The spy who didn’t love me (2003)

Not inspired by me...

It seems as if John le Carré almost joined the Soviet Unionback in the old days when he was still a spy and before he started writing. It reminded me of the time I almost “met” John le Carré when I was still working at Oxfamand he was working on a little movie he was making – The Constant Gardener. If only I wasn’t asleep at the wheel…

Things got crazy at Oxfam. We were always running from one place to another. From one issue to another. From one campaign to another. I hardly had time to come up for air. Just too many campaigns to juggle. I was heading up the Coffee Campaign, representing Oxfam at Publish What You Pay dealing with the extractive industry, negotiating with the European Commission on corporate responsibility and getting my soul drained by the bureaucrats over there, and I still had to try and keep the ship running on Access To Medicine. And I was continuing my fight against Oxfam for my salary! Too much to handle for a lazy guy from Africa who only joined Oxfam a year earlier – and saw his new boss leave two weeks after he joined. So I really didn’t have time to hang out with anyone to do interviews for an upcoming movie.

So I was really pissed when I was told that I had to do this interview with some guy doing “research” for a movie he is involved in. Like I had time to hang out with movie researchers. But I didn’t have a choice. It was apparently pretty important that I speak to him. The Big Boss said so – and I must obey. What bloody movie was this in any case?

It was a movie that was going to be based on a story written by John le Carré – The Constant Gardener. Now really, I read The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, The Little Drummer Girl, A Perfect Spy and The Tailor Of Panama. Good stories even though I wasn’t really into spy novels. But I liked his spy writing more than others. So why couldn’t they send him over? At least I could get him to sign one of my books or something. I knew that I still had one of his books somewhere in the basement or in a box in the garage. Why did they have to send some lackey in his place? And why the hell do I have to talk to this lackey in any case?

But well, the movie was about HIV/Aids in Africa and corruption by Big Pharma and I was heading up the “private sector” angle of the Access To Medicine campaign. So I guess it made sense for me to be interviewed. But still. It was going to waste my time. Who was going to watch it in any case? People hardly cared. Right?

“Mr Cornwell is here to see you.” I wish I was in Cornwall. Then I would meet the “real deal” John le Carré and not some lacky doing the dirty work for John Le Carré. But I was friendly. Picked the guy up at the front desk and was surprised that they send such an old dude. He must have been in his 60’s or 70’s. Maybe he is an old varsity professor that retired and does some research and consulting on the side. You know, to keep the mind ticking over and wallet from drying. I got us a good cup of Fairtrade coffee each and jumped into one of the meeting rooms.

(Actually, the coffee was pretty crap at Oxfam. We were committed to Fairtrade not because of their great coffee, but more because of their commitment to the social cause we supported.)

David had an hour booked with me. He asked so many questions. Probing this way and that way. I gave him all the answers he wanted. Didn’t hold back on anything. Gave him my view unfiltered- as always. But I was a bit short with him. Didn’t want to waste time. Gave him the standard smile. I might even have been a little bit full of myself while I spoke to him. Educating the guy. Him learning from the “master”. But I peeked at my watch every now and again. Just making sure that I didn’t give him more than the allocated hour. Had loads to do. Had to move on to the next thing. Really.

David was very pleasant though. A very nice old man. I liked him. He spoke with a soft voice. Took slow notes. Thought of his questions. Probed to get more detail. Didn’t really give any of his own opinions. Just nodded his head and took in all the info. But then. He was just the researcher and it wasn’t his job to have an opinion in any case.

But in all honesty, I could hardly remember what we spoke about. I knew I gave him all the info he wanted but never really took any notice of the old man. Couldn’t even remember what he looked like. Grey hair and… hum… old. My mind was everywhere else during that interview. Planning what I needed to do for the rest of the day and week. Checked my watch and ended the conversation when the hour was up. I remember he was friendly and never waivered or seemed rattled with my behaviour. I wasn’t rude or anything, but just didn’t really give him the attention he deserved. But he was obviously pleased and happy that I gave him some time in my busy schedule.

Time to go. I walked him to the front door, shook his hand, gave him a warm smile and a nod, and waved good bye. A “Thank you Mr Cornwell and have a nice day” was the last words he heard from me. Turned around and walked back to my office. Ready to face the rest of the day and get some real work done.

