Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Twelve nights as a tourist at home


Karoo reality: Lola the pet dog at Gamkapoort Dam: Pic Steve Pike
 Tourists tend to get a distorted view of Cape Town, but I got a refreshing perspective when I became a tourist in my own city recently.
Hosting friends from the US for 12 nights during the July school holidays, we showed them our local haunts. We also used the break to indulge as holidaymakers and explore our surroundings.

# There's always something new to see in your backyard



On day 1, we eased our friends Tom Landon, Beth Macy and their 13-year-old son Will out of jetlag by taking them to our favourite suburb, Muizenberg. We walked along the coastal path past Baileys Cottage to St James, the giant swell from spring tide lashing the route along the way. We spotted a few baby sharks, not in the ocean but in Kalk Bay, in a tank at the Save our Seas Shark Centre, a place of interest I have never visited before. We ate fish and chips at the Brass Bell, watching a group of gung-ho surfers getting barrelled at a break a few metres from our table window.

# The resilience of Robben Island


Madiba's prison cell on Robben Island. Pic: Tom Landon
Our laid-back friends from Virginia had one non-negotiable on their trip: a pilgrimage to Robben Island. On day 2, we took the Sikhululekile to the island, which has been in the headlines for all the wrong reasons. We got choked up with emotion thanks to our superb tour guide, Yasien Mohamed. The tour, which cost R220 for adults (R110 for children), became the subject of conversation throughout the holidays as we tried to figure out whether we had blinkers on that day, whether we were just lucky, or whether the new CEO is shaking things up at the scandal-ridden World Heritage Site*.
We walked to the station by following the fan walk through the city. We caught the Metrorail train to Steenberg Station, giving our visitors a feel for the natural working rhythm of city life.

# Spoilt for choice: Neoprene or lycra

The mountain or the ocean?
We headed for my weekend hangout, Surfers Corner, on Day 3. Will stood up within an hour of getting into the water, with the help of a learner soft board from the Surf Shack. Amped and stoked, Will spent the rest of the holiday like us - dreaming about his next surf.
So day 4 became a surf morning too, for half of us. The others took a break from the ocean and tight neoprene in favour of the mountain and moulded lycra, heading instead to the Tokai forest for a bike ride followed by a quick tour of Groot Constantia, the grand old dame of wine estates.


# Even locals can be fooled by the weather



Half-way up Platteklip Gorge in a black South Easter


The alarm clock beeped at 6.45am on day 5. It was a calm, clear day – perfect for our scheduled overnight hike on Table Mountain (Hoerikwaggo trail.) We got to the Cableway for a leisurely ascent, but the service was closed due to the wind (huh? We thought). Forced into the unthinkable, we had to climb the steep, scary face of the mountain up Platteklip Gorge. Instead of shedding clothes as we climbed, we piled on our inadequate, thin layers as we looked up to face a menacing veil of black south easterly cloud streaming down the mountain crevice. Our iced-up hands clung to the rocks as we navigated our way precariously upwards. We reached the top more than two hours later, but could see nothing through the thick cloud. Fighting the bitter cold, we trudged on. Eight and a half hours after our journey began, we arrived at the eco-friendly Orangekloof camp above Hout Bay.
Only then did I decide that the foot sores and stress of the day (being know-it-all Capetonians who don’t need mountain maps, we also got lost briefly) had been worth it.


# It can be safe to sleep outdoors near the city


Orangekloof tented camp, a safe haven
We made cowboy-style spaghetti bolognaise on the communal stove. Fortunate to have the camp to ourselves, we shared a precious bottle of wine around a bonfire before collapsing on mattresses in luxury double tents (R200 a person). Here we were, close to the city and amid a spate of mountain muggings (we kept this from our US visitors till later), sleeping out in the open, with no doors or fences. Priceless.
On day 6, we walked through the shopping labyrinth at Greenmarket Square. We toured Newspaper House, Beth – a journalist at the Roanoke Times - delivering a talk to our newsrooms. We explored the devastation of District Six and pointed out the socio-economic contrasts between returning home along the M3 and the M5.
Later we headed out on the N2 for a night in Greyton, staying at a friend’s house. The town was blissfully quiet, like everyone had gone into hibernation for the winter.


# Sex sells, even along the R62



Ronnie Price is the face of the R62 sex shop. Pic; Beth Macy
 Travelling along the R62 on day 7, we popped in for a beer at Ronnies Sex Shop, which is safe to take the kids though they may giggle at the Pompstasie sign on the exterior wall. Chatting to Ronnie Price in his wheelchair (I didn't ask how he broke a leg), I learnt that the sex shop - actually a restaurant and bar where you may leave your signature underwear behind - had opened 13 years ago, “for fun”. “Sex sells,” said Ronnie before grinning for the camera. A sign of the times, his shop was littered with Karoo anti-fracking stickers and graffiti.


