Sue Wildish in Cape Town

My travels around town exhausted me. Here – two women, half naked, with faces distorted and swollen by cheap alcohol. There – a man with no limbs. To my right, a car-guard who walked from Rwanda. On the left – a mother pimping her child, shames motorists into giving more. Up ahead: Big Issue sellers, joke retailers, roadside florists, avocado pear merchants, strawberry salesmen.

I'm worn out. Nothing I do can fix this. I'm fresh out of change.

But somebody's got tin. Graft, thievery, gravy-trainism, private and Presidential family-enrichment, cronyism… go on. And on. Constantly questioned by the media. Never answered by the ANC.

It's become a national joke. Even showing up in a radio advertisement:
Politico: “Comrades – We must nationalise the mines.
Comrades: “Yes. Yeah. Yebo. Yeah Man.”
“We must limit the media.
Yes. Yeah, Yebo. Yeah Man!
And Comrades – we must share the wealth.
Aiiie, Suga, man, it's our wealth. Now you are going too far.”

A friend tells of being threatened on his tomato farm – “give me half and I will allow you to stay on the land”; his price for refusal – poisoned water holes.

Another mourns the loss of a pineapple farm. His local councillor, when refused a 'free' 50% share of the farm – simply dug up the access roads . Halting the farm trucks. Sending 348 people – workers and their families, flocking to the nearest traffic lights.

Gareth Cliff, a South African DJ, wrote an open letter on his blog to President Jacob Zuma this week (www.garethcliff.com/ Dear Government). He wants to know how things have gone so wrong. Gareth is blunt, he is pissed off and he is right. He calls JZ and his Crew out on a range of issues. Which, according to the angry many, makes him a racist. Because Gareth is white.

I can't look up from my steering wheel anymore but I'm afraid to look down . The depth of this bullshit gives me vertigo.

Khanyisile Momosa and his friends set off from an informal settlement near Gansbaai today on their way to commit a crime. They were going to poach perlemoen – what most of the world call Abalone.

Preparing Perlemone is time consuming. Once you've managed to get the virtually impenetrable shell opened – it  needs to be tenderised considerably to make it vaguely edible. Then it has to be flavoured and cooked by someone who really knows how – or you get a rubbery mass that just won't quit when you try to swallow. Frankly – the point of it escapes me. But in China – it is a delicacy.

As a result, Perlemoen is now a protected species in SA.

Khanyi and his friends rose up early in the spring cold. Made their way to the beach. Got into 16C/60F water and swam for two hours until they reached Dyer Island. When they got there, they free-dived for a couple of hours, stashing the heavy perlemoen in nets tied around their waists. And then started the two hour swim for home.

Dyer Island is the breeding ground of Jackass Penguins, Cape Cormorants and Gannets. Needless to say it is covered in bird shit. Which made a fortune for Samuel Dyer in the early 19th Century. He moved there, harvested guano and sold it on to mainland farmers as fertilizer. Nowadays it is mainly known for cage diving. People who get into steel cages in the water hoping to spot a monster shark. Because Dyer Island stands right beside a smaller island called Geyser Rock. And this tiny wind-blasted outcrop is the breeding mecca for Cape Fur Seals (50 000 of them).

Which makes it MacDonalds for the Great White Shark

Great Whites usually come out of very deep water and hit their prey hard. These poachers had all been out there before. So, Khanyi probably did know what hit him. He probably also knew he didn't stand a chance.  His friends saw the shark breast the water, saw their friend's leg in it's mouth and swam like hell. Screaming. Khanyi's body later washed up on Pearly Beach.  Ironically, beside the lifeguard station.

I cannot find it in my heart to condemn any of these men for breaking the law. Only the desperate undertake a swim like that in these frigid waters. Risking their lives for whatever pittance the middle-man gives them before he sells the shellfish on for real money. To people who will never know, nor care about; the real provenance of their dinner.

We're looking for staff at Knead right now. I know it's unlikely that any of these men will apply. But if they do, I will do my utmost to place them. With a determination, drive and work-ethic like this – they are capable of great things.

Respect Khanyi. Rest in peace.

Leader arrived on a Thursday in the pouring rain.  He stood calling from the gate – and asked if he could wash my car.  He was coughing horribly and drenched.   I gave him some breakfast, tea and milk, soup and bread to take home.  I added in R50 for the day clinic and told him to come back on Saturday, if the sun was shining, with a certificate from the clinic to say he did not have TB and then he could wash my car.

