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Zulu's Zoo: Join the million dollar contest for the best operated Zoo!

pragmatown — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 03:16:24 +0000

Zulu’s Zoo (138 MB download)
Help Zulu’s Zoo win a million dollar grant by making sure the zoo is absolutely the best operated zoo in the country! Find and feed the animals, clean up the habitats by collecting trash, and explore a wide range of Hidden Object scenes to succeed. Play fun and exciting mini-games, take challenging Zoo Tests, and collect stars as you earn your way from lowly Novice to an expert Zoo Director! Make Zulu’s Zoo the best and win the prize!

SHOYOTITS 4DA SAINTS!

condoms4africa — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 17:15:56 +0000

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BRING IT HOME BOYS……DE NO WHERE DA PARTIES AT!

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Zulu's Zoo: Join the million dollar contest for the best operated Zoo!

annabern — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 17:56:27 +0000

Chapter Twelve

smcallis — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 07:57:53 +0000

TESSA CLAIBORNE

Novel
by Smcallis

Chapter 12

RMS CARDIFF MAID

At sea, W. coast Cadiz Spain

5 November 1878

My dearest Sergeant Bourne,

This is the first occasion I’ve had to write since our departing from Portsmouth a fortnight ago. How much has transpired in those few short days! I wrote you in my last letter how very much I was looking forward to my first deployment and this sea voyage. Now I’m not so sure, ocean travel is nothing like what I expected. What a disaster! I have been dreadfully sick everyday since our departure, confined to my hammock. I think I must have turned several shades of the color of green seawater. For the first few days I was unable to keep anything down. Now I’m feeling a bit better I should think. I’ve finally gotten what sailors call “sea-legs.” Over the past few days I’ve felt well enough to venture up on deck. Everything is new and very exciting; the ship bustles with activity. I’ve never been to sea, let alone on an ocean going ship.

The RMS Cardiff Maid is enormous! I should tell you about this ship. We were given a tour when we first came on board. I remember one of the sailors telling she is three-masted two-hundred and seventy-four feet long side-wheel steamship. The ship is so big it takes me almost half an hour to walk all around her deck! There is always constant activity; sailors it seem have a great deal of work to do, sometimes if you don’t watch your step you’ll get under-foot, and the sailors are not hesitant to tell us “lubbers” to get out-of-the-way. We always do of course, since we soldiers don’t really have any regular duties, except in the morning when we muster for roll call.

On morning watch, I overheard the Officer-of-the-Watch say we were making eleven knots. I’m not exactly sure what that means but I can tell you it seems very fast. The Cardiff Maid is a steamship, the great side-wheel churns the ocean, there is the constant drum-drum of machinery down below; it takes some getting used to. We still have sails. The sails flap and make a cracking sound like a whip as I sit and write this. The sea spray rises and falls over the bow, the ship plunges head long into the water and I hold my breath each time to see if the bow will ever recover. The Maid cuts through the water like a thoroughbred. The great sails carry us most of the way.

My own quarters are not so much quarters as a twenty-two inch allocation of space from left to right to hang my hammock, that in itself is a trick. I think I fell flat on my arse the first time I tried to get into a ship hammock! The food on board is plentiful, but not so good. Peas and bully beef on Tuesdays and Friday, oatmeal and salt-pork on Monday and Wednesday. Most of the time the best we can look forward to ship biscuits and tea. Once a day we get a ration of rum. I don’t drink rum so I trade mine for what I need.

Today, we are nearing the headlands of Cape Trafalgar; at eight bells, the Captain is planning an assembly for all hands, a ceremony to mark Lord Nelson’s great victory over the French. By tomorrow afternoon, I am told we will make passage through the straights of Gibraltar and enter the Mediterranean sea. We are expected to make rendezvous with a cutter, to transfer an injured sailor, receive orders from the Admiralty and of course, most importantly, mail call. So I naturally want to get this letter posted.

The Mediterranean is supposed to be calm and beautiful. I am looking forward to sunny warmer weather. We are due to make passage through the Suez Canal; I expect we all owe a great debt to Ferdinand de Lesseps for digging his big ditch, as it cuts nearly a month off our journey. We are scheduled to dock in Port Durban, South Africa on 25 November.

We are due to cross the equator. There is all kinds of talk about a visit from King Neptune. Both soldiers and sailors a like who have never crossed the equator, we’re considered ”polliwogs,” the old salts, the ones who have made the crossing before call themselves “Shellbacks,” and take great delight in punishing us polliwogs. Apparently, this is all in “good-natured” fun. There is to be a celebration a rite of passage to mark our crossing. I can’t help but be a little bit nervous.

Now that I am feeling better, I spend a great deal more time up on deck. There are schools of fish and yesterday I caught sight of a family of porpoise! Each day I borrow the spyglass from the Officer-of-the-Watch to catch a glimpse of the RMS Dwight Fry, our companion vessel on this voyage. My good friend Henry Hawkins in on board, along with the remainder of the Regiment.

Most of the lads pass the time gambling and gossiping like old women, there is the sport of rat baiting and occasionally Pip, the African sailor boy takes out his fiddle and plays a merry tune. We sing and dance. I especially like the singing, being Welsh ‘n all, singing is in my blood. We sometimes sing our Regimental tune. I’m sure you must have sung it many times. I can still manage a respectable soprano, so all the lads appreciate my voice.

♫ Men of Harlech stop your dreaming

Can’t you see their spear points gleaming

See their warrior pennants streaming

To this battlefield Men of Harlech stand ye ready

It cannot be ever said ye

For battle were not ready ♫

Other than that, I mostly keep to myself; I pass the time by going down to the hold to visit the horses. Star is doing well, she is a patient horse, but I think she looks forward to my coming, as sometimes the cook gives me a carrot for a treat. None the less, I’m sure Star is as anxious as I for this voyage to be completed.

