They / we

The other night my wife and I went to a friend's house for a meal. She had other guests: a couple from South Africa, who5 million whites, four million  were over here in New Zealand visiting family.
They were a pleasant enough couple: young, attractive, rich. White.
It's not a word I would have used. The "W" word, I mean. It was a term they employed about themselves. The male of the pair saw fit to tell me about life in South Africa. How there are 37 million blacks, 5 million whites, 4 million coloured, and a million or so Indians. (The numbers quoted may not be accurate: I was onto my third glass of wine by the time the stats got trotted out.)
He didn't use any of the usual pejorative and divisive terms - and there are enough of them: kikes, spics, wops, niggers, honkies, greasers, whites, zipperheads, gooks, wetbacks, accountants, management, workers, sheilas, babes, bints, dorks, cretins, pigs, oinkers, wankers, punks, dweebs, brats, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, Jew,  Shiite, Sunni, Arab,Yank, Pom, Frog, the list goes ever on, like Bilbo's road. Not one of thempassed his lips. But he did use that one damning word: they.
"If I were to go into the centre of the city, then they would..." When they did.."..
South Africa, it seems to me, will never truly be the rainbow nation that the world saw born just a few years ago until we start hearing inclusive language from people like this couple. He told us that our (the white people's) problems were so and so (mainly with the blacks, actually), while the problem with the blacks and Zulus were that they couldn't or wouldn't behave like, well, whites.... and dribble on.
What depressed me, I suppose, was that these people were young. Young enough to have been to school during the initial rainbow years. And all I heard was tired old voortrekker Afrikaans droning.
I will say one thing for them: they do love their country. They went on at some lengths about the astonishing beauty of the land, of the tumble-down wildness of the coastline, of the breathtaking joy to be found in a sunrise over Table Mountain. But I don't think they actually know what their country is. They didn't understand that their nation isn't made up of 37 millions black, 5 million whites, 4 million coloureds, and 1 million Indians. It is, in fact, made up of 47 million South Africans. And all 47 million share in the same problems, the same solutions, the same dreams, the same hopes, the same desires.
If they don't understand this, they understand nothing.
Here in little old EnZed we've gone a long way to sorting our differences. We celebrate our similarities, and our differences. Actually, that's a little rose-tinted: we still have a way to go. But the vast, vast majority of us refer to ourselves as Kiwis, as New Zealanders, as Godzoners.
Or maybe I'm just an over-optimistic bleeding-heart liberal, who can't see the truth even when it's kicking him in the knackers.
Reading: "Zoo Station", David Downing. Robert Harris crossed with le Carre. Excellent.
Listening to: Art Garfunkel,"Angel Clare". The man's voice was a thing of beauty. I'd like to hear him singing with Antony.
More "Heroes"....
“Ask politely, you big ox, or these people may well have to revive you again.” His voice was as cold as an Arctic breeze.


“Bah,” and the big man spat blood. “Sit. Please.”

“Thank you,” smiled the small man. “Asking is good. Ordering is not.” And he helped the big man to his feet, and sat next to him.

Hanno muttered “You have a harder head than me, little Grey.” He gripped his nose between two broad forefingers, and pulled. The loud crack as the gristle straightened into place was almost – but not quite – drowned by the God-Emperor’s shouted “Crom!”

“Hard fist, too,” grinned the cowboy.

“I’ll see you later. Best two from three?”

“Done, my Lord Hanno. Done.” The men slapped palms, grasped wrists, and grinned at one another. The first part of the rites had been observed. Now, to hear more of what this Charles wanted.

Charles cleared his throat and spoke.

“I must begin by telling you that we apologise for bringing you to us. A death once earned should not be snatched back. But after much discussion, we felt we had no option.

“No,’ he corrected himself. “We knew we had no option. Hard though it undoubtedly is for you, we hope you will forgive our presumption when you hear our story. Hear our need. It is great.”

He told the Sleepers of the deaths, of the strange violence that his people had wrought upon themselves. Violence, which should in theory and had in practice for so many decades have been impossible.

“You see, we have small machines we call nanobots and embots. They monitor our health and repair our bodies when or if they are damaged or fall sick. They also help us communicate: in a blink of an eye I am able to plumb the depths of the great I-See centres, or I can exchange a banal thought or joke with one friend or twenty, or everyone in the world.

“We outlawed the use of violence many years ago, and our embot-assisted minds now instantly correct our mood if violent plans or thoughts are made. We simply cannot raise a hand to another. Paranoia, fear, violence, even anger – all these things are impossible. And yet they have happened, with appalling results. Happened not just once, but over, and over, and yet again.”

The men listened, grim-faced. He continued. “We four here have been inoculated, if you like. This project, to bring back some of the world’s great heroes and warriors was possible only because we agreed to -” he bowed his head. A tear escaped, and plopped onto the table. When he raised his face a moment later it was clear and calm. There was a rustling around the table. The sudden mood change had not gone un-noticed.