I got to the office and a colleague asked me all excitedly, “So, how was it to meet John le Carré?” I laughed at her and said, “John le Carré? I wish! I met some lackey called David Cornwell. I don’t think John le Carré would hang out with me!” My colleague stopped and stared at me. “Are you being serious?” she asked. “Of course! You really think he would come over for an interview with me? In any case, John le Carré lives in Cornwall somewhere. No way he would come all the way to Oxford just for an hour long interview with me.”

Her reply…

“You know that John le Carré isn’t his real name. Right? You know that John le Carré is the pseudonym of David Cornwell, right? You DO know that David Cornwell IS John le Carré?”

I am an ass.

John le Carré... I mean... David Cornwell at his home in Cornwall

___________________________________

I learnt a big lesson that day. Never assume you know anything of the other person. Find out as much as what you can about them. Always be nicer than what you really have to be. You never know when you might want their autograph. And, you don’t get a personal thank you in the movie if you treat famous people like a lackey or like sh*t. And I learnt that David Cornwell used the name John leCarré to publish his books whilehe was still a real spy. I guess the book he wrote after our little meeting was not inspired by me – Absolute Friends. Thank God I never told him to say hi to John or that I liked John le Carré’s books. Or rather, that I am not big into spy novels! Yeah. I am an ass.

 

Me... Back at my desk...

 

I have these pictures in my head™

I have these pictures in my head. Pictures of people and places I have seen. It’s my memories in colour. I wish I had them in little picture boxes to share. But I don’t. I just have these pictures in my head.

Pictures of the Pink Market in Bamako, Mali. The sea of colour spread as far as the eye can see. Clothes and textiles hanging from every stall, tent and shop. Shirts of gold, blue, white – all shades and colours, more than the rainbow can give. Shirts and tunics and dresses hanging everywhere. And the women in their bright clothes and big smiles. Mulling around and laughing and talking. Neighbours during the day and friends at night.

Pictures of Soweto Market in Lusaka. Taxi’s everywhere. The minibus taxi’s. Blue and yellow or whatever spraypaint they could get their hands on. The backyard mechanics working at the stop street. Welding “new” exhaust pipes on cars still idling. And the tables with their variety of goods spread out. Fresh fruits and vegetables – oranges, carrots, potatoes, apples and everything you would want. And don’t forget the nsima and stewed beef. Or the dried Mopani worms ready for a salad – like croutons. And the men sitting in the alley’s drinking beer and talking soccer. Pictures of life and living.

Pictures of the arts and craft sellers on the side of the road on the way to Masvingo in Zimbabwe. Two or three soccer fields big. Sellers and artists a meter or two apart. Row upon row. With a government agent standing out acting as a seller. But the suit and the sunglasses give them away. They’ve  watched too many Western spy movies. But the artists sit there with a dusty backdrop and the beautiful Zimbabwe hills scattered around them. And their art. Art of wooden carved heads, soapstone mother-and-child abstracts, traditional clothes and much, much more. Just more and more – row upon row. Fields of art. And fields of people.

So many pictures. The flower sellers in Cape Town with their wide smiles and Table Mountain backdrop. Fisherman in Hout Bay coming in with their catch. Rows and rows of construction and more construction in Abuja, Nigeria. Carpets of trees as far as the eye can see when flying over the Cameroon jungle. The Danube with the spectacular Buda Castle as a backdrop in Budapest, Hungary. Lake Geneva from the window of a train. The Sun and Moon Pyramids in Mexico standing tall with cities of ancient civilizations scattered around and underground. So many pictures.

But my pictures can’t tell you of the smells, sounds and tastes that lingers in my mind.

I can hear the Cape Town flower sellers shouting funny lines to get you to buy their flowers. “Two Rand a bunch”. Or the ice-cream guy shouting, “A lolly to make you jolly, a sucker to make you wakker“. The languages going wild in Pink Market. And Spanish all around in Mexico. Not a word I understand. But it still sounds like music.

The taste of my first cheese fondue in Lausanne in Switzerland. Followed by horse steak as a main course. And chilli on everything in Mexico. And tequila to take your breath away. And having some more. My first good coffee ever in a little coffee shop in Brussels. And later having a Turkish coffee a few blocks away. And still trying to go to sleep more than ten years later.

The smell of the perfumery in Luxembourg. And dog poo in Paris. Fresh fish bought from the fisherman in Strand. Real butter on the farm in the Karoo. Manure on the farm… Afval and putu on a wonky table in Khayelitsha. Fresh baked roosterkoek on the fire at Ouma’s place.