Please don’t stop writing, as I miss your letters terribly. I’ve had no more trouble with Private Burlingham as I followed your advice and placed him on report. It seems he never learns his lesson. After he refused to follow my orders a second time, Capitan Fredrickson went to Major Steele. The Major, fined Burlingham twenty shillings. Then there was the incident with the bayonet, he got fifteen days in the stockade for insubordination. I’m not sure if he so much respects me now, as he really hates me.

I can’t really think of anything else to write, except to say I promise to write you again as soon as we make Port Durban.

Your loving son,

Thomas

* * *

LAND FALL, SOUTH AFRICA, Port Durban, 25 November 1878. South Africa was well, like nothing I expected. I’m not sure exactly what I expected; my first surprise was how bloody hot it was. We left Portsmouth in the dead of winter, with ice floes in the harbor. We arrived in Port Durban at the height of the African summer. I will tell you, it was not just hot, it was bloody well stinking hot! Worse yet there was not a single cooling breeze, just the stifling suffocating African heat. I must be an ignorant girl, as I had no concept of the flip-flop of the seasons. Chalk that up to “I must have been absent that day.” None the less, it seems to me that particular salient piece of information that November is more like May back home might possibly have warranted a mention. Africa is even hotter, dryer than I ever imagined. The soil is so dry, there is no moisture. Every stick of wood is eaten by ants. Compared to the lush green valleys of my home in Wales. I’ve come to view Africa as a dry, parched, desolate place. If it were not for the discovery of gold and then diamonds on the de Beer’s brothers farm in Colesberg Kopje, you’d think no one could possibly want to live here.

Yet people do live here, flourish even. A Dutch people, sometimes called “Boers” which is the Afrikaans word for farmer. These intrepid colonist have made Africa their home. More importantly, this is the land of a Bantu people, the land of the Zulu. A fierce militant kingdom of African warriors. The Zulus, whose armies number in the 50,000 rule the lands beyond the Buffalo River.

Once the Cardiff Maid docked in Port Durban, there was the unloading. Before we left Portsmouth, I watched as gangs of hundred of dock workers swarmed over the ship. They toiled day and night to load our horses, thousands of boxes of supplies, tents and tons of ammunition. Six twelve-pound cannon descended into the cavernous hold, along with a battery of Congreve rockets (of “Rocket’s red glare” fame) and three five-barreled fifty-caliber Nordenfelt guns, these fearsome weapons were a kind of modern rapid fire gun, mounted on a carriage like artillery, they were heavy and unwieldy our commanders were not yet quite certain as how to best employ them. Volley fire, from the infantry, the Martini-Henry was still viewed as the most reliable way to bring mass firepower to the battlefield.

Tens of thousands of tons of supplies waited to be unloaded. There was just one catch; there were no gangs of dock workers to do the unloading. The local warlord demanded £ 200 for the use of black labor. Capitan Farragut called it extortion and refused to pay. Before you knew it, Major Steele gave the order we all knew was coming. There’s a long-standing tradition in the army, “Shit rolls down hill.” Capitan Fredrickson gave the order, Lieutenant Fry followed suit. The shit continued down hill, until, well, it was left to us, the common soldier. All the lads complained bitterly. I didn’t mind so much, since we had no sergeant in our platoon; I was a Corporal, therefore, I was the officer in command. It was left to me to make certain “shit” continued to roll down hill. I could stand there jolly and give orders. “You heard that officer-of-the-line. Put your backs into it lads! Heave you slovenly soldiers!”

We continued to unload the associated caissons and assorted sundry military equipment, including Lord Chelmsford’s silverware, wine cellar and piano. All the vital equipment necessary for an army on the march. I made damn sure Burlingham got a full day’s work of shit. He hated me for it; I found it all very satisfying to drive him like hell. The Dwight Fry was two days out from docking. I had plenty of time to make certain Burlingham’s life was miserable while I waited for my Henry.

* * *

I WAS REUNITED WITH MY HENRY on Sunday. I had my first Corporal’s pay in my pocket, twenty-three bob. Which doesn’t sound like much, but to me it represented a small fortune. More importantly, I had a pass signed by Capitan Fredrickson for two days leave.

I spied my Henry first coming down the gangway. I should think I let out a little gasp, I was so happy to see him, I could barely contain my joy! I ran towards him, then I had to resist this uncontrollable urge to hug him, kiss him. Our reunion was all so unremarkable. We stood there and looked at each other, I took out my handkerchief, ostensibly to blow my nose, what I really was doing was wiping my eyes, tears of joy streamed down my face. Then we shook hands. Henry admired my stripes. “Corporal Claiborne, now I suppose this means I have to do whatever you say?” Henry said facetiously.

“Don’t you always?”

We set out together Henry and I, a little bewildered at first as to where to go and what to do. Port Durban or eThekwini as its known to the Bantu people, is the third largest city in South Africa. First discovered by Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama on Christmas day 1497; he named the area “Natal” or Christmas in Portuguese. Annexed by the British in 1844, Durban is a bustling metropolitan center of wide avenues flanked with African palms; a mix of old-world colonial architecture meets the Wild West and the ever-present African mud brick structures.

The streets remained mostly unpaved and a quagmire of ruts and wagon tracks. We tried to stick to the boardwalk as much as possible but navigating the city streets soon became a frantic exercise in “Do I trod in horse shit or do I get run over.” My spiff polished new boots were soon caked in mud up over the ankle. Henry and I laughed ourselves silly dodging water buffalo as well as a rush of horse-drawn wagon and ox carts, chickens and goats, and the occasional mob naked African children. There were vendors in their stalls hawking their wares of cloth, copper pots brimming with maize and strange vegetables of every possible description. Everyone everywhere seemed to be going somewhere or doing something, I had never seen a black person before, and I was fascinated. Since neither one of us spoke Afrikaans, the cacophony of foreign voices Bantu, Afrikaans, Dutch, Hindi, it was all very confusing at first. We were not what you might call particularly sophisticated or cosmopolitan, but even I with my limited experience knew when compared to London; Port Durban was very much a backwater.