Which he did.  He was TB free – but had a lung infection.  So I fed him, he washed my car (beautifully) and I gave him money for his medicine and R50 for the car-wash.

Over the past four months he has come back regularly.  Each time he cleans my car, and my brother's if it is there, gets some breakfast, some provisions and heads off into the Cape Town day.

A few weeks ago I tried to give him some groceries and he said he didn't need them.  He had enough as his business was picking up.  If he did take them, he said, he would only give them to the Zimbabwean guys who were sleeping rough near his shack.  And he didn't feel it was right to take from me to do that.  I said – take them and feed the others. I believe in paying favour forward. He said so did he.

One Saturday he asked if I would loan him R100 so he could pay off the final instalment of a lay-bye he had made at a clothes store.  He showed me the receipt.  And promised he would come back and clean both cars to pay it off.  I said I would take him at his word.  He came back, twice.  He paid his debt.

Mark told me the other day that a cap was missing from the trunk of his car.  He believed it was Leader as Leader was the only person, other than Mark, who had been in his trunk.  I wouldn't believe it and listed all the reasons why I trusted Leader.  Mark was initially adamant, it had to be Leader. But then after a few days – became less convinced.  And we let it drop.

But something niggled.  I keep change in my car which I use to buy the Big Issue or the Weekly Jokes from traffic light vendors.  A couple times in the past; I had reached for the cash and found it not there, and just written it off as having been used up.  But now I wasn't so sure.

So, I set a trap.  I planted a R10 note in the centre console, and two R5 notes in my change dish.  I even took a photo of what I had done so I could be sure I would be able to prove it. When Leader arrived today, I welcomed him.  Opened the car, made him breakfast, chatted about his week.  All as normal.

When he was finished I went to pay him and “realised” I didn't have R50 change.  No problem, I said – I have some in my car. The flash across his face told me all I needed to know.  He watched as I got into the car and looked for the money.  And answered honestly when I queried where it was.  I asked for it back and he took it from his purse.

Leader asked me to give him a second chance.

'This is your second chance, last week you took a hat from Mark's car'.   He stared:  'Yes, I did.'   'And the money – this isn't the first time with the money either?'

A mixture of expressions chased across his face: annoyance at his own stupidity, a realisation of what was about to happen, entreaty, a smidgen of guilt.  But no shame.

He kept asking for another chance,  but this time – this first time since I have been living here … I was adamant:   'No – I tried to do my best by you and you stole from me.  For you to do it once – that means you think I am stupid.  For you to keep doing it – that means you think I am a fool.'

So, I paid him for his work.  And sent him on his way.  He looked at me with a rueful smile as he left and said:   'So, Sue, goodbye. Enjoy your life.'

I've spent the last month sending out proposals for funding for the Positive Heroes Ultra-Marathon Team.  Five, HIV+ Individuals,  who run some of the world's toughest endurance races (including the 90km Comrades marathon), who take their ARVs on the run, who sometimes train on empty stomachs, and who refuse to let a diagnosis define them.

The team work in their communities as 'walk it as we talk it' counsellors.  They role model a more optimistic version of life with HIV than the usual gloomy message.

After all, they should know what's possible and what's not.  They run ULTRA-MARATHONS for God's sake!  Running a marathon is a huge ask of any body, and an Ultra even more so – imagine the ask of a body whose immune system is compromised.   Could there be a better way of demonstrating that HIV is not a death sentence?

Evie, Ken, Masi, Willie and Barb don't think there is.  So we take the message; in the form of fit, bright eyed, saucy-humoured runners, out to the communities that surround these races.  And they tell their stories, and take questions and bring hope.

But it's expensive – and we're a small NGO – so we can't afford to keep doing it without help.

To that end, I do hours of research.   I fill in applications, I make countless calls and photo copies.  I pare words down until they fit electronic forms.  And I send them off.  Then I follow up – by email, by phone, by email, by phone, by email … you get the picture.

Nothing comes back.  Not even a form letter telling us to take a hike. Nothing.  Sweet F-A.