They are all good. But my pictures don’t fade. They just get more colourful by the day. The shades of poverty around the corner disappears. The darkness of sick and hungry children fades way in the background. Every spot of bad memories grows fainter by the day. Only the colours of happiness and beauty remains. And become brighter by the day. That’s how I want my pictures to be. The good things of life and living etched in my mind. Smiling faces. Happy times.

I hope you have some pictures too.

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Views on the Weakly News™

Let’s see if May will be better. Because April was pretty weak.

1. Bob, it’s getting stupid now

Bob “Crazy Bastard” Mugabe is just not getting it. And I really mean he is not getting it. The vote. He lost the general election even though he controls the media. He lost the election even though he gave government employees a raise. He lost the election even though the police and army intimidated people. He lost the election even though he selected the “independent” body running the election. And then he arrested a few of those election officials he put in place. And he let his dogs loose on the people who voted him and his puppets party out. And had he demanded a recount. And he still lost the election! But of course he isn’t going anywhere. Bob, really. Even the Liberian President thinks you should go. You just aren’t getting it hey? Just piss off and go now. You are giving tyrants a bad name.

2. Happy birthday dear Adolf

Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. Republican congressional candidate of Indiana, Tony Zirkle, went to celebrate the birthday of Hitler. A big bash given by the American National Socialist Workers Party in Chicago. WTF? Just follow the link. They even have a photo of the guy in front of a Hitler picture. And you bitch about Obama guys? Start cleaning that pigsty out right away mista! But here is the part I just love – his reason for going… Because he was invited. But wait! The best is yet to come. He says he that he goes to everything he gets invited to. “I’ll speak before any group that invites me,” said Zirkle “I’ve spoken on an African-American radio station in Atlanta.” WTF? Hitler and an African-American radio station? WTF? Do I need to say more?

3. Does it count as an extra shot?

Well, now that my coffee secret is out… It seems as baristas have been blabbing as well. About their top ten things us coffee drinkers should know. The little things that really peeves them off and a few dark secrets as well. A few stood out for me. They want you to know that not every shop is a Starbucks. Thanks people. I know that. Sad evidence that there is more work to be done. I sometimes have to walk to the next corner before I get to my beloved Starbucks. I guess it works off the sugar rush. Did you know baristas get black fingers from all that coffee? Makes sense. It accounts for 80% of my tan. But what I want to know – does it count as an extra shot if they dump their fingers in my coffee? But the one that stood out for me, and made things so much clearer… They develop crushes on their customers. It makes perfect sense. My barista always asked for my name and now she remembers it (still not spelling it right though). And she knows my order. And she smiles at me. It must be a crush. Why else would she do all that? It can’t be the service or the fact that I am there every hour or so. I know it is a crush. It can’t be just the grind of the coffee shop.

4. Hillary, you are still a Senator – act like one

Okay, maybe I just don’t get American politics. But tell me, if you run for President – are you still a Senator? I thought you were? So how come they don’t act like it? All of a sudden Hillary and McCain talks about a “gas holiday” for the poor American drivers during the summer holidays. It’s open for debate whether this is a good thing or not. But Senator McLame and HillBillary, you are still Senators. Why don’t you push for that at the Senate? You can if you really believe in it. That is part of your current job. Or have you forgotten? But I tell you why you don’t. Because you are pandering and opportunistic. You will attack Obama for standing up for what he believes on gas prices. But you don’t want to tell the truth to Americans. You don’t care about the gas prices or else you would do something about it now. The gas holiday can be done by you now if you really want to do something. And not just use it to score a few points while running. Yes, attack the guy with the unpopular position. Because you will sell your soul to sound like you care. There is a difference you know – between caring and acting like you care. Go do your job if you really care. If not, shut up and run for President in an honorable way. Stop the bull. Gas as I know it is also known as hot air. You both are full of it.

5. Thank God for Global Warming

You know I think we might fry over the next few years. But it seems as if that won’t be happening soon. Nope. The “experts” are actually predicting cooler weather over the next 10 years. Damn. I just thought I got the hang of this Global Warming thing. Isn’t it meant to say that the world heats up a bit. Or is it just my limited command of the English language that is confusing me here? Whatever. it will now get cooler over the next few years. And I live in Massachusetts. It gets damn cold for an African over here. We think 70 Fahrenheit is a nice day to wrap up in some nice warm clothes, start the fire and get the pot going. So 15 Fahrenheit is a bit chilly for us. I can’t even start explaining what all freezes when it gets this cold. In short, we don’t handle cold weather well. So thank God for Global Warming. It has a positive purpose after all. At least in the short term. Imagine how cold it would get over the next 10 years if we didn’t have Global Warming. The Big Freeze is controlled by the Big Heat. Something to look forward to. Some balmy weather for the next few years at least. Now. Guys. Please. Can we just stick to one story at a time? It’s getting a bit hot in the kitchen right now. Too much hot air. Or not.