We had to be careful, Henry and I, as we were still in uniform; no hand-holding, no touching. We were both just a couple of regular blokes out about town on a two-day pass. We walked around for the most part aimlessly for the next two-hours until we both became hungry. We followed these smells, these most delicious smells until we found a pleasant little Indian restaurant owned by a colored couple who spoke English. They had no written menu; they took us back directly into the kitchen and pointed to various bubbling pots. The whole kitchen smelled of lamb and curry. We pointed to what we wanted to order. We had some delicious food. I’m not sure exactly what it all was, I recognized the rice, served with a kind of flat bread. I found out later what I ate was some goat prepared with coconut, yams and peanuts and lots of spicy hot curry. After a month at sea, the food was nothing like on board ship, let alone what Mama cooked back home in Wales! We were both so hungry, we ate every bite.

It was a most marvelous wonderful afternoon sitting there in an open-air cafe, eating exotic food, with my love Henry. Yet Henry seemed nervous. He took my hand when nobody was looking and slipped on a gold ring. The wedding band was modest, ordinary; I should think any girl who didn’t really love her man might have scoffed, been offended by its economy. The ring was nothing more than a speck of gold mixed with spelter. I knew it was the best Henry could afford. I didn’t care if it cost but a hay penny; it was a symbol of our love. It was the most beautiful ring in the world! It was all I needed.

“Tessa, I love you. Will you marry me . . .”

I bit my lip; I found myself over whelmed by the sheer romance of the whole scene. Yet I couldn’t resist a joke. I pretended to put on airs, “Why Mr. Hawkins, I do declare, I hardly know you. Are you asking me to be your wife?”

Henry at once looked hurt.

You’d think I’d know better by now not to tease my Henry. He’s so shy, so earnest. Henry knocked a spoon off the table, under the pretense of picking it up; he got down on one knee. “Tessa, I’m asking you, I want you to be my wife.”

“Yes, Henry, a hundred times yes!” I laughed; I smiled. Henry always said I didn’t smile enough, I guess it’s because I’m self-conscious about the split gap between my front teeth. At that moment, I didn’t care. I smiled for all I was worth, I was so happy. I think it was the most romantic experience of my life.

We ordered up a couple of pints and toasted the long life and good health of the newlyweds, “To Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hawkins!”

The first hotel we found didn’t have a bath. I insisted on a bath. I didn’t want to start out our married life as a demanding shrew, but rank does have its privileges and after a month and ten days on board ship without a proper bath. Well, a girl does want a bath. Henry obliged. The second hotel offered hot baths. It seemed a little bit more expensive, but at that point, who really cares? We had just two days together, we were both about to embark on a campaign into the African wilderness, across the Buffalo River, against the greatest military power in all of black South Africa. Under the circumstances, who’s going to quibble over a couple of shillings?

Henry did insist on one point of decorum. We both registered in separate rooms under our own names, he as Henry Hawkins and I as Thomas Claiborne. I thought it silly, who is going to double-check hotel registrars when you have an army of 50,000 bloodthirsty black Africans on the loose? Henry seemed to think it was important; I was not going to second-guess my husband. The two extra shillings it cost seemed like a reasonable compromise. Even still when faced with the reality of my vacant room, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself. I stamped my foot. “This is so stupid!” I was determined not to sleep by myself, not tonight; I decided to take my bath.

I walked down the hall to the baths, where I found an attendant, a young African girl with a cheerful black face and the whitest teeth I had ever seen. I was unaccustomed to servants; all my life, I was the help. This presented several awkward moments. Mbhali was so kind so helpful. I think she was genuinely surprised at the whiteness of my skin when I took off my duty-blouse. I stripped down my skivies, unwound the muslin that bound my chest. When I first revealed my breasts, if Mbhali was surprised, she never let on. It wasn’t like she was stupid, but I don’t think Mbhali ever quite put two and two together, the impossible dichotomy that I was a soldier in the Queen’s Army and I was a woman.

I finished getting undressed. “Oh my wat’n preety lil’ kind ye r.” Mhali exclaimed in her Afrikaan’s pigeon. I tried not to pay any attention to her. I stood there naked and toasted my backside on the paraffin heater Mbhali brought to warm the room. Even though one might assume off-hand that growing up with eight brothers, modesty was never my forté, having previously spent hundred of hours crawling around on a factory floor in various stages of undress. Now that I was older, I became more conscious of my own sexuality. I was a woman, pretending to be a man. I felt a bit awkward, vulnerable, getting undressed like that in front of a complete stranger. I gave her a penny and told her “I require nothing more.” I lowered myself into the confines of the luxurious porcelain bathtub. Growing up as a child in Wales, galvanized tin was the best we could manage, and it was nothing more than cold water left in the afternoon sun to warm, bath time was a chaotic free-for-all between me and my three youngest brothers. Here, I sat alone, for the first time in my life, in the warm oh-so-soapy water, I felt like a queen! I doused my head. I soaped my body and just lay in the all-consuming warmth of a hot tub. I don’t think I ever felt so much a woman or so clean or so alive. My ecstasy, my five-penny rapture, my glorious bubble bath was rudely interrupted by a knock on the door.