# It’s wild fun taking a sedan into 4X4 country


Gamkapoort Dam: The curvaceous Klein Karoo. Pic: Janet Heard
We pushed on through a treacherous 21km stretch up Seweweekspoort pass, dodging humps and bumps along the way, my city sedan groaning in sympathy with my edginess.
After zigzagging for another 25 km along a hazardous dirt road that had recently been eroded by floods, we reached our destination, Gamkapoort Dam, in the dark. I patted my car. We settled into our two-bedroom, Eskom-free cottages (R125 per person a night) which are managed by Fox Ledeboer, the legendary unofficial water bailiff who lives at the bottom of the hill, and Anne Reid, who lives at the top.
The next morning, the Karoo winter sunlight reflected, refracted and shimmered over liquid and rock in front of our cottage. I forgave my husband Steve for insisting that we trek for a day along unforgiving roads to show our US friends an obscure place way off the tourist radar. With no cell reception and aware that the closest shop was in Ladismith 90 minutes away, we spent three nights in the Swartberg among the oddly shaped cacti and giant thorn trees. We walked, cycled, kayaked, ate, drank and stared into the stillness of the illuminated Klein Karoo.
En route home along the N1 on day 10, we stopped in at Matjiesfontein for lunch in the pub, then back to the Mother City.


# There’s more to the Noon Gun than the big bang
Bo-Kaap

On day 11, Beth and I separated from our clan to vist the gorgeously kitsch Tretchikoff exhibition at the Iziko National Gallery. We strolled through parliament gardens, toured Lavender Hill “where Ellen Pakkies lives”, and ate a tasty Breyani for lunch at another place I had never been to, the Noon Gun Restaurant at the summit of Bo-Kaap.

# Where there’s a Will there’s a wave

A stoked Will catches a giant ripple at Surfers Corner. Pic:Tom Landon
 Before waving goodbye to our friends on day 12, we returned to Surfers Corner for Will to ride one last wave.


*An article about Robben Island appeared in the Cape Times on Wednesday July 20, link: http://bit.ly/rgVrUE.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Press freedom: no time for complacency

January 8 is a day of celebration in our household. It is my 15-year-old son’s birthday. After meeting exiled Sri Lankan journalist Sonali Samarasinghe about two years ago, the day became known for something else.
 On January 8, 2009 Sonali’s husband, Lasantha Wickrematunge was assassinated in Colombo while driving to work at the Sunday Leader.
I recall hearing about Wickrematunge’s murder seven months before meeting Sonali. His chilling “Voice from the Grave” leader in which he predicted his death was circulated via email around our newsroom in Cape Town.
Wickrematunge’s death didn’t make big news around the country, save for a snippet in a few papers and perhaps a brief mention on the television news. But it made me sit up and take more notice of events unfolding in Sri Lanka. The devastating effects of the December 2004 tsunami had been given considerable coverage. However, the protracted civil war was covered sporadically and often superficially.
Sonali and I met in the United States while on a journalism fellowship at the Nieman Foundation in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We struck up a friendship, swapped notes about sambal and curry recipes and also our country’s mutual passion for cricket.
More profoundly, through Sonali, I was given a crash course in the complex political landscape of her country, and how brave journalists risked their lives daily.