It's not as if I'm  asking for a fortune – we need R80k ($11K, £7K) a year.  Actually, no, that's not even my point.   It's the principle.  The proposals I have been sending are directed to an individual by name.  To the individual who does the job concerned.  I'm offering them to become involved with a key health issue in our country, one that affects every business.  And I am offering them to become involved in a positive, forward thinking, simple, healthy way.

And they don't have the decency to answer me.  WTF?  I used to get a good couple hundred emails every week.  They always got answered.  “I'm busy” is no excuse.

But, I refuse to quit.   After all – I've learned, from five of the VERY best, how to run a marathon.

My pal Maurits has closed his Facebook account. He felt it was becoming a chore, a burden and allowed too many extraneous people into his life. He said he wondered how many people would notice. At the time he told me all this – only two had.

At the same time, Claudia (The Accidental Chef) has decided to stop blogging for a while. She wants to recharge her writing batteries. Fair enough, but I notice this decision has come hot on the heels of criticism she received from a 'Professional Writer'. Now, she's a more traditional bird (in some ways) than I and she respects the opinion of academics. But his (apparently well-written, but) unkind comments, have made her question herself. She's doubting that what she writes is good enough for the world to read. She has kept journals as long as I have known her: and it never bothered her what anyone thought of those entries.

I have a couple of blogs. A Facebook account, a dormant twitter account and I'm linkd-in. I have wi-fi at home (which some bastard has been hacking into). I also carry a cell-phone – two when I am working for Positive Heroes. I don't have a blackberry – but that's just because I am not entitled to one on my very basic and archaic calling-plan in SA. (Plus I am cheap and don't want to spend a bunch of money 'trading-up' to one). Soon as I can, though, I will be back on the crack – carrying my email, facebook, blogs and the entire weight of the internet with me.

And I am wondering why? Is it because I want people to know what I am up to at all times: no it is not. Is it because I want people to be able to contact me at all times: hell no. I like being in touch with the friends I have in different parts of the world. Even if it is just in soundbites or updates. But I think Maurits has a point. I feel guilty when I haven't updated my status. Remiss when I haven't posted. I feel like I am letting someone, somewhere down.

So, my question is: has modern communication opened us up, only to bog us down?

The First:

I pick up Martin and Diana on Sunday morning. They are on their way to church in Concordia: “the black location next to the white location”. Martin has his ‘good’ suit on. His shoes are hand-shined. His tie and shirt are bright. Diana wears a traditional long skirt in blue shweshwe with a white starched shirt. Her hair is covered by a doek and she smiles shyly at me in the rear-view mirror. Martin and Diana look beautiful together. They both carry bibles.

They met in a home for abandoned children. Martin’s mother’s boyfriend (“Not, my real father”,) beat her up so bad one time, she had to run away and she left them behind. Martin and his sister and brother. Martin was six. He didn’t mind living in the home. They had food and friends. And they were together there. And he found his wife there.

Diana’s mother had disappeared one night and it wasn’t until a month later that someone thought to look for her. And found the children. Diana smiled– “but we had food enough from the neighbours”. The social workers came to fetch them on a Friday and they never went back.

Martin took up bad habits when he had to leave the home. Drinking and smoking. It was a lot. Then one morning he woke up and realised he wanted to change. Just like that. He could hear a voice in his heart that was telling him to walk together with Jesus – so he gave it a try. And, 7 years on – he felt things were finally falling into place.

Some things. Diana and him had no children. She had been pregnant four times – and four miscarriages. The first time was the worst because it was at five months and a friend had knocked her over and she had fallen on her belly and crushed the baby. “He was a boy”. But they were going to keep trying – because it was God’s will. And, yes, maybe, if it didn’t happen they would go back to the home where they met and make some of the children there, their own. It would be like a big circle.
Things are coming together now, Martin says. “But we have such debt.” Diana smiles again: “God will help us, but meantime we must work”, she says.

I wind back through the township. And I ponder faith and hope. And religion. And I remember Walt Whitman’s words: “Argue not concerning God”. And I resolve never to again.

Because – on this day of rest, in this place of thousands, where goats and shacks cling to rubbish dumps, where toddlers roam pantless and parentless, where taverns outnumber churches, in this place and for these people: Jesus does seem to be the only possible answer.