“WHO IS IT?” I was sure it was Mbhali, that meddlesome bath attendant. I was immediately sorry to be so cross, it was Henry, my shy, insecure, my beloved Henry. “Tessa, if you want, I can get into the tub with you . . .” I reached for a towel. I think at the time the water only realistically swirled up to my waist. It was the first time Henry ever let me see him in any state even approaching naked. Even still, he was very modest as he lowered himself into the sudsy pool. We had the best time! I scrubbed his back, we laughed and splashed until the water-cooled and became cold. It was time to towel off. It was good to be scrupulously clean.

I walked past my own door, I followed Henry as if I was to the manor born. Henry protested, but I insisted. “What if I promise to muss up my own bed in the morning?”

“Wait!”

“What is it now?”

Henry, it turned out could be quite romantic. “I want to do this proper.” Henry scooped me up, all 94 lbs. of me and carried me into “OUR” hotel room. “Mrs. Hawkins, your boudoir.”We blew out the lamp, climbed under the mosquito netting. The heat of the South African night was oppressive. Henry, he wore his nightshirt. I didn’t have any proper clothes and after ten minutes, of sweating like a pig. I tore back the mosquito netting.

“Blast!” I sat up in bed, stripped off my skivies, and tossed my government issued long johns in a heap in the corner. “That’s better.” I climbed back in bed, cuddled up next to my Henry this time properly naked.

“I love you Henry.”

I felt the need to show it. I first explored his broad fireman chest. I caressed his stomach; my advances were met without objections. I boldly followed the contours of his body until my hand crept underneath the confines of his nightshirt. To my surprise, Henry was ready.

Sally was one street-smart cookie. She explained many things to me about life, about men, about survival, but there was one thing she explained in to me in graphic detail. At first I thought she was kidding, it sounded gross. Sally, she was serious, she thought it important, “Tessa, if you ever need any money. . .”

Sally, she was pretty mater-of-fact about it, she viewed it as something every girl needed to know, like an essential life survival skill. I guess I should thank Sally. If she hadn’t been so willing, so expert, so proficient, we both very well might have starved at WALLACE SQUEEERS, PIERCE, FENNER and SMITH. At first, I didn’t believe it, growing up with eight brothers, and I still had no clue that a willie was not just this floppy ugly thing that boys used to pee. To hear Sally describe it was a great revelation. How could it be so simple? Now, here I was, practically on the other side of the world, lying in bed, naked next to my Henry. I did exactly as Sally explained. The effect was spectacular.

“Henry, I love you.”

“Tessa, don’t.” He pushed my hand away. “Tessa, please don’t do that.”

“Henry, I want to―I’m your wife.” Henry, didn’t protests again; we lay there together for the longest time. Henry and I. We rocked back and forth in unison, until I felt him hot against my hand.

“Oh, God! Tessa, I’m so sorry!”

“Shhh, Henry, love, its okay, I wanted to do it. I’m your wife.” I got out of bed and matter-of-factly washed my hands in the pitcher and basin. I bounced back into bed and cuddled up next to him, fully expecting his interest piqued, for him to reciprocate in some way. I lay there next to my Henry, naked, willing, all that night. I tried to will him to touch me. My shy, noble Henry, never made a move to touch me. I tried to put out of my own mind the hollow ache I felt in my loins. I felt very grown-up and supremely satisfied. I never felt closer to another person in all my life. I smoothed his hair; I kissed his ear.

“Henry? Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“Hundreds of times.

This time, I expect, we both slept soundly until morning.

ZULU

Shelley Leisegang — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 11:36:54 +0000

This term in Zulu the Grade 5 girls have been doing the theme: At the shop, so to wrap up a wonderfu

Den Bullen bei den Hörnern gepackt - Internationale Presseschau KW 48

halfjill — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 09:06:48 +0000

Die südafrikanische Zeitung The Times titelt „Tierrechtsgruppe packt den Bullen bei den Hörnern“ und trifft damit das Thema ziemlich genau. Die Organisation Animal Rights Africa versucht zurzeit das Ukweshwama-Ritual zu unterbinden. Es soll am 5. Dezember stattfinden. Die Independent Online schreibt zum Ritual: „Ukweshwama ist ein symbolischer Weg Gott für die erste Ernte der Saison zu danken.“ Weiter beschreibt die Zeitung auch den Grund des Unmutes: „Es wird behauptet, dass während des Ukweshwama-Rituals Männer Bullen an der Zunge ziehen, in ihr Maul Sand stopfen und versuchen ihren Penis zu verknoten.“ Die Tierrechtsorganisation beanstandet die brutale Tötung der Tiere und möchte den Zulu-König Zwelithini zur Absage bewegen. An diesem Dienstag fand die erste kurze Anhörung am Gericht statt.

The Mercury zitiert zu diesem Anlass den Ministerpräsidenten von KwaZulu-Natal, der Provinz, in der das Ritual stattfinden soll: „Angelegenheiten, die mit Kultur zusammenhängen, wie das Ukweshwama-Ritual, in welcher ein Bulle durch die bloßen Hände von Zulu-Kriegern getötet wird, sind sensibel und sollten mit dem größtmöglichen Respekt behandelt werden.“. Animal Rights Africa argumentiert, dass Südafrika sich an die Regeln der Weltorganisation für Tiergesundheit halten will. Eine der Regeln bezieht sich auch auf die Schlachtung von Tieren und besagt, dass Tiere nicht unter unnötigen Stress getötet werden sollten. Ein Leser der Independent Online argumentiert dagegen: „Diese Tradition ist ein sehr wichtiger Teil des afrikanischen Lebens und wir werden nicht aufhören Afrikaner zu sein, weil einige Siedler denken es ist barbarisch oder primitiv. […] Dies ist eine heilige Zulu-Tradition und wir schulden niemanden eine Entschuldigung über ihre Bedeutung.“ The Mercury zitiert einen ehemaligen Geschichtsprofessor der University of Zululand: „Was wir sehen sind Restposten jener Leute, die immer noch Groll gegen die AmaZulu hegen, dafür, dass sie die Britische Armee bei Isandlwana 1879 ausgelöscht haben. Es gab andauernde Versuche den Zulu-König zu verunglimpfen […]. Somit ist dieser Versuch die Zulu-Kultur anzugreifen nicht überraschend.“.