The man Adam, still shaken, and wiping his mouth, took over the tale. “We volunteered to do that which had become impossible: to contemplate the planning of violence. Our embots were subtly altered, re-programmed to allow us to consider violence. Our greater society now understands us to be uncontrolled psychopaths. And yet even we find it almost impossible to contemplate actions such as you have just done. Seeing the violence that Hanno and Grey indulged in – well , you saw the effects it had on us. Yet that is exactly what the Commonwealth needs you for. We – Charles, myself, Cienwyn, Paulus: we were given this place, the laboratory, and we have worked in isolation for many months to bring you here. We had a number of failures, and we grieve for them. They were like yourselves, heroes: unlike you, they did not quicken to life, as you have. Our world, the people of the Commonwealth, knows of you. They know you are here. They know why.

“You see, we – they, our enemy – has discovered that our technology, our embot and nanobot technology, is vulnerable.” Adam’s voice was now sounding desperate. He looked at the six Sleepers, and saw only grim eyes looking back at him. He suddenly understood what it was to be naked. “Our ‘bot technology is vulnerable to Ultralow and ultralong-wave radio beams that, when tightly focussed, can send the embot parts of us into a frenzy. Adrenalin, normally tightly controlled by our embots, floods and drowns our nanobots. Pain, and uncontrolled violence follows. After that: insanity. Even the scrubbing of embots from the bodies of those afflicted does nothing to help them. The knowledge of their actions seems to make them catatonic. Fear has stricken them, and we have known little or no fear for many, many years. We have had nothing to fear. Everything was within out control. Our fates were our own.” Adam struggled for words. He seemed to be close to tears, then his face suddenly cleared, and he smiled, comfortingly. The six men who listened to him saw the change in expression, and were aghast. Blunt wondered if the man was even human. The story was one of despair, yet this man who told the tale felt nothing. Was he as much a machine as the many strange things he had seen in the white room? Blunt was troubled, and he hand signalled to Whistler to be prepared for action. At least that was something he hadn’t forgotten: in his trade, leading skirmishers at the leading edge of a battle, whistles and hand signals often took the place of shouted commands.

District 9.

I went to see the new film, District 9, yesterday. Let's not be in any doubt that it should feature strongly at the Oscar ceremonies. Let's also be well assured that it probably won't do well at all. It should be nominated for a number of awards - best film, direction, actor, photography, screenplay, special whizz-bang effect, sound amongst others - because it works superbly on all levels, and is a movie that's still porobing and prodding my hind-brain 24 hours after saeeing it.

It won't do well, because the lead actor, Sharlto Copley, is palpably South African (and therefore unintelligible to Americans - will they do sub-titles?) and because it deals harshly with a huge problem the world doesn't want to think about any more.

It will undoubtedly be put into the Science Fiction section of your local video store when it's done its theatre thing. This will also be a mistake. While it does feature aliens and a f*cking huge spaceship, it's as much Science Fiction as Orwell's "1984" or "Animal Farm" were Science Fiction.

"District 9" looks at separatism, apartheid, race-hate, segregation, civil rights, call it what you will, and for the first half of the movie I was horrified to find myself almost sympathising with the neo-nazi hero worker-bee as he strove to clear District 9 of life.

The movie's premise is simple: two decades ago, a vast spaceship came to Earth, and parks itself over Johaneesburg. For 20 years, it's hovered there, unmoving. When it arrived, it was filled with a large number of insect-descended aliens, who were ill. They were brought down to the surface, and given a home in District 9 - a slum. At the present time, there are over a million aliens - called Prawns - living a slovenly life in the District 9 slum cum shantytown. A privately owned arm of the Government plans to shift them all 200 kilometres away to District 10, in the heart of the desert: out of sight,out of mind. Our hero is given the task of overseeing the shift. A number of tactics we will recall from historical footage of Nazi Germany, pre-Mandela South Africa, and current day Israel / Palestine will spring to mind.

The movie is initially presented as a documentary: live action shots of Wilkus van der Merwe (astonishly well played by Sharlto Copley in his second first movie role. The first role, five or six years ago, was basically as an extra. This is extraordinary. ) backed by heavily armed henchmen, tricking the hive-mentality Prawns into signing their eviction orders to be taken to their new paradise home, in the heart of a desert. Shades of Soweto, of course. Let's be clear here: the majority of Prawns aren't all that bright. They are sentient, but let's face it: they're way out of their comfort zone. They are refugees, in every sense of the word. Shades of Palestine. They're taken away to their new homes, crammed into the backs of trucks - the movie channels Nazi Germany. There is a bright Prawn, who has an even brighter child. Cute factor. He wants to takes his people home, and has laboured for 20 years to do so. There's a multi-national company that wants the secrets to the Prawn's technology and weaponry - tech that will work only when operated by a Prawn: DNA sensitive. Wheels within wheels, plots within plots, acted and filmed with brio, with drive, with panache, and with rare sympathy to all concerned. Well, there's one character who is an utter bastard, and we know it from minute one.