Have a good one all. Back with more views next week. I am off to collect some wood to stockpile for the Big Freeze coming.

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I cheated on her…

I have been loyal all my life. Always. It was what made us special. The two of us. Together. Together through the good times and the bad times. The two of us. Now I won’t be able to look at her in the same way again. Never again. Because she will know. She knows. Even if I don’t tell her. She’ll know.

Well okay, I was loyal at least since I met her – my little special one. Before that I played around. I was young. I tried everything. I was reckless. But I have never cheated since I made my commitment to her. My special one. She was all I needed. Oh, I noticed the others. But I never did anything. I looked, but I never touched. I never wanted. I just looked and admired. And shook my head when I saw other men playing the game. Having one on the side. But I fell too. I couldn’t help it. I am just a man. A weak, weak man. A man with needs. Basic needs.

I promised her she was the one for me. And she still is. It is was a one-off. I promise you. It is a one-off. Never again. Never again. I knew that she was always there for me when I needed I her. And I need her now. I want her to be mine again. The way she was. The way she was before. Before I cheated.

Maybe we just got used to each other. Maybe the same thing that attracted me in the first place became the same old thing. The same thing every day. We forgot how it was back in the days when we just started. The first time. Familiarity breeds contempt. So true. So, so true.

She was the first things my lips touched in the morning. And the last thing at night. I can smell her when I wake up. That sweet, sweet smell. I can still taste her on my lips. But I can also taste the other one. The one I cheated with. And I can’t get the taste and smell off me. I can smell her on my clothes.

I saw her on the street. I was on the street. Just walking. And then I saw her. Through a window. She looked good. Oh so good. I stopped dead in my tracks. It was like a train hit me. I could feel my heart skip a beat. My palms sweating. The blood rushing. I knew I wanted her the instant I saw her. She reminded me of when I was young. And innocent. She seduced me like no other. And she didn’t even know it. She was just sitting there at the window. Just looking at me but not seeing me. Playing games with me. But she wanted me. And she stood out. As if her name was written in the sky. And I stared. Stared at her sitting at the window – with her seductive ways. That’s when I made my move…

Okay, maybe more like on the window. And she wasn’t really sitting. More like stuck on the window. The big letters wasn’t quite written in the sky. Just on the window. But it spoke to me. It said “Espresso Royale Cafe”. What a name. It sounded all European. All Italian. And I wanted one. I wanted her. A little Espresso. Right there and then. In Newbury Street. And I couldn’t care less who saw me.

<blink>

<gulp>

I know. It is a shocker. Me, Mr Starbucks Triple Grande Latte, was going to let a non-Starbucks coffee touch his lips. Hold on people. It gets way worse. Way worse… I… I… I actually did it! Yes I did. I just couldn’t help myself. I just had to have one. To hell with the consequences. I wanted an little Italian Espresso. And I wanted it now. It brought back memories of my first coffee fling. My little Italian girl. So I just walked right in and had one. Straight up. And it felt good. Real good.

The barista didn’t know my name. And she didn’t ask. So she never got it wrong either. It happens. And the sugar came in little packets instead of the “easy to operate, tilt and let it run” sugar containers of Starbucks. I need the large container you see. It holds almost enough sugar for my standard coffee order. But I didn’t care. I liked it for that moment. Even if I was stabbing my Starbucks barista in the back. Because I still love my Starbucks Triple Grande Latte.

I know those who know me will be shocked. Mr I-Was-Born-With-A-Cup-Of-Starbucks-In-My-Hand. I always have a Starbucks in my hand. I get up at 6 am and I have coffee. In my travel mug. And I have more coffee. And more coffee. It is a running joke. If someone mentions Starbucks everyone looks at me. And if someone wants my advice for free – they know to just invite me for coffee at Starbucks. I am easy that way.