One day, Sonali, US journalist Beth Macy (http://www.intrepidpapergirl.com/) and myself crossed the Charles River to explore Boston. We stumbled upon the open New England Holocaust Memorial, its six luminous glass towers set on a granite path. We strolled through symbolic gas chambers amid suffocating steam, with tattooed numbers of the deceased on the walls. Then we came to Martin Niemöller’s chilling Dachau poem: “First they came for the Jews,…Then they came for me.”. It was a harrowing experience. For Sonali, at this point, it was unbearable. These were the words that her husband repeated in his editorial published days after his death.
As a journalist I realised how comparatively “normalized” South Africa had become. I had entered journalism during the last decade of apartheid. I negotiated my way through a myriad repressive media laws, a state of emergency and a flagrant abuse of human rights by the government. Then the country fought for – and won – press freedom. It was enshrined in the constitution at the dawn of democracy in 1994.
This was something else for Sonali and myself to swap notes about.
Sonali had joined the Nieman fellowship as a journalist in exile, just like a number of journalists from South Africa during apartheid, starting with the late Lewis Nkosi – an outspoken Drum writer – 50 years ago. Other outspoken journalists often flew to the sanctuary of the Nieman Foundation after being detained, banned and harassed.
In tribute, a handful of South African journalists have been honoured with the Nieman Foundation’s Louis Lyons Award for conscience and integrity, all during the apartheid era. Recipients include Max du Preez (1991), Zwelakhe Sisulu (1987), Allister Sparks (1985) and Joe Thloloe (1982).
In the year of our fellowship, Wickrematunge was honoured with the Louis Lyons award, securing a unanimous vote by our group of fellows (won jointly with Afghanistan journalists).
I returned home to South Africa after our fellowship ended last July. Sonali remained in the US, still fearing harassment if she returned to Sri Lanka.
In Cape Town, Sri Lanka has all but fallen off the news pages, except for a brief period this year during the World Cup Cricket tournament.At the Cape Times (http://www.capetimes.co.za/), where I work, news about Sri Lanka rarely makes more than a brief, even though the paper stands apart from its competitors when it comes to international news. The reality is that space constraints have limited the paper to one dedicated page for world news.
But Sri Lanka is on the radar in journalistic circles. At last count, there were 19 journalists forced into exile, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists. It is ranked fourth on the CPJ’s 2010 Impunity index, a ranking of countries where journalists are regularly murdered and governments fail to solve the crimes.
According to the CPJ: “Ten Sri Lankan journalists have been murdered over the past decade for their coverage of civil war, human rights, politics, military affairs, and corruption, but not a single conviction has been obtained. Most of those killings have come during (Mahinda) Rajapakse’s time as prime minister and president.”
According to Reporters Without Borders Press Freedom Index 2010, Sri Lanka is towards the bottom of the list, at 158 (with the worst being Eritrea at 178).
South Africa is relatively high up, at number 38, though it has slipped five positions since the previous year.
I write this as South Africa falls under the threat of censorship – unprecedented in the new SA. Politicians are showing increasing disdain for the media, the craft of journalism and the quest for truth. We face a statutory media appeals tribunal to monitor and regulate the press, we face new regulations in the form of a Protection of Information bill, which will censor state information, and the ANC-led government has stepped up its verbal attacks on the media, thus threatening to tarnish the country’s image as a bastion of press freedom.
Seventeen years into democracy, journalists are engaged in a new battle. The hard-fought freedoms that I was so proud of and felt so privileged to enjoy during my sabbatical in the US as recently as a year ago are now under attack.http://www.r2k.org.za/
These warning signs are a reminder that an open society can never be taken for granted. Press freedom is always under threat from the rich and the powerful. Threats are carried out in different ways, from censorship and banning to harassment and murder. We can never become complacent. Journalists from around the world – from Sri Lanka to South Africa – need to stand together to keep up the pressure.

*This article was first published on the new human rights website, http://www.lankaindependent.com/

Saturday, January 15, 2011

Friday night out





Cape Town Stadium, January 14, Ajax-Chiefs: Pictures: Steve Pike
“Who are you voting for?” my nine-year old daughter Ella asked enthusiastically on Friday night. We had just sat down with 40 000 people to watch Ajax Cape Town play Kaizer Chiefs at Cape Town Stadium.
Only one member in our group of 14 had made her allegiances clear. Tina wore a yellow and black bandana and shirt. The rest of us – aged six to 48 – were dressed nondescriptly or in Bafana gear.
Except for Barry, who wore a loud Bloemfontein Celtic shirt “because that’s the only PSL shirt I have”.
There was a balance of Chiefs and Ajax supporters among us, though also a few fence-sitters who switched sides during the game as the play ebbed and flowed.
Like a loyal party supporter, I stuck with tradition. I told Ella I was “voting” Chiefs, “because this is the team that I grew up with” (though in truth I had only watched two live PSL games, first in Joburg in the early 1990s between Chiefs and Pirates, and again a few months ago at the Cape Town Stadium).
For Ella, loyalty meant backing her home city team. She declared her support for the red and white side.
Premier Soccer League fans-in-training, we settled into the game.
We cheered. We clapped. We stamped our feet. We stood up and swayed to the yellow and red Mexican wave. We shared chairs with the family next to us due to seat shortages. Six-year-old Jemima blew competently on her vuvuzela, to a nod of approval from vuvu veterans behind her. She offered her plastic horn to me. I passed it on to my husband Steve, who plays social soccer every Wednesday as a diversion from his seven-day surfing obsession.
He pursed his lips to the horn, emitting a few feeble sounds.
He handed it to the American in front of him, who trumpeted away loudly, repetitively and rhythmically.
The game took shape. Our cynical “Oh-no-it’s-2011” spirits lifted. Exuberant fans cheered at the high level of skill on the field.
Halfway through the game, Steve nudged me and said: “Gee, we live in an amazing country.”
That’s exactly what I had been thinking, I said, cliché and all.
I glanced around the heaving stadium. A passionate Chiefs supporter in the row in front stood up and began copying the fancy footwork of one of his heroes on the field. He slumped back into his seat after the player – (I had no idea who it was) – missed the goal.
 few seats from him, a tourist from Chicago – a soccer fanatic – kept his eyes glued to the game throughout. Every now and then, he muttered words of praise or criticism to a stranger next to him who had become his new-found mate.
Six months after the final whistle blew on the World Cup, we had been unsure what to expect when we set out for the double-header on Friday night, which opened with the game between Vasco Da Gama and Supersport United. We wondered whether these PSL games would be a let-down after that feast of world-class football half a year ago.
Friday night’s soccer was parochial when compared to the grandness of that historic moment, but the evening was a real treat.
We have graduated – moved on – from the World Cup. Yes, it was a spectacular, once-in-a-lifetime event, but what we saw on Friday night was the emergence of a more authentic cultural experience.
Stripped of bells and whistles and glamorous A-list celebrities, here was a down-to-earth show, a local night of regular soccer. This is what made the evening so special.
Capetonians – and a smattering of tourists – had made Friday night a Soccer Night at the Cape Town Stadium. More than 40 000 supporters from all around the city had paid between R40 and R80 a ticket. Leaving their comfort zones in front of the television, they had commuted to Green Point – by bus, by taxi and by car – to be spectators.
The game ended with victory for the home team. The crowds streamed out the stadium, most heading for public transport home and some strolling to the nearest bar. There was a feeling of camaraderie and not a hint of aggression – not even from the disappointed fans in yellow and black.
The success of the World Cup demonstrated that South Africa was capable of anything, that the country was full of potential and possibility. This seed of hope – against the odds – was planted six months ago.
Friday night at the Cape Town Stadium was just a local soccer game, but a timeous reminder that strength lies in our diversity, and that the glass is not half-empty.
And Friday night’s success was a sign that soccer – including the stadium monolith – can be a unifying cultural force in a historically divided city. I’ll vote for that.
*This article appeared in the Cape Times on January 17, 2011.
Ruling Chief: struggling to dominate Friday night

