Writing lesson #28 by Ray Bradbury

Writing lesson #27 by Rainer Maria Rilke

Writing Lesson #26 by Stephen King

The Parcel is in the Mail

 I've been eagerly awaiting the arrival of a parcel posted a while ago, in Cradock in the Eastern Cape.
 It's a book, written by an old friend and colleague, in which I get a small mention. By all accounts, Chris Marais', The Journeyman, is a rollicking, good read and I'm looking forward to settling in with a glass of good, red, wine and my lawyer on speed-dial, when I get it...if I get it.
 That's the problem - the once mighty South African Post Office.
 The harsh reality is, by the time you read this, with the way things are going, the SA Post Office may no longer exist and I fear, my copy of The Journeyman will disappear along with it.
 Anyone with even half a brain - that effectively rules out the government, the ruling party, the SABC leadership, heads of parastatals, the Honorable Ambassador to Japan, the Chief Engineer of PRASA, the CEO of PRASA, the boss of South African Airways, the Nkandla architect, 95% of mayors and municipal managers, ANC voters...ah, fuck it! I don't have enough space or time for a comprehensive list - knows the post office is in dire straits.
 In the first three months of this year, the organisation (and I use that word in its loosest possible sense) suffered a loss of R285 million (about US$25 million) and is bleeding cash to the tune of about R100 million per month.

Standstill

 According to press reports, mail deliveries have come to a standstill, because there is no longer money to buy fuel for the delivery trucks. Kinda makes a mockery of their slogan: We deliver, whatever it takes.
 But back to my tale of woe.
 When Julie, Chris' lovely wife posted the parcel in Cradock, she registered it and sent me a tracking number, as well as a call centre phone number, so I could follow the progress of The Journeyman.
 "They say it'll take five working days," she said.
 Five working days came and went and nothing. I went to the internet and tried to log onto the SA Post Office site but their tracking facility wasn't working. Eventually I found a third party website that tracks packages handed in at the post office and courier services in South Africa.
 The parcel arrived in Port Elizabeth, from Cradock the day after it was posted and there it disappeared into fuck-knows-where, under the entry In transit.
 Like a kid waiting for Christmas, I checked my postbox each day but, like promises of more frequent sex if I help around the house,...nothing.
 "I sorry, I can't help you," said the bored-looking lady at the postal agency counter. "The tracking service is offline."
 "When will it be back?" I asked, knowing I was clutching at straws.
 She shrugged.
 "So what do I do?"
 "Check back later or call the Helpline number."
 She started to give it to me but I told her I already had it.
 Back home I once again turned to the internet.
 The Post Office website tracking facility still wasn't working but at least I got to read about a new stamp issued to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the Freedom Charter and a four month-old press release about Government's plans to put the post office on a turnaround course. Well that's alright then.
 The third-party tracking site was also a bust. Entry of the tracking number returned the answer: SA Post Office not responding. Duh!
 Time to talk to a real human being (and once again, I use that term in its loosest possible sense. Some may recall the true story of the post office official who turned away a customer because a parcel was bigger than the scale. She said she was therefore unable to weigh the bits that extend beyond the edges of the device's base plate. She might be onto something. If I stand on my bathroom scale and extend my arms sideways, will my weight be reduced by the mass of my extended limbs? I must try it.

Real Human Being

 But I digress...getting to talk to a real human being. After 10 minutes on my mobile phone and listening to "your call is important to us, please hold on" followed by ten seconds of the same crappy elevator tune, followed by "your call is important to us, please hold on," followed by ten seconds of the same crappy elevator tune, followed by... well you get the picture.

Oh wait...here is a message from the post office:

Our runner has been delayed at the flooded Fish River where it was ascertained, his cleft stick mail-portage device, failed to meet the required minimum length. Also because of our policy of employing formerly disadvantaged community members, who are representative of the demographics of our democracy, said employee has a gimpy leg and is also unable to swim. Therefore, in terms of Section 48.2 of the Post Office Workers Employment regulations, he is required to be replaced by a lesbian, African, woman or man, with suitable qualifications. Unfortunately, at this point, we have no suitable candidates, as all my relatives already have been allocated positions. This situation will be rectified as soon as:
 (a) We do, or,
 (b) When we get a President with more than two brain cells or,
 (c) When the Post Office is run by someone who has the vaguest fucking clue of what day it is and how to tie his/her/its shoelaces - whichever comes first.
 The smart money in the office pool is on "a".
 Your business is important to us...please hold on.
 Yours faithfully
 Simian "Stamps" Nkandla
 

 I didn't really get that message from the post office. I just put it in so international readers aren't left with a completely negative impression.

