have a problem finding employment elsewhere. "If I had to leave," I replied in my home language, "I would want to live in one of the other countries nearby, like Botswana, or Namibia. But I do not want to leave."

People I know, with names and faces

Douglas and Siphokazi, I still remember with what appreciation you received me in Swaziland, and how you touched me, Sabelo. I see your faces in my mind, behind the curtain of my tears. Monty and Mpho, I have never experienced such hospitality before as I received from you in Botswana. It is from you directly that I learned the welcome appropriate to visitors from a foreign country. And so, Linda, when you came from Kenya, and you, Justin, from Tanzania, after so many years of wanting to come to South Africa to study, how I wished that I could have received you in a country that reciprocates that which the rest of Africa has given me. Norman, the insight which you added to the business, and the hard work which you and your colleagues, all refugees from Zimbabwe, put in to save the company after the violence and destruction caused by your local predecessors last year brought it to ruin -- all this was admired, as I am sure you know from the many plans Marius tried to make to ensure your safe accommodation in the months before the destruction began on this scale. Agrippa, it broke my heart to send you that SMS last night to say that although I had invited you to tell me your needs, they would not let you and your family stay with me, and that the best I could do was to buy you tents. Because I want to do so much more. And what shall I say to George, and to the woman in the headcovering who sold me my wheelies at Milnerton Market (she called me "sister"), and to Corinne and the other security guards who are without security themselves, and the man at the fabric shop, and...? What I want to express is not a political opinion. It is only my brokenness for you.

"Seven tears ran into the ocean..."

I drew a thousand bucks from my bank account on yesterday and sat down with my flatmate to figure out how to spend it. That, and some money given to me by my mother, and my flatmate's money due to him at the end of the month. The Argus listed a number of charities that were taking donations, so we phoned the nearest one, a soup-kitchen in Athlone, to ask what they needed. While I went to work, he went to buy the supplies and delivered them to the Mustadafin Foundation, which he reported to be running well from a domestic building, and serving a massive number of displaced people. The donations were definitely needed though, he said, and he would have added his labour to that of the other volunteers, had we lived closer. He began contacting friends to ask if they had anything they wanted to give.

As I got ready to deposit my remaining salary into the bank account of another organisation, I realised that if I found a way to help Agrippa and some of the others personally, I would need some of that. So I held it back. After work, we drove to the Kayamandi police station, where we had been told there were about a hundred people in need of fresh food. And I didn't tell him, but I was glad in that moment that my flatmate was not White, because I preferred that we should not  be perceived as having the misguided colonialist philanthropy typical of people who have no idea of the needs of the community which spawned the violence. I think that we were perceived that way anyhow because he too was not of the right race and tribe, and we came in a car. I asked one of the policemen in Xhosa what we should do about the people who needed help. "Oh, you mean the foreigners?" he said after trying for a while to figure out what I was on about. He sent us to Stellenbosch police station, and they sent us to the fire station, who knew of nothing. The duty officer phoned around until eventually she reached someone who was in the know. There are about 30 children under the age of 12 amongst the group of 120 people consisting mainly of Somalis, we were told; the youngest of them is 2 months old. The fire station was indeed the right place to leave the goods. We began to plan what to do about the need, but I had to leave again for my evening work, so we could not complete our task.

Dawn is breaking. Another day. I have learned to get by with very little faith, and I expect that in some things, I may have to learn also to get by with very little hope. But may I die before I learn to live without love.

And that is why I cannot give up.

Speaking of which...

Geekspeak
Sowat 'n week of twee gelede het ek saam met 'n versameling Geek Dinner-vriende gaan treinry vanaf Nuweland tot in Simonstad en weer terug. Ons het by Kalkbaai afgeklim, langs die kaai gaan stap en vis en skyfies gaan koop by Kalky's. Gits, jammer oor die deeltekens; daar is mos fout met hierdie blog -- sodra ek hulle tik, dan scramble my teks. Anyway, Arno and I were in the queue together for fish and chips. "They also make a grilled version," he said, "you just have to wait longer".
"Nah," I said, "I believe that when you go to a place for food, you should order what they do best. That's why I play it safe by ordering just the regular battered fish with chips."
"Ah," said Arno, "it's called leveraging their core competencies."

Newspeak
Last November I was working in Swaziland. I was waiting for Nqobile (one of my students) in her car one day with her friend Siphosintle, one of the network network administrators.
"That's Nqobile's sister on the radio," said Sipho when the DJ started speaking. I listened carefully. The DJ had a pleasant, semi-sophisticated, semi-sultry voice, and a curious accent -- like a middle class news commentator British mixed with a smattering of American and something which sounded like a vague north-from-here African English beneath all of that.
Nqobile got into the car.
"Where has your sister lived?" I asked. "I can't make out the accent. It seems as though she must have traveled a lot."
"Everyone asks that!" Nqobile laughed. "When she first came onto the radio, everyone said, 'Who's that girl and where is she from?' The accent is entirely man-made. She has lived in Swaziland all her life."

Speaks with forked tongue
Ek: "Ek dink nie ek sal ooit weer 'n TV wil he nie."
Marius: "Ek sou nie graag heeltemal sonder 'n TV wou wees nie. Ek wil darem kan sien hoe Hilary Clinton lieg."

Money speaks
Ek: "Van wanneer af lees jy die Kaapse Son?"
Christopher: "Ek het nie vanoggend genoeg geld gehad vir 'n Argus nie."
Ek: "En wat dink jy van die Son noudat jy hom gelees het?"
Christopher: "Hy's 20c te duur."

God speaks
In Swaziland, discussion about the prevention of HIV infections and the treatment of AIDS is strongly encouraged in all the media. When I say all the media, I mean in newspapers, on the radio, on billboards, on the back of toilet doors, at music festivals and any other place that's possible (Swaziland doesn't have its own TV station, and the Internet isn't that huge either. I mean, side to side it's not a very big country anyway). Swaziland has a very religious -- or superstitious -- population. Even the Catholic Church, which has many Swazi adherents, advertises its point of view. I was in Swaziland just before World AIDS Day. There was a big concert organised to take place in Manzini, with international stars, and the ticket price was in the region of E100 (roughly the same in ZAR), which my students considered to be good value, considering the high profile of the entertainers.
Nqobile's sister was hosting a phone-in discussion on the radio, and the topic seemed to have turned to: "Should you have to consult your partner before you get an HIV test?"
To me the answer was so obviously "no" that it surprised me that there were so many arguments and counter-arguments from the listeners who phoned in. There were four of us in the car as we listened to this -- three women and one self-confessed promiscuous male.
Then a man phoned in and said, "I think that it is not as important what the partner thinks, as what God thinks. So before someone decides to be tested for HIV, he should pray to God and then God will show him whether he should be tested or not."
We were all quiet for a moment, and thoroughly perplexed. Then the man who was with us said what we were all thinking, and we all laughed at the same time. "Funny how it is important to pray to God before you get tested for the disease, but praying to God was the last thing on your mind before you did that thing which potentially gave you the disease in the first place!"

Hiatus

I read their manifesto. I would have to confess that I am powerless over this. I am not ready to confess that yet, in spite of the fact that I know I am not exercising due control right now. Not ready to subcontract my responsibility to others. Sometimes when you're an addict, you need help and support, but right now I don't really want that. (And anyway, as I mentioned before, I can only imagine that any support group I could conceivably visit will probably be amused to have a sugar addict -- and a non-smoking teetotaller at that -- in their midst, even if they don't say so.) This is not a psychological addiction, but a physical one, although psychology -- talking to myself -- will be an important part of the cure. When this busy time is over towards the third week in May, I am going to take time off to formulate a strategy. I already have some ideas. I want to do this alone if I can.

Addict

I have written about this addiction before. I was convinced that I had the willpower to break it. Maybe I could do it if I just tried harder. But I am not doing it right now.

I said to my mother a while ago, wouldn't it be embarassing if we checked ourselves into some rehab centre, and when the group are all together for their first support therapy meeting, a conversation like this ensued?
"My name is Clint and I am a crack addict."
"My name is Tammy-Lynne and I am addicted to crystal meth."
"Hi, I am Johan and I am addicted to crystal meth and morphine."
"My name is Louisa, and this is my daughter Tania, and we are addicted to sugar."
"Sugar... you mean heroin? Or coke?"
"No, I mean, well, there is sugar in Coca-Cola too, but sugar specifically. Like Huletts or Selati. Or Cadbury's Mint Chocolate, or condensed milk, or five spoons of the stuff  in a mug of tea. Sucrose. Sugar."
Silence. Then:
"Will someone please get these people out of here so we can focus on the guys who have real addictions?!"

A sugar addiction is as real as any of the others, but sugar is legal at any age, and you don't start selling your family's DVD player to afford it. You also don't usually drop out of university or get fired from your job, because it takes you a while to develop the resultant ailments. So no-one really notices that you are an addict.

I wonder if the people at Narcotics Anonymous are going to take me seriously when I pitch up at the first Monday night meeting. But I have got to start somewhere. I can't figure out what else to do.

AIG, Discovery, the DMSA and cell-phone spamming: The plot thickens

The so-called National Consumer Database

I was too busy during the past month or two to pay proper attention to a comment which someone posted in response to my note on AIG's cell phone spamming, but a few weeks ago I followed up on what he said, and learned the following: it appears that the so-called National Consumer Database is the database shared by members of the Direct Marketing Association of South Africa (also known as the DMA or DMASA). I used to have quite a positive feeling about this organisation, because I reckoned that at least tthey had a code of ethics -- after all, they run a Do Not Contact register, and I am on that register; which means that if some company is spamming me, it must be a company that isn't affiliated with the DMASA.

AIG and the DMSA

Wrong. I found out that AIG is indeed a member of the DMASA, so either AIG was contravening the DMASA code when they contacted me, or the DMASA doesn't care a hoot about who's on that register, and the members are collectively determined to contact as many people as possible anyway, regardless of their feelings towards spam. I contacted the DMSA's complaints department a month ago to let them know that a number of people have been experiencing the same annoyance from AIG, and to ask them what we should do about it. I still have not had a reply from them.

What are they thinking?

None of this makes sense. Why would people try to sell something via a cell phone to someone who has actively, and proactively, declared herself to be hostile to this form of contact? Perhaps the explanation lies in the simple notion that persistance occasionally eventually pays off. Persistence doesn't explain everything, though. Why go to all the trouble of running a Do Not Contact register if you are going to contact these people anyway? Is inviting people to sign up for the register simply a way of ensuring that you have more accurate information about your prospects, so that when you do contact them, you can break through their hostility because you know a lot about them and can thus plan your strategy to squeeze through their barriers? (There are certainly a number of people who believe this conspiracy theory. I've heard them phone in on the radio.)

Discovery

Today I received a similar SMS message as I got from AIG from Discovery. I have two policies with Discovery. But this message wasn't in connection with that. It was in connection with "value-added SMS services" (whatever that means) to which they have subscribed me without my consent. If I don't want these services, they say, I have to send them a message to unsubscribe, or visit the Web site. I visited the Web site, and from there I sent them a livid message telling them what I thought of their marketing technique. I don't care how good their insurance policies are. If they can't keep their dirty little fingers away from spam, I don't want to have anything to do with them, and will get the services I want somewhere else. Anyway, what sense is there in insuring people against things like high blood pressure if you are going to drive up your customers' blood pressure by spamming them? I think that the next time I go shopping for insurance, I am going to ask to see the company's communications policy before I ask to see any insurance policy. I want to be sure that they have some business sense before I entrust such a large chunk of my salary to them to invest.

Botswana

It is my last night in Gaborone. For years it was my dream to come to work here and the reality was even better than the dream. I had the privilege of presenting a course on Activity-Based Project Costing for the National Governance Programme of the Office of the President of Botswana, along with Dr. John Morrison. Botswana was once one of the poorest countries, and can now boast not only declining HIV infection and AIDS death rates, but also a growing economy and political stability. Working with the extremely bright and hard-working co-ordinator of the Programme and his efficient Personal Assistant, as well as with the highly intelligent co-ordinators and senior administrators in various projects in departments ranging from Foreign Affairs to Tribal Administration and Information Technology has inspired the following beliefs:

Civil servants and politicians are not inherently corrupt, evil and selfish. I never put much faith in governments before, but at last I believe that a government can work for its people. The people we dealt with are tasked with auditing existing policies, systems and procedures, and fixing whatever is not effective. They recently changed the entire judicial procedures in the country resulting in an enormous increase in efficiency in the legal processes. They got us in to teach activity-based costing, because they saw that as the best way of fixing some of the errant projects under their direction. (We will also be making some other recommendations in our report.) The point is not that they do everything well, but that they are constantly working on improvement, with measurable results.

African governments have no excuse for being undemocratic, corrupt, stupid or inefficient. Botswana is an African country, run by Africans. It is a stable democracy, it takes corruption seriously, values knowledge, skill and leadership competence to such a degree that it is developing proper assessment systems for civil servants to ensure that advancement is based on merit, and that people who don't perform and who do not respond to training interventions are removed from office; and it pays attention to the development of efficient processes.

One evening the co-ordinator drove me to the airport to check whether my misplaced luggage containing the course workbooks had arrived yet. As we were discussing two of the leadership development projects under his direction, I mentioned to him that I had recently noticed the cynical irony in that nearly every profession requires that the applicant should submit a CV and be evaluated on his competency before he is appointed, yet the people who form the legislative assembly of a nation -- those who carry the enormous responsibility of deciding how life should work for everyone else in a country -- are selected purely based on popularity rather than on a set of qualifications.
"We have actually proposed a system in which measurable competency and qualifications would be a pre-requisite for candidacy", he told me.
"Wow!" I said, amazed at the boldness of the initiative. "I can't imagine the current delegates took it too well."
"It was rejected at local level," he said with a smile and a subtle you-know-how-politicians-can-be tone, "but at national level it is still being debated. Currently it has gone to the parties for consideration and they haven't come back on that yet."
I was quite incredulous. Whether or not they go for it in the end, the fact that they were actually willing to debate it at all is amazing to me. I would love for our own politicians to be subjected to competency assessments prior to becoming candidates!

My associate, Dr. Morrison, with the Co-ordinator of the National Governance Programme of Botswana at Primi Piatti in Gaborone.

After coming to say goodbye this evening, he left for an important meeting with the ambassador of Zimbabwe. He's part of the negotiating team which is trying to convince Robert Mugabe's men to "do the sensible thing" following the no-longer-so-recent elections in that ailing country. (Botswana has effectively given asylum to Morgan Tsvangirai and recognised him as Zimbabwe's president.)

I do not know whether I will be back in Botswana soon; depending on the requirements, I may need to send in some of my other associates for the follow-up engagements with the project leaders and possibly also with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (I briefly met the Minister today and will probably be asked to submit a proposal shortly).

I do wish I could have spent some time seeing how the Ministry of Science and Technology (home to the nation's "IT department") runs its projects, though. We had two of the Project Managers from their Project Office on the course, and in spite of being well-trained in Project Management already, and well-versed in several methodologies including PRINCE2 and RUP, they gave an extremely favourable appraisal of the course which we presented. One of them had the rare distinction of having three qualities which are seldom to be found in a single person (at best, you can usually find two): intelligence, beauty and humility. (In addition to that, she was also insightful, assertive, and delightfully attached to her homeland, in spite of having had lucrative job-offers in Colarado where she studied for four years after school.) I lent her my Wysocki book overnight, and like me she too found the appendix on Project Management basics to be thoroughly enjoyable because of its clarity.

Tomorrow we fly home, and I am looking forward to taking the train out to Simonstown on Monday along with some of the Geek Dinner crowd. At least that trip won't involve having my shortbread, gift-wrapped chocolates and expensive dancing shoes stolen from my luggage!

Checkmates in Johannesburg

Last week I was in Johannesburg teaching a course on Project Management to some of the staff at the University of the Witwatersrand. (This was my second time teaching at Wits, and the next course there is scheduled for November.) I stayed at a guest house near 7th Avenue this time, and during my sojourn I discovered that on any average evening just after sunset you can come to Wish! in Melville and expect the find a huddle of chess addicts. The ringleaders are Eric and his  cigar-smoking friend Pal. Pal's military career may have contributed to his skill as a chess strategist (or perhaps it was his chessplaying skill that contributed to his military career?). If you tell Pal that you're not very confident, he may just offer to coach you as he plays you. If you aren't up for the challenge of playing a Brigadier-General, try taking on Mpho later in the evening. His attack can usually be undermined if you manage to distract him! Wish! is an excellent venue for a chessplaying chillout. Try the cajun chicken tagliatelle, or the baked pecan cake (when they have it), or simply grab a beer or a pot of tea. The music is mellow and the wi-fi is free.

Love

He didn't talk to me for some time. Nor did he let me stroke the frown from his forehead as I have sometimes done before. I was a little hurt by that, but I let him be, and kept my distance.

At length, and with some difficulty, he said, "I have been thinking, and I realised that people need the care of other people." Only the day before, he had told me that he planned to withdraw from emotional involvement with humans altogether, for the sake of self-preservation; and under the circumstances, I saw no other choice for him, because I know of no community of love to which he could go, and I cannot be all things to all men, because some things I can be can be sacred to only one man, and in my heart I have already set aside those things for someone else. "If I make money," he now said, "I want to start a centre to care for people. Not like the TAC, where you have to be HIV positive in order to get help, but just for ordinary people, who need people to care about them. There isn't a place like that anywhere, where people care about other people. Just care."

I rephrased with sad resentment, according to my own paradigm: "There is no church in the world."