Ajax supporters at the Cape Town Stadium

Thursday, October 14, 2010

GROWING PAINS

Notes from a talk I gave at the Cape Town Press Club recently:

Addressing about 25 mid-career students at the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard during a speech practical earlier this year, I asked the class who among them had read the newspaper that morning. Not one student raised their hand.
A disciple of print (I had started out with a typewriter as a journ student at Rhodes), I was gobsmacked.
I then asked who had read the news online. Almost everyone raised their hand.
Still stunned, I was relieved that at least the class had an appetite for news, albeit online.
This was my rude awakening in the USA, where this trend has rattled the media industry in recent years.
South Africa too has been hit by the recession and the switch online, but nowhere near as dramatically as in the US.
But the media here is also feeling the pinch, with traditional media bosses insisting that newsrooms achieve more, with less.
In addition, we have another threat. Our independence – imperfect as it may be – is under threat of government interference (a threat that we thought was buried with apartheid).
But for now, I would like to concentrate on the insights I gained – especially about New Media - during my year in Cambridge.
As an aside, I would like to take the opportunity to thank the local media industry for supporting the Nieman Foundation over the past 50 years to ensure that a mid-career South African journalist is selected each year as a fellow. The first two fellows were Aubrey Sussens in 1960, followed closely by Lewis Nkosi, who passed away a few weeks ago.The latest fellow, investigative financial journalist Rob Rose, left for Cambridge on my return in August.

I was among a class of 23 fellows. The group consisted of 11 Americans and 12 Internationals, from a range of countries such as Venezuela and Chile to Portugal, Britain, Zimbabwe and Gaza. Of these, there were 15 women and eight men (amazing to think that for years, the fellowship was an exclusive men’s club). There were also 12 affiliates (the fellows’ spouses, most of whom were men, including my husband Steve Pike). They were an integral part of the group.
The result was a year of inspirational insight into the craft and power of journalism, and a group camaraderie that I will cherish forever.
I was exposed to the reality of life in the occupied zone of Gaza by Associated Press reporter Ibrahim Barzaq. I learnt about the violent campaign waged against journalists in Sri Lanka, when one of the fellows, newspaper journalist Sonali Samarasinghe described the day her husband, a newspaper editor, was assassinated on his way to work on January 8, last year. An outspoken journalist herself and fearing for her life, she fled into exile.
Among the things I was reminded was that all governments try to exert influence and control over the media, either covertly or overtly.
But sometimes – all too often - the enemy is within. For example, journalists described the disgraceful self-censorship that existed within US media during the invasion of Iraq in the wake of 911. The mainstream press has had to apologise to its readers for its blinkered view and for failing to bring home the true picture.
The Nieman programme has traditionally drawn its fellows from the print industry. In my year, 10 of the fellows were freelancers or self-employed. Only five of us – out of 23 - were returning to permanent positions at newspapers. The rest of the class was made up of journalists in radio, television, news agencies, war photography and online media. One journalist, Kevin Siteshttp://kevinsitesreports.com/KS/KSabout/KSabout.html, covered 20 wars in one year for yahoo.com with little more than a multi-media backpack that empowered him to stream words, photos and video in a flash. Another livewire, Jeff Howe, worked for the digital magazine Wired. He coined the term Crowdsourcing, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0-UtNg3ots, a word that is constantly referred to by disciples of the media digital revolution.
It was challenging for traditional newspaper hacks like myself to try and keep up with these IT-savvy journalists in our weekly New Media classes (another new addition to the traditional Nieman programme). I had arrived at Harvard barely able to log into facebook, and was dismissive of tools such as Twitter, which allow only 140 characters per entry.
At times, an Us-vs-Them divide developed, a divide that plays itself out in many non-integrated newsrooms. We would get defensive when new media disciples callously predicted that the epitaph has already been written for print journalism.
But as you can tell from my anecdote, I did get a wake up call. And this month, a Pew study showed that in the US, only 26 % of people surveyed had read a newspaper the day before, down from 38% in 2006.
I can’t tell you how many last-minute engagements I missed because the America that I was introduced to – it was Harvard after all – sent emails, not text message updates through the day. So, bad luck if you did not have email on your cell phone, you simply missed out.
Although international fellows all reported digital shifts in the media, nowhere is it more pronounced than in the cut-throat USA, the most advanced capitalist country in the world – a country under severe economic strain.
In the US, everybody knows somebody who has been laid off, newspapers have closed down, others like the Christian Science Monitor have switched online. These shifts have been well-documented
One blogger who tracks shifts in the media is Romanesko, on the Poynter Institute web site. It can be depressing to receive his news updates that monitor the attrition in the print industry.
There is even a ghastly web site, Newspaper Death watch - http://newspaperdeathwatch.com/, which takes great delight in highlighting the pressures facing newspapers.
American journalists at the fellowship often described the emotional upheavals.
I would like to read an edited extract from a friend and fellow Nieman from the Roanoke Times, a regional paper in Virginia. She sums up the sentiment of many US journalists in an article that she read out to the fellows:

Hunkering Down, by Beth Macy

“There are days when I dream about quitting the newspaper business and opening my own coffee shop. I'd call it the Underdog Café. On rainy days, the lunch special would be tomato pie and biscuits … Customers would feel so at home at the Underdog that sometimes – but not too often – they would forget to pay.
“But the daydream always ends there, before the dinner menu is even sketched out.
“After 23 years in the business, after seeing my white-haired brethren grudgingly accept buyouts, after the uncertainty of watching the corporate execs put our newspaper on the market – only to take it off when the economy tanked – not only am I still here at the Roanoke Times, but I still get excited when I happen onto a great story. That's why I stick with journalism, even as it threatens to bail on me.
“Call me a Pollyanna … But there's a certain relief that came when I decided earlier this year to plant my entire body in the sand, Reporter's Notebook and all. I don't like the presses shutting down in Denver and Seattle. I hate the fact that thousands of American journalists have lost their jobs to buyouts and layoffs already this year, and many others have made the preemptive move of getting out before they're forced out.
“But more than 40,000 newspaper journalists are still cranking away, and I'm grateful to be among them, having vowed to ride out the tsunami until they pry the company-owned laptop from my cold, ink-stained hands....”

(see: http://intrepidpapergirl.com/)

Fueled by the economic meltdown, the year 2009 was possibly the bleakest year for print media in the US. The local paper, the Boston Globe, had just come out of a culling operation. During a tour of the newsroom, the lights were dimmed on a lifeless wing with rows of empty desks and terminals lying idle.
But the editor Marty Baron was upbeat that the worst of the attrition was over. They were rebuilding with the resources available. The newsroom was fully integrated, with online and print mediums working together, and a combined staff operation. I noticed with interest:

  •  the role of the online editor, who is a powerful figure, attending all news conferences. A simple rule is followed: breaking news goes online immediately, and exclusives and insight is written up for the following day’s paper.
  •  The use of social media tools such as facebook and twitter to build communities and to build the paper’s profile online.
  •  The use of flipcams – nifty video recorders for reporters, so they can return from a breaking story and post a video online. The same is done with audio recordings for podcasts.
  •  A new lease of life for traditional agency reporters – they are skilled at “instant reporting” and also filing updates repetitively, which is what is required online.
  •  Reporters were enthusiastic about learning new skills, they didn’t want to be left behind.
IN the US, there has been a push to integrate the print operation with the web operation.
The term used to describe the new scribe is a tra-digital journalist or transitional journalist, somebody who is willing to combine traditional elements with digital innovations, somebody who is willing to learn from the younger generation about the new way of communicating.
Faced with dwindling revenue, a big debate – a somewhat tiring one - in the US is whether to charge for online content, something the Wall Street Journal had done successfully but right from the start. But traditional newspapers have been reluctant to set up paywalls so far down the line in fear of losing audiences to other networks.
At the fellowship, speakers would address us about alternative business models. Some web sites have been set up that call on people to contribute funds to do specific investigative stories, others rely on philanthropic funding. A local example would be health-e, which relies on funding to carry out a vital task of health reporting. Controversial calls to consider the government stepping in to subsidise the industry to keep journalism alive were hotly contested because of the potential threat to the industry’s independence.
 few examples of new media models and buzzwords doing the rounds in the US include the following:
  •  Hyper-local is a buzzword. The Vegas Sun was working on a plan to launch hyper-local news sites based on zip codes – with news, crime, entertainment for the area.
  •  Synergies are being investigated: the New York University journalism department has teamed up with the NYTimes to start an online newspaper called the East Village Blog (http://eastvillage.thelocal.nytimes.com/).
  •  Huffington post is a big national site that offers free online content. The downside, and it is a big one, is they have a history of not paying their bloggers, and they rely on a lot of aggregated news – news that is not sourced themselves.
  •  Wikileaks, which is described as the first stateless news organisation, one that defies any form of state clampdown on information.
  • Citizen journalism is a buzzword, generating a lot of discussion about all the pros and cons that come with that.
  •  The potential for democratization is enormous – anybody can blog and transmit news online. This has put big corporations and media empires under threat – and many predict that we have reached the end of the business model as we know it. Of course, you need access to the web and either a computer or a mobile phone, which are fairly costly and out of the reach of many sectors of society, even in the US.
During the Nieman year, the debate shifted. We emerged from the gloom and began to focus on journalism. We stopped obsessing about the medium.
We reminded ourselves that irrespective of the medium, journalism is about storytelling, truth-telling, exposing injustice and abuse of power.
We were reminded of the power of print newsrooms:
• For instance, that up to 80% of the aggregated news found online originates from newsrooms.
• We were reminded that the long narrative is far from dead. Front page stories in the US often turn to inside pages, running 1000s of words long. People definitely want to read.
During the year, we looked at ways that the Internet and social media can complement newspapers, not cannibalize them. We looked at ways for newspapers to build online readership.
And anyway, doomsayers are wrong when they say that newspapers are dead. There is some life in our ink-stained bones yet.
Figures released by the World Association of Newspapers show that :
1.7 billion people read a daily newspaper, representing 25% of the world’s adult population.
While overall, paid-for daily newspaper circulation fell about 1% in 2009, in Africa, it rose almost 5%. Over five years, circulation in Africa rose 30%.
The report showed that circulation declines largely occurred in mature media markets of the developed world, and that trends in the US do not necessarily reflect the picture in other parts of the world.

In developing countries, there is a keen interest in mobile technology. Mobile news delivery appears to hold more promise for newspapers than traditional internet delivery.
The report found that though traditional newspapers in many mature markets have lost readership, these companies are at the forefront of the digital revolution.
They have embraced new ways of operating, and combined the printing operation with a digitally expansionist new business model.
They focus on coexistence, building synergies between mediums and integrating operations.
I returned home on Mandela’s birthday, a week after the closing ceremony of the world cup.
Soaking up the afterglow, it was a blow to find myself on the picket line in support of press freedom within weeks of returning. This was an activity I had last participated in outside the Star in Sauer Street in the 1980s.
This is a big concern, and one that requires a concerted campaign, not only from journalists but from civil society.
But when it comes to the digital revolution, I have a new resolve to be positive: the struggle is about saving journalism, fighting for a fearless and independent press, focusing on investigations that expose the abuse of power, and also on ground-breaking local stories.
For democracy to work, we need a free, thriving press, irrespective of the medium. We need robust newsrooms that are equipped to play their role as credible watchdogs. We need to fight for resources to build strong newsrooms.
Sure, I have a few new tools: a netbook, a twitter account, a blog, more comprehensive knowledge about facebook , especially as a source of information for news reporting. I have google news alerts, I have a Blackberry with g-mail, instant messaging and constant news updates, though I rely on the young reporters in the newsroom to guide me through the weird apps.
I need these tools because the world is changing the way it communicates. The reality is that all journalists – yes even print journalists - need these tools to access information.
Every now and then, I feel the urge to pack it all in and set up a surf shop in Muizenberg. But, like my friend Beth Macy, the moment soon passes.
There is no point feeling threatened. We need to experiment. We need to look at different ways of reporting news. But we also need to uphold the traditional values of good journalism, and ensure that whatever models develop, these core values are always upheld.

*  See the Cape Town press Club web site: http://www.capetownpc.org.za/events/janet-heard-the-tavola-restaurant-claremont/










Thursday, August 12, 2010

Sense of justice forged in apartheid fires (Cape Times, 12 Aug 2010, Page 9)


Sense of justice forged in apartheid fires
Janet Heard
Cape Times
12 Aug 2010

WHEN Margaret Marshall was a schoolgirl in Newcastle in the 1950s, she imagined growing up to be what sensible white girls were expected to be in those days – a wife and mother, with no career outside the home. At Wits University, she registered for...read more...