The Second:

I pick up the women on a 10km stretch of road which heads towards nothing but a National Park. The older one is badly out of breath, two small children hug her skirts. The younger one has one baby swaddled tight, despite the heat. Another jogs along beside her. I practice my tiny bit of Xhosa on them and glean that they are on the way to the doctor. The baby is sick.

“Doctor – out here?” I ask. “Eweh”. “A clinic doctor?” “No, one of our doctors. The traditional one.” I nod – what is wrong with the baby? The younger woman looks straight at me and I realise she is about 15. “The baby is not crying”.

The three kids in the front are having a ball. Eyes and grins fixed on me. “Mamma – are these your children?” I ask the older. “No – they are the children of my brother and my sister. But they are late. They have been gone two years.” I look at her in the mirror – she drops her eyes. But the younger holds my gaze. “I will be happy to take you to town to the clinic for the baby”, I offer. The older woman says something in Xhosa that I don’t catch, but I understand.

I drop them at their destination and, as I drive on: I ask Jesus if he is planning to come around here anytime soon?

Dear Pope Benedict,

There's no nice way of saying this, Joe, but you have become the Ken Lay of Catholicism. And whilst Ken managed to avoid punishment by dying before he was sentenced – you'll not be so lucky. If I remember the rules right – you will be damned for all eternity and consigned to the fires of hell.

If you keep looking the other way.

I was raised Catholic but I haven't been to a mass in decades. And I have to own to being at odds with the hard positions Catholicism takes on most issues: abortion, divorce, homosexuality, hell … to name a few. The World has moved on – and you need to as well. We no longer live in tents and closed societies where behaviour is policed by the community and wrong-doers are dealt with according to a parochial and patriarchal system of law. Men are also no longer able to treat women as their possessions, to trade in children, to murder whoever they choose and call it war (though, granted, that particular envelope is constantly being pushed).

We hold ourselves to higher standards now. Man-made standards. And not those of an omnipresent being whose earthly representatives will not tolerate two people of the same sex being in love, but who seem to be absolutely fine with child pornography and molestation.

I know many Catholics who are deeply ashamed of the “ass in the air” position you have taken on the child abuse that has been happening. I went to Catholic schools and I know not every priest indulges in these unspeakable acts. But the good men, the ones who truly believe they have a responsibility to their congregations, these men are being tarred by the same despicable and filthy brush as the men you are currently hiding behind your papal habit.

Joseph: your misguided loyalty is killing the Church.

And as for Belgium last week – have you learned nothing since April? Officers of the Church are not immune to public scrutiny. You are not above the law. A friend of a friend, responding to the press reports of the raid in Leuven referred to the Catholic Church as a “Disgusting Institution”. I found that shocking. I know too many good, decent, generous and caring Catholics to render them all perverts. You must give them their dignity and their faith back.

Take advice from people who have dealt with war-crime tribunals and convene your own. Because this is war. You are fighting for the survival of the Church you lead. Be transparent in your process. Apologise, accept responsibility. Deal with the fall-out. See this as an opportunity to breathe new life, modernise, let go of the archaic.

While there is still time.

If you need any help, let me know. I have some fresh, innovative ideas that will help move a re-invention right along. But, first, you need stop pretending this is not happening. If you can't – resign. Because, right now, it's time for you to step up or step out.

As the nuns always told me: what doesn't kill, makes you stronger. And they should know.

SUE

Oh good lord People: let go of this vuvuzela thing.  They're here and they sound like angry hornets. So what.  Anybody remember those GWAAAAAAAAA things that English fans use – that sound like foghorns.  That probably are foghorns.  No sweet nothings being whispered there. Yet on and on the debate rages.  To ban or not to ban?  Even the Arch had to come out in support:  “nonsense” he bellowed, adjusting his green and gold knitted beanie. Norm Cooke (Fatboy Slim) said it best to Fresh on 5 the other day:  “it only sounds like that on the TV and radio – in the stadium it's exciting man!” And followed it up with a great suggestion – different colour vuvus should have been given different notes. Then we could have figured out a stadium's tuning every night.  Old School music biz fella – thinking strategically:  let's take the riff and make that sucker a hit.

Right now, we have bigger problems.  A man in an alice band slipped two past our goalie.  Who then got smacked for bad behaviour. Now we have to beat France.  I don't know much about soccer and I am by nature an optimist … but France?  Even the English blanche when you mention that team. Though, given that the Swiss unexpectedly whupped the Spanish team's asses yesterday and that England went green and gave the USA a goal and a draw … anything seems possible. And that's hope enough for me.