He was quiet for a while. Then he said, "I want to start a place like that."

"How will you recruit people to work there?" I asked wryly. "How do you pay people to love?" I was by no means cynical about the cause, only sceptical about the potential success of the proposed approach. It is not as though I haven't considered the same thing myself.

In my mind I heard myself saying the same words as I had said a few weeks before when a 22-year-old friend accidentally revealed how hurt he was by his father's nonchalance over his graduation, indeed by everything his father had not done to build a relationship with him in the years after his parents' divorce. I remember thinking at the time, or possibly even saying it aloud, because it reminded me of my broken marriage: It is not that he doesn't love you at all, it is just that he does not love you enough.

That was what I was thinking about again this time, as I have thought so often in situations such as these: It is not that there is no love in the world; it is just that the love which there is is not enough, not deep and long and wide and high enough. How is it that so many people around me are so utterly lonely and desperate by the time that I meet them? Why is it that there is so little friendship to be had out there that so many people end up regarding me as their best friend -- in some cases in spite of the fact that the friendship I have given them them is not even as full or complete as friendship can be? Why can't more people just love those around them with greater commitment? After all, love is a choice. Even when I love deeply and completely, why doesn't my love spread and deepen in others instead of just being reciprocated? I don't want a fan club! I want my love to be passed on, even just amongst a few people if God will not speed it throughout the whole world. Why is it that although I love so many people with such intensity and commitment, the world is still not significantly different around me?

I didn't say any of that aloud. I don't know what we said next. Maybe nothing. I started crying.

He came over to me, and we both wept bitterly. At some point I asked why God allows more people to be born, but I immediately felt daft and theatrical for having uttered such a thing, because it sounded like the melodramatic lament of one who tries to force everything God does into a paradigm of goodness alone and finally ends up either as an embittered atheist or in pathetic denial of his pain, having created a greatly convoluted logic just in order to sustain his faith.

Then we ate together, not with a great gusto at first, because tears seem to dissolve your appetite, unless you are an infant. But we finished everything and eventually felt a little better.

Several hours later I remembered to tell him that I thought it was the best and most encouraging thing I had ever heard him say. I have no faith in the successful outcome of such an endeavour, or necessarily in the approach, only a belief that it should be pursued anyway. You see, just standing at the cliff-edge to stop people from going over is not enough for me. The process of destruction must be reversed. People should be saving each other on a far larger scale, and preventing each other from heading for the edge inb the first place. I cannot even man all the cliffs within my own immediate proximity alone whilst waiting for someday, let alone those in the rest of the world.

With a knick-knack paddywack

When I have a lot of work, like now, and there's a straight path through which just requires dogged perseverance, then I become like a dog who's received a huge bone. He doesn't pause to say thank-you; he just carries it off to a corner of the yard where he can work at it in peace.

Working on a bone is a one-dog task. It requires concentration. This is not a good time to cuddle him or to try to help him out.  He may just snap at you, and then you will feel annoyed, he will feel guilty, and resolving the situation will delay the whole bone-completion process. If you are going to give him a bowl of water, don't hang about trying to engage him in a game. The best you can expect is for him to wag his tail when you put it down, but don't get annoyed if he doesn't pant, look at you adoringly, and lick your feet.

This is also not a good time to raise an issue like, "Why are you starting a new bone when you already have one buried in the other corner?" or "Why don't you join the rest of us over here? You can bring your bone with you," or "I need you to go and bark at someone for me immediately, pleeeease!" or "I've created a brand-new interactive customised bone-chewing treehouse portal zone full of features and benefits, just for you! Come and try it out and tell me what you think!" or "If only you had actually used the last interactive customised bone-chewing treehouse portal zone that I made, you wouldn't feel a need to be in this corner now!" or "Do you realise how long it is since you had a bath?"

When a dog is busy with a bone, he is not unaware of his social environment. He just does not have the capacity to interact with it in the usual way. Occasionally, he wants to see it from the corner of his eye. He needs to know that everyone else is fine, that they are coping with their issues, that they love him and don't question his allegiance, and that they will want to go for a walk with him again when the job is over. He also needs to know that if a splinter of bone were to break off and lacerate his oesophagus, they won't say, "Well, if only you'd accepted my help in the beginning! Now it's a bit late."

As a busy dog, it is hard enough for me to cope with the relationships I have right now. I don't know how I would have managed if I'd had puppies.

This is a silly form of advertising

I go to Amatomu. I click on an ad. The link doesn't seem to work. Then I notice that my pop-up blocker has been invoked. I don't want to allow pop-ups from this site, but that's not a problem, I reckon, I can right click and open the link in another Firefox tab.

Wrong. The ad is a Flash applet. So if I right-click, I can only rewind, zoom in, and so on. I can't even see the target URL, so I can't go to the site at all without inconveniencing myself.

I abandon the process.

Additional Project Management courses

We're getting so many enquiries that we have scheduled several additional courses. There's a Project Management course in Windhoek from 21 to 25 April 2008. This is a full certification course. From 7 to 10 April there's a customised in-house course in Project Management for line managers at Coca-Cola Shanduka in Springs, and the following week I'm training staff at Wits. From 21 to 23 April there's a course (led by Dr. John Morrison) focusing on Activity-Based Costing in Projects, for the Office of the President of Botwana. I'll be accompanying him to present the revision section on Project Management fundamentals. In the meanwhile, there will also be another Programme in Project Management held in Cape Town in April. In May we kick off with a PRINCE2-based course for an IT company in Johannesburg. (I know, I know, you don't have to throw Agile and Scrum at me this time; these guys specialise in the customisation and implementation of a specific software product, and accountability and documentation are important in their process.) I will be presenting a module on Project Management as part of a special introductory course in management for NPOs at the university's business school the following week. There's another Intensive Course in Microsoft Project in Cape Town from 20 to 22 May (we finished the first one yesterday) to accommodate those who couldn't make it this week, including delegates from other parts of Africa who needed to arrange visas. (This course is a bit different from other Microsoft Project courses in that it also includes a special introductory section on Project Management fundamentals.) Oh, and while on the subject of Project Management software, let me know if you want to attend the demonstration of PSNext in Cape Town on 18 April. This is highly recommended to people who have to manage multiple projects and to collaborate with external stakeholders. It is also the ideal choice for Project Management in a matrix organisation, as well as to anyone who just doesn't like Microsoft (the interface is Java-based, and the back-end is whatever you want -- I'm running it with Apache and PostgreSQL on my laptop, but you could use another Web server and database -- say, MySQL, DB2 or even -- gasp -- Microsoft SQL server -- if you must). The annual Programme in Advanced Project Management (suited to the needs of Programme and Portfolio Managers, and also practicing professional Project Managers) will also be held in May. Further courses in Cape Town, Johannesburg, Windhoek and Pretoria are scheduled for later in the year, but, based on the conversion rate of our enquiries and the increase in the number of enquiries we have been getting, I am pretty sure that the courses available for public booking won't be enough to accommodate everyone. I expect to update the schedule with even more additional courses within a month or two. We are also in the early stages of planning two industry-specific Project Management courses.

I almost forgot: there's a Breakfast Briefing in Project Management in Cape Town on 17 May. Just in case you wanted to know what I am actually talking about.

Onthou jy hierdie uittelrympies?

Ek kuier nou al omtrent 'n week lank by my ma-hulle. Vanoggend probeer ons dink hoe eindig die uittelrympie wat sy geleer het toe sy klein was, en ons kan nie onthou nie:

Olka bolka Riebeeckstolka
Olka bolka knol
Each peach muskadel
Twenty twenty... (En wat kom dan?)

Ek onthou ook 'n variant wat ek in sub-A of -B geleer het, toe ek nog op 'n Afrikaanse skool was:

Olke bolke Riebeeckstolke
Olke bolke knol
Airy chairy chicory chairy
Airy chairy tjorts!*

Ek het nooit self daai rympie gebruik nie, wat olke, bolke en knol was vir my simpel, lelike woorde, en daai common uitspraak van die res van die Engelserige woorde was vir my grillerig. Sien, ek was voor dit op 'n Engelse kleuterskool, en daar het ons hierdie een gebruik, wat vir my baie meer ordentlik geklink het:

Eeny meeny miney mo
Catch a nigger by his toe
If he hollows let him go
Eeny meeny miney mo

This was in the late 60s and early 70s. None of us knew what the word 'nigger' meant, but our nursery school teacher said it was a rude word, so we had to change it to 'turtle', and since none of us knew what a turtle was either, it later became 'tortoise'. (As a result, I thought that 'nigger' was probably a rude word for a tortoise.) I don't think that either turtles or tortoises have toes, though, not the kind you can easily grab anyway. Later on, we learned that 'hollows' was supposed to be 'hollers'. Not that that made any more sense to us than 'hollows', because the only American word we knew was 'hi', and we only used that when we were playing Cowboys and Indians. (Can you imagine the culture that brought us that rhyme in the first place, though? Or a game like Cowboys and Indians? It's probably Cowboys and Iraqis now.)

Sometimes we also added on:

And O-U-T spells out!

Die ander een wat ons nie kan onthou nie (OK, dis nou nie 'n uittelrympie nie, maar anyway) is die een wat my ma se musiekonderwyseres vir haar geleer het sodat sy die flats en sharps kon onthou, maar nou het ons die onthourympie in elk geval vergeet:

Boys eat apple dumpings
Girls...?
Fat cats go down and...?

* Ek sou hierdie woorde almal met Afrikaanse spellings getik het, maar ek het tans 'n probleem sodra ek 'n gravis of 'n kappie of 'n ding tik, dan scramble my hele bladsy sodra dit render op die Web (ek tik tans in die Notes client, nie deur middel van 'n Web-interface nie), omdat ek eendag die verkeerde encoding gekies het toe daar met die Save 'n dialog box opgekom het, en nou kan ek nie 'n knoppie kry om dit te ontlkies nie. Wanneer ek eendag oorgaan na die Notes 6.5 or 7 template, sal alles regkom, en my RSS feed sal ook dan ordentlik werk. Maar ek wil nie eintlik daai template begin gebruik voordat ek nie die nuwe custom scripting language darem bietjie onder die klere bekyk het nie, en voordat ek nie eers met 'n paar goed gespeel het, dit gebreek het, en myself verseker het dat ek dit ook kan heelmaak nie.

Hello wrold

I am swoly revocering from that thrid Panado which has made multiskating quite difcifult today but as fra as I know my wrok is up to date.

No more arbing and zoning until it's all over

A few days ago, Marius and I sat down and planned my personal timetable for the next few months of work. Many of my friends and family who have seen my client files and personal checklists before trips (which include, inter alia, both timeslotted to-do lists and illustrated lists of clothes, toiletries, snacks and electronic gadgetry) have smiled and said that it is obvious that I am a project manager. The irony is, though, that managing time, cost and deliverables when you are only assigning a single resource -- yourself -- does not actually use any of the famous Project Management techniques. Personal time management is not Project Management. But it's still essential.

Marius and I divided up my work into four-hour chunks. Most of this work involves the preparation and presentation of custom courses in Project Management for various organisations, including Coca-Cola Shanduka, the University of the Witwatersrand, the Office of the President of Botswana, the University of Stellenbosch Graduate School of Business and Southern X. Two of these courses will be co-presented by some of our other lecturers who specialise in PRINCE2, matrix organisation structures, and cost planning. And there's also one (or possibly two, I'll know by tomorrow) hands-on course in Microsoft Project which I must teach in between, and another one specially for delegates from Nigeria, Uganda and Angola which I am trying to arrange for June. Dis 'n program wat skrik vir niks.

The challenge now is not to stay on schedule. Merely trying to stick to the plan could easily cause me to fall behind, as there is no room for contingency. The challenge is to try to keep ahead of the schedule. I am not there yet.

On Saturday, I got together with a couple of friends for what will probably be my last official social engagement for a long time. (Well, other than the Geek Dinner, of course, but that's hardly optional.) All in all, there were about nine of us (although not always present at the same time) including Jonathan and Jonathan, Graham, Chris, Marisa, Wessel and the elusive Wizard of Oz. It struck me at one point that although I did not get to know all of them through the same set of circumstances, I would not have known any of these people (except for Marisa, with whom I'd been in the choir) had it not been for the Internet.

We spent far too much money on food, coffee, and particularly on parking (this was the Waterfront after all, on Easter Weekend!), and had a generally good time, in spite of being mildly distracted every once in a while by some member of the group wandering off to have a life-the-universe-and-everything-else crisis, or running away very suddenly to hide from an unfavourite relative. We finished off the evening at Gandalf's in Obs.

 
The argument about that last free slice of garlic pita.

On the subject of crises, then: In view of my really intense work schedule, I hereby request all my friends to kindly postpone all further suicidal thoughts, car accidents, and other personal disasters till June. This morning I even had to sell my Golden Circle ticket to MyCokeFest in order to catch up with my work after a schedule variance occurred on Sunday morning. So I am missing Muse's first ever performance in South Africa! But I feel less stressed for having chosen to do so.

Several friends who couldn't make it to Saturday's arbing and zoning and who suggested that, in lieu of their absence, we should "get together for coffee on Sunday" or some such thing, probably thought they were being nastily snubbed when I told them that I really wouldn't be able to commit myself to anything until the end of May. But there's the reality for you.

Oggendgesprek

Ek was vanoggend baie vroeg al op kantoor. Toe ek later kombuis toe gaan, het een van my kollegas so pas aangekom en vir homself begin koffie maak.
"Dit is nou die tweede lekkerste ding in die oggend," sê hy tevrede.
"Wat is die eerste lekkerste?" vra ek.
"Die eerste koppie koffie."

Time, cost, scope and quality

I worked really hard. But I couldn't pull it off this time. What I should have done was to go home on Monday afternoon with the laptop and work solidly until Saturday afternoon as I had planned, but instead I still gave my attention to all the other urgent things, including the induction of new staff, and several network problems that were rendering various users completely ineffective at their work.

Marius taught me this: When bad management -- your own bad management -- is to blame for something that affects a customer or supplier, don't lie, water down the reality or wait for them to find out. Contact them as early as possible to mitigate further risk -- and confess the real reason why you can't meet your commitment. That's what I had to do this morning. I could have just pushed on regardless, we could have winged it; but I am unwilling to compromise on quality by delivering a product equal to that of my competitors. Rather an angry client now than a client who feels ripped off later because we gave him less than our best. In the trade-off between time, cost, scope and quality, I chose to sacrifice time and cost. I contacted the client, rescheduled my hotel and flight reservations, and I am pressing on with the preparations, the new tentative deadline being Tuesday afternoon, until the client has conferred with his team about when it would suit them. I have inconvenienced a great number of people who had to plan their schedules months in advance.

Oh, and my Clumsiness Biorhythm is still at its peak. I now have three fingers enveloped in pink Disney Princess plasters, following an encounter with a hot frying pan.

The one biorhythm that they don't measure

I remember when I was about 13, someone worked out my biorhythms. They say that your physical, emotional and other states are supposed to be cyclical, starting from birth, and their frequencies are not the same; but sometimes your Physical, Mental and Emotional biorhythms will all be peaking at the same time, and if you are an athlete, you should be winning during such periods. After all these years, it still seems like a newfangled form of astrological poppycock to me, because in all my days, I was only ever able to discern one kind of biorhythm, viz. the Clumsiness Biorhythm. I have not been able to establish its frequency, but I have noted that when it peaks, it usually lasts for several weeks. Exactly how many weeks is what I am now trying to establish.

Three weeks ago on a Saturday night, I was in the middle of a grande jete en tournans or some such airborne manoevre when I landed obliquely, injuring my ankle. It was very embarassing, as there were plenty of people around the dancefloor, but fortunately nobody came to my aid, so I turned onto my back and lay there for a few seconds, contemplating my position whilst looking at the coloured lights on the ceiling. I then hobbled home to put ice on it, tended mercifully by my flatmate. I got it x-rayed the next week, but it wasn't broken; the ligaments were a bit damaged, though, and the doctor made me wear a brace to prevent further injury.

At first I interpreted this event as having been struck down by the Archangel of Rock for breaking faith by dancing at All Stars, one of numerous clubs in Stellenbosch where they play mindless house music. Of course I couldn't go dancing at Mystic after that, considering my injury, so I missed the infamous raid -- not that I stay out as late as that these days anyway, given the fact that I am old enough to be a grandmother.

But a week or two passed, and just when I thought my Clumsiness Biorhythm was probably entering its period of decline, I discovered that it was actually still on the ascent. With our outsourced network techies ticking away at over R300 per hour each, I hastened out of the office to buy some cables for them from the computer shop around the corner from our office. Having concluded my transaction, I turned round fast to rush out again, and ran smack into a concrete post -- the only concrete post in the entire room, right in the middle of a huge empty space. There was a loud thwuk as my face, torso and knee hit the pole. I tasted blood and wondered how bad I looked. I found the techies smoking in the parking lot, so we discussed the next tasks as I covered half my face, and then I went to check myself in the mirror. To my great disappointment, my injuries didn't appear as serious as they felt, and even the next day, my lips weren't anywhere near as wobbly-looking as those of Julia Roberts.

By today, I reckoned I could probably risk dancing again, provided I didn't use my injured ankle too much. So I put on Tears for Fears during a break in my work at home. Dancing in the corner between my kitchen and bathroom, I whacked my heel against the edge of the door, causing a bubble of blood to collect under my skin.

There are numerous other bruises of unknown origin distributed throughout my anatomy. Since I can fully account for my time, I have tentatively concluded that I do not have Dissociative Identity Disorder, so I can't have sustained these whilst out living a secret double life as a mud wrestler. I have probably just been too busy to notice how many car doors, table corners, bookshelf edges and other solid objects I have unsuccessfully obviated during the past weeks.