Dass das Thema kein allein Südafrika- oder gar Zulu-spezifisches ist bringt ein Leser des Independent Online in die Diskussion ein: „Ich schätze Bullenrennen und Matador-Praktiken sollten auch in Spanien verboten werden. Amerika sollte Rodeos abschaffen. Kann es sein, dass es nur barbarisch genannt wird, wenn es Afrikaner betrifft?“.

Die Verhandlung wurde nun erstmal auf den 1. Dezember verschoben, um König Zwelithini und den anderen Antragsgegnern Zeit zu geben sich vorzubereiten.

_____________________________________________________

Hören kann man diesen Beitrag und Beiträge über Israel und Brasilien heute gegen 12 Uhr und Freitag gegen 20 Uhr auf multicult 2.0.

Ndube - Heiligste Dier in Zulu geloof

bierpens — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 08:00:27 +0000

Die Zulu koppel, soos die meeste oud kulture, hulle vanne aan diere. Dit bepaal die herargie van die gemeenskappe. Waar die leeu vandaan kom as die hoof van die koningkryk het nie sy oorsprong in Zululand nie.

Die Zebra is vir hulle die mees heiligste dier. Hoe die stam vaders daar by uitgekom het is vir my steeds duister, maar hulle bepaal dit blykbaar deur die dier se intelegensie. In hulle geloof reken hulle dat die Zebra agter die Wilde bees aan wei omdat die se nag sig beter is en die Zebra se dag sig dra weer by tot die simbiotiese gedrag.

Hulle beskryf ook dat die Zebra naby aan mekaar beweeg en dat dit die leeu’s se oë deur mekaar maak. So kan die leeu nie een Zebra uit ‘n trop uit jag nie. Die is later wel wetenskaplik bewys.

So kom ek by my volgende Codesa vs Ubuntu

In die vroëre jare toe die Ingana siekte boere se beeste uit geroie het het die regering(Britse Troon) 76 000 Zebras venietig rond om Hluhluwe Wildtuin. Die wat die area bietjie beter ken sal weet dat die iMfolozi Wildtuin juis geproklameer is as Natuurbewarings gebied omdat dit heilige jagters grond is vir die Zulu.

Ek is jammer as ek die bloggers ontstel oor al die dinge wat verkeerd gegaan het, maar as die Zulu’s nou deur on strate trek en al die kerke aan die brand steek en afbreek wil ek graag weet wat gaan julle magtelose optrede wees.

Moenie dat ons vinger wys nie … ons is hier vandag … deal with it …

ISIZULU

Shelley Leisegang — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 07:02:56 +0000

Ithimu esiyifunde kulekota sifunde ngesitolo, sakhetha isitolo sokudla . Kulamasonto amabili adlule

Zulu

dpljah — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 20:29:12 +0000

Zulu's Zoo: Join the million dollar contest for the best operated Zoo!

annabern — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 16:08:24 +0000

Zulu Tradiesies

bierpens — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 08:00:52 +0000

Dit is so dat mense en diere regte het, maar deur in te meng met mense se gelowe en tradiesies is fataal. Dit is ook arogant om te dink dat ons enigsins verwyder is van barbaarse aktiwiteite. Die Boere Afrikaner kan homself nie uit spreek teen “Ukweshwama bull killing” nie, want ons het niks met dit te doen nie. Anders kan ons kyk na Rugby as ‘n Westerse passiewe geweld lose sport.

Daar is baie dinge wat gebeur wat ons nie teen oor uit spreek nie, maar met die aankoms van Britte in die land soek hulle k@k met die Zulu’s. Kolonialisme dryf die konings huis uit hulle eie provinsie uit en die slapgatte het ingestap na die boere met die slag van Bloed Rivier die Zulu mag se rug gebreek het.

“Johannesburg – Animal Rights Africa (ARA) is going to the KwaZulu-Natal High Court in Pietermaritzburg on Tuesday in a bid to stop the “cruel” Ukweshwama ritual of killing a bull with bare hands, the organisation said on Sunday.

Spokesperson Michele Pickover said the rights group had already instructed environmental lawyer Tina Costas to act on its behalf in applying for an order to halt the ritual, which is to be presided over by King Goodwill Zwelithini on December 5.”

News24

Ek wil net vir Mnr. Pickover vrae: What are your problem Sir?

(are) want jy het baie issues … sort dit uit en los die res van die mense uit.

Zulu's Zoo: Join the million dollar contest for the best operated Zoo!

marthakr — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 19:07:39 +0000

Chapter Thirteen

smcallis — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 11:27:50 +0000

TESSA CLAIBORNE

Novel
by Smcallis

Chapter 13

THE BUFFALO RIVER

THE BUFFALO RIVER, SOUTH AFRICA, NATAL, the deadline for the ultimatum issued to Cetshwayo, King of the Zulus came and went. The ultimatum issued by Sir Henry Bartle-Frere then Lieutenant Governor and Lord High-Commissioner of Natal purposefully, punitively, sought to punish, to provoke the Zulu King to war. In doing so, Bartle-Frere was unnecessarily heavy-handed, even clumsy, an unimaginative, if unremarkable politician, to his own way of thinking, Bartle-Frere thought himself quite clever in his handling of Anglo-Zulu problem. He instigated the whole affair by the inclusion of numerous intolerable and unacceptable terms. Not surprisingly, Cetshwayo chose to ignore the Crown’s ultimatum. With a standing army of 50,000 warriors, the Zulu king was not inclined to be bullied. Unlike previous African tribes, the troublesome Zulus proved entirely unwilling to capitulate under the inexorable threat of the Crown and the encroachment of colonialism. Without rifle, horses, cannon or bomb, what possible aporetic voice, what source of misguided military hubris caused these Zulus to dare to defy the imperial might of the British Empire? Incredulously, what the Bartle-Frere government failed to grasp, indeed their masters in London refused to acknowledge was the Zulus, this iron-age people, dared viewed themselves as a sovereign nation the equal of any European power and the rightful controlling power in the region.