So – we're almost a week in, and none of the dire predictions have come true.  Crime hasn't surged, children and nubile maidens have not been abducted.  Getting in and out of the stadiums has proved easy (especially if you leave before full time because your team has just let a third by, but I digress). Traffic is manageable, the gees (spirit/vibe) is strong, games are exciting, stadiums are holding up. Lovely stuff.  We South Africans might not know much – but we do know how to throw a party.

But, man is it cold in Cape Town!  I had a good laugh yesterday at the Waterfront shopping centre.  A bunch of gals, over from Manchester, were plundering Country Road for some warm, affordable clothes.  Much discussion as to how they could work their carefully co-ordinated Top Shop and Zara summer outfits around thick sweaters and still look sexy at the games.  One of the girls told me – “but this is meant to be Africa and Africa is meant to be warm”.  I decided not to say the obvious. Instead I pointed her in the direction of fleeces that could be worn off the shoulder.   All that experience, gained in 18 years of cold English summers, finally came in handy.

I am enjoying this Wold Cup.  I love that everyone is talking about it (even my 2 year old niece).  I love that there are flags fluttering from almost every car in town.  That they represent every nation.  I love that we are all equal under the stadium sky and I love that people who would not normally be out here on holiday are breaking bread and drinking wine with us.

And I love that the vuvuzela boasts about it, to the whole world, every day.

It's all good.

* ok – so this is a somewhat clunky attempt at a double pun:  coucher means sleep and references the Lady Marmalade song.  The tutu bit is a little britain reference: computer says no.

It was my friend Rudi's birthday on Friday. We all clubbed together to buy him a dishwasher (seems to be the new trend – I'm hoping for a first class round-the-world-airline ticket, with vouchers to all the Park Hyatt hotels. Just thought I would put that out there). And we all went to see the St Petersburg Male Ballet Company dance Swan Lake. Or so I thought. What we actually saw was a ballerino long past his primo, and his oddly shaped troupe (one of whom seemed to have a whole turkey breast down the front of his tights), interpreting arbitrarily-chosen bits of music.

The tiny dancer was well into his 50s, but he was no Baryshnikov. In fact, he rather reminded me of Liza Minnelli. I saw Liza in concert at the Royal Albert Hall, years ago, with Sammy David jnr and Frank Sinatra. As she highkicked her way merrily, and somewhat drunkenly, across the stage, a good few people averted their eyes. (One of them being Barbara Sinatra – to whom Frank would later sing: “where there is laughter there is Barbara, always Barbara warm and gay…”. So, she shouldn't have been smiling quite so broadly. And, frankly (ha!) Barbs didn't have much of a leg of her own to stand on – she was wearing a tiara, and she acknowledged her hubby's dedication by standing to wave at the audience with that peculiar inward wave the Queen Liz favours. Cue more eye aversion.)

At one point Friday's dancing queen tossed carnations into the audience. He'd been miming frantically to an Italian love song and was either approaching climax or had thrown his back out – hard to tell. It was all a bit too much for me. Like watching your mum have a few gins too many at a cocktail party and getting her groove on. Mortifying. I wanted desperately to go home.

There are signs up around Cape Town at the moment advertising “Deep Purple, supported by Uriah Heep and Wishbone Ash” at the Grand West Arena. I mean what the **** – who on earth would want to see them? Fleetwood Mac are on the road without Christine McVie, Spandau Ballet are touring Europe and Bon Jovi are out there in their new hair pieces – re-living on a prayer.

Are we all taking this 'fifty is the new forty” thing too far? Should we be starting to retire gracefully? Frankie could hardly remember the words to 'New York New York', that night in London. From my seat I could see the teleprompters: “da da da dada da, da da da, start spreading the news”. Like Friday's ballet – all it did was make me sad.

Maurits sent me an article from The Times in which the journalist described how much happier we all are once we hit fifty. In fact – we are so happy, we are are apparently taking on “new hedonist ways”. I'm not entirely sure what this means, but suspect it has something to do with getting our old bits out, and putting them up there on public view. And if that's what Friday's ballet was all about – count me out. It's said that the art of going to a party is knowing when to leave, and I am a 10pm Cinderella.