If anyone knows how long the Clumsiness Biorhythm actually lasts, please let me know, so that I can determine whether I will need to up my insurance.

The Mystic mystery

Well, hello, it seems as though a lot of people are only now finding out that Stellenbosch has been such a doped-out town all along, following the recent police raids! Good morning to you all, wake up and smell the coffee... I mean weed... I mean... no, rather don't smell any of that stuff, it's all bad for you.

What baffles me is why the police decided to choose that particular form of action. I can't see how on earth that was supposed to solve the problem. Most of the students who use illegal substances (and I am not going to call them "kids" like other people suddenly do, because I can assure you that when they are boozing it up at midnight, they are asserting their adult right to inebriation) haven't got a clue about the connection between their use of the stuff and all the other crimes which form part of the distribution chain which supports the industry. Some of them will refuse to use this or that commercial product, because an animal may have been harmed in its production, but they never give a thought to the fact that some person got harmed in the process of uniting them with a few grams of crystal meth (and I am not saying that crystal meth is the drug of choice, I am just mentioning it because it is supported by such a lot of really hardcore crime). Most of them don't really understand the long-term effects of any of the substances they use either. A few do, and persist anyway.

A lot of these people use the f-word when they get cheesed off, but in person they are actually quite pacifistic. I think a lot of them wouldn't even know how to make a proper fist and punch someone without busting a few of his own fingers in the process. So I don't really see the need for smacking people around the way the police did at Mystic and Bohemia. All that happens is that people end up mistrusting the police. Half of those who use dope probably decided that smoking a joint afterwards would be a good way for them to get over the shock of the event! I can't see how the police action is going to change anyone's behaviour for the good. If anything, people will start feeling that it's their God-given right to use "recreational sybstances", because those who are supposed to represent what's right, don't.

If the punishment doesn't fit the crime, and if innocent bystanders get knocked about in pursuit of justice, it messes up the psychology of a society.

It is a well-known fact that plenty of people who visit Mystic use dope, coke, shrooms, and the like; it is also a well-known fact that Emile has been very tough with certain characters who have tried to deal on the premises. In addition, it is well known that people either arrive pre-stoned, or leave to go and get stoned afterwards, but very few people actually get stoned at Mystic (I can't tell whether the girls do coke in the toilets, I guess that probably happens sometimes, but the only place where I have ever seen it in Stellenbosch didn't even get raided). So, if dealing or using within Mystic's actual territory is not happening to any greater extent than it is happening in the corridors of the building where I live, what on earth did the police expect to achieve by raiding the place, and why rough up everybody as though they have committed some violent crimes and resisted arrest? I for one do not even use any kind of drugs at all (unless you count legal ones, like Cadbury's Mint Chocolate), and nor does my flatmate, and we both go to Mystic regularly. Including last night.

There's just no other club in Stellenbosch where they play the kind of music that really inspires me to dance.

A "nuclear explosion" at UWC

Yesterday I accompanied a friend to a lecture by Dr. Patrick Moore, co-founder of Greenpeace, on global warming and the search for sustainable, clean energy, with a special focus on alternatives for South Africa. It was held in UWC's Main Hall, and although attended largely by uniformed Black schoolchildren (grade 10 or higher, according to my guess), there was also a sizeable minority of adults present. All in all, the audience numbered several hundred. Supporting his logically-structured argument about this complex subject with statistics, Dr. Moore made a convincing case for nuclear energy as the best (if not the only) option for South Africa's future large-scale power production. He made apology for the fact that in the early years, he had opposed nuclear energy on the grounds of fear, and explained why he now believes that this is a very safe option that is good for the enviroment.

The audience clapped and cheered.

The university representative said that because Dr. Moore had to go on to another engagement, there would be time for only one question from the audience. This opportunity was taken up by a very angry guy in an orange shirt who shouted at Dr. Moore. Much of what he said could not be made out properly, but the gist that I caught went something like this: "I don't have to know anything about science, but I know that nuclear energy is bad! The death of people around Pelindaba proves it! How dare you come to tell us that it is good? You want people in South Africa to die!"

Immediately an even greater cheer arose from the audience.

My companion and I laughed in incredulous astonishment at how suddenly the crowd was prepared to switch allegiance. A phrase I recently read somewhere (probably in Sense and Semblance) sprang to mind: something like, "In most cases, blustering assertion will pass for truth where audiences do not want to put in the mental energy to evaluate the credibility of a statement."

The orange man did not really want Dr. Moore to reply. He interrupted any attempts at controlled debate from the guest. Then the organiser said that Dr. Moore could spend an extra fifteen minutes there after all, and the microphone passed to another audience member, a slender gentleman who asserted that Earthlife Africa (to which the orange man presumably belonged) was an elitist splinter-group who only cared about themselves, and that he himself had worked with nuclear power for many years and could attest to how good and safe it is nowadays and how beneficial it was for all the people, especially for the poor.

An even bigger cheer went up from the audience.

The third audience member to ask a question looked like your archetypal dope-smoking lentilhead, and he spoke so unclearly that I shouted to him to slow down and articulate. He expounded some kind of implosive energy option which sounded remarkably like that once introduced to me by a former neighbour who had been in the SS and who still adheres to a lot of millenialist Nazi beliefs which have been largely forgotten by the world (or suppressed by the current German government for fear of re-awakening the horrors of Hitler).

Finally, the organiser said that one final question would be permitted, and several people raised their hands. The microphone was passed to a schoolboy, aged around 16. A massive cheer arose from the audience. The organiser struggled to bring them to order. "I realise that you are excited that one of your own has been chosen to ask a question," he said, "but please be quiet so that we can hear the question."

The schoolboy proceeded to thank Dr. Moore for coming to explain about South Africa's energy options. "I understand that South Africa is not doing a good thing by trying to solve its energy problem by building even more coal-based power stations, because these will increase our carbon footprint. I also understand that hydro-electric, wind and other power options are better, and that for all the reasons which Dr. Moore has explained, the best option of all for South Africa in the long term and on a large sale is nuclear power. But the problem is that in South Africa, we do not have enough skilled people to make these solutions a reality, and unless we solve that, people will have no option but to go for coal-powered electricity."

The audience exploded in rapture, cheering, clapping and noise of every kind.

By this stage, my companion and I had already made several massive mental shifts and had abandoned all the remnants of any notions we may have held about human beings as sentient beings, concluding reluctantly that Remington Norman may just be right about logic and reason being the domain of but a select few. It was a good question (or comment), we both thought, and it was unfortunate that Dr. Moore did not have the time to address it, as he had to leave for his next appointment. But the reaction of the audience to all the questions had been absolutely irrational. After the organiser had calmed the audience slightly (enough to be heard over the din), he said that it was clear that young people were interested in these issues, that academic debate was valuable, and that his department would arrange for an ongoing forum in which they could become involved to discuss the solutions further.

A roar of applause followed.

I don't know what was more eductional to me: Dr. Moore's talk or our observations on mob behaviour. The good guys also got their applause; but if Barabbas had been there, he may well have turned out to be the most popular personality of the day.

Stakeholder management

I hereby wish to express my amazement and admiration for the way in which the South African Breweries' Inland Distribution Centre has handled their neighbours in the industrial area surrounding their premises during changes at the Centre. They kept everyone informed, regularly delivering letters and providing a means of feedback, and finished it all off by inviting their neighbours to a party.

27 Dinner

"Some places have opened up on the list. Want to go with me?"
"Go where?"
"Dinner. With about forty-eight close friends."

So Christopher joined me for the 27 Dinner at The Wild Fig. I introduced him to one of my favourite 27ers, Ian Gilfillan (whom I had mentioned to him a couple of times after StarCamp in the context of a kind of modern agrarian utopia). They had a good chat about The Ethical Co-Op, while I went off to elicit Bev Merriman's assistance in getting my uncle's blog going. (My uncle, a doctor, has written a book about impotence, but I just don't have the time to assist him properly in marketing it on the Web.)

We went and seated ourselves in the back row (which was not quite as "riotous" as the back row was a year ago). Christopher was absolutely fascinated by the Stormhoek microcosm as expounded by Graham and Shane, who shared our table.
"I just love the passion of these people!" he said, completely taken with the notion of spending a day at Stormhoek. (Fynbos, community development and integrated business thinking tend to give him an adrenalin rush.)

Graham Knox of Stormhoek (the event's wine sponsor) with Tim and Garrick from Quirk.

Chrsitopher with Stormhoek's Shane.

I could not have anticipated that an environmental scientist would find so much pleasure in being dragged off to an event frequented primarily attended by Web marketers. I wonder what would happen if you dragged a trombonist onto a dancefloor...? Don't worry, I'm not even going to go there, as I suspect that in the absence of a bazooka, a trombone could work quite nicely.

A recent e-mail conversation about software Project Management with one of my fellow Geek Diners

He:	I'm potentially looking for a project manager for a large intranet/software integration project for a well known company. They'd need a good track record of managing technical projects. I think their approach is related to the PMBOK. Is that something you could help with, at all?
I:	Yes, I know someone suitable, but in Johannesburg. Is this in Cape Town? She said she is looking for a contract of about 3 months. She would be comfortable with the PMBOK approach. I am seeing her on Monday. Can you give me more detail about where and for how long?
He:	This is most definitely Cape Town, so Jo'burg might not really be a good base. And the project might run for 3-6 months, with follow-on projects popping up after that. We actually need a project manager to tell us how long the project should run for.  ;-)
I:	I am going to suggest that you speak to Peter... um... Peter... I will get his name for you. He was at the last Geek Dinner. Very experienced IT Project Manager. The problem with scoping IT projects is that they tend to be evolutionary; it is not always that easy to peg down requirements at the start. Only about 25% of IT projects can be managed using traditional project management methodologies, and many new methodologies like PRINCE2 and Rational are far too process-heavy for smaller projects. I suspect that many people who have aligned themselves with the PMBOK are trying to use construction industry models to manage what amount to R&D projects, which often results in a square-peg/round-hole situation although the last Guide to the PMBOK which I saw did include some stuff on iterative project management, but this doesn't always go far enough, and I don't think people who did their PMBOK-based study in the olden days have all got up to date with newer methods yet. OK, but now I am geting side-tracked. Peter would be able to assist in ensuring that the most appropriate approach is taken. Gonna get his details for you, BRB...
He:	Wow! That's actually a really interesting paragraph -- thanks for going off topic. The utter difference between construction industry PM and software PM was a topic in a recent conversation for me. I am trying to do an iterative project with the customer in question and it is tricky.  I think they might be mired in inappropriate methodology. But then again, I don't yet know that much.
I:	I am currently reading Effective Software Project Management by Robert K. Wysocki. I bought it because I have been "seeing this thing coming" for a number of years now, and it seems that many places offering Project Management training courses in South Africa are ignoring it. After that I have another book lined up, which is more about the software development process (coding, testing, etc.), and then I want to get a book on Agile project costing which I saw at Amazon. In order to get through all these books, I need to do a speed reading course; and in order to do a speed reading course, I need to get five other people to attend along with me, otherwise they won't hold the course in Cape Town. So if you know of anyone who wants to do the ExecuRead course for a discounted price, please let me know!

A message from rw

Dear Zohren


Good grief. I just realised that you must be 22 or 23 by now. Time has passed so quickly. Old people always say that. So maybe I am getting old!

You were 14 when we met. Either you were wearing a leopard head, or I won that leopard head, and I gave it to you, I don't remember so well anymore. A year or two later year you were really into Britney Spears and Pokemon, neither of which I had heard of at that time. Do you remember? You'd probably want to forget about that now!

You know when I usually think about you? Obviously when I see a Dalmatian, but besides that, usually whenever I am staying in a standardised hotel room. I think about my turfs, and that you helped me to get my first one; and how, when I was very unhappy in rw, I could just go into one of my turfs and no-one could come in, and I felt secure. Or I could go out and ghost, or maybe even unghost and talk to someone, and they wouldn't know how miserable I was, because we talked about other stuff. I think if you knew how much I needed you and how much you meant to me, you would have freaked at the burden of having to be a friend to someone who was so depressed. But you didn't know, so you just treated me like a normal person, and that helped.

I think you were also iw on New Year 2000. When midnight came in my country, I was back in rw, walking in a vineyard with my husband, and it was drizzling, and I was crying. (I was still married back then.) I think I went back iw afterwards. I felt happier there. Not exactly happy, but happier. Temporarily anaesthetised.

The funny thing about rw is that it reminds me of the virtual world sometimes, not the other way round. Even now, years later. Like with hotel rooms, but even with other things, like a coffee mug which I bought. It was called a Seattle mug, and that made me think of the skyline from my Seattle turf, although I didn't spend much time in that turf. (I just didn't have enough tokens to do a good job of furnishing it!) See? When I think of Seattle, I think of iw Seattle, not rw Seattle, because it is the only Seattle I know.

When I left, I gave my Sherry head to Emmeau for safekeeping, in case I ever came back, but I never did come back. I wonder who has it now. It was my favourite ware, because it actually looked like me when I added the ponytail and painted it to match my rw hair colour. (I don't think I look quite like that anymore, though.) Or maybe the world doesn't even exist anymore! I haven't been back for so many years. And if it does, they have probably changed the name again, so I wouldn't necessarily be able to find it.

If I do find it, I don't think I would go back in though. I don't know that I would want to see all the changes and a whole lot of new people; on the other hand, I also wouldn't want to see any of the old people either, because it would remind me of how desperately sad I was back then. I have a rw life now, and plenty of rw friends. I don't even have a computer at home. Deliberately.

I wonder if you are now pursuing a career in Web design full-time. I didn't think you would continue with your acting career. You were pretty good at scripting back then, so in eight years you have probably come a long way. As for me, I am not whipping up sites at a rate of one a week like I used to, but I do still work with that stuff from time to time, and I now have a full-time Web-based business. I am offline tonight, but tomorrow I am going to Google you. Not sure why, really, just curious, I suppose.

TYVM for everything back then.

X

Coversation with a fellow shopper in the appliances department of a shop in Tyger Valley Centre (edited)

A few days ago Christopher accompanied me to Tyger Valley as I went to look for a new all-in-one radio-cassette-and-CD player. (Yes, I listen to non-fiction audiobooks on tape, and no, they do not make all of them in a CD version, and no, they are not all available as podcasts, and no, I do not want to buy a home audio studio so that I can turn them all into MP3s when there is a perfectly cheap way of playing them without having to go to all that extra effort.) I happened to be wearing a beaded waist-decoration, a hematite necklace and Indian-style hand jewellery, and this may have influenced the perceptions of a stranger later.

"Hierdie een is vreesaanjaend," I said to Christopher, holding a chrome-edged space-age Rococo monster with large round built-in speakers that looked like fly-eyes. "Imagine this thing came towards you, walking through the haze," I said, holding it in front of my face.

"Walking through the haze!" a fellow shopper nearby repeated, giggling heartily as he pictured the menacing cyborg. He was a slightly effeminite man, I guess in his mid-20s. For a while we talked about the relative scaryness of the various gadgets, and how some of them looked less scary because they looked completely alien, while the ones that looked like mutants of earthly origin were the most frightening. "I am also having difficulty finding a suitable one," he said. "I am looking for one of these for my mother, but most of them don't look like something she'd be comfortable owning."

We discussed the various merits and demerits of what was on offer.

"This one allows you to plug in a memory stick," I pointed out, "so you can also play MP3s. I like that feature."

"This one can play DVDs," said the stranger. "But you'd obviously have to plug in a screen."

"That wouldn't really be something for me. I don't have a screen," I said. "I mean, I don't have a TV."

The stranger looked at us in awe. "I've heard about... I mean, I know all about it, but this is really amazing! It's the first time I have actually met real-life hippies!"

Moedertaal

Vandag is Internasionale Moedertaaldag. As ek nou die tyd gehad het, sou ek soos Gandhi lank en passievol kon geskryf het oor die belangrikheid van moedertale. Maar ek het nie veel tyd nie. Kom ek som net iets op, sodat ek darem 'n sêtjie kan sê voor die dag verby is.

My moedertaal

As ek nou vir my 'n moedertaal moet kies, dan sou dit die taal van al my oupas en oumas wees, maar soos ons hom in my ouerhuis gepraat het. Dit was my eerste taal, maar nie die enigste taal wat ons tuis gepraat het nie. Een van die eienskappe van hierdie taal waarvan ek baie hou is sy dinamiese woordskeppingsvermoë. As jy byvoorbeeld 'n ou op die strand met sand bedek, hom oopkrap, dan weer toegooi en wéér oopgrawe, dan kan jy hom 'n "heroopgegrawene" noem. Ek glo nie daar is so 'n woord in die woordeboek nie. Maar daar sou kon wees, want dit werk.

Taalrykdom

Wanneer 'n taal uitsterf, is dit soos die uitsterwe van 'n spesie, en net so 'n verlies vir die wêreld. Jy kry gewoonlik nog verwante diersoorte, maar nie daai soort dier nie.

Dieselfde gedagtes kan nie in elke taal geformuleer word nie. Dink maar net aan rekenaartale: JavaScript werk anders as Java. Die sintaksis en die woordeskat is anders. Wanneer jy Java skryf, ontstaan daar iets anders as wanneer jy JavaScript skryf. Ons het wel algemene internasionale omgangstale nodig, net soos 'n mens 'n tussenmedium soos XML nodig het om inligting tussen twee verskillende datastelsels uit te ruil. Mense met verskillende huistale moet soms met mekaar kan kommunikeer. Dit is dus OK dat die ou koloniale tale soos Engels, Frans, Spaans en Russies, en nou ook Sjinees, steeds as tweede tale aangeleer word.