Writing lesson #25 by George Orwell

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 The Bracelet and Other Dark Tales

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Renewing my passport

 At the beginning of the year I realized my passport had expired and a trip to the local Home Affairs Department was imminent.
 Based on previous experiences of inefficiency and unpleasantness, it was not a prospect I relished.
 Memories of standing in long lines for an hour or more, only to have the window get shut in my face just as it was my turn to be served, or being told I was in the wrong queue and "should be in that line over there" that hadn't moved for the last two days, are still vivid.
 For days I hesitated, trying to find a way around it. Perhaps I should use a service that does the queuing for me, I thought.
 "Don't be silly," said my wife, always the voice of reason. "We're not millionaires and it's not as though you have much else to do any way."
 I couldn't argue on either of those points.
 "In any case, I've heard things are a lot better and while you're there, get renewal forms me and also for Kevin (my youngest son.)"
 And so it was that I found myself, early on a Monday morning, at the beginning of the year, at the offices of the Department of Home Affairs in Randfontein. The doors had just opened but the queues were already significant.

Unifying force

 I joined the line waiting to be served by a man behind the "Enquiries" counter.
 It is claimed sport will turn out to be this country's greatest ever unifying force. While I agree the big games and national and provincial rivalry put us in party mood and, for a while, we forgot our differences and band behind the national team, it cannot compete with the unifying experience of visiting a government department.
 Now that really builds true unity. People from all levels of society, who normally would not give each other the time of day, become bound by shared suffering induced by inept officials and a system designed to screw you around.
 Linked in our common misery, we individuals rapidly become a common mind, swapping stories of previous experiences at the hands of not-so-civil servants.
 It becomes a competition to see who has been screwed-over worst.
 A coloured woman with a toddler hanging on her skirts and peering at me from between her legs, struck up conversation.
 "How many times have you had to come back?" she asked.
 "It's my first, I just have to get some forms for a passport," I replied.
 "This is my fourth. They've been fucking me and my husband around every time. First it's this and then it's that. Then they want something else. My husband can't come any more, he's got to work. You know how hard jobs are to find these days..."
 By the time my position in the line had advanced two yards I knew pretty all there was to know about her family... how her husband enjoys a drink or six on the weekend, that she'd voted ANC but probably wouldn't do so again in the next elections and a lot more.
 If we'd just thought of it, we probably would have exchanged telephone numbers and even ended up going on family outings together. (The last part is not true, I just said that to impress foreign readers.)
 She, in turn, knew about my kids, how difficult it was for them to find work and my solutions for South Africa's problems and world hunger.
 When it was my turn to be served at the "Enquiries" counter, I felt all warm and cuddly -- new South African!
 "I need three sets of passport application forms, please," I said to the guy manning the counter.

Joking

"You'll need to fill them in here," he said. "We no longer allow people to take them out of the building."
 I was taken aback. Surely he was joking.
 "But I need to get photographs done and I'm sure there are other details that must be filled in," I responded.
 He was not joking.
 "There's a man outside who'll take the pictures and you only need complete a few details, the rest we'll get from the computer system."
 "But what about my wife and son?" I asked.
 He stared at me with a look usually reserved for people who've suffered head-traumas. It was just so damn obvious and I couldn't see it.
 "They'll have to come in," he sighed.
 "But they work and can't take time off."
 "We've thought of that too," he replied, "that's why we're open on Saturday mornings."
 Behind me the people in the line were growing restless.
 But I was not easily swayed.
 "This is ridiculous," I huffed. "Tell me why I can't take the forms home, fill them in and bring them back."
 "Because people don't bring them back," he replied. "And, because of that, I get given a set number of forms in the morning and a reconciliation is done in the afternoon."
 "That is simply nonsense," I said, in the most indignant tone I could muster. "I'm not like that. I will fill them in and be back."
 I scooped up the forms and marched defiantly out of the building, expecting any moment to be beaten senseless by the bemused security guards but nothing happened.
 Earlier this week, while watching television, my wife suddenly turned to me.
 "Did you ever get those passport forms?" she asked.
 I thought for a moment.
 "I did," I replied. "They're sitting on my desk, I just haven't got round to giving them to you yet."
"We really should fill them in," she said, and turned her attention back to the television.