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Returning home in the afterglow of the World Cup

 
“I hope South Africans don’t start copying Americans,” Tyler, my 14-year-old son, mumbled breathlessly while we were on a run the other day. Back in our neighbourhood after living in the US for a year, we had passed yet another full-size South African flag outside a suburban house.
“What do you mean?” I asked Tyler, who incidentally was wearing a Bafana shirt.
“Will South Africans now keep the flags up forever?” Tyler asked. “Because when I saw the American flag outside people’s homes in the US for no reason, it seemed… arrogant.”
I think I know what Tyler means. He is talking about hubris. Not to be confused with pride, hubris is something America is not known to shy away from.
And too much hubris can be a bad thing.
In Cambridge, Massachusetts, where we were based for the year, the presence of the Stars and Stripes was not an overbearing sight. Here, national pride was discreet, and of a different nature. Inside friends’ homes were Obama paraphernalia, from “Obama in the House” posters and coffee mugs to fridge magnets showing the President’s face, and the words: “America, your eight-year-nightmare is over” (a reference to the previous Bush era).
A curious teenager, Tyler made an effort to learn about his host country’s history and culture. He studied the American War of Independence, the Civil War over slavery and the African-American and Native American civil rights struggles. In Boston, he went to Red Sox (Baseball), Bruins (ice-hockey), and Celtics (basketball) games. He learnt to “beat box” like American rappers, and to wear his peak cap back to front. Ayoba.
But often homesick, Tyler had no problem displaying loyalty to South Africa. He resisted adopting an American accent, switching a Z for an S, or saying Math instead of Maths. He got great pleasure out of teaching his fellow Grade 8 classmates Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika and the meaning of laduma, braai and lekker.
When the World Cup got under way, Tyler was the first to carry a South African flag and recite the lyrics to Wavin’ Flag by K’naan.
Just after the World Cup opening ceremony, we went on a family road trip to the south-west of the country. We travelled in a van that had a South African flag on the dashboard.
During our trip, we passed hundreds of full-size American flags outside people’s homes. Tyler was puzzled by this ostentatious display of loyalty. It was patriotism gone too far. (The US even celebrates national Flag Day, on June 14.)
Sometimes hubris is a good thing, I told Tyler as we slowed to a walk in our suburb, another Rainbow nation flag whizzing by on a car.
Like now in South Africa. When we landed at OR Tambo Airport, we felt the raw energy and new-found confidence of South Africans. A week after the World Cup closing ceremony, the country was still decked in green and gold. Choked up with pride, I had tears in my eyes.
In the US, friends had e-mailed me that it seemed that the South African water supply had been spiked with Ecstasy or Prozac. I now know what they meant.
A few weeks after our homecoming, this infectious vibe continues to hold pessimism at bay, filtering down into every corner, from the supermarket to the school.
The country is alive with possibility and hope. It can look to the future, knowing that it has impressed the world.
It has been uplifting to see South Africans, who had never watched local soccer and who objected to the vuvuzela, embrace the beautiful game and feel a sense of common identity with their fellow South Africans.
But while we have all been puffing out our chests with national pride during the after-party, sinister forces have been at play in Luthuli House and Parliament. In an arrogant attempt to control the media, the ANC released a 20-page document – Media Transformation, Ownership and Diversity. In a move that smacks of moral bankruptcy, the party is pushing for the creation of a state tribunal to hold the media “accountable”.
And in a more advanced stage, there is a bid to push a bill through Parliament to “protect state information” that could see journalists who are brave enough to flout it land up in jail for up to 25 years.
These attacks on press freedom have been a shocking reality check, a reminder that there are threats to our 16-year-old democracy.
Blast   from  the past:  Phillippa  De  Villiers makes  a  T-shirt
  statement, at Rhodes University, in the '80s
I started my career in the mid-1980s, during the height of the state of emergency. I still have my well-worn No News is Bad News, Save the Press and SA Students Press Union T-shirts stashed away in a suitcase.
The new powers-that-be pledged respect for a free, independent press. This right, enshrined in our constitution, is one of the hard-earned freedoms that make me proud to be South African.
Yes, a bit of hubris is healthy. South Africa is a remarkable place. Let’s celebrate, and keep the flag flying – for the country, and its constitution.

*  This article  first  appeared  in  the Weekend   Argus  on  7 August, 2010.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Looking to score in the USA

BY JANET HEARD AND STEVE PIKE

“Are you showing the World Cup soccer on TV?”

The thump of heavy metal blasts through the gaping doorway of the Cowboy Bar in Pinedale, Wyoming, at 7.50am Pacific time, nine hours behind South Africa.

“Nah,” drawls the cleaner, tattooed and grim-jawed, adjusting his baseball cap as he looks up from washing down the floor with a high pressure hose, “only from 11am.”

Something about the taut line of his minimum wage smile keeps the complaint suppressed: “but the banner outside
says you’re showing all the matches.”

We have woken at dawn to bounce down a dirt road in our 12 cylinder, 25 foot RV with two double beds, a shower, stove and fridge from a remote mountainside campsite called Half Moon Lake. We have hurtled across grizzly bear and moose country into this rough-and-tumble town to score us some soccer.