Maar die mensdom se gedagtewêreld raak armer wanneer moedertale kwyn en sterf. En omdat die gedagtewêreld armer raak, raak die beleweniswêreld ook armer. Ek glo vas dat die Duitse taalstruktuur daartoe bygedra het dat Duitsland, veral na die Tweede Wêreldoorlog, na die voorfront van tegnologiese ontwikkeling beweeg het. Akademiese Duits herinner my baie aan 'n rekenaartaal, omdat dit 'n mens toelaat om so baie klousules binne-in mekaar te plaas, sonder dat jy jou draad verloor. Daar is ook 'n mate van woordskepping moontlik binne die Duitse grammatikale raamwerk. Hierdie soort logiese struktuur stel 'n mens in staat om makliker tot logiese gevolgtrekkings te kom. (Dis tog logies! Hehehe...)

Taalarmoede

Dowe mense wat slegs gebaretaal (wat nie so 'n genuanseerde woordeskat soos volkstale het nie) kan praat, is klaarblyklik meer gefrustreerd en nie so 'slim' soos diegene wat kan liplees en praat nie, want taal stel mens in staat om meer geformuleerd te dink.

Dit gaan nie net alles oor logika nie. Dit gaan ook oor plesier. Jy kan mos nou darem nie hierdie sin sommer net so woord vir woord vertaal nie, of hoe?

Afrikaans het grotendeels ontstaan toe die voorsate van vandag se Kleurlingmense slawe was aan die Kaap. Hulle eie moedertale is vervang deur hulle onderdrukkers se taal, maar hulle het self daaruit 'n taal met 'n ryk uitdukkingsvermoë geskep. Baie hedendaagse Afrikaanssprekende Kleurlingouers het egter om verskeie redes besluit om hulle kinders eerder in Engels groot te maak. As gevolg van hulle verarmde woordeskat en swak kennis van die Engelse taalstruktuur, kommunikeer hierdie kinders swak. Hulle praat miskien wel 'n nuwe dialek van Engels, en dialekte is nie per se sleg nie; maar dis 'n arm dialek, want hulle kan nie baie gedagtes daarmee uitdruk nie. En hulle kommunikeer moeilik met mense wat standaard-Engels of -Afrikaans praat. Soos Marius altyd sê: Wanneer dié kinders se ouers stry of vry, dan doen hulle dit nog steeds in Afrikaans. Emosie kom op sy beste tot uiting in 'n mens se hartstaal.

Tale verander. Dis OK. Dis goed. Ons hoef nie alles te hou soos dit was nie. Maar ons moenie in die proses dommer en armer word nie. Ons moet die goeie beskerm, behou en bevorder.

Lunar eclipse

My flatmate, my neighbour and I got up at five to look at the lunar eclipse. It was quite a pleasant, bonding experience to get up for something of no real consequence and talk rubbish for half an hour in the middle of the night. We had been promised that the moon would look red. "It looks more like the colour of a Ghost Pop," said my neighbour. Whatever else was exchanged amongst us, I cannot remember, but it was equally un-profound. We all went to bed happy.

Coversation with a tall Goth-like salesman in CD Select in Tyger Valley Centre (edited)

(I enter, wearing a butterfly print top with green lace-edged wing-cap sleeves, a pink beaded necklace, and my hair in a ponytail plait.)

I:	I would like to buy something from Radiohead, other than OK Computer; I have that one already. The heavier the better.
	(He hands me three CDs. I listen to them all, and hand back the red one.)
	I'll take that these two. You can't do ballet to that one.
He:	You do ballet to Radiohead?!

Ai

Hiermee spreek ek nou in die openbaar my misnoë met my pa uit, omdat hy na meer as 45 jaar van getroudwees, en ten spyte van die feit dat hy sedert sy aftrede meer tyd het om aan sulke dinge te dink, nog steeds nie die jolly moeite kan doen om vir my ma 'n ou verjaarsdagpresentjie te koop, pluk of maak nie. En sy hanteer die teleurstelling altyd so braaf. Ek wil nou sommer huil.

Lost

He and his boyfriend had the howmanieth fight in their toxic relationship. The same boyfriend with whom he allegedly blew R92000 in three months when they arrived in the country together.

The fight was over R20.

The boyfriend kicked him out, but he begged his way back in; then he walked out so that he could have the upper hand. Or maybe it was the other way round. Anyway, each went off and fornicated with a woman as an act of revenge. Or so he says. Now he has nowhere to sleep, no passport, no visa, no-one who will employ him without proof of identity, and no experience at the way the world is supposed to work. He gets his food and a night or two's lodgings from his friends by a combination of favours and begging, with a street-child's manipulative smile. (Of course, technically, he is no longer a child.) How it basically works is like this: He suggests that they go off and get some dope or chronic together. He doesn't have any money for the stuff, but he takes the friend to the dealer, or he gets it from the dealer for them if they give him the money. He keeps a little for himself, just one, maybe two or three joints, I don't know -- enough to get himself stoned, and if possible a little to give to the next guy of whom he will have to ask a favour. Then he stays for a day or two, does the cooking, and when people eventually want their space back, he moves on to the next place.

I smelled dope yesterday in the early evening and stepped onto my balcony out of curiosity. No-one is allowed to smoke within proximity of my flat; no-one is allowed to roll spliffs at my place and nobody is supposed to come there stoned. One of my neighbours saw me from below and asked if I had seen him. "No," I laughed, considering the context, "but I can smell him!"

A few days ago he told me another one of his pipe dreams, about how his father was going to be coming for a visit with a whole lot of forex, and all he'd need to do for it would be to arrange an introduction to a woman who likes a man with tight pants, and the best coke you can get in South Africa. He just needed R100 to see him through the week, he said. I didn't give it to him, but I did give him a bowl of noodles.

By eleven last night he was drunk as usual and all out of friends and favours. He asked me if he could sleep over at my place. I said no. I warmed up some left-overs for him, which he ate from a plastic don't-bother-to-return-it plate, using chopsticks which I once got when I ordered an oriental meal from Mr. Delivery during my last visit to Johannesburg. I also gave him all the little hotel bottles (shampoo, soap and the like) which I had originally kept after the same trip for a friend who (according to my olfactory system) wasn't following standard ablution protocols. But that guy had moved out of the building by the time I returned.

Outside my flat, down the corridor, he ate from the plastic plate while I went off to shower, and then to my clean white bed, with gentle music in the background.

And I wondered what advice Jesus in all his love and righteousness would have given me. Being an agnostic is not very useful when in your heart you are yearning to save the world.

Just because I don't often talk about suffering...

...doesn't mean that I am far from it.

Finding my way, MY way

Sometimes labeling your problem makes you feel better

When I was finally diagnosed as having a medical problem and put in front of a panel of fourteen specialists as a case study in my early 30s, it was a great relief. At last, I had an excuse for having had the ugliest legs in the school. Giving a fancy-sounding label like lymphoedema to something embarassing somehow makes it more acceptable. The thinking goes something like this: "My condition is abnormal, and that explains why I struggle with this. It's the way that I am, permanently, but because it is not my fault, I can be a cool person." I had a friend who felt a similar sense of relief when the label of bipolar disorder was finally placed on him.

A problem without a label

Now I am looking for another label to comfort me. I have a terrible sense of direction. Worse than most women. I get lost in buildings, and I struggle to find my way to places I've been to often, like Lourensford Estate. I think it's like when someone has dyslexia: other people are just so incredulous about your struggle that they think you are exaggerating when you try to explain the problem. They seem to be thinking, "You can't possibly be so dof at this one thing when you are so clever at other things!"

Dealing with the problem

I have mechanisms for dealing with it, provided that people are willing to answer my questions instead of redesigning them. When I was a student at Stellenbosch University, I used to occasionally go in to Cape Town for the day, and Mikhailo would pick me up after work, always at the Town House Hotel. I never really knew where that hotel was, but about an hour before pick-up time, I would start asking people to point me in the right direction. Invariably, they would start giving me instructions which I could not remember, and I would have to ask again, "So I start of walking that way, right?" I would walk for a certain distance, get a bit muddled, then ask the next person, and the next, until I arrived at the hotel, and I was always on time. It was not stressful, provided that I had enough time. Friends and relatives who discovered I was like this would trying to provide a better, more logical judgement and solution. "How can you get lost in Cape Town?" they'd ask. "There's such a big mountain on the side, that you should always be able to know where you are in relation to that."
"I know that," I would complain, "but the problem is that as soon as I turn around, the mountain is somewhere else!" Conventional reason and logic does not help.

Just answer the question!

Walking is easier than driving, because with your feet you can stop, cross the road and even reverse almost anywhere, so it isn't so bad when people just try to be helpful but don't exactly tell you what you want to know. But driving is not so nice, and sometimes people's attempts to translate my specific questions into their own terms can be particularly frustrating. A few months ago, I phoned Virgin Active's Cape Town head office and said, "I have to come to a business meeting at your office this afternoon. I know you're in Main Road, but Main Road is very long, so could you please tell me what number in Main Road, and also, what other roads are nearby?" That way, I knew, I could find it in the map book. But the reply I got was, "Where are you coming from?" I knew then that this was going to be a long frustrating call. Eventually, after restating my question numerous times, I asked to be put through to someone who could answer me. It took a very long time and several call transfers before I finally got put through someone who could give me the number, the nearby roads, and the nearest landmark. That was all I needed! But in the process of trying to get this simple question answered, I lost my cool so badly that I became horribly, pedantically sarcastic.

Sometimes the horrible sarcastic pedantry runs in the opposite direction.

On Monday night I asked a friend where a specific meeting would be held on Tuesday. He told me the name of the building, and said that it was behind N1 City. I SMSed back to ask if I should take the same turn-off as I would to go to N1 City, and by the sarcasm of his reply (he started mentioning roads in Johannesburg), I assumed that I must have phrased the question incorrectly, and that I had probably accidentally asked "How do I get to the N1?" (At least I do know how to do that -- from my home or office anyway, but not from many other places!) But I later learned that I had indeed phrased the question correctly, and he could simply not understand why I needed such detailed instruction. He eventually sent me the correct directions, but they didn't make sense to me anyway. I studied a map book, but the problem is, I can only remember a sequence of two landmarks, and then I have to park somewhere to turn the map around, read the street names again, and locate the next two landmarks. (And of course, you can't park on most major roads, so you usually can't just stop to repeat the exercise when you've reached landmark number two.) As usual I got lost. Eventually I made it to the right place, and when we left the meeting, I drove behind him until I was back on the N1 in the direction of Paarl. I think that by most people's standards, it was probably not a difficult place to find, but if I hadn't followed him out of there, there were three distinct points at which I would have turned in precisely the opposite direction to the route I was supposed to take.

People are more sympathetic if you're wearing a label

If you are deaf, you can say, "I am deaf. Please tell me how to get to the post office, but keep facing me as you talk, so that I can lip-read. Just speak normally." The I-am-deaf bit explains why you are asking for the instructions to be given in a specific way. Some people do assume that because you are not "normal", they must be cleverer than you and thus capable of figuring out a better way to communicate to you than what you've just told them, but at least they tend to be sympathetic to the fact that you want them to deal with you in a special way.

So what's my label?

This morning I searched Google for a name for my condition. I couldn't find one. And if I don't find one within a week, I am jolly well going to invent one. Then I can at least say something like, "I need to get to the next Geek Dinner, but I have Dystopic Zerodirectional Disorder. That means that in order to find the place, I will need the answers to specific questions, rather than instructions given in the usual way. Are you willing to help me by answering my questions?"

And even if they haven't heard of DZD before, I can bet you that because this condition now has a name, people will be more willing to help me find my way, my way.

Promotional clothing

Has anyone noticed that companies which specialise in producing branded clothing all have the same kind of thing? The whole idea of branding is supposed to be about standing out, or at least developing an image which is uniquely yours. Why does everyone sell only baseball caps, sports jackets and golf shirts? Have you noticed the sameness in that? All that changes is the colour and the logo, and anyone who knows anything about branding has long since learned that brand is not just about logo. Your brand must be "smashable". When are they going to expand their choices to include tank tops, mesh coats, dungarees and thigh-length boots? When I want promotional clothing, my last resort is usually to contact a company that specialises in promotional clothing.

Getting off the cell phone spammers' list

I am happy to say that AIG got back to me with details of how they obtained information about me (see original blog entry). It was not from the so-called "National Consumer Database" as one of their telemarketers originally said, but at least now I will be able to follow this up properly. Here's the mail I got from AIG:


Hi Tania

Thank you for your email. I made contact with each and every call centre asking for an email removal of your name, as well as individual list providers stating that they need to remove you from their database and not market any future AIG products to you. We managed to ascertain that the Freestyle List Owner provided us with your data. We have an agreement in place with the List Owner that each person on that database has voluntarily and knowlingly provided their details for marketing purposes. I have also been in contact with Derek Skewis (Sales and Marketing Director) regarding the specifics of how they obtained your details. Derek stated that the Freestyle database is comprised of Edgars, Bank and various other members. Should you wish to contact the List Owner directly his cell number is 083 565 2131.

I will also send him an email now requesting that he phones you urgently to further clarify how he obtained your details.

Please let me know if he does not contact you and I will follow up with him.


Kind regards
Nicky


I have an acount with Edgars, but I did not voluntarily and knowingly sign up for spam. Actually, I don't know whether Edgars contributes to the lists or just uses them like AIG did in this case; but either way, I reckon it will probably be best if I just closed my account with them. I am also going to find out what other organisations form part of this syndicate, so that I can close those accounts as well.

See follow-up story

Geek Dinner, Project Management and Lesser-Known Norse Deities

I'm tired today, not because Wessel, Peter, John and I were the last people to leave the Geek Dinner last night, but because the Wizard of Oz started his new job today and asked me to give him a wake-up call at 6, and I couldn't get back to sleep after that! There's something else wrong with me, and it's not low blood pressure, as I thought. I almost fainted yesterday after a Vitamin B12 injection, and I haven't figured out why yet.

I had volunteered to be the presenter of the slideshow karaoke at the Geek Dinner last night, and had feared that Jeremy would prepare a slideshow on Erlang; but instead, he had created a delightfully simple presentation on Lesser-Known Norse Deities, which made it really easy for me to wing it, especially considering that my fascination with etymology includes a passing interest in ancient Norse and its derivative languages, something that Jeremy could not have anticipated. Not that I had ever heard of any of these obscure gods, though, so much of what I knew was entirely irrelevant to this peculiar sub-topic!

Peter, who has been in Project Management for three decades, gave a short impromptu introduction to Agile Project Management with Scrum. I think most people didn't know what he was on about or why it is so important, but I was very glad that by doing so he had at least identified himself within the crowd, so after supper I went to his table to ask him everything about Agile training and his experiences with Scrum. I am working on the development of a special introductory course in formal Project Management for people in the IT industry (to become part of the course list at ProjectManagement.co.za) and have such a stack of books I need to work through that I am going to have to take a speed reading course. Peter's enthusiasm for Agile, and his in-depth knowledge of other methodologies (including traditional waterfall techniques and "heavy" methodologies like RUP), plus his experience with Goldratt's Critical Chain, make him far more experienced than most Project Managers I come across. And rather than paying lip-service to Agile and then saying that it is too disorganised (a common complaint from people who've worked in environments where the managers haven't really taken the care to implement it properly), Peter could explain the merits compared to other approaches in great detail, corroborating much of what I had read about this subject since my first exposure to it at BarCamp in 2006.

The venue was a bit odd this time. The food was OK, but the waitresses seemed to be either moody or distracted. One guy suggested that maybe their boss decided that the service charge included in our cost per person wasn't going to be passed on to them!

A very happy aspect of the event was that the wine was sponsored by Stormhoek. This was an important milestone, because it was Stormhoek that originally came up with the idea of promoting its product via geek dinners worldwide, thus ensuring an element of viral marketing through new media such as blogging. Unfortunately, the split which occurred at the beginning of 2007 between the Cape Town Geek Dinner and the 27 Dinner (following a not-geeky-enough dinner at Relish) meant that the post-split Geek Dinners were sponsored by a succession of other wine companies, all of which did their generous best to come to the party; but it still seemed like a kind of me-too exercise with generic medicine. The gap seems to be closing. If you ask me, the Geek Dinners are going to carry on into the future with the Stormhoek brand, and 27 Dinners (the Cape Town ones, anyway) are going to join up at some point, or disperse into a more loosely associated series of ad hoc events, as has been pretty much happening during the past few months anyway, keeping abreast of all sorts of emerging trends in the social media space. It's just a hunch I have as an amateur Socio-Political Analyst.

The decadence of modern marketing

If you take a South African marketing course that's worth its salt, you'll learn that one of the big influencing factors in the purchasing choices of Afrikaans people, particularly women, is guilt. I don't think many marketers and advertisers really think about this, though. The Northern Suburbs in Cape Town are mostly Afrikaans, but many people who live there shop in English. A shopping centre like Willowbridge (note the English name) is a good example. The shop names are mostly English, or pseudo-European (Philosophy, Col'Caccio, Pick 'n Pay, Woolworths). The specials and sales are advertised in English on shop windows. If you think I am about to advocate that they do it in the Afrikaans language, I am not. I'll leave my language advocacy for another day. And there are plenty of people who shop there who are not Afrikaans-speaking. What follows is simply a piece of advice for anyone who wants to sell stuff to Afrikaans consumers (regardless of the role of language in all of this), and possibly also to a number of English consumers who have a similar thing going on in their heads.