Thus, on 24^th of December 1878, Lieutenant General Frederick Augustus Thesiger 2^nd Baron of Chelmsford crossed the Buffalo River and invaded Zululand. Lord Chelmsford, eager to pick a fight, was relentless. Never moments rest, not ever so, much as a pause, not even on Christmas Eve for the Army that is . . . Lord Chelmsford himself, he remained ensconced back in Pietermaritzburg, in his palatial colonial estate with his family, his servants, his plum pudding, his Happy Christmas, brandy and cigars. While the Army, miserably slogged in the mud, pushed on, past the traditional borders of Natal, across Buffalo River deep into the kingdom of Zululand.

Now we were at war, the British Empire, and the Zulu nation.

While Lord Chelmsford made himself quite merry back in Pietermaritzburg, the war, the actual instigation of Bartle-Ferer’s grand plan was left Colonel Henry Pulleine, the ranking officer in actual command of the no. 3 Column.

I should think the crossing of the Buffalo River represented the first major challenge in my military career. I was certainly unprepared for its consequences. The Buffalo river represented a “Rubicon” of sorts; it was an undeniable point of no return, the defining act of aggression between the British empire and the Zulu nation that triggered the War. The river its self was wide, muddy, but not quite so deep or fast-flowing as to warrant a pontoon bridge, but immediately upon venturing into its murky depth, one quickly discovered a pontoon bridge was exactly what was required.

Sharp shooters were positioned on either bank to keep watch for crocodiles. I for one found this plan less than reassuring, considering the actual capabilities of the average soldier of whom the army awarded the merit of “sharpshooters.” I determined not to trust the safety of my own men to their marksmen skills and thus kept a watchful eye over my section. I kept Sergeant Bourne’s revolver tucked in my belt at the ready. If I had not been so preoccupied with my own section; I think I might have volunteered to keep vigil. I am sure I could have bagged more than a couple of ‘crocs’ in an hour’s time. I heard they were good eating.

I was in command, I was personally, was responsible for the crossing of my section. That included troopers Parker, Ferrier and Burlingham. We had three pack mules in tow that carried our tents, food, ammunition, all our additional kit. Somehow we had inherited a pack mule laden with 2000 rounds of Nordendfeldt ammunition. Parker and Ferrier they were both good men. Burlingham, on the other hand was a slacker; he was a malinger malcontent who sought to challenge to my authority at every twist and turn he was insubordinate in the most puerile ways. He tested, questioned me at every opportunity, a worthless, lazy, Liverpool sod. I had to watch his every move. I now had three pack animals to keep track of as well as one incompetent and contemptuous trooper.

When our own turn came, it was getting on well past two O’clock. I was eager to make the crossing. I ordered my men forward. The horses wadded into the muddy confluence of the Buffalo River. A three-ton ammunition wagon was stuck fast in the river mud blocking the whole column. The water buffalo strained, the Boer teamsters cracked their bullwhips. The African porters chanted and pulled hard on the ropes, the wagon heaved, moved forward, and promptly rolled back, and stuck itself harder than before on the river bottom. There we stood ass-hole-deep in the big muddy. We couldn’t move forward, we could go back as other sections were queued up behind us waiting for their turn to cross.

Burlingham took delight in my predicament. “So, what ‘cha gonna do now ya leetle todger!” My face burned hot. I had had just about enough out of Burlingham, and his little tin horn dictatorial rule from below. I was sick and tired of the way he disrespected me, calling me a “little todger.” This amounted to a wretched insult; I was no “boy!” Even though I was a girl . . . I only looked like a boy to him, no matter, the Queen saw fit to bestow upon me the rank of NCO in her army. I was the officer in command of this section.

I gritted my teeth, “I’ll show you what I’m going to do! BURLINGHAM, PARKER, FERRIER! IN TO THE WATER THE LOT OF YOU! ALL OF YOU PUSH!” I ordered my section into the muddy waters of the Buffalo River.

“Yous shant gits me in dat muddy river to slave likes a worthless black!” Burlingham was defiant; he looked to the other lads to see if they were with him. Parker, Ferrier, shrugged and dutifully plunged into the muddy river. Burlingham was unperturbed, he shot a haughty look of contemptuous intransigence. I knew I had to do something, If I allowed this defiance to stand, I was ruined. My response to his mutiny was direct. I drew Sergeant Bourne’s revolver, I deliberately inserted three cartridges into the cylinder and snapped the weapon shut, I drew back the hammer to full cock.

“You can and you will! Into the water you lazy dozy Liverpool scouser!” Burlingham jumped. I was quite pleased with the demonstrable effect the revolver had on my leadership prowess. Evidently, girls-with-guns, even girls who merely look like boys, with guns, had a profound effect on the motivation of the common soldier. “Put your backs into it Lads! PUSH!” The men pushed and the wagon broke free of the river’s suction and staggered forward.