Former colonial masters England are about to face off against Germany. But Wyoming, famous for gun-toting cowboys and rodeos, has no interest in the beautiful game. (see Stars and Stripes pic at a rodeo in Cody)

Outside the Corral Bar, a revving Ford F-250 bakkie belches smoke while a patron staggers from the saloon to hurl abuse at the driver – the detritus of a hard night’s drinking. Inside, a weathered bar woman looks blank. “You can’t bring kids in here unless you order food. It’s the law.”

“That’s okay, we’ll order food, thanks.”

“We don’t serve food til 3pm.”

“Can we just get toast?”

Her eyes narrow, lips purse and bony fingers tense around the glass she cleans: “We don’t serve food til three.”

The inhabitants of cowboy country are getting on with life, oblivious to the biggest sports event in the world. Two taverns later, the lumbering RV makes one last stop – a low-slung wooden edifice called the Wrangler Café that hunkers down on the edge of town.

We strike gold – a thin vein in a corner of “them thar hills”. The soccer is on, tucked away in a back room, the audio a faint murmur. A round table of six elderly locals, one sporting a white cowboy hat, tuck into pancakes and coffee under a tiny TV. (See pic left). Germany 2: England 0. We sit. England scores, and minutes later scores again, this time off the crossbar. But the ref and his assistant don’t see it. Neither do the patrons of the Wrangler Café. We groan. We finish our fry-up and leave. Score: 4-1.

This frantic hunt for games has been our routine for two weeks. Unable to return home after air ticket complications following a university fellowship in Cambridge, we have been stuck in the non-soccer loving US of A where soccer star Landon Donovan is not exactly a household name.

We had drained our credit account and flew to Vegas to pick up a rented RV for a road trip adventure out West – four excitable South Africans, aged 8 to 46, let loose in a stuffy metal cabin on wheels cruising small town USA during the 2010 FIFA World Cup.

What was the first thing we did in Vegas? Gamble? Hell no. We hunted down a sports bar in a giant casino to watch diving divas Uruguay thrash Bafana 3-0. It was unnerving to watch The Boys gored with such inglorious repetition on 10 TV screens. The other 12 screens were dedicated to horse racing at Belmont Park. Rows of punters glued to private PC screens couldn’t give a hoot about our result, or pain. (see tv screen pic)

Yet countrywide, ABC aired all US World Cup games, and cable channel ESPN has pushed a national campaign. Their generic banner, emblazoned with the South Africa 2010 logo, advertise coverage at numerous sports bars scattered across America. Most small-town newspapers have wire agency coverage, and the New York Times dedicates up to two pages per day. Even Vanity Fair magazine featured a glossy cover of topless soccer heroes.

And yet we were the only people at a venue in Rock Springs, Wyoming, to watch last African hope Ghana defeat the US. Hauling the 25 foot bus around in a desperate bid to find a friendly screen, we walked into Mexican restaurant La Bamba, where the owner was watching solo on a small TV. The kindest of hosts, he switched from his Hispanic channel to English-speaking ABC, and lost interest.

Patrons meandered in, but were more interested in enchiladas and quesadillas. At 1-1, three minutes into extra time, we roared as Ghana scored. A group of fire-fighters glanced up at the TV, and recoiled with shock when they realized our cheers were for the Black Stars. Dagger eyes shot at us. It took a treasonous act to interrupt their disinterest.

AP journalist Nancy Armour commented that the US was “flat and uninspired”. Add to this mix, supporters who lacked the mojo to elevate them from the second tier. Not even Bill Clinton and LA Lakers basketball star Kobe Bryant at the Royal Bafokeng Stadium could wake the slumbering giant to the magic of the World Cup. Their sanctuary is all American sports where professional teams play in “World Series” inside the USA.

But the four of us in our RV have felt the energy emanating from home, bolstered by sporadic pockets of passion in small town America.

We watched England draw with Algeria at Sticks & Steaks, Sedona, a tourist town in Arizona nestling in the famous Red Rock Canyon. The now familiar ESPN banner hung at the entrance, and a board mapped out the path to the finals. At the Carver Brewing Company in Durango, Colorado, over an early-morning breakfast, Bafana scored against France, and did it again. We bellowed, then looked around demurely. But the waiter said we were welcome to shout loud as we liked. We didn’t get that chance. “Bad luck,” he said as we left with heavy stomachs and even heavier hearts.

There was a vibrant collection of expat fans and tourists – interspersed with bemused Americans – when Mexico faced Argentina at the Sidewinder tavern in Jackson, Wyoming. Patrons watched from a dozen screens lining the walls. We shared a giant Nachos for 10 bucks, chuckling at Diego Maradona’s quirky hubris as his team thrashed Mexico 3-1.

As we enter the finals stage, we will continue to knock on small-town saloon doors. When asked where we were for 2010, we’ll always say, we were there … kinda.
* This article first appeared in the Weekend Argus, http://www.weekendargus.co.za/

WEST THUMB GEYSER SITE, YELLOWSTONE