As I said, guilt is a big factor. Many Afrikaans people, even those who are not regular churchgoers, want redemption. Somewhere in their upbringing, they learned that all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and that they can never be good enough, but that they should keep trying to please God anyway, although it is impossible. (I am over-simplifying the theology to give you an idea of the mindset.) In spite of the fact that many of them may love material things, there is an underlying belief that all material treasures are bad, while only heavenly treasures are good. There is a distinct conflict between the two. A dualism. Flesh and spirit.

Many English marketers and advertisers don't seem to realise this. They name things in a way which, subliminally if not consciously, causes a dissonance in the minds of Afrikaans consumers. The brand name Sweets From Heaven is a good example of a bad name. In the mind of a traditional Afrikaans person, a more appropriate use of such a phrase would have been in the naming of a charity organisation that distributes sweets to underprivileged children. Heaven is not about money, profit and business. So a shop cannot claim to represent heaven. A church considers itself to represent the God of Heaven. Giving material things is seen as good, the only way in which the good which is to be found in the spirit can be transferred to tangible things. Acquiring material things, on the other hand, is seen as evil, unless those things are needed for survival. Oh, I know that Afrikaans people do buy from that shop. In spite of the name, not because of it.

The heaven metaphor is often used in sexual references too. There must be a hundred or more popular songs which contain some variation on the "Ooh, baby, I'm in heaven" theme. You'll see Afrikaans people sing along to the words on the dancefloor, but what's really happening in their minds is a conflict between conscience and action, producing guilt. An Afrikaans person who has this mindset has to play all sorts of tricks on his conscience (from needs-based rationalisation through to the psychological bludgeoning of that little voice) to get it to accept his participation in the corporeal pleasures of dancing or the purchase of a luxury vehicle or other similar elements of his earthly "lifestyle". The notion of a materialistic "heaven on earth", then, is pretty close to blasphemy.

Nowadays, many Afrikaans people will agree that the straight-laced norms of the past were too restrictive. But that doesn't mean they haven't retained many of the underlying beliefs. During the late 19th Century in Europe, a rebellion against the prim-and-properness of Victorianism resulted in a hedonistic rebellion amongst some people, manifested in a lifestyle which was often described as decadent. The word "decadence" comes from the verb "decay". It had a distinctly negative connotation. Examples of this 19th century moral decadence are captured in the lesser-known pornographic drawings of well-known illustrator Aubrey Beardsley. Some of these drawings were remarkably similar to statuettes produced during the Hellenistic period in ancient Greece, a period characterised by a similar decay of traditional morality with great advances in technology taking place in parallel. This pattern has repeated itself many times throughout history. The period in which we live now, the late 20th and early 21st century, is typical of such a "decadent" period. Technological advancement is at an all-time high, while morality is at an all-time low. Another characteristic of such a decadent age is ecclecticism -- particularly religious ecclecticism. Typically, a golden age spawns imperial expansion, and the dominant nation, united by a common culture and belief-system, is thus brought into contact with other peoples and their cultures. This happened during the Roman empire and the resultant fragmentation of the national spirit into hundreds of personal belief-systems contributed to its ultimate collapse. Today, much of Western society (particularly the English-speaking remnant of the old British empire) has a pick-your-religion attitute. You can be a Christian, a Wiccan or a Shamanist, a Buddhist, Rasta, ethical humanist or whatever you please, including your own combination or version of any of the above, as long as you don't try to impose your beliefs on others. Our present Post-Modern age is actually a sub-period of a much greater phase in history, a fin-de-siécle (or "end of an era") spanning more than a century. The age that is to follow ours, in the opinions of many (including William Butler Yeats and whoever it was who wrote the Mad Max movies) will see the collapse of our 'civilization' and some kind of repeat of the Dark Ages. If the pattern of history is to be believed, then decadence is the precursor of great gloom.

Weirdly enough, though, decadence has taken on a positive connotation through its association with liberation from nasty social restrictions. Oscar Wilde was homosexual. It was illegal to be homosexual at that time in Britain, and when his crime was discovered he was imprisoned for this 'moral decadence'. Gradually, in Western urban society anyway, homosexuality gained acceptance as the valid choice of an individual, and legislation increasingly protects the equal rights of homosexual couples.

The problem with the word decadence is, however, that it still denotes something bad. No matter whether you believe that homosexuality is OK or not, you should not really be of the opinion that decadence is good. But marketers have started telling us that we should want decadent things. Ice-cream is often described as "tempting", or a "sinful, decadent delight". Presumably many people respond positively to such brazenly hedonistic appeals. In fact, advertisers in general are increasinlgy leaning towards marketing to people's selfish traits in a very overt and unapologetic manner. There are so many television advertisements in which the woman chooses the car over the baby, the rugby hero drops the little boy so that he can have his chips, and so on.

These advertisements are supposed to be humorous, but many Afrikaans people find them offensive. Sin is not a good thing to someone who still feels somehow tied to a more traditional Afrikaans upbringing. It is not seen as an act of freedom, but as a step into to an unpleasant and lasting bondage, without lasting reward. "Spoil yourself" is a phrase found in so many advertising lines. Spoil is a bad word. To spoil something means to ruin it. This is what Afrikaans people hear when advertisers "tempt" them to "spoil" themselves. An Afrikaans mother will justify a day at the spa by telling herself that if she commits this sin of "spoiling herself", she will be more relaxed and in a better position to take care of the needs of her family. The sin is a means to an end. But it is still a sin.

Why not simply stop the sin-marketing? If you are convinced that your product is really good, why tell people that it is evil? Are you evil? This is certainly the perception that develops in my mind because of this kind of vocabulary. There are even numerous brands and products which I deliberately and consciously avoid because their advertisements glorify selfishness and other sins. If they told me that their products would be good for me or for the people around me, I would feel better about buying them.

It is understandable that advertisers want their products stand out. There's a perception out there that being good and rule-bound is boring. So I understand perfectly well that they would want to appeal to people's sense of adventure, self-expression and freedom. Being a rebel is sometimes good and righteous. Jesus was a rebel. He led a moral revolution. But he wasn't a sinner.

Here's a tip, then. Don't advertise your ice-cream as decadent, sinful and tempting. That may work for some, but you'll actually offend and lose some customers. Use words which appeal, without an explicit connection to either good or evil. Like "free". Only terminally cynical and suspicious people would say no to "free ice-cream".

Sense and Semblance: An Anatomy of Superficiality in Modern Society

When at the end of last year author Remington Norman used me as a drop-off point to pass on a copy of his new book to a friend, suggesting that I read it first, I was a little distressed, for three reasons. Firstly, I read uncommonly slowly, so you have to be extremely important to me before I will deign to devote any of my precious time to reading anything you might recommend (a situation I hope to mitigate shortly by taking a speed-reading course). Secondly, I have for years toyed with the idea of writing a Masters dissertation in Classical Culture, intending to draw parallels between our current age, the Hellenistic and late Roman periods, and the late 19th Century, and  thus to predict what we might expect from the future. The title of this book, Sense and Semblance: An Anatomy of Superficiality in Modern Society, suggested that someone had beaten me to it. (In fact, someone did beat me to it some years ago already; I remember Marius reading me a newspaper article describing the PhD of some woman in Stellenbosch, and it sounded pretty similar to what I'd had in mind, but focused on a comparison with the Hellenistic period only). Thirdly, I was rather scared, particularly when I actually received the book and realised that it was not an academic treatise, but a detailed discription of the symptoms and rather immediate causes of a very sick society, written for its victims and perpetrators (often the same people). I feared not only that the book would accuse me of being part of the problem, but worse, that it may be right, and I didn't know how I was going to be able to face up to the responsibility brought about by admitting guilt. Well, one thing was sure: If I didn't read it, I would feel even more guilty, so I began.

They say that people who read more slowly, retain more. I suppose this is true to some extent, but of course there is also the problem that slow readers' minds sometimes wander, so that they have to re-read just to ensure that they take in what they're reading. Soon I was so hooked that I contacted the intended recipient of the book, telling him that he'd have to get his own copy, and that I would pay him for the replacement. During that time, I showed the book to Marius, and Christopher saw it on my side-table and read a couple of passages from it while I was out. Marius glanced through it and came to the conclusion that whatever the author had to say, could probably have been said in a 20-page leaflet, but that he had probably turned it into a book because people won't pay you for a leaflet. Christopher happened to spot a passage on multi-culturalism, a topic on which he has some strong opinions, and expressed disagreement with the author's perspective. I urged them both not to toss out the baby with the bathwater. I too had come across a few opinions I didn't like at all, as well as some seemingly impracticable solutions for certain social ills, but I decided quite consciously not to read with the purpose of shooting down the entire thesis, but rather to seek out the value. (After all, the book is about superficiality; so don't tell me that a superficial reading is sufficient to form a proper opinion, or you'll only be proving the book's point!)

It wasn't hard to find the value. The author's language is finely crafted (albeit with the occasional repetition of an uncommon figure of speech), as though to deliberately force his readers to consider his precisely sculpted statements with the same care, whilst refusing to make himself a part of either the superficiality of vagueness or that of pseudo-intellectual neologisms. I suggest that if you are capable of reading English, and particularly if you either intend to run a company or a country, have kids or to live somewhere amongst humans during the next year or so, you should read this book. I haven't finished, so I can't tell you the ending. I just know that the academic-sounding title of this book belies the importance of what is offered for the reader's consideration regarding life as we know it. I am sure you will be able to find something in the book with which you can disagree. But I'd like to see anyone who wants to tell me that the entire thing is a load of codswollop explain the reason for such an opinion rationally, offering an equally logical alternative anatomy of modern society, and explaining why the problems described by Mr. Norman are not really all that serious, and that we can safely ignore them until they blow over. I doubt it would be possible to do so. If you remain unchanged by this book, you probably read it with your eyes or mind or the book itself tightly shut.

Networking, net-working en sommer net working

Personal "Project Management"

Last year I became a "jetsetter". There are so many things I would not have understood about this lifestyle in the past that I now understand. For example, I thought that it was a snobbish thing to insist on certain luxuries when all you really need when you're away is a place to sleep and something to eat, particularly since my own home is comparatively modest. But what I have now come to understand is that when you are being paid to provide "peak performance", it's the little inconveniences that can affect every aspect of the Triple Constraint (time, cost and quality), and in order to optimise the triangle, you need to minimise them.

Here are two examples.

Last year, I presented an in-house course in Project Management to academic and administrative staff at the University of the Witwatersrand. I was housed at a four-star guest house. The guest house owner was very attentive and he liked to chat. I was dependent on when he made supper, and because he had over-extended himself by continuing to take bookings during a staff shortage, we had to drive over to his other guest house for the evening meal, and I helped him get the food ready. Now, at the end of a training day, I am not usually tired; I am exhausted. My courses are customised to the needs of the group, and I sometimes need to make adjustments overnight, incorporating inputs from that day into the materials for the next day. All the additional faffing around with the guest house owner cut into the time I needed to regain my strength. The effort required to sustain the pace and to attend to the needs of all my students is intense. I got very good feedback following the course, and Wits invited me back to present two more courses in 2008; but I took strain. Following my training engagement at the university, I moved to Bryanston, because I had an extra day of business in the area. Checking into the City Lodge, I said to the reception clerk, "I am so glad to be able to spend a night in an impersonal hotel where I can be assured of being ignored until I ask for help!" And I decided: Whenever it is within my power, I will stay in a hotel. When I stay in a Road, Town or City Lodge, at least I know what to expect. I can isolate myself and concentrate on what I have to do, knowing that towels, Internet access, tea and food are taken care of, and I can access them when it suits me. Time, cost and quality are thus balanced in terms of my "personal project", the delivery of the course.

Another thing I never imagined I would hire in my life is a chauffeur. As a reverse snob, I had associated chauffeurs with the nadir of decadent ostentation. But I recently had to travel to Midrand to take a look at venues for a Project Management conference and courses, and there was no way I (with my one blonde female braincell devoted to spatial orientation) was going to be able to get it all done in fewer than three days if I were driving around Johannesburg myself. So I spent a couple of hours sourcing the most suitable chauffeur service, and got the driving around done all done in a day, once again optimising the balance between time, money and deliverables.

The business and pleasure of networking

Networking and social networking are both over-rated and under-rated.

Here's an example of what I mean by over-rated. Last year I attended a social networking event at a delightfully fashionable venue, and nothing happened. Everyone came there expecting something, and the expectation was different for everyone: some people thought they were going to meet venture capitalists, some thought they would meet peers, and some people, like me and Joe and Aubrey, came along because we heard that other people we knew were going to be there, and we were curious enough to just sheep along. It was all rather like when someone points at the sky just for the sake of it, and everyone looks up, but there's nothing to see. We engaged in a couple of cynically humorous conversations, had some seriously good milkshake and coffee in very interesting cups, and went home. The convenor learnt from the experience, as the attendees gave him feedback about the lack of structure, and how he could improve it next time.

Here's an example of what I mean by under-rated -- a networking opportunity which wasn't even meant to be one. Following my chauffeur-driven day in Midrand on Tuesday, I spent Wednesday with the company that distributes PSNext, the Project Management software package that has captured my enthusiasm from the first day I saw it. Although I have received hands-on training in both the basic and advanced features of the program in order that I might train other users here in Cape Town and elsewhere in southern Africa, I had decided that I needed to visit them for a refresher on how to run a demo, and also because I had embarassingly lost my database password, and therefore could not populate the blank database I had asked them to create for me on my previous visit. So I decided to attend a five-hour demo they were holding for prospective customers, and to get my database access sorted out afterwards. I got all that I came for, but the big bonus was that the event proved to be a networking opportunity second to none. At one point I had several people lining up to speak to me, and I was scheduling mini-meetings for timeslots during tea-breaks and over lunch, with the overflow being dealt with by an exchange of business cards and promises of e-mailed company profiles -- and managed all this without upstaging the hosts or diverting the focus of the event. I met people who work in training, in Project Management consulting, in sustainable development, and in project recruiting; and the best of all was that the sense of being able to work together based on common beliefs was mutual. The thing is, I have met several people via Facebook and LinkedIn and my own company's Web site who, whilst working in the same industry, just don't have the personal style and working ethos that make a relationship workable. On this trip, though, I met so many people with whom I believe real networking (or dovetailing, to use another industry cliché) is really possible, that I feel excited about what the future holds.

(Oh, and if you want to see PSNext, ask me.)

A similar thing happened this morning. I received an invitation to attend a faculty meeting at the university where I teach. Now, I am considered "virtual faculty" (their word for an outsourced contractor who teaches on their behalf), but I have never been to a faculty meeting before. Although I have generally steered clear of academic politics, I thought I might as well go along, if only to find out who the people are whom I greet in the corridors when I go there to teach from time to time. Great move! I met all the right people, and discovered that the strategy which Marius and I set out for ProjectManagement.co.za for 2008 fits in extremely well with what is being proposed by the executive education unit, and that collaboration should be possible on several levels where I had previously imagined there would be no interest.

The essence of social networking

I think one of the reason why social networking events can be disappointing and confusing to first-timers, is that they come along expecting business networking. I don't go to a Geek Dinner (or should that be GeekDinner? I am never sure how to write it to get it into the RSS feed) for business networking. I go there for social networking. Or to use a more down-to-earth expression: ek gaan soontoe om te kuier. I sometimes think that I am probably not as much of a geek as I am a geek groupie. I won't pass up an opportunity to make business contacts at such events, but if it's all about business, then you can join some trade association and go to its AGMs and monthly meetings and have a treasurer and a committee and the whole tutti. Social networking is about making friends with people with whom you have some things in common, and if the topic that brings you together relates to your work, then you'd better be someone that loves his work. Social networking is, in a way, what Lonely Hearts Clubs try, but largely fail to do, because they create expectations of great personal fulfilment and set people up to fear rejection. Oh, you can also fail at social networking. You can fail, for example, by hogging the mike to do your sales pitch, or by sitting there and expecting to be "serviced" rather than contributing to the success of the event, unduly criticising the best efforts of the organisers just because your personal preferences weren't acommodated.

By the way, there's another Geek Dinner on next week, but you can't come. It's full!

First Geek Dinner and Chess Party of the year

It's going to be at a place called Sloppy Joe's, which allegedly makes a good lamb dish (which suits me well, since I haven't eaten any sheep for a long time, although it has occasionally been suggested that I count them). On 3 February, a few days after the Geek Dinner (which has been scheduled for 31 January), the Checkmates are going to have another Chess Party. Last night I discovered that one of my new neighbours is an avid chessplayer. I gave him a piece of Christmas pudding, and he told me that it was the first Christmas-thing he had actually received this entire season. (His "worst Christmas ever", he said. And another example of Christmas Disappointment which serves to motivate my motion for cancelling this annual event.) So I gave him the entire pudding as a take-away.

Next week I am going up to Johannesburg to check out possible venues for a new Project Management course we're developing. I made numerous enquiries with various companies to find a cheap chauffeur. (I have only one braincell devoted to spatial orientation; when I go to see specific customers in Gauteng, driving me to where they want me is a condition of the engagement). I was surprised to find that the same brief elicited quotations ranging from between R650 and R2000 from companies offering this kind of service on a regular basis, so I guess this must be quite a diversified market. One company told me: You don't want to come to Johannesburg! The load shedding here is horrible! Well, the experience there can't be worse than it is down here where many tonnes of cement have to be discarded every time the power goes off. And you still have to pay a hundred factory workers. And the trains are an hour late anyway, which means you lose another hundred man-hours. And the police don't want to come when large mobs attack the staff. Aaargh, I am starting to sound like a former South African!