I won't go any further into the plot: to say too much more would be to spoil the whole.

This is a social drama movie heavily disguised as a Sfi Fi movie heavily disgiused as a small dumb action flick. If you don't see it, you may well miss the best movie of the year. Just don't hold your breath waiting for it to win anything at the Oscars. I hope I'm wrong on that prediction, and I fear I won't be.

READING: Bloody Morrie and those bloody Tuesdays. I'll do a vinegary rant about it soon.

LISTENING TO: Jethro Tull, "Roots to Branches". The song "At last, Forever" is one of the finest love songs I know.

WORD OF THE DAY: MAKATU. Religious / spiritual superstition that allows one to kill an intellectually disabled person and get away with it. I actually thought we were a civilised people here in our little corner of the world. It turns out that we're just a bunch of ignorant, superstitous morons.

HENRY'S LIFE CONTINUES......

Chapter
The Wisdom of the Woodpile.
Henry has three axes. One has a fine stainless steel head that weighs in at just over two kilograms, and he keeps the edge razor sharp. The handle is hickory, and shows a little damage up at the head where Henry’s misjudged the occasional stroke and overshot the piece of wood he’s cutting. His second is a splitting axe: a small, genetically engineered sledgehammer on which one side narrows into a blade. It’s a heavy, brutal tool that Henry enjoys wielding. The third is a short-handled tomahawk that Henry uses to cut kindling.
Every November Henry has forty three-metre larch logs delivered: there’s an alley that gives trucks access to the Talbot Terrace backyards, and Jake Rimmer, Northridge’s number one firewood guy, knows the alley well. The logs are delivered with precision, money changes hands along with an annual chat about the cost of Christmas and how the ratbag ref completely ballsed up the last All Blacks game. Then Henry rolls his sleeves up, and gets to work.
Each log is manhandled to lean against the back fence, where it will stay for at least a year, drying and curing. In March and April, the year-long dance continues: Henry gets out his cross-frame and bow-saw, and lifts each log, in turn, onto the frame where he handsaws it into 30 centimetre lengths. His neighbours watch him as they guiltily fire up their chainsaws to do a similar chore in their backyards. Smug bastard. Just who the hell does he think he is, anyway, with his precious handsaw. Probably votes for the Greenies. The minuet of the woodpile then takes its third step: the rounds are stacked for another year’s seasoning, and last year’s sawn pieces are taken out for splitting for the coming winter’s fires. And it’s this part that Henry really relishes.
Mary Talbot has painted this scene a number of times, and is yet to be satisfied with her efforts. She sees Henry as a heroic figure, handling the heavy splitting axe like a toothpick, attacking and vanquishing his wood-pile foe. That, of course, is where she’s got it wrong. If Henry were to paint or describe the scene, the first word he would say would be “thought”.
For it’s while he’s splitting the wood into chunks suitable for the fire that he does much of his creative thinking.
Whoa! Creative thought? Our Henry?
Well, yes. When Henry’s troubled, he’ll wander off to the woodshed, and pick up his axe, sharpen it, then cut through a few slabs of fire wood. When Miriam died he cut three winter’s worth of wood, taking his fury and grief out on the chopping block. Mary stood at the kitchen window and watched as Henry balanced two chunks of wood onto his heavy chopping block, then slapped his splitting axe down, slap-crunching through the first piece and cracking the second wide open.
Crash! She’s dead!
Crash! It’s not fair!
Crash! Why her?
Had she been there in earlier years Mary would have seen him as he rehearsed how he would propose to her. She doesn’t know it, but she’s watched him as he’s sorted out how to talk with Adam about sex and drugs and motorbikes and young love and mathematics and music and art and for heaven’s sake keep your room tidy, young man!
Crash! The axe bites deep and the mind freewheels.
Crash! Freewheels onto a poem read the previous evening.
Crash! And what was the poet saying? What images came to mind?
Crash! Actually, the poem was a load of cobblers.
Crash! The Rover needs a tune-up. Better buy the plugs.
Crash! That’s it! That’s how to get the marae’s books sorted!
With the passing of each season the woodpile at 22 Talbot Terrace ebbs and flows, shrinks and grows, and each stroke of the saw, each heave of a log, every drop of sweat that falls, every axe-strike, every delicate little blow with the kindling axe has helped Henry find a solution to whatever it has been that’s worried him, or that’s been gnawing at his mind. Which is why it was so puzzling that Henry left his axes to hang, rusting, on their nails on the woodshed wall while he fled to foreign shores to confront the greatest problem of all.