Yes. I love Starbucks. And not only because of the taste of Ethiopian Sidamo. I love Starbucks because, as an ex-Oxfam campaigner who headed up the Coffee Campaign, I know they are pretty good at working with the coffee farmers and they pay a pretty damn good price for their coffee. More than Fairtrade. Yep, you heard it here baby. They pay more than Fairtrade for their coffee. We looked at targeting them when I was at Oxfam, but we didn’t. Because we very quickly realized that they are pretty damn good. Not perfect – no one is. But pretty damn good. And they make a damn good cuppa joe.

You think I care for the mom-and-pop shop? Not much. Three rules for me. Pay a decent price for your coffee so the farmer can benefit, look after those who work for you and make a damn good cup of coffee. What you do with the rest is just white noise to me. It would be nice if it was a mom-and-pop shop. But that is just wallpaper. Pretty pictures. Not substance. Nice to have, not a must have. Starbucks tick the three main boxes so I am pretty happy.

But I also like them because I am a newbie to coffee. I grew up in South Africa people. We are known for our outstanding crap coffee. Come on. Ricoffy, Frisco and Koffiehuis aren’t real coffee. Read my lips. Chicory is not a coffee. It’s a weed. A herb at best. Moer koffie. Ha. Look at the English translation. Beat up coffee. Or to be more specific on how South Africans use the word moer… hum… well… fucked.. hum… to assault. It is an open assault on what we call coffee when South Africans make coffee. Moer koffie. Ha! Tell me another one.

I fell in love with coffee in Brussels. Back in 1999. On my birthday. We were about to catch the train back to Luxembourg where we were visiting our very, very good friends when we saw it. A little coffee shop right on the corner opposite the Bruxelles-Central. Can’t remember the name. But we went in for a quick cup of coffee. We had 30 minutes before our train left. We walked out the café more than 2 hours later. On a buzz after about five cups of bloody strong Segafredo. It was the first time I met the Italian lady. And she got me hooked.

So my little fling in Newbury was nothing but a fleeting moment of weakness. Just a reminder of yesterday. Good memories. But she wasn’t really Italian. Just a good imitation. Like Vegas. But it was still good. I felt young again. Pure again. Good memories. Segafredo. She’ll always be my little Italian lady. And she’s the only little “on the side” I’ll ever have. She ticks all my boxes.

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The shadow people

Every single day we walk past them. The shadow people. The people we don’t see because we don’t want to see. They are the great unseen. The great unclean. No meaning in a world moving at 1,000 mph. To slow to keep up. They fell off the train and never got back on. Because we are moving too fast to stop and pick them up. And we just couldn’t be bothered either.

Like characters from a George A. Romero movie. Zombies. Dead on their feet. But not like a George A. Romero movie. Because we still go and watch his zombies. We don’t watch these shadow people anymore. We make a point of looking past them. Over them. Through them. Those beggars hanging out at the edges of our vision. Just far enough for us to ignore. But just close enough to be in our way.

Those beggars in our way. Not just in the way of our commute to work or stroll through town. No. In the way of how we want to see life and live life. We try everything to ignore them. We wear our sunglasses. We look across the street as if we are looking for something. We dig into our pockets as if trying to find something. We walk with the best pensive look we can come up with. We make as if we are talking on our mobile phones. Anything. Anything to make them disappear. Or not look at us.

We want them to be invisible. We want to be invincible. They remind us of how close we are to being nothing. Just one unlucky break away from falling of our speeding train. We try hard to make them go away. To make them invisible. Like glass. But they are not glass. They are a mirror. Holding it up for us to see. To see where we could be as individuals. And to show us where we are as a community.

We will do anything to not help them out. Because it is “bad” for them. It doesn’t “help” them get out of their “situation”. So say the experts. Thanks Laura from A smoother pebble for reminding me that maybe we walk past these shadows a little too fast. That maybe we don’t stop often enough to just look them in the eyes and remind them and us we are not so different from each other. That kindness does not always have to have strings attached. That people are just people. No matter what they look like or what they smell like.

Maybe I should stop and give them a dollar. Or maybe I should stop and give them a coffee or sandwich. Maybe I should stop and ask them how they are. Just look them in the eyes and let them know it is okay. That I care more than a dollar. More than money. I care about them. And their lives. A care the same way I care about others. No more, but no less. And maybe I will shake their hands and wave goodbye, have a nice day – and mean it. Remind them and remind me that they are not invisible. They are not shadows. They are invincible. Like me. And they are imperfect and weak. Like me.

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