The Buffalo River on the other hand was not so easily quelled. It remained a dank, dark and dangerous unforgiving stretch of water. It was called a “drift” that’s the Afrikaan term for “ford” as it turned out this was in name only. The fact was, the muddy river bottom was entirely unsuitable for a military crossing. The so-called ”drift” may have been sufficiently firm for an occasional ox cart crossing but for a full-scale military maneuver, the results were a disaster. The more men and animals that crossed, the worse the river bottom became, every footfall man and beast churned the river mud to a consistency resembling molasses. Even though the overall water was never more than six feet deep, the river current, the muddy embankments made crossing with men and animals treacherous to the point of deadly. I was so preoccupied with getting the ammunition wagon moving in the churning river current that I failed to notice what appeared to be an innocuous log floating near by. The African blacks saw it first, a cry went up.

“INGWENYA! INGWENYA!” The Bantu word for crocodile. The porters scattered like little children, they made for the riverbank in a frenzied mad dash to escape the jaws of the living dinosaur. The ropes went slack, the load, was too much for the animals to hold, the wagon lurched backwards, pinning Parker under its wheel. The river swallowed him up in its suction like quicksand. Parker’s head disappeared underwater.

I drew the Webley, pulled the hammer back, and fired. Once, then twice more. The heavy .455 bullets tore into the animals hide; the crocodile rolled in the muddy water and floated to the surface belly up, dead. I dismounted Star, I plunged into the river’s depth and slogged over to the wagon. I got Parker’s head above the water, choking, unconscious. I pulled with all my strength. I wasn’t strong enough to extirpate him from underneath the wagon.

“Burlingham, help me!” I pinched off Parker’s nose, covered his mouth with my own and breathed. Parker choked, vomited, river water gushed from his lungs. I struggled there alone, in churning mud, the river water swirled to the height of my collarbone and threatened to drag us both under. I clung to Parker in a desperate attempt to hold his head above water; he started to breath again on his own. Ironically, there I was, knee-deep-in-the-dead, and my mind was in a different place, I was overcome with emotions as I remembered holding poor Lilly, as she lay there trapped under the no. 64, how her life slipped away in my arms. “Jake! Jake, don’t you die on me soldier!”

Burlingham, he did less than nothing. He retreated to the far bank.

My plight, by this time had attracted the attention of private Ferrier who signaled to Lieutenant Fry, my commanding officer who came with more men to assist me. Parker was transported to the rear of the column by ambulance, with a broken leg. The crocodile was retrieved and several black porters carted it off amidst great excitement. We freed the ammunition wagon and the crossing continued without a second thought.

My own mules staggered, brayed, eventually I had to employ a gang of a dozen blacks to pull them up on to the bank. I was glad I didn’t have any more wagons . . . We were across; I looked back at the sea of men, wagons and material that was yet to cross. I was very glad to be out of the water and out of that river. I was knackered to the core. I learned a very important lesson that day, if I hadn’t known it before, Burlingham not just a slacker, he was a first-rate ner-to-do-well coward. I hoped I never found myself in a situation where I had to depend on him for my life.

I looked out across the vast expanse of the scrub brush and prickly vegetation of the African veld. My clothing rapidly dried under the subtropical African sun. There, in front of the column, rising to some five-hundred feet was an enormous escarpment. One could see movement on summit, someone or some thing was waiting, watching our every move. Then he appeared. It was my first glimpse of a real Zulu, an African warrior in a great ceremonial headdress, spear and a white buffalo hide-shield. I saw him, he intended for us to see him. We watched him transfixed. He was magnificent; he raised his spear and shield, then in a voice, so clear, in near perfect English.

“WHY HAVE YOU COME TO THE LAND OF THE ZULU?”

As quickly as that, he was gone. Absolute chills ran down my spine. I’ll admit, I’d never seen a real Zulu warrior before let alone one so magnificent and powerful. I was spooked. What kind of people are these? What kind of iron-age people dare challenge the might of the British empire? Afterwards I felt foolish. All the other officers and men laughed as if it off as if it were a lark. We were fifteen-hundred men in this column. We were the greatest most modern army on the face of the earth. We had rifles, cannon, bombs, what did we have to fear from some aboriginal African tribesmen armed with nothing but buffalo-hide shields and spears? How little then did I know.

* * *

IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE. We made camp, yet there was no cheer, the men were sodden, beaten down exhausted. There was nothing about which to be happy. The whole central column was soaked to the bone; we were caked with soggy mud and desolate. I myself was filthy, tired, and worn out. The campfires burned the promised hot food was cold and late, wretched rations, nothing more than ship biscuits, beans and salt pork. Not even a tot of rum. It’s fair to say the whole column was in a state of miserable melancholy. Like a mother hen, I produced a pot of jam from my harvard’s sack. It wasn’t much to offer, but we spread it on the ship biscuits, drank tea and made a poor Christmas dinner.

This just wouldn’t do, it was Christmas Eve after all; something had to be done to lift the lads spirits. I eschewed my usual shyness and signaled one of the blokes in “A” section, who knew how to play a merry tune on the fiddle to follow my lead. I stood on a camp stool, the men all looked to me. I raised my voice and sang in my best high clear soprano.

♫ Christmas is a comm’n and the goose is getting fat!
Who’ll put a penny in the old man’s hat?
If you haven’t got a penny, than a hay penny will do
If you haven’t got a hay penny, then God bless you!

God bless you
God bless you

If you haven’t got a hay penny then God bless you! ♫

Before I’d finished, I had the makings of a make-shift band, one chap did rhythm on the spoons, soon a couple of harmonicas joined in, followed by the merry notes of a squeeze-box, before I was finished I had the whole camp singing. We sang there along the banks of the Buffalo River. We sang, “God rest ye merry Gentlemen,” “Oh, come all ye faithful,” “Joy to the World” and we finished with “Silent night.” I think it was the most spiritual Christmas night I had ever experienced. I looked out across the fires, over to the bivouac where I thought my Henry must be.

“Happy Christmas, Henry, my love.”

