Remember folks,  this blog is all about people and how we interface with machines.  Sorry,  did I use interface as a verb?  Slap me.

However, lets get on with this week’s blog.  I was camping at the beach north of Durban this past week and noted a few things about people and their machines which need fleshing out.  Firstly,  the people were living in caravans that had air conditioning.

bzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Now forgive me for chortling, but air conditioning in a caravan?  At the beach?  But let’s continue the analysis of these campers.  Were they happy?  They appeared to be.  Happy campers.

We  (three kids, vrou), on the other hand,  had two tents and a tarpaulin strung from two trees to protect us from the rain.  Not that it achieved much, other than proving that climbing ropes can be useful as a device to sling a tarpaulin between two trees.

The camp site is set up for caravans,  and for Vaalies.  That sounds better than Gautengies.    Forget the cooling ocean breeze blah blah,  these people need air conditioning.  What’s more,  there appeared to be a friendly sport going on at the same time.  A competition of sorts.  Kind of like who was best prepared for their month-long holiday at the beach.  Some had DSTV dishes attached to their caravans and large associated tents.  Others came with jet skies and electric motorbikes.  Some had enough fishing gear to take out the nearest barracuda school,  but didn’t appear to do more than wander down to the nearby salt pool,  and cast a few meters off shore.  One caught a minnow using heavy tackle.

All this stuff,  I thought,  just like a Great Trek.  All pulled into neat little rows and wheeled vehicles and accoutrements, flapping sounds of canvas in the wind.  All that’s missing is a musket or two.

The ancestors would be bemused no doubt by the plug points jutting out of the ground and the steady hum of air conditioners eminating from the wagons –  sorry – caravana-wagons.   I was poo-poohing this culture until the rain began to fall.  Then my nearest and dearest suggested a nice big dry caravan with air conditioning appeared most appealing.

I ate a supper cooked using methane gas generated by human excrement this weekend.

Tasted fine.

While the Cop-17 clan met at Durban’s international conference centre,  I was standing near a large pool built into a hillside in Westville,  indulging in a spit braai and playing music with my band for a 21 year-old called Luke.   At the same time as the coppers furrowed their little brows down below in Durban, only a stone’s throw away at Moses Mabhida stadium,  Orlando  Pirates beat Wits 3-1 to seize the Telkom Football cup final.

Machines and people at work.

What was ironic was the spectacular fireworks display at the end of the Telkom football match.   The smell of cordite would have drifted into the air-conditioned Cop-17 meeting where I imagined a slew of cotton flannels seethed while tugging on goatees wondering what to say as hundreds of kilogrammes of gunpowder exploded in the thick Durban air leaving a trail of smoke and flame.

But to return to the Westville home.  Our client/host has converted his dwelling into a representation of everything the coppers were trying to do and failing,  and everything the Telkom Super 8 wasn’t doing.  Looking after the energy needs of the broader environment.

From the large power generating propellor on his roof,  to the array of photo-voltaic cells above our heads,  to the brown water filter and the reservoir collecting rainwater,  to the methane gas producing sewer he had designed, Hayden is just light years ahead of Eskom.  He is one of those rare environmentalists.  A spit-braaing boytjie who realized that cutting reliance of the useless infrastructure of South Africa was a smart thing to do.  While he has not achieved 100% self-sufficiency,  he is far ahead of most world governments and if tomorrow we lose all electrical power,  a bunch of neighbours will show up at Hayden’s house for a hot bath and a methane-powered cup of rooibos.

What was even more fascinating was that he had built his home on the exact dimensions of the golden mean.   Perhaps he knows something us mortals don’t.

After some years investigating this phenomenon,  I have reached a conclusion.  We all need a crutch.  And none more than the headline generator.  It’s a human machine that lurks in a corner of every news operation, waiting to pounce on the correct verb to fit a tight space.

Here are some elements of journalese which deserve not just a mention,  but a thorough investigation….

Uncertainty prevails.

Rows brew.

Murders occur brutally.

Hurricanes pack winds.

Ever-present lone gunmen stalk the streets.

Negotiations occur during the eleventh hour.

Buses plunge into gorges.

Foes attack each other verbally.

Talks can be marathons.

Security can be beefed up.  Not an oxymoron.

Projects kick off.

Fires have been known to rage.

Mobs have been known to rampage.

Buildings are sometimes slated for demolition.

Sharks can infest waters.

Tropical jungles are known to be steamy.

Streets can be mean.

Strongmen can be dictators can be strongmen.

Drug lords are actually  kingpins.  Even when they’re queens.

Civil rights leaders aren’t killed.  They’re slain.

Mayors are embattled.  When they are caught stealing or bonking someone they shouldn’t.

Bullets riddle.

Futures are uncertain.

Trauma can be blunt.

Political matters spark crisis.

Fires are pre-dawn.  Even when they’re in the middle of the night.

Dictators are bearded.