This time I am taking a miniature chess set in my hand luggage. I have learned a thing or two about sitting around at OR Tambo...

Blowing my holiday money

I've done it. I've taken the big step. For other people, the big step probably means buying a home theatre system or a personal computer with 12 GB of memory. For me, the big step means finally ordering the thing I have been thinking about on and off for over a year: Hohner's top-of-the-range Chromonica. It has a full four octaves (including an octave below middle C), and a concert quality sound. It outclasses every other chromatic I have owned. I'll have to warm it up and play it in daily for a week before I can really try it out. It should arrive by mid-January.

In the meanwhile I have also bought a sopranino to keep me from fidgeting.

And you're not allowed to laugh at me just because I like nerdy instruments! I expect you to be as impressed as if this were a brand new sportscar!

Actually, no, I take that back. If I got a sportscar, you shouldn't be impressed. You should be worried enough to take me to a professional philosopher for some attitude rectification therapy.

Selfish

2007 was one of the happiest years I can remember, filled with friendships, reassurances of love, dancing and self-absolution. Before 2007 I didn't even know that it was possible to be happy most of the time. I'd thought that happiness was a rare and occasional experience which was only made possible by the fact that it contrasted with a vast expanse of misery, like a bright flower in a desert.

But all this happiness and friendship in 2007 belied a sinister development in my character. I became accustomed to being liked, but once or twice I became a little worried that I had so few enemies. If you're too popular, you must be doing something wrong. Jesus had enemies. About a month ago I began writing a blog entry about this, in which I said that I thought that there's a danger of becoming hardened by happiness, that is, becoming a short-term pleasure-seeker that walks all over people.

I never posted it.

But the danger had already materialised. On Wednesday night I began receiving SMSes from a friend, ruthlessly attacking my character. The first went like this: "Funny thing about you is that everything is about you. Friendship with you means to go with you, mix with your friends. No interest in the life of 'friend', only in entertainment value of person in your presence. Expressions of love, addiction only to achieve an end. Calculated gain, premeditated selfishness."

My initial reaction was to defend myself. I had just spent several days in service of people I care about when I would actually have preferred to have been alone, and felt quite exhausted. But I did not defend myself. Because whatever 'evidence' I might have to offer in my defence did not negate the fact that in my heart I knew what he was talking about, and he was right. I was afraid that if I didn't re-read the message, my heart would harden, and I would not change. So I saved the message, and replied, and read it again. And again. I desperately hoped that he wasn't so annoyed with me that he would stop there. I begged him for more. It actually felt like a further selfish act to ask him for more, but I didn't know how else to get what I needed.

Fortunately several messages like this followed over the course of the next two days. It began to hurt. I wanted it to hurt so that I could be cut to the heart, and change, and stop being selfish. I became afraid of losing him, not because of his 'entertainment value', but because it has been so long since anyone has been so hard on me, and with such accuracy. And I trust his ability to help me to change. But even in this I was still selfish, because it was about me changing, and his use to me in this endeavour. I kept asking for more up to the point where he seemed to think I was being unnecessarily monastic about the whole thing, probably imagining me to be one of those people who takes masochistic pleasure from melodramatic self-chastisement. But it wasn't that. I don't feel overwhelmed, and nothing I said was exaggerated. I just feel so hungry for this kind of spiritual input. I wanted to get to the point where I could feel his pain, and the pain of the people I had hurt, so that I could radically change, so that I can be of use to what is Good, so that my actions will become unselfish and of lasting and cascading benefit.

Now my cell phone is dying, and I am not sure I will be able to communicate with him. I don't want to lose him. I doubt he even realises how many times he has saved me from evil.

Some of the things that have happened since my last entry

Breede River

Mikhailo and I spent a couple of days on the banks of the Breede River. Two of my hapless friends, Harry and the Wizard, came to visit us on separate evenings, but the details which I had given them earlier verbally and in later in writing somehow escaped their attention, so they did not stay over.

One notably unpleasant aspect of our visit to the Breede this year was that numerous other visitors nearby decided to regularly disturb the peaceful evening sound of crickets, birds, fish-rises and frogs by playing horrible Afrikaans party pop and rugby music. Our personal rule for Breede River holidays is to have no music at all, not even Baroque (although occasional campfire music like harmonica and guitar would have been tolerated). I live in a block of flats populated by students and so I am accustomed to a fair amount of neighbourhood noise. I don't mind it; I even contribute my fair share to it before 22:00, which is when the house rules require that we all shut up. But I do not want that noise on the banks of the Breede River!

We got to see a bit more of the surrounding area than we did last year, though. Did you know that Robertson has a zoo? It isn't called a Zoo, it is called Paradise Birds, but it is a zoo, and the zookeeper and his wife live on the premises. We went there several times to eat cake. We also visited a large cactus garden. (Large garden and large cactuses.)

Christmas and New Year

Christmas and New Year were predictably stressful, as close friends struggled with emotional problems and I was not able to spend much time alone. In 2006, for the first time in many years I'd had an old-fashionedly pleasant Christmas, and good rid of much of my cynicism, but I am afraid it is once again creeping back, and I am once again starting to believe that for a vast number of people, Christmas is the least joyful time of the year, and the catalyst of a lot of misery, pain and suffering. Honestly, I wouldn't mind if it were wiped off the calendar.

I had set aside three full days to clean out cupboards, wash floors and so on, and although I worked diligently, progress was just very slow, and I have recently discovered that I have low blood pressure again, so perhaps that's the reason. Stellenbosch usually has a bustling night life, but with the students all gone, many night spots simply closed completely. I don't like to celebrate New Year, but since yesterday was Christopher's birthday, we went to Mystic to celebrate that, and Graham came through from Cape Town and stayed over at the backpackers, while Christopher stayed over in the Wizard's flat. It was not a bad party, although Christopher, believing that one should "make the best of one's holidays", decided to wake me up at the unearthly hour of nine the next morning. I made omelettes for these gentlemen, and then spent most of the rest of the day facilitating transport for various people in view of the fact that trains and taxis don't run frequently on public holidays, and cars have the habit of breaking down at the Klapmuts crossroads.

No time to write more. I'm back at work.

I am supposed to be on holiday, but...

...as I expected, it's not going to be that easy to just up and leave. I have to do my referrals recon; I have to renew some domains, and I have to write two course proposals, not to mention the fact that I still need to finish off development of the feedback database, capture the feedback from previous courses, print additional certificates, and write a couple of training reports. So I think I will be in the office nice and early tomorrow... which is a Saturday. What I did manage to do today (besides dropping the Princess off at the airport) was to get the details of two special additional Project Management courses onto the Web site.

The one is an Intensive Part-Time Course in Project Management spread over four Saturdays from 23 February to 15 March 2008. This course has been developed in response to the demand for training in Project Management outside normal working hours. The approach is based on my experience of what works best to get as much value as possible out of the shortest possible time, and on feedback received from numerous short customised courses which I have presented to a variety of industries and to people in various positions, from junior administrative assistants to CEOs.

The other one is an Intensive Hands-On Course in Microsoft Project from 31 March–2 April 2008. The rationale behind this is that only two certification courses in Microsoft Project have been scheduled for 2008, so this additional hands-on course has been scheduled in response to requests for a Microsoft Project course earlier in the year, covering the same content, but without tests and homework. Whereas prior formal training in Project Management is a prerequisite for the certification course, this earlier course does not have the same prerequisite. It includes an overview of Project Management fundamentals for those who have not yet been exposed to the key concepts and terminology.

I will be offering training in PSNext later in the year as well, and I definitely want to develop a course in IT Project Management. With luck I will be presenting the first of the IT-specific courses in Q2 in Malawi.

Workaholic? Me? Never!

Life after StarCamp

I am still surfing the good mood wave brought about by StarCamp. Some tidbits which have come up...

New music venue

There's a new live music place in Cape Town called The Assembly opening tonight (learned about it via Evan Milton's mini-feed on Facebook). Two of my favourite local bands, Lark and UnitR, are performing, but I couldn't feasibly go, because I was going to be doing some tutoring in Microsoft Project for two students tomorrow, so, with the event starting tonight at 21h00, I would get to bed too late. Now one of the students suddenly has to go for surgery, so the tuition has been postponed to the first week of January. However, in the meanwhile I had undertaken to nurse and cook for a sick friend (who has the lousy habit of not acting sick enough, but getting up to go out for meetings). So I can't really go out anyway...

Holiday...?

With that training postponed to early January, I am going to have a rather diced-up holiday, unfortunately, because although I will be going away for a couple of days at the river, Marius and I have undertaken to spend two days working on ProjectManagement.co.za's strategy just after Christmas -- and it's about time I did something about all my dormant domains, so I was planning on putting some work into that over the New Year. I also need to get into my PSNext database and populate it with some credible-looking dummy data for demo purposes. (Not to mention the fact that the ProjectManagement.co.za Web site needs a complete overhaul...) And it looks like I'll be presenting a Project Management course to one of Cape Town's better-known environmental/landscaping consultancies starting on the 9th of January, so preparations for that will fill out the remaining days. Besides, I have set aside three full days to properly clean and tidy my flat. Oh,and then I promised to meet with Joey and Dave too! (I am getting the impression that people are starting to apply that 'If you want to get something done, give it to a busy person' principle to me.) Besides that, I have at least two dinner dates (that's excluding the 27Dinner), one with an old school friend and one with a gentleman to whom I lent two of my favourite CDs some months ago when I was in Johannesburg on business. And I want them back! Not to mention the fact that Christopher has yet to find out that I have scheduled a beach party in celebration of his birthday on 1January...

So, after these holidays I will really need another holiday. I am considering flying somewhere next year just after the accommodation rates at resorts have gone down so that I will be so far from the office that it will be impossible to come in to deal with crises!

Plans for early 2008

The demand for Project Management and project software training courses has increased to such an extent that I am going to schedule at least two new Cape Town courses for Q1 of 2008, and the rest of the plans still have to be worked out. I will try to arrange one Microsoft Project course running over 3 consecutive days, including a morning of Project Management theory on the first day. The other course will be run on Saturdays over a period of a month, and will include a balance of theory, group exercises and homework, and Time and Cost Management using software. The Saturday arrangement is specifically to accommodate the numerous enquiries I've had for part-time and after-hours courses, which we have not been able to cater for before. The classes will be small, creating maximum opportunity for individual attention. (If you want to know more, send me your details and I will let you know as soon as exact dates and fees are available.)

The last RoseBlood gig out in Ceres was quite successful, but it wasn't with the full band, and the costs and risks were lower than with the first gig. Having seen the effects of inadequate planning and ill-defined roles on the first concert, I offered to assist in planning the next one using a more formal Project Management approach, so that Roelof's new girlfriend/manager can have a solid basis from which to make the arrangements. I need to create a new project file anyway for one of the exercises for the course which I teach at the university, so I might as well use this real project as a basis for that. Events make good examples for such purposes, because the technical knowledge required for laymen to visualise the activities tends to be less than, for example, those involved in building an aeroplane.

Got to go now. Bye.

In the spirit of permissible language evolution...

...I have decided to allow myself the occasional liberty of ending a clause with a preposition.

I am uncertain, however, whether the preposition in the sentence above should not perhaps have been 'in'.

Choosing a new cell phone

You won't believe what a big thing it has been for me to choose a new cell phone. At one point I thought that I should perhaps get a phone with GPS, because I have an extremely female sense of direction, and use of such a gadget could assist me in remaining calm. But how often do I really travel to non-routine places? I could get myself a Garmin separately, without it having to be inside my phone. Dennis and I spent nearly an entire day in Tyger Valley Centre a few weeks ago with four brochures in hand, and I thought that I had finally decided to get the Nokia 6300, but with a rubber sleeve so that it wouldn't seem so flimsy; and then when I got home I decided to take the more robust 6234 which Marius had bought for a driver who resigned. But the top buttons turned out to be horrible little knobbles, so I began reconsidering the plump and far less glamorous 6085, which at least has the all-important Large Friendly Letters on soft voluptuous buttons. But the clamshell design bugs me, because I am clumsy with phones; so I thought that the 5310 would suit me be better, in spite of having a great assortment of features that I don't need. I then looked at the 6085, and got distracted by the E90 with its HSDPA. But I actually specifically don't want to take an entire office to bed with me, so what am I doing looking at a PDA with a keyboard?!

So I still haven't picked a phone. To solve this impasse, I should like to request the discontinuation of all cell phone manufacture, and the reinvention of mobile communications by Henry Ford. Then we could have a Model T phone, available in any colour, as long as it is black.

A working week in Swaziland

I feel privileged to have a profession that places me in a unique position to experience a diversity of industries, industrial microcosms and even regional cultures, and always feel excited when I receive news that I will be traveling to some place where I have never been, particularly if it is a place that even most educated people have never heard of. I've just returned from a week in Mhlume in Swaziland, where I was teaching Project Management to a group of engineers from the Royal Swaziland Sugar Corporation.

Aeroplanes and airports

I left home before dawn after a mere two hours of sleep. By the time Marius got me to the airport, I was already panicking, and I lost my cool with an employee of South African Airways who did not deserve it at all. Marius felt disgusted and alienated by my behaviour, but he stayed for coffee anyway, while I cried like a tired baby. "I know what I did was wrong," I said, "but I don't do such things to people who are vulnerable!"
"That woman was vulnerable!" he argued, and he proceeded to describe her to me, based on his observations in a manner which cut me to the heart, and which started me crying all over again, this time in great sorrow for how I had treated her. It was the culminating event in a growing selfishness and hardness of heart which had set in over some time, but which I couldn't see until that moment; and if it weren't for what he said, I probably would have grown even more and more callous and self-centred until all my relationships had turned to useless hedonism. Tired as I was, I wanted to go back to the other terminal to apologise to the woman, but it was too late: I would not be in time to board my flight. So I left, looking lachrymose and unprofessional, SMSing my appreciation to Marius all the way as I got onto the plane, and again as I got off on the other side.

It's just as well there was plenty of time until my next flight, because I got very lost at passports and customs, since I had neglected to declare the laptop, and so I had to go all the way round again, down corridors and lifts and up stairs until I finally was able to pass through passport control a second time. I was also glad that I had decided not to do the hand-luggage only thing this time, because it is a long walk from local to international at OR Tambo, and I was already extremely tired because of my lack of sleep.

Finally, I made it to the boarding hall, and waited. But the plane to was delayed by two hours, which in the end meant that more than four hours passed between my arrival in Johannesburg and my departure to Manzini. I chatted to a Chinese purveyor of security systems and a Zulu businessman involved in the importing of ethanol (one of the products of the RSSC). With the specific purpose of getting a there-and-then crash course in siSwati, I also struck up a conversation with a couple who were on their way home from Namibia. (I had printed out two siSwati sample texts which I had found on Google the night before, but they were not very helpful, and it was also obvious even to me that the translations were flawed.) However, I got the gist of the language after my traveling companions had given me the requested basic expressions in about five minutes, and by the time that I arrived at my destination, I was all set to be able to start speaking rudimentary siSwati.

As the aeroplane began its final descent to Manzini, it started vibrating loudly. I got a big fright, because at the same time it also started diving sideways, and I thought this was abnormal. I realised, though, that if something was going to go drastically wrong, there would be absolutely nothing I could do about it, so I might as well relax.

The road to Mhlume

The poor driver who had to collect me from Manzini had been waiting there in the heat since mid-morning. His name was Sabelo. I shook his sweaty hand. He was wearing a white lab-coat over his own clothes, which is the company uniform for drivers. I immediately took off my jersey and suggested that he rid himself of the coat, which he seemed very pleased to do, and we departed at once.

The drive from Manzini to Mhlume is 140 km, and the road is good. There were smallholdings along most of the route, and occasionally there appeared a small shopping centre consisting of about three shops, usually a butchery and a general dealer and what appeared to be a bar, with a pool table outside but still under roof. There are fences, but the cattle are often on the road side of them anyway. The cattle are very beautiful; many are spotted, and have long horns. I do not know if these are Nguni cattle or a cross-breed. I also saw two brindle bulls, a first for me. The countryside all along the way is green, and there are many trees and shrubs. The sisal trees look different from those that I am accustomed to, though; their phalanges are thinner and more clustered. There were also thornbushes similar to those that I know from the Eastern Cape, and several giant succulents which are familiar to me (there are similar ones along the St. Helena Road in Calitzdorp, but I don't know what they are called).

We passed over a cattle grille into a nature reserve, but I didn't see any of the lions which were purported to be there. Sabelo respected the speed limit at all the signs, and we passed out on the other side. (I later learned that all the RSSC company cars are fitted with tracking devices and driver identification, so that you can get fined by the company if you don't heed the beeping sound that indicates that you are driving too fast.) Along the way to Mhlume, Sabelo also pointed out a hospital which specialises in eye care, and another hospital with an adjacent church "where people pray for the sick people". I was somewhat amused by one or two company names I saw on buildings along the way, the most notably entertaining being Psalm 23 Investments in Manzini. I also asked many questions about the signs in siSwati, increasing my vocabulary as we progressed.