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING on Boxing Day, Ferrier, approached me. Ferrier was the spokesman, not Burlingham he skulked in the distance. “Me’n the lads, well Parker’n me got together Sir, we thought maybe we wuz a bit hard on you Sir. We know how cut up you wuz when your mate Marty, died ‘n all. Some of us thought you wuz being a bit poofy, but you done all right today, Sir wit the crossing’n all, you saved Parker’s life. You’re one straight arrow Corporal Sir, We’z all proud to be in Section B, Sir. Parker’n me, we got you something, Sir.”

I was taken aback, didn’t know quite what to say. I tore open the brown paper wrapper, to my delight it was a holster. A proper officer’s holster, a fine black supple leather holster with shoulder strap and bullet case, I slipped Sargent Bourne’s Webley into its confines and closed the flap. At the risk of being perceived once again as a bit “poofy,” I fought back tears. It was a fine Christmas present. I was overwhelmed. I had no idea the lads thought so much of me. For the first time I fully comprehended, how very much they looked to me for leadership. I a girl, not quite fourteen-years-old, and these men looked to me to lead them into battle.

“Thank you men, I will wear it with pride. I promise I won’t let you down.”

Burlingham sulked.

* * *

THE ACTUAL, PHYSICAL CROSSING OF THE BUFFALO RIVER, however symbolic even after Lord Chelmsford, with great pomp and circumstance, finally chose to grace us with his appearance and take his turn, wade the muddy brook some two days later. The army took no notice of Chelmsford’s arrival. We were all too busy The army was a ponderous unwieldy thing, one cannot imagine the bulk and weight and sheer volume of military equipment necessary to sustain an army in the field. The arrival of one pompous, politically ambitious, over-stuffed toff changed nothing. Of course, the horses and cannons take center stage, but there are the barges of troops and the wagons, the endless train of wagons. We worked long hours, but the truth be told, it could not have been done, not without the thousands of black laborers.

I stood on the hilltop and watched the spectacle. I found myself feeling very sad for these African people. For the first time, I felt that it was “I” who was the oppressor, after a life time of being a member of the oppressed; I can tell you it didn’t feel very good. That I had finally succeeded in finding a group of people whose sorry lot in life was worse than mine. We crossed a point in the Buffalo River called “middle drift” a “drift” is Afrikaan’s term for ford, or a place in the river with a sandy bottom where crossing can made without a bridge. Since there are no bridges across the Buffalo River, the only realistic time for a military campaigned is during the summer after the spring floods when the river has subsided to a muddy ditch.

We were very much an army on the march. The riders of the Light-Horse were kept very busy indeed. We road up and down and between the columns. It seemed our primary mission was messenger. We shuffled between Major and Captain and up and down the ranks from the Lieutenants back up to Colonel Carlton. Eventually, the army corp of engineers pretty much put a stop to that, winding out miles of telegraph wire, across the Buffalo River, so that the font lines could stay in constant contact with Headquarters. What a marvelous modern invention this telegraph.

Occasionally, we, the Light-horse was called upon to probe deep ahead of the column.

My own problems, my own particular disaster began innocuously enough with Parker back in hospital. Then Ferrier reported that his horse, “Sandy” was lame, and requested permission to return to the rear of the column for a new mount. All this happened with in the first ten minutes of revelry and I had yet to finish my breakfast tea. My section was reduced from four men, four horses, and four rifles to myself, and one man, and that one man was Private Davy Burlingham. It was then Lieutenant Fry ordered me to report on the double to the command tent. Not just any regular orders mind you, command orders from Major Steele who presumably received his orders from Colonel Durnford.

“This is great, just fucking great! SHIT!” I tossed my tea into the fire.

I entered the command tent my heart filled with loath, my stomach was queasy, fearful I was about to receive a reprimand for the past days accident. Instead, I found the mood in the command tent congenial. Inside was a collection of Captains, Lieutenants and Sergeants smoking cigars, all clustered around a map table. I felt a bit “under-ranked” as I was the only Corporal, but I was in command of section of Light-horse. I unfortunately, had come to the attention of the high command. I unwittingly had earned a reputation as the “Go to” section. I always got the job done. It was my misfortune to be what you call dependable. In reality, what that meant was I was the one who always got the “shit jobs.” When things really went tits-up, Major Steele invariably barked, “Where’s Claiborne!”

The problem was the column was ponderous, we were moving more slowly than expected. Lord Chelmsford was not happy. We were doing our best, but we were weighed down with tons of equipment. The decision was made to leave behind the twelve-pounders, the Nordenfeldts and most of the baggage and proceed into Zululand on foot.

“Ah! Claiborne, come in. We heard you shot a croc yesterday,” Colonel Durnford, remarked as he puffed on a fat cigar. “Capital, simply capital!” He opened a mahogany cigar case and held it out. Was he was offering me a cigar? I shook my head no. All the other ranks all laughed and joked, “The lad doesn’t smoke.” There was another great out burst of ribald laughter. At first, I wasn’t sure, if I was the object of ridicule or if it was all in good-humor.

Major Steele recognized my predicament and relieved the tension, “Jolly good soldiering Claiborne. I hear Parker is doing quite well in hospital. You never cease to amaze me Claiborne. That’s why I have something for you. Captain Fredrickson will brief you.”

Captain Fredrickson had my orders. I found myself; dispatched on a the most vital of military reconnoiters, I was to locate a farmhouse, some twenty-five miles West of the column. A Boer dwelling, Hendricks’ station. It seemed these Hendricks were not mere Voortrekkers but members of prominent Dutch family with some political pull in Pietermaritzburg. Sufficient influence it seemed that their whereabouts their well fare came to the concern of the high command. The information received was that there was a rouge Zulu war party, an iButho, operating in the vicinity, and high-placed sources in the Pietermaritzburg political elite voiced their concerns. I was to find Hendricks’ station and secure the area, rescue Pieter Hