Week Ending wED 28 Nov 2012

Thu 22 to Happy Lands in Addo – Taylor-Smiths

Fri 23 Heartfelt Home for people with dementia / lunch with Andrew Barton / pack

Sat 24 to Cape Town visit sister niece watch rugby from Twickenham

Sun 25 to Wusts in Durbanville

Mon 26 to Stellenbosch

Tue 27 to Strand … Blue Rock Quarry

Who Pays the Rent?

If you own a house and the house burns down, are you liable for rates and taxes?

If you rent a house and the house burns down, are you liaable to pay the rent?

If you rent and pay for a holiday house and the house burns down, can you claim a refund?

If you arrange a rental and have not yet paid for the holiday house which burns down, are you liable to pay even if you no longer have a house to which to go?

If you have a time share and have paid the levy, and the unit burns down, can you claim another unit or a different time slot?

If you have a time share and have not yet paid the annual levy, are you liable to pay the levy even if you do not get the accommodation for that period?

If you have paid for hotel accommodation and the hotel burns down, can you claom a refund?

All the answers and more ……..

Listen tomorrow morning (Tuesday) to the DMB Show with Daron Mann, Chris Gibbons and a property lawyer on AlgoaFM: 6am to 9am

Jaaaa Boet!

Ja Boet!

©2012 Edward C. Lunnon

Monday 19 November 2012: 6 years 2 months on …

Physical: Advantage CBD / Mental: Deuce

On Saturday evening we attended a show in a 700-seater marquee at Grey called “Boet and Swaer” (Brother and Brother-in-Law). It’s a parody on South African life told through the eyes and in the accent of of two farmers from the Albany / Grahamstown area.

The show was preceded by the International rugby match between Scotland and the Springboks at Murrayfield in Edinburgh (which we won), followed by a dance ably discoed by Charlie T of AlgoaFM’s  DMB Morning Show and interspersed by a well-stocked Castle Corner.

Four years ago in 2008, I was at Murrayfield watching that game (which we won) with Barryvan der Vyfer, and his son and neighbour. I also bumped into MikeCarswell there who was head of Meriway House at Grey in my first year of teaching in 1984. I also attended the Old GreyDinner in London the following week. (This year’s dinner is scheduled for this coming Thursday evening – a gathering in central London for all the Old Grey’s who (tragically) now live in the UK.)

Two years ago in 2010, I was at OliverTamboInternationalAirport in Johannesburg watching that game on TV (which we lost) with friend AndrewJonker and his business associate. They were on their way to do business in Europe and I was on my way to watch the England / Springbok game at Twickenham the following Saturday (which we won), visit MikeCarswell in Dublin and to attend the Old GreyDinner in London.

Anyway, back to the show. It’s a good laugh at ourselves as “Souties, Dutchmen and Dlamini” South Africans and we need to be able to laugh like that sometimes. All the F words – after Ficksburg,  the floods and fires, farm and factory unrest, the Police Force and force, the Farlam Commission, the financial impropriety and woes of the President and his multi-million rand private house(s) and the falling rand of the last few weeks, we especially need to laugh – and we don’t need to use that F-Word to do that!

It’s been a long haul from Andries Tatane in Ficksburg in the Free State, through Julius Malema in Limpopo to Marikana in the Northwest, the farm violence in the Western Cape, Nkandla in Kwa-Zulu-Natal, the floods in the Eastern Cape, the President’s penis and E-tolling in Gauteng and on to Mangaung next month in the Free State.

Sometimes in Life it’s necessary to halt, take a long pause and ponder the options and way forward. Sometimes it’s necessary to take one’s head out of the sand, take action and to get involved.  

As Boet says, it’s in those moments (which the audience thinks are scripted but when you actually just run out of words and don’t know what to say and just ponder about what’s to come) when, like now, that you just say:

“Jaaaaaa,  Boet!”     (Yesssss, Brother!)

Open Letter – from Kay, Daughter of Tokyo Sexwale

Subject: FW: FW: Brilliant, brilliant letter – please pass to all South Africans to read


IF YOU ENJOYED THIS LETTER, WHY NOT READ THE FOLLOWING BLOG, TOO: https://edlunnon.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/theres-no-thirst-like-bathurst/

Open letter by the daughter of Tokyo Sexwale.

Open letter to the surviving Rivonia Trialists

Kay Sexwale

Dear Ahmed Kathrada, Andre w Mlangeni, Dennis Goldberg and Nelson Mandela,

I greet you all in the name of the continuing economic freedom struggle of our people.

Your courage in fighting for the emancipation of our country is greatly appreciated.

I was fed ANC propaganda with my Purity baby food, but I believe the time has come

to consciously choose South Africa over the ANC.

The governing party, for many, is like a religion, followed by many without question or doubt.

Surely comrades, your sacrifices were not for a one-party, one-trade union state?

The time for a younger, patriotic and selfless leadership, like yours in 1964, is here.

The thinking public laments our bumpy transition from liberation movement to political party,

with some pointing out that a liberation movement has to be centralised and secretive while

a modern party in government must be influenced by its members and society,

and so be more transparent.

The loss of public trust through daily media exposure of the plague of government corruption,

which appears to be condoned by the ANC, is deeply seated.

The public perception is that the Mangaung leadership debate will boil down to who will continue

to allow rampant looting of state resources, the dangerous slippery slope of tribalism,

or who might make a difference.

Truth be told, the names being bandied about as top contenders are all synonymous with

the rot that plagues the movement.

The masses so loved by political party leaders at election time have taken to the streets

to voice their dissatisfaction.

Earlier this year, even middle-class a­rmchair critics put on their designer sneakers and

marched against ­e-tolling, also reportedly shrouded in corruption and an added burden

on our ridiculously taxed wallets.

In March, Police Minister Nathi Mthethwa informed Parliament that between 2007 and 2010,

the most common reason for police crowd management of gatherings was labour-related

demands for increases in wages, and that unrest requiring police intervention was related

to service delivery issues.

Later in June, City Press reported that 372 protests related to service delivery had been

recorded between January and the end of May this year alone.

In 18 years of democracy, we can still blame apartheid for many social ills, but we must

also blame our leaders.

The disgraceful and shocking non-delivery of textbooks in Limpopo left me cold.

But the worst thing that broke the soul of South Africa during this fateful year of the

ANC’s centenary was the shameful Marikana massacre,

reminiscent of the Sharpeville slaughter.

It highlighted aspects of every ill plaguing black society under an ANC-led government:

police brutality, wage strikes, corporate greed, failure of natural mineral resource redistribution,

flawed implementation of black economic empowerment, violent crime, service-delivery failure,

including inhumane slum settlements, unemployment concerns and much more.

The man who shoved his way to the front, taking the reins of leadership in this sorry mess,

was Julius Malema, a spat-out child of the movement. In the space of a few days,

he single-handedly nullified what little trust I had left in the aging ANC leadership.

I was raised by courageous men and women, people like you, the Rivonia Trialists,

who now need me to tell them it’s time to let go.

The ANC has never been as self-destructive as it is today.

Cosatu, the ANC-aligned trade union federation, has driven the economy into free fall as

the failure of their collective bargaining strategy, designed to perpetuate the racist status quo,

is blowing up in our faces with one strike after another.

I’m waiting for them to stop blaming third-force right wing elements and take some responsibility.

And let me not get started on the recent madness of more than R200 million-worth of

Nkandla renovations, SAA’s R5 billion bailout and the relentless e-toll attitude of government.

In 2009, I took longer than usual to vote in the booth, agonising over putting an X next to

the face of a man I instinctively knew was bad news.

My love for the ANC won over my reservations.

In last year’s local government elections, I rebelled, voting for the ANC in my

neighbourhood and for another party in the city.

I am sure Joburg Mayor Parks Tau is capable, but my rebellion against a

President Jacob Zuma-led ANC began with that ballot paper.

To not vote at all in 2014, as many are threatening, will be to dishonour the memory

of my uncle, Lesetja Sexwale, and his many fallen comrades who died in combat for

my right to vote.

It will be to disrespect the struggle for which men and woman such as him,

men like yourselves, sacrificed their youth.

Personally, it will be a betrayal of little Kay who was badly injured in a cross-border

raid in Lesotho in 1982 when the apartheid forces were hunting down Umkhonto we Sizwe

combatants like my father and Chris Hani.

I don’t know who I will vote for. All I know is that Zuma will never again hold

office with my consent.

I know uncle Lesetja and uncle Chris would not view my choice as a betrayal

of their sacrifices. I trust that you won’t either.

I choose South Africa .

Sexwale is a media and communication strategist with an interest in

current affairs and post-apartheid experiences

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS LETTER, WHY NOT READ THE FOLLOWING BLOG, TOO: https://edlunnon.wordpress.com/2013/10/29/theres-no-thirst-like-bathurst/

Earth Water and Fire

©2012 Edward C. Lunnon

Tuesday 13 November 2012: 6 years 2 months on …

Physically: Advantage CBD / Mentally: Deuce


It was twenty eight years ago, in 1984, that I first visited St Francis Bay. A lot of it was just sand dunes then and a gravel road connected Humansdorp to the village and Cape St Francis. Indeed, most of the village roads then were also just gravel.

I had been invited to a “shack” at the river. Even then, the “shacks” were substantially more than “shacks” that I knew – not that I had grown up with much knowledge of holiday homes and homes at the coast. But, indeed, my idea of a “shack” was very different to what I saw there!

That was the beginning of my love affair with the Greater St Francis area.

 After we got married, we often went to St Francis for a “Sunday drive”. We looked at houses and dreamed of the day when one day we would also be able to afford a place – a very small one – there!

Then, we bought our first fractional title (timeshare) cottage at Royal Wharf and later our very own house in the complex. The boys got Rusk and learned to fish on the river and in the canals – later we got Rolls and learned to ski and wakeboard. We made so many lovely friends and neighbours – the Nortje’s, the Fouche’s, the MacAleenans, the Fishers, the Rishworths, the Kemps, the Finnemores, and the list goes on …

Over the years, the gravel turned to tar (alas, lately, as the potholes got bigger, the tar almost back to gravel!); the numbers increased; the waterways got longer; the “village” got bigger – almost a town, but we still called it “The Village”; the cars and the boats got bigger; the toys evolved from canoes to jet-propelled craft; the tin shacks that I knew increased greatly in number; and the black and white “shacks” got bigger and bigger and fancier and fancier!

Who can forget those lovely calm wind-still nights after a busy day in the sun and the water? The walking, the chatting, the tanning, the touch rugby, the beach cricket, the fishing, the swimming, the skiing, the surfing …

The smell of suntan lotion and the inevitable braai …

And what is St Francis without a braai!

As the sun set in the west, the fires were lit, the friends arrived and the beers were opened.  The sunburn in your skin glowed as much as the setting sun and the coals of the fire. The conversation lasted deep into the night …

“Braaivleis, rugby, sunny skies and Chevrolet” * … or Fortunas, Mercs, BMW, 4 x 4’s, Seadoos, Evinrude, Mariner, Honda or Mercury!

 I have written a number of blogs about my memories of St Francis – see Packing Up, The Bridge Over the River Kromme, Who painted the Moon Black.

We all know that for good steaks you need a good, hot fire.

Some of us don’t even refer to a braai any more – we invite the crowds over and say “Come for a fire tonight, or, let’s make a fire!” – we all know that means a braai for supper!

 And to build that fire, you need good kindling wood, good “doringhout”, good firelighters, good matches, good bricketts, and a good puff and a blow ( and, of course, the one cardinal rule of fire-making, the person to over-see the fire). Also needed, a bit of water or a drop of beer in case the flames got out of hand!

I guess ninety percent of a good braai meal lies in the effectivenss of a well-prepared fire.

And, all this time, knowingly or unknowingly, and with the benefit of hindsight, we have been building our very own St Francis “fire” there.

“Let’s make a fire!”

Just like we painstakingly build our very own home fires for a “good” braai, over the years we have built our St Francis fire in waiting.

Kilometres of dry thatch kindling, hundreds and thousands of wooden beams, hundreds of gas tanks for fire lighters and bricketts, a healthy strong westerly wind for a good puff and a blow and all just waiting for that good spark and match to set it all ablaze. (Of course, we neglected the cardinal rule of fire-making – at this time of the year, very few people to oversee the fire, and since the New South Africa, not even a properly-equipped fire-station or a supply of water with decent pressure to douse the flames!).

And so it was that on Remembrance Day, Sunday 11 November 2012, the “match was struck” and the fire took, and the fire took … a hundred homes, a thousand trappings and a million memories.

Yesterday, since selling our home there last year, I emotionally returned to Royal Wharf for the first time – where it all started.

The pictures tell it all.

No they don’t.

They never can tell it all, because we have so much tucked away in our earthly memories that only that “Last Fire” will be able to take from us. We will share those memories with our St Francis friends and our families, who, too, were lovingly and fortunately privileged to be forged around the fires of St Francis.

May I long be spared to see the New St Francis Marina arise from the ashes of the Old.

©Heres  to the New St Francis Marina – may long and hard thought go into its restoration and prevent it from being another fire place.

May I suggest a slogan and song for the rebuilding of St Francis” (and with apologies):

 “Braaivleis, rugby, sunny skies and St Francis Bay”

(This blog is dedicated to all who have lost so much material belongings in St Francis, but especially to our very special friends, Charles and Julie Nortje. We were the last guests to spend a night in your beautiful guest room and home. I look forward to being the first visitor at the housewarming of your new house!)

* See that nostalgic ad by clicking the link below!


Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

or, in the words of Nici Lovemore, especially for St Francis Marina:

Lord, make me a canal of Thy Peace …