Staying in Mhlume

The Simunye-Mhlume area where the RSSC has its operations, is well maintained. All along the public road, the grass is kept short up to the edge of the sugar-cane fields. Sabelo dropped me off at the Mhlume Country Club, which doubles as a simple hotel. When I learned that I would probably be returned to Manzini by a different driver at the end of the week, I asked him to wait while I opened up my suitcase, and I took out a box of chocolate which I had gift-wrapped, and gave it to him in appreciation of his trouble, which had indeed been great. His astonishment could not possibly have been feigned. He actually gasped. "Ohhhh!" he said. "It is a merrychristmas!" (This context told me that this was his word for a gift.) I shook his hand and he hugged me in almost child-like appreciation. I hugged him with great endearment, and did not expect to see him ever again, as he had been assigned to do another trip on the Friday, and I would thus get a different driver from the pool to take me back to Manzini. (We were both equally surprised when the course organiser decided at the eleventh hour to reshuffle the driver schedules so that Sabelo could indeed be available to take me back.)

It was due to my own insistence on a pre-course briefing that I now had to meet my contact and two of his colleagues after hours, my arrival having been delayed by the plane's late departure. We passed through a hall with a wooden floor like an old-fashioned school hall, where a handsome instructor with dreadlocks was providing a gym class to a group of not-so-handsome ladies. Embarassing. We used a meeting room in the back of the Country Club, and the meeting came to an end about the same time that one of the three gentleman excused himself, having received a disconcerting cell phone call in which he learned that his daughter, who is attending a college in South Africa, had been bitten by a snake, and was not responding to the treatment. (I learned the next day that she recovered.)

I went to the dining room for a bowl of soup, but there was no-one else there, so it would have felt completely weird. I therefore asked the waitress to bring it through to the bar, and struck up a conversation with one of the RSSC managers who happened to be having a beer there.

My room had a bath, a feature I regard as a supreme luxury, since the flat I call home only has a shower. I had too little sleep again, because I had to be up early to prepare for the class I was presenting. I could quite happily have slept for another two hours of more, in spite of the fact that the mattress springs can be felt throughout the bed. (The following night I decided to sleep on top of the duvet and that made all the difference.)

The first day of class went pretty well, and the organiser (who was present during the training) asked everyone what they wanted for lunch. It was the first time in my entire career as a Project Management course facilitator that lunch included rump steak. Of course it was well done, not medium rare, but still -- rump steak! Now if like me you have ever had to travel to remote and obscure places on business, you would really appreciate the menu at the Mhlume Country Club (which was also the source of our lunchtime boxed meals). The Club's restaurant is run by Fedics, and it is possible actually have a balanced meal (which you definitely can't get in every small industrial town); there's a good choice, everything is well-priced and decently presented, and it would even be possible to survive for a good while as a vegetarian. Even the portion size of a starter is so big that it can function as a meal in itself. (I didn't finish.) And breakfast included bacon and egg fried exactly the way I like them. On the final day of the course we were in Simunye, because an oversight in the pre-course arrangements meant that there weren't computers for the participants in Mhlume for the hands-on software training. True to the report I'd had from some of the other contractors in Mhlume, the food at the Simunye Country Club was five-star quality by comparison. Instead of being perfectly adequate, as it had been in Mhlume, it was actually perfectly delicious: an excellent buffet including magnificent roast potatoes, and the best chocolate tart I have ever eaten in my life. If it weren't for the fact that I still had to teach in the afternoon (and thus to stay awake), I would have gone back for a second round of everything.

The course closed off quite formally, with the RSSC Training Manager handing over the certificates issued by ProjectManagement.co.za.

Speaking SiSwati

Upon my arrival I'd had a short telephonic discussion on the hotel office's telephone with my contact person at the RSSC:
"Sawubona," I said.
"Yebo. Kunjani?" came the response.
"Ngiphilile," I replied, and was asked in siSwati when I had arrived.
"Now," I said, unable to sustain the conversation any further in a language which I had learned in just one day. (Later that evening I regained my confidence, commenting on the weather, ordering a glass of milk and responding to a comment which a man at the bar made about me to a waitress.)

The reason why I was able to manage such a quick induction was because I can speak some Xhosa. Xhosa, Zulu and siSwati are the three major Nguni languages, and are similar in grammar and vocabulary. The first person singular is ndi- in Xhosa, and ngi- in Zulu and siSwati. If you know none of the three, they might not be able to tell which language is being spoken. But if you know one of them, you will note that siSwati uses softer sounds than either Zulu or Xhosa. For example, the word for eggs in Xhosa is amaqanda, the q representing a loud click which sounds like when a droplet of water falls into a frying pan containing hot oil. In siSwati, the word is macanda, the c representing a click which is as soft as a kiss. (The c click is also used in Xhosa in other words. It appeared to me that the x click is not present in siSwati at all.) Some of my students incorrectly pronounced the name of their colleague Nqobile (a Zulu name meaning 'victorious') as 'Ncobile'.

It seemed to me that abstract nouns remain similar across the languages, so that personal names, usually derived from abstract qualities such as beauty or joy, remain similar, while the names of everyday items such as trees and grass differ markedly. Much of Xhosa grammar centres around noun prefixes, which get passed on to the rest of the sentence. In fact, this is true of all Bantu languages right the way up to Kenya. In Xhosa, these always begin with a vowel when attached to the noun, and depending on which prefix it is, the vowel may fall away when the prefix is transferred to verbs and adjectives; for example: "Unmntu uyathetha" (The person speaks) or "Abantu bayathetha" (The people speak). But in siSwati, it appears that there is not a vowel component. If a word begins with a vowel, it is there because it happens to be part of the word. The Swazi currency is Lilangeni (singular) or Emalangeni (plural), abbreviated as L and E respectively (e.g. L1 and E75.00). Unfortunately I did not know when to use which one before I went, and took my best guess, which was the wrong one. As a result, my project costing exercises in the course notes had an L symbol where they should have had E!

A culture of nepotism

The name of this currency is an interesting example of how infused the Swazi monarchical culture is with every aspect of life in Swaziland. The royal family, those Dlaminis who are closely related to the king, are also referred to as the emalangeni. I was not exactly sure what that denotes, but it seems to mean something like 'exalted ones' -- or it at least has that connotation. Thus the currency represents the wealth of the ruling family, and the ruling family's wealth is the wealth of the country. Some time ago, one of those Dlaminis is purported to have said publicly that the Dlaminis are closer to God than other Swazis are. Not surprisingly, this caused quite a furore at the time, and although it was apparently subsequently acceded (in an effort to save face, perhaps) that other mere mortals could also become close to God, it appears that this has remained the honest opinion of the ruling house. I don't know why Swaziland is called Swaziland and not Swatiland, because Swazi is not the siSwati word  for Swazi. Even the King's own name, Mswati, means Swazi. So King Mswati really does represent the royal 'we' in a way that no other name could. It would be as if Queen Elizabeth's first name were in fact England.

Some Swazis are not happy at all that their monarch has chosen to stick his nose into the day-to-day affairs of government. They don't mind having a monarch, but they would prefer to have a royal family like the British one, that provides an air of dignity to the state and waives its right to interfere with legislative, judicial and executive processes. (Swaziland has frequently appeared in the international news when there has been conflict between the elected government and the king.)

Since the king appears to influence the appointment of people based on favouritism rather than on merit or democratic procedure, it appears to me that it is as a result of this that people in senior positions in business do the same. I realise that nepotism also occurs in other countries, including my own; however, if exposed, there is still some chance of a fight, because we have a more sactified constitution with laws supporting a process of recourse. In Swaziland, there is simply no recourse, so to be realistic one often simply has to accept the situation. This means that engineers are sometimes forced to accept tenders from specific organisations because those decisions are made at the top. There were also jocular allusions to kickbacks in some class discussions, and without labouring the issue, I pointed out that if in your position as a leader you set this example, you should accept that those you lead will suffer similar moral decline. You cannot expect the people who report to you to be ethical in their work if you are going to be unethical in yours.

Big news

There are two newspapers in Swaziland, the Observer and the Times. The Observer is owned by the government, while the Times is subject to government censorship. Both are published in English, which I think is a big pity, because if a language is not used in business and science, it will decline. Politics and sport are big news, as is news about sexual scandal (especially at educational institutions), and religious issues. During my brief stay, I got the feeling that the entire country is like one big village, because the newspapers contain a curious mixture of national and international news along with town gossip and typical local advertisements for births, deaths, healing services and pre-Christmas sales.

It's big news when a boy wins furniture from a local shop and gives it to his unemployed grandmother. And it's front page news with a big photo when three cars crash into each other at an intersection and sustain minor damage, because this type of accident is so unusual in Swaziland. (It is much more common for someone to sustain bad damage by hitting a cow along the national highway.)

HIV and AIDS

While I was in Swaziland, there was a lot of excitement about the concert which was to be held on World AIDS Day, in which celebrities from other countries would be participating too. While our own Minister of Health was making official statements on TV (South African TV stations are available in Swaziland) which, to use a phrase coined by the eminent Jeremy Thurgood, might be described as being "entirely content-free", Swaziland's media was more specific. Local religious organisations were advocating conjugal faithfulness on billboards, condoms were available in all the RSSC toilets, and while we were driving to Simunye there was a debate on the radio about whether you should have to consult your sexual partner before you decide to get tested. The DJ who was handling the calls from listeners was Nqobile's sister. I asked Nqobile where and when her sister had acquired the mostly British but also vaguely American accent, which appeared like a thick, comfortable blanket over her Swazi English, but Nqobile laughed and replied that everyone asks where her sister is from, and that the accent is entirely "man-made": her sister has lived in Swaziland all her life! One listener who phoned in said that in deciding whether or not to get tested for HIV, it is not so important to consult one's sexual partner, but more important that one should consult God. This evoked a chuckle from one of the other students in the car. "Funny how people think you should consult God before getting tested," he remarked, "but they never think of consulting God before doing the thing which put them at risk of getting infected in the first place!"

Girly stuff

I experienced an extraordinary coincidence in Swaziland: All the computer technicians I dealt with here were women. I assisted two of them (the abovementioned Nqobile, and the equally pretty Siphosihle) in installing some software, and it was Nqobile who sorted out the projector when I arrived.

When I found out that Nqobile's very attractive hairstyle had taken only two hours to braid and had cost her only fifty bucks, and that this was the norm in Swaziland, I started scheming about bringing Swazi hairstylists to Cape Town for intensive weekend sessions, with wealthy clients (such as politicians' wives) all lined up, and public demonstrations of the stylists' superior craft, and plenty of pre-event advertising and hype. In Cape Town, you have to really shop around before you will find a braiding hairdresser who has that type of styling creativity and flair, and who can do a neat and durable job; and you'll be lucky if she can manage to complete it over two three-hour sessions. I started making sums to figure out how much people would have to pay per head in order for the stylists and the middlemen to make their money, what with the travel and accommodation and all the rest of it... but I fell asleep and had to focus on other things the next day.

Back

On the way back from Mhlume to Manzini, Sabelo pointed out his homestead to me. He goes there on every weekend that he is not required to drive somewhere for his job, and runs his own small business supplying eggs to his local community. He has several enclosures and he buys in the layers, and when they become unproductive, he sells them off for slaughter and gets in new ones.

I liked working with the group at the RSSC; they were well-motivated, intelligent people, and I got very good formal feedback from all twenty of them, which I was able to pass it on to the Training Manager immediately, so I hope to be invited back to present further training there in the future. If I do go back again, I will make some plan to get a local SIM card and some form of Internet access. It was weird not to go to bed with what de Waal Steyn refers to as a "modern teddybear": a cell-phone from which to send messages to close friends at odd hours in the darkness!

My second course for Parliament has been cancelled or postponed, so I only have two more courses and StarCamp for which I need to prepare before going off for a week of holiday at the river with Mikhailo, Harry and Sam (and hopefully also Shupikai, a brilliant woman whom I met when I was teaching Project Management at the Southern Africa Trust in mid-November). I'm expecting plenty of late night campfire conversations, so I don't think I may not be able to spend quite so much time with my teddybear.

Her death

I didn't want to go to the funeral alone, so I asked Christopher to accompany me. Marius also went, but they were near the back, and they did not go on to the graveyard afterwards, so I did not speak to them. The Methodist church hall in Raithby was full.

Her aunt was nice; they actually reserved a seat specially for me amongst the family, and I was given her portrait after the ceremony. I was comforted to find out later from her aunt that when money was needed for her final treatment, her cousin had stepped in. Her aunt realised how I had been supporting her when they drew a statement after her death and saw the donations.

Judging by what her aunt said about how the swelling had increased from the last time I saw her, I think that the total load, including the coffin, may have weighed near half a tonne. Her body had swollen up so much more since I last saw her at the hospital that her arms stuck out to the side for several days before she died, and she could not put them together anymore. It was not fat, that had been established by a biopsy a couple of months ago already. And all those years of discrimination from people, even doctors and nutritionists, who kept on telling her not to eat so much... she would just keep quiet and listen to them, struggling with inward fury as they failed to listen or try to understand the real problem when she said she was not eating very much. The doctor who came to verify the death was surprised that she had lived at all for the last weeks. It did not make sense, he said; with the state that her body was in, she should have been dead two weeks before. No surprise for those of us who knew her well: She had a will to live that carried her for over a decade from the first time when she knew that she may not make it through the winter.

It took ten or twenty men to lower the large coffin into the grave, and it was not an easy job. We giggled as the men shouted to one another, fearing a collapse of some kind. Knowing her, she wouldn't have minded.

Her death had been terrible, with a lot of suffering and pain. For reasons which I will perhaps explain later, she looked so bad that they did not want to open the coffin for a wake. Her aunt, cousin and one or two others who had cared for her in her last days were by her side when she died, saying, with shallow breath, "Jesus... Jesus... take your daughter; Jesus, take your daughter..."

It was a risk I took...

Here is an extract of a longer blog entry which I had in draft yesterday:

This month, I stopped paying Carol's hospital expenses. I stopped buying her toilet paper, toothpaste, soap, bananas, and I stopped paying for her diagnostic tests. I realised that even if I didn't go out for coffee with friends and ate only lentils and carrots, I would still not be able to prevent myself from going into debt if I didn't hold back payments until December. So I took a calculated risk. I visited her in hospital at the beginning of November, and on that day, many of her relatives came to see her. In my mind I decided that if they pooled their resources, they could pay for a couple more days in hospital. However, they also know that she is dying; and they may have silently and individually or collectively decided to speed up the process. That is not what she wants. She wants to live longer. But they may have made a decision counter to hers. Or they may be hoping that I will come up with the money after all. But I can't. I simply don't have enough. I have taken a decision to risk the life of my friend rather than to go into debt. She is at home now. Thus far, they have not paid for a single further day in hospital. She cannot walk. She cannot turn herself over. She cannot wash herself. She can hardly breathe. She is in constant pain.

I just got a call to say that she is dead.

Starved to death on the streets of Cape Town

Occasionally you hear something on the news that just hits you while all the other stories of pain and woe pass over as part of the way things are. A Zimbabwean refugee starved to death on the streets of Cape Town. Oh yes, maybe someone will want to tell us that the real cause of death was complications due to some inflection, or some other cause that takes away the focus from the fact that the man hadn't had a proper meal in weeks. I don't want anyone to starve to death in my city. It's not right, it's not right. I don't know what to do yet, but I must do something.

AIG running an extortion racket? Thousands involved...

I recently received an SMS from the insurance company AIG, telling me that I should expect a sales call from them, but that if I wished to prevent such solicitations, I could pay my cell phone service provider a fee to cover the price of an SMS, and my name would be removed from their list. I didn't see why I should pay anyone anything to protect my privacy, so I sent AIG an e-mail message telling them that they should tell me where they got my name, and thereafter remove my details from their database, or face possible criminal prosecution in terms of section 45 of the Electronic Communications and Transactions Act (Act 25 of 2002). I got a call from today, and I thought this would be their apology. Unfortunately it wasn't. Unlike Nedbank, who very humbly aplogised to me for a similar tactic some time ago and removed me from their database, AIG were still trying to sell me something. If I wanted my details removed from their list, they said, I could call some number which they would give me. I interrupted, saying that I should not have to make such calls, since I never asked to be troubled in the first place, and while I was still talking, the salesperson decided to hang up.

Here, then, is a recipe for extortion on a massive scale:

1. Decide on something to sell. Anything. It could be used toilet paper, Congolese horoscopes, farmland in Antarctica or the Emperor's new clothes.
2. Form a working relationship with as many mobile serice providers as possible. Tell them that you will ensure that users of their service pay them for more SMSes; in return, ask them to give you a small fraction of what their customers pay for sending SMSes to your number.
3. Contact people — a lot of people, otherwise it won't work — giving them two options: "Buy something from us, or be removed from our database. No charge... except for the teeny-weeny fee which you have to pay to your mobile service provider for that one teeny-weeny SMS." (Of course, cumulatively, the teeny-weeny fees paid by a huge number of people is quite a lot of money, so the kick-back which you get if you have enough people on your list, is pretty big.)
4.  If you like, you can also try to make additional money from selling your actual product (i.e., your used toilet paper, insurance policy or whatever it is that you claim to be the real focus of the business).

Is this what AIG is doing? Maybe not. But they are still contravening the spirit of the Act. The Act says, inter alia, that consumers have the right to know where you got their information. (AIG's representative told me they got my details from the National Consumer Database. I Googled it, and couldn't find any information about this database, so I still have no way of getting off the list, unless I bow to their extortion by making a call at my own expense.) The Act also says that the consumer has the right to opt out, and that the consumer should not have to pay for this. By shifting the payment away from themselves to the mobile service provider (don't pay the gangster boss, pay his henchman), they can say that they are not benefiting directly from the opt-out request, so their hands are clean. Oh yes, and there may be other ways of getting off the list, by phoning some toll-free number; but they won't give you that number in the first SMS, so somehow you would still have to hear out the salesman first, or spend your own time searching for that number. So, come on... why not simply pay that teeny-weeny SMS fee, hmmm?

