



When it comes to crime in South Africa, you rarely meet someone who hasn’t yet become a statistic. From smash-and-grabs to jackings – everyone has a horror story to share around the braai. Private security (never mind the insurance industry) is booming, so much so that suddenly its not doctors and lawyers that are sought after by aspiring brides. According to a leading women’s magazine, guys that install burglar alarms, even those with plumber’s cracks, have become hot property. Manufactures of bullet-proof vests have quickly sussed out that levels of crime have reached such epic proportions that its no longer safe for ordinary citizens to move about freely on the streets. In a twist of marketing genius, a manufacturer of bullet-proof vests has teamed up with leading fashion designers to come up with a vest that will not only save your life but ensures that you look cool in the event that you are shot at.
I asked Travis Anderson of the clothing label, Iron Fist, what he thought about the merging of cutting edge design with safety. “It's a necessary evolution because you don't want to get shot on the streets looking like an asshole”, says Anderson who is excited to be involved in the world’s first designer bullet-proof vest. “We had been working on similar projects with a group of African mercenaries who were looking for fashionable yet extremely functional genocide wear”, he explains. Local designer, Samantha Bulgin of Alfalfa clothing who has also come on board, agrees with Anderson: “Cross pollination is always good. Having beautiful objects around us is super important, why not extend that into objects of safety too?” Apparently, this is not Iron Fists’ first foray into safety-wear. “The trip line-detecting shuffle socks and leopard crawl leotard just never took off with the war torn mass market. I think we were just ahead of our time.”
Despite the fact that bullet-proof vests have so far only appealed to corrupt dictators and coked-up celebrities, Anderson is confident that it will take-off with ordinary, nobodies and that Iron Fist is the ideal label to kick start this designer/safety revolution: “Everything we've done this far has been incredibly un-politically correct so why stop there. Give me a call when you want to launch designer nooses and electric chairs.” Samantha Bulgin, who’s trademark designs include her sensitive drawings of proteas, hearts and keys, wasn’t as convinced about the idea at first: “I wasn’t sure what to think exactly, Alfalfa is about bright and happy not bullets and guns. But in terms of target market I’m sure this product will appeal to other creative people and their families.”
No Now that the idea has taken root in South Africa, will it expand to other poor, dangerous or war-torn countries like Brazil or Iraq? “Hell yes,” Anderson replies emphatically, “although a few necessary adjustments would have to be made like matching bullet-proof speedos for the Copacabana and a lightweight version for the desert.” And like any good marketing campaign, the support of celebrities is a crucial ingredient. “Charlton Heston's totally down and we're working on a pro-model with him”, reveals Anderson. “Other than that we're waiting for Slipknot's tour of the Middle-East before we kick off with the celebrity campaign.” As for Alfalfa, Samantha Bulgin is keeping her celebrity under wraps for now. “Alfalfa does have a favourite famous person who we think will be a great face and voice for this campaign, a South African, but nothing is finalised as of yet”, she says with a mysterious smile.

A few weeks ago, in response to the news that the
One of the occupational hazards I’ve come to accept as a writer is that you need to be pretty open to meeting a variety of people outside of your social radar and you have to be willing to embrace any experience – no matter how bazaar, annoying or surreal the situation you find yourself in may happen to be. On the whole, its part of what I love about being a writer, but when your week starts on a cold, rainy morning being greeted by a large bearded man wearing nothing but a toga, a whistle and a cell phone dangling from his neck, you just have to ask yourself: How bad can a desk job really be?
The man in question is a white sangoma who runs shaman workshops, and on the recommendation of someone whose opinion I usually value, I decided to go and see for myself if he was a shaman or just a sham. Trying really hard not to let the fact that his last name is made up of ‘mal’ and ‘titz’ feed my already healthy appetite for cynicism, I paid up more money than I would have liked to, took a deep breath and signed up for a three-day sojourn into the shamanic underworld. In retrospect, I wish I had trusted my instinct when it comes to judging people by their names. I lasted until lunchtime. Aside from the mish-mash of aliens, chakras, angels and crystal slop that is usually served up at these kind of workshops, I had the pleasure of witnessing him remove an alien out of someone’s back. Now that’s something you don’t see everyday, hey? When I was the only one in the room who couldn’t ‘see’ or ‘feel’ the alien, the mal pip then turned on me. He pulled a dragon out of my body, which he then trapped in a crystal and told me that now people would be less afraid of me. Who does this guy think he is anyway? This is South Africa, I feel safer knowing that people are afraid of me for a change. And what if I liked my dragon? First he removes it without my permission and then traps the poor little fellah in a crystal like a cockroach in a glass jar. Needless to say, the mal pip didn’t really appreciate the comparison.
As if he wasn’t annoying enough, don’t even get me started on the rest of the group. Apart from the usual middle-class, Odyssey-reading, holistic-going, aura-cleansed and colonically-irrigated types that have nothing better to do with their money or time, there was an American woman about my age who wasn’t satisfied with my performance when it came around to my turn with the pendulum. When I told her to give me a break and that it wasn’t my fault that the piece of bees wax tied to the end of a string wouldn’t move over any of her chakras, she asked to switch partners. What I did learn though was that homosexuality is not a personal lifestyle choice as I had always assumed, but is in actual fact caused in men by the presence of a parasitical female spirit who wants some action and the only way she can get it, is to attach herself to some poor unsuspecting man. Presumably, if you’re a lesbian then you’ve been invaded by a horny male spirit. But what happens if you’re a woman occupied by a lesbian spirit? The mal pip didn’t seem to want to answer that question.
Wait, it gets better. These pesky spirits are also responsible for alcoholism. Apparently, despite it being referred to as the spirit realm, its pretty hard to get hold of a drink out there, so what these guys do is hitch a ride with a living body so that they can down a cold brewski and shoot tequilas with their mates. When I remarked that this must mean that impoverished areas with high levels of alcoholism must all be haunted, the mal pip announced that we were going to break for lunch. He didn’t even answer my question whether he had met any spirits that are partial to jeigie-bombs?
This year marks the 16th internationally celebrated Buy Nothing Day. On 24th November, millions of people around the world stand together and refuse to spend. Refuse to participate. Refuse, for just 24 hours, to feed into a self-perpetuating system that exploits, oppresses and depresses. Everywhere around the world – except in South Africa, that is.
In a recent interview, the U.K. performance poet Benjamin Zephaniah said that he wants to start a revolution but all his friends are too busy having sex or shopping.
I know exactly what he means.
Corporate branding has devoured counter culture, re-packaged it and sold it right back to us. What began in the early 1990’s on the international front has recently taken root at home. Corporate captains and hunters of cool are targeting the most lucrative generation of consumers, us. For the so-called ‘born-free’ youth, the struggle is over. We are a generation more pre-occupied with getting a good job and joining the ranks of the middle-class than social activism. We are a generation that has seen our freedom fighters turn into martyrs, politicians or managing directors. It hasn’t taken long for the marketing guys to figure out that we are too clued up to be taken in by the empty promises of politicians or outdated anti-establishment rhetoric, but we still, like every generation that came before us, yearn for a revolution.
Taking advantage of this political vacuum, the boardroom has gone underground to create brands that have resonance with youth (sub)cultures. Tobacco companies throw ‘underground’ parties, trance-heads knock back tequilas at the bar that ‘gives you wings’, and skaters are mobile billboards. Nothing has been left un-branded, not even our social conscience. Corporate sponsors are quickly realising the potential of associating themselves with causes that bring together a cross-section of youth subcultures from Punks to Heads. Hijacking issues such as H.I.V. and poverty, the executives of cool sponsor events which, probably cost a fraction of their marketing budget and, as a charitable events, are most likely even tax-deductible. The danger of this kind of branding is that young people are duped into associating certain brands with social resistance and are lulled into a sense of complacency that wearing brands that merely symbolise your politics is enough.
Maybe Gil Scott-Heron was wrong, it looks like the revolution will be televised.
On the afternoon of Heritage Day, the kultural upstarts kollective transformed the statue of Cecil John Rhodes at the University of Cape Town, taking inspiration from the colourful and distinctive outfits of the nation’s soccer supporters. The motivation behind this installation was to challenge the idea that heritage belongs to a static past and to show that, instead, heritage is inextricably bound up with the process of looking back as the nation moves forward. Through such an initiative we hoped to communicate, in a creative way, that heritage is how we imagine – and locate – ourselves in the present. Although we were granted permission by the University our project was met with vehement criticism by DA ward councillor, Owen Kinahan.
After seeing an article about us in the Argus, Kinahan wrote a letter to the vice-chancellor objecting to the installation for two main reasons: firstly because I had been arrested for defacing public property. In 2002 I stencilled an image of a spray can along with the words ‘Free Art’ on an N2 bridge in protest against the barrage of proposed by-laws that boasted a “zero tolerance” approach to all the City’s social ills by banning everything from graffiti to the homeless. As I was a middle-class, white and supposedly upstanding member of the community this little escapade received a lot of media attention and fuelled the debate around the short-sightedness of Draconian laws that threatened to turn two already marginalized groups into criminals: the youth and the poor. People begging and living on the street are a symptom of poverty and graffiti is the voice of the youth refusing to be silenced. The protest was not just about graffiti, it was about demanding to know why our leaders were not providing viable, long-term solutions to uplift the communities that need it most. No wonder they were threatened by the writing on the wall. A few weeks after the arrest, amidst raging debate about graffiti and youth culture, Diesel did not miss the opportunity for some guerrilla marketing, and their signature back-to-front ‘E’ began appearing on the walls of the city. There were no objections from Kinahan or any other councillors for that matter.
Secondly, Kinahan objected to the Heritage day installation because he regarded it as an immature act of anarchy rather than activism or art. In his letter, he stated the following: “While I have no problem with pranks that dress up statues from time to time, I have a real issue with the likes of Delle Donne practising "activism" on the UCT campus for their own anarchical reasons. It is one thing for them to get involved in a mature debate WITH the University about its heritage but quite another to behave in this manner.” What I find most amusing about Kinahan’s statement is that it is, if nothing else, a dazzling display of ignorance and narrow-mindedness when it comes to the notion of public art. How can someone hold public office and still think that art only belongs in a gallery and therefore anything outside of that platform could not be construed as a mature act of creative engagement with the notion of heritage? More to the point, does Kinahan, as a ward councillor, not have more pressing issues to deal with?
Currently, many Cape Town streets are being considered for renaming in an attempt to erase certain elements of the apartheid legacy. As part of the process of transformation, many of these public spaces can be renamed, in so doing re-constructing our champions and values to fit more congruently with contemporary democratic South Africa. Street names can be dealt with fairly easily, as can names of airports and other physical locations. But what about statues? These more heftily spatial, weighty and personified symbols of the past are difficult obstacles to deal with. Destruction or removal seems to be an unsatisfactory cop-out that lacks both creativity and attempts to obliterate people who have left their mark in ways that go deeper than the statue itself. So what do we, as ordinary South Africans do about statues which form part of our colonial and apartheid heritages: the concrete figures that seem somewhat out of place in the contemporary democracy? Although events and people cannot be erased, they can be reshaped and resignified to cast different shadows. While I found Kinahan’s response amusing, it is also alarming because it smacks of elitism and limits the possibility for individuals and communities to explore heritage as a complex cultural resource which we all can lay claim to in empowering and meaningful ways.
I’m sandwiched between two screaming kids. Two! What are the chances? I am really regretting my decision not to order a whiskey when the refreshment brigade came around. What makes matters worse is that the co-pilot hasn’t instilled much confidence in me. She first announced that we would be landing in Joburg and then corrected herself (with a giggle, nogal) and confessed that she was a bit “confused”. Geez Louise sister, you can’t joke about shit like that in a post 9/11 world. Anyway, I’m starting to get the feeling that this is definitely a case of instant karma kicking in. I cast my mind back to a few weeks ago, when a free ticket to Egoli together with a comp for the Live Earth concert landed in my lap. Don’t get me wrong it wasn’t all plain sailing. I first had to endure a mental wrestling match between the activist and the self-serving writer that reside in my head. The activist pinned the writer down with the carbon footprint issue and the incongruity of flying to a huge music concert to raise awareness about global warming. The self-serving writer had no choice but to resort to some pretty dirty tactics which I can’t, in the interest of maintaining some degree of privacy when it comes to the workings of my innermost psyche, go into. Three minutes and 40 seconds into the wrestling match, the writer was declared the winner. Needless to say, that it’s the activist who is now getting the last laugh and while I sit typing on my laptop, is smugly telling off the writer that this rotten Mango is payback for having supported the biggest corporate greenwash event of the millennium.
At the concert, watching all the punters devouring their hot dogs and slurping their Cokes I wondered how many of them could define ‘carbon footprint’ let alone are aware of the fact that the meat industry generates about 18% of the world’s greenhouse gas emissions – that’s more than the transportation industry. I mean, does Al Gore really think that a heavily branded concert filled with musicians telling people to only boil the exact amount of water they need for their cup of afternoon tea is really going to make a difference when what we need is a radical shift from the business as usual mindset? If change, real change is going to happen people need to be challenged and they need to feel part of a global movement as activists rather than consumers. Also, is the Live Earth concert symptomatic of yet another way in which local responses and solutions to Africa’s problems are being hijacked by the West? Given the problems that Africa is grappling with, do we really need the rich and famous to put on yet another “Live 8” type concert which incidentally, did little in the way of providing debt relief? It’s hard to escape the irony of Al Gore, representative of a country which refuses to sign the Kyoto agreement and is the biggest contributor to carbon emissions, spending millions on an expensive, environmentally damaging event to raise awareness about global warming here in the “developing world” where Africa’s carbon footprint ranks amongst the lowest in the world. Speaking of climate change, we’ve just hit some serious turbulence. It looks like the Live Earth concert came at a price after all.
KUK is a loose collective of cultural activists based in Cape Town.
KUK is where art and activism intersect.
KUK is the whimsical embraced by the subversive.
KUK is when the sacred and the blasphemous put aside their differences to look each other in the eye.