I believe that annoying and intrusive forms of marketing should not be rewarded by sales. The cost of the time which it has taken me to write the e-mail message to AIG, to argue with their salesman and to write this article is more than the cost of paying the extortion fee. And my pouty "but-it's-the-principle" attitude is not going to make a dent in their profit. But let me ask you this: Do you SMS marketers to opt out of their lists? Do you pay for those SMSes? What if I told you that you were part of a mob of supporters of this system, that it is your fault that you are still receiving solicitations via your cell phone? We don't have to take these people to court. It is only because so many people bow to their systems that marketers still use them. If enough people got angry with them constantly, making their system unwieldy due to the number of complaints and balking targets-which-don't-turn-to-customers, marketers would try something different, something less annoying. After all, they don't want us to be annoyed -- they want us to like them. They want us to buy their products and to enjoy the experience so much that we come back to buy more later. And their products may actually be good! If they hadn't annoyed me, I might have actually examined what they have to offer someday, and bought something from them.

You know what? If you kick up a fuss with the next company who contacts you this way, and the next and the next, and you suggest to your friends to do they same, then eventually other companies will learn. "SMS marketing?" they'll say, "No way, we can't use that! Did you hear what happened to AIG? They got tens of thousands of irate responses, they lost thousands of man-hours due to call-centre operators taking leave to go for therapy, they had to quadruple the staff on their complaints lines, and hundreds of bloggers said terrible things about them, so that in the end they had to spend a fortune on counter-ads just to get their Google ranking up again. The one thing we don't want to use is SMS marketing! It cuts into the bottom line and erodes your brand."

Stats

Bloedsuiker	4.9
Cholestrol	5.09
Bloeddruk	112/60 (Dis die probleem.)

Nagmerries

Die afgelope week kry ek nagmerries. Nie sweet-en-opspringdrome nie, maar nietemin onaangenaam.

Ek droom ek moet 'n klomp groot goudvisse in 'n tenk voer. Ek sit 'n bol gedroogte grasse in die tenk, en glo dat dit vir die visse heerlik sal wees. Dan ontplof dit, en die visse word teen die wande van die tenk gegooi. Die water is troebel. Ek kan nie sien of die visse nog leef nie.

Ek het nie regtig meer honde nie, maar ek droom ek het vergeet het dat ek honde het, en ek het vergeet om hulle te voer en vir hulle water te gee. Hulle lyk darem nie te erg nie -- dis nog betyds -- maar ek begin besef daar is meer honde as waarvan ek aanvanklik bewus was, en wonder watter ander diere ek nog verwaarloos het, waarvan ek nie weet nie.

Ek droom ek staan op 'n bult bokant 'n plein. Onder is daar 'n KFC met skoorstene. Ek was vroeër in die dag daar. Daar kom nou groot vlamme by die skoorstene uit. Skielik bars daar vuur deur die hele gebou. Ek kan dwarsdeur die mure sien hoe die meublement helderkleurig verlig is binne-in. Ek wonder hoeveel mense in die gebou was. Ek probeer die persoon onthou wat my in die oggend bedien het.

Miskien droom ek hierdie dinge omdat ek bang is dat ek nie almal vir wie ek omgee, kan red nie. Ek hoor die refrein van 'n lied in my gedagtes: How fragile we are, how fragile we are.

'n Inbreker wat Vrydagnag in my woonstelblok op heterdaad betrap is, het die volgende dag aan sy wonde beswyk. Die inbreker het die woonstelbewoner  met 'n mes gesteek, en hulle het gestoei. Die beseerde woonstelbewoner se meisie het hom probeer hospitaal toe vat, maar die armed response se voertuig het in die pad gestaan en hulle kon aanvanklik nie uit nie. Hulle het vir Robbie ('n nagwag, met wie ek bevriend is) gevra om intussen die woonstel te beveilig, maar Robbie word deur sy firma in die parkeervlak toegesluit sonder 'n kommunikasiemiddel en hy kon nie uit nie. Later het iemand hom wel uitgelaat en teen daardie tyd was die polisie ook daar. Hy het gesê hy kon die inbreker se niere deur die gat in sy rug sien.

Dié gebeurtenis was nie een van my drome nie, maar waarskynlik wel 'n nagmerrie.

'n Week of twee voor dit het ek vir Salvador op die trappe raakgeloop. Hy was dronk. Hy't gesê hy't opgehou dwelms gebruik omdat dit sy niere opgemors het. Hy't die donker kringe onder sy oë daaraan toegeskryf. Hy gaan nou net baie alkohol drink, het hy gesê. (Ja, en dan gaan jy jou lewer net so opmors soos jy jou niere opgemors het, was my antwoord.) Hy wou weet of ek 'n stylist soek, en het aangebied om my hare te doen. Ek het die aanbod van die hand gewys, en nie direk na my woonstel toe geloop nie; ek het gedink hy sou my dalk wou volg, en ek wou nie hê hy moes weet waar ek woon nie. Daarna het hy blykbaar direk na 'n woonstel gestap, en 'n DVD-speler probeer steel. Hy was nie suksesvol soos met sy vorige inbrake nie -- jammer, ek moet seker sê vermeende inbrake, totdat die hof bewys het dat al daardie dinge waarvan ons hom nog altyd verdink, wel sy handewerk was. 'n Klomp stewige jong mans het dit reggekry om hom vas te hou totdat die polisie gekom het. Ek reken dit moes maar moeilik gewees het, want hy is ex-Special Forces. Hulle het sy vrou se woonstel deursoek en dwelms gekry. Borgtog is nie toegestaan nie. Nou kan sy by hom kuier sonder dat hy haar kan slaan.

Vrydagaand het ek vir Sponskop nugter gesien. Ek weet nie hoekom hy by my kom aanklop het nie; sy maatjies was waarskynlik nie tuis nie. Hy het na bewering opgehou dwelms verkoop, en het nou 'n proper job.

Ek het my huurkontrak verlede week hernu.

Maar ek dink nie dis hierdie dinge waaroor ek my bekommer nie. Dis die broosheid van al die ongelukkige siele, die mense wat knak onder hulle werkslading, en dié wat nié werk het nie, en wat eensaam lewe. En sterwe.

Mandatory post-event entry, with appropriate hyperlink in accordance with requirements of blogiquette

Went to 27 Dinner on Saturday, had fun, didn't drink any Stormhoek.

PodCamp Cape Town, the World Cup and other tales of joy and woe

One fine Friday afternoon in an industrial area in Cape Town

Tania:	Marius, onthou jy dat ek omtrent twee maande gelede 'n kwotasie ingedien het om 'n 3-dagse kursus in Projekbestuur in Swaziland aan te bied? Ek het so pas bevestiging ontvang dat hulle dit aanvaar het. Dit sal aan die einde van November plaasvind.
Marius:	Swaziland? Congratulations. You are now an international speaker.

One hot Saturday at the Wild Fig

PodCamp Cape Town 2007. Very beneficial, from a social, educational and even a business point of view. To those of you who didn't pitch: You missed out baaadly, dudes. To the Wild Fig and to those (Keyjam, Faxaroo, Zoopy, BizCommunity, etc.) who sponsored muffins, coffee and so on: Thank-you. What a bargain. An un-conference certainly beats a conference in value for money! To the guys who left our table early: I was left to cough up 38 bucks in addition to my own bill, so someone owes me something. Did you pay your compulsory gratuity? If not, you owe me a slice of pizza!

The day before PodCamp, I received a short comment on my blog from Joy-Mari, a copywriter.
I hunted her down at Facebook and invited her to PodCamp too. Here she is with me and others.

One Saturday evening in a flat in Stellenbosch
I played chess against my usual opponent, who had beaten me in all but four games since February — and we played often. This time, to my disapproval, he decided to "level the playing field" by smoking indigenous leaves before arriving. The fact that I won the second game cannot be attributed to this factor, though, because he won the first, while he was still far more under the influence.

One Saturday night in the centre of Stellenbosch

I don't usually watch rugby, but having watched South Africa's last World Cup victory on TV twelve years ago, I decided to do it again this time. The lead up to the game in the afternoon was dampened somewhat by the fact that one of my best friends and several neighbours have a big emotional issue with the race politics which affect the game (some of them are All Blacks supporters, out of protest). If I thought that they were simply being silly, I could have shrugged it off, but I understand their feelings all too well, and I cannot expect people to not feel that way. To top it all, Carol, who is dying, contacted me, and I had to make a plan to ensure that she could be admitted to hospital again.

The other thing that filled me with some trepidation about going out to watch the game was that people were dressing up in green and painting their faces, freaking me out with fanatical Facebook status messages and other manifestations of extreme devotion to a religion which is quite alien to me. One person I know even built an altar at home consisting of Springbok memorabilia and icons. Thankfully, the Princess promised to accompany her boyfriend to the bar where we'd be watching, and since she also expected to feel a bit "out", it made me feel more "in". The other handy thing was that most of the patrons of that place like to think of themselves of individualists, and so, while there was definitely a shared enjoyment, many people had individualised experiences of it, and a group of women who tried to get a Mexican wave going, had to give up eventually. Whilst the game was exciting, I was also quite tired, and this made me relax about all the issues I'd brought with me, and in the end, the experience was one of having found my own niche rather than being so conscious of "not being part of the group". I shared nothing of the emotions of one fan who spewed out the most obscene words every time the referee judged in favour of the English. I thought that the referee was quite impartial, to be honest, and was impressed to see that Bryan Habana, who is known as a star player, can also be such a good supporting player, contributing to the glory of the team above serving his personal ambition of setting a new record. And it was nice to see Thabo Mbeki being raised onto the players' shoulders, because of and in spite of everything.

I left while the mood was still good. Outside in the street there were firedancers and parties happening on the roofs of slow-moving cars. I was home before midnight, and opened the windows so that I would still hear the occasional cheers coming from outside even after I put off my light.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow

Yesterday

I think I am a rather atypical nerd. OK, the normal nerdy stuff does happen: For relaxation, I read books on history; I get a kick out of having Jonathan Hitchcock correct my spelling, grammar and syntax, and the day before yesterday I stayed up until midnight talking to Dennis about databases, ethical hacking and *Camp. And I have plenty of hangups, as nerds usually do. But now if you look at these things in isolation, you'd think that yesterday I had a very strange day: Whilst praying in the car for a moment on the way back from work, I came to the conclusion that I should stop moaning publically about what Carol's medical expenses cost me, and visualised the scene of Jesus clearing the temple set to rock music. Later on, during my usual exercise routine in an arbitrary bar (the only one I could find that had loud music and an open dancefloor so early in the evening), I politely refused a drink bought for me by a stranger, because it contained alcohol; and instead of the anticipated disdainful incredulity, the buyer honoured me, wide-eyed, with a tap of fists, and a verbalised expression of "Respect!" Besides that, I also accidentally doused myself with paraffin, was given the telephone number of the Greatest Cocaine Dealer in Town -- which I certainly won't need to use! -- and also probably inadvertently got mistaken for a lesbian.

Today

...I need to do laundry, because...

Tomorrow

...is PodCamp! When asked by Elvira van Noort (whom I will be meeting within 21 hours) why I am going to PodCamp, I said it was because it relates to my work as a project facilitator, graphic designer, proof-reader, marketing executive, database developer, classification consultant, company clown, recruitment agent, course presenter, information designer, civil engineering technician, legal documentation editor, Web developer, agony aunt, product development specialist, photographer, skills development consultant, VNC support officer, compulsive lender of money to broke friends, business analyst, technical writer, cartoonist, software trainer, assembly line operator, and changer of car tyres. And also because I like to be around geeks.

I hope Elvira won't mind me quoting this message which she sent me as part of our Facebook conversation. I think it makes quite a nice "new media" story:
You won't believe this. My status here on Facebook says 'Elvira is looking for a sponsor so she can go to PodCamp'. Guess what happened? My Dutch friends laughed because I am making Rands and a trip down there with staying and all amounts to about 80 Euros/ 800 Rand (I travel by bus and stay at backpackers) and that is really nothing if you make Euros (I used to make 12.50 Euro per hour) so.... they got some money together!

I didn't have time to prepare a talk this time. Will be giving one at *Camp in December instead.

As I told Elvira (who will be coming down from Grahamstown), the reason to come to PodCamp is this: You may never again have the opportunity to hear all of these speakers and to network with such an influential crowd of up-and-coming new media dudes as you will at this get-together. After this, what will probably happen is that some of these people will be organised as speakers at a really expensive business seminar and they will charge big money for that. So getting it for free, so to speak (well, OK, you have to pay your trip and food and stay somewhere) is probably an opportunity that won't arise for you again soon. There are only two places left.

Oh yes, and I do intend to watch the rugby. Even I watch rugby on TV. Once every twelve years, that is.

Hey, I'm not as broke as I thought I was!

I just remembered, I have a hotel bill and about five Vodacom SMS bundles which I can submit as disbursement claims. I also discovered a total of R100 in the back pockets of two different pairs of jeans. Besides, my favourite security guard promised to pay me back all the money he owes me at the end of the month, which, judging by his past repayments, means that I can realistically expect about half of it this month, which he will re-borrow two weeks later. And another out-of-pocket friend is getting an invoice paid next week, so I can expect a repayment from him too. So I should be able to keep Carol in hospital for most weekdays for the rest of the month, without going into debt myself.

Right to life

People like to go on about a terminally ill person's quality of life, about the the cost of keeping someone alive, and about how good it would be if the law allowed euthanasia. Those sentiments don't help, though. I could easily kill Carol if I wanted to. I could simply stop giving her money, and she would die, probably from asphyxiation, but also possibly from kidney failure, heart failure, or any number of other factors, individually, or in combination.

But she does not want to die. She is bitterly unhappy, she cries a lot, she is constantly in pain, but she wants to live. It is the middle of the month, and I have only enough money for another four nights of hospitalisation left in my bank account, and one more night in my credit card. And another night in cash in my purse. After that, I have to start using up next month's salary.

I need to make more money. I really would like a pension.

Job applicants: Discrimination on the basis of gender... and intelligence

Employers have a tough time and get accused of all sorts of weird things by employees whose holy rights are enshrined in the constitution from even before they start working for you. My main client (with whom I share office space) has two jobs advertised at the moment. The one is for a Logistics Faciliator (admin job), and the other is for a Code 08 driver, who will also have some janitorial duties and who will receive computer training, with the opportunity to grow into a clerical position. Whilst there has been only a small number of applicants for the logistics position, there have been many for the latter, and the guys downstairs have been capturing calls from prospective applicants.

A number of them have taken calls from women who have asked if the job is intended for a man or for a woman, and when told that the applicant should preferably be male, have ended up getting yelled at for discriminating. "Ek is 'n boervrou! Ek kan alles doen wat 'n man kan doen! Gee vir my die job! Ek wil hom hê!" is one example. (I am going to recommend that this boervrou be interviewed, incidently.) As the only woman in the building, I have been listening to their stories in the kitchen and in the open plan area, and have suggested to them that they rather explain themselves to callers in terms which will clarify the rationale. The job requires working in what is often an all-male environment, and can sometimes mean lifting items weighing 50 kg or more unaided onto the back of a bakkie. In spite of my sizeable biceps and the fact that I can throw a decent enough punch, this is a job I wouldn't want to risk my back doing daily. So, provided that the applicant is up to it, gender doesn't really matter. I know for a fact that the boss would certainly prefer a fit and competent woman who is built like a Samoan rugby player in the job instead of a puny chain-smoking man.

There have also been some calls from men, asking the same question. Some of them have been just as argumentative. "You say that the job is for a man, but then it says here that cleaning the office is part of the job! I don't see how that's a job for a man!"

So, if we were to take only the comments of these applicants as a basis for an argument, we could come up with a nice, juicy conclusion: A woman can do everything a man can do, but a man can't do everything a woman can do. (See what great thinking challenges can be overcome by using women's logic?)

A final one. My colleage Denver got a call from one guy and in going through all the questions, he hit the following response:

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two"

"And how long have you had your Code 08 licence?"

"Ten years."

Perhaps someone told this dude that there are certain things which you should say in an interview to be impressive, regardless of whether they are true or not. Apparently he did hear the question properly, and it was only after Denver explained to him why this was impossible that he changed his insistent answer to two years.

Project Management courses in Windhoek (Namibia) and Gaborone (Botswana): October to November 2007

The famous USB Programme in Project Management is going to be held in Gaborone (Gabarone? Gaborones? Why does this city's have so many spellings?) and simultaneously in Windhoek (thank goodness I can spell this one) from 29 October–2 November 2007. If you want to come, click on these pretty words to send your details ASAP, or find out more about the course content by clicking these other pretty words. The cost is R8,500, and it includes a very fat well-recognised textook, food, etc. These courses are accredited through the Council for Higher Education, and the credits can be used towards an MBA. (Of course the course is also going to be held in Cape Town at the end of November for R7,500, but you knew that already. And there's one in Pretoria next year. And a Microsoft Project course, and an Advanced course in Project Management, and so on.)

Ja, ja, ja, shameless plug and all that. But I have good cause. (Whose blog is it anyway?)

Nice things that have happened lately

Well, there are a lot of them, but here are two that I haven't mentioned yet, because they're pretty recent:

My favourite neighbour whose imminent departure I lamented with a great display of emotion in June, is no longer immigrating to Pretoria. His new girlfriend has decided to step in and become the manager of his band, and with this support, he now sees his way clear to establishing himself here after all; and it looks like the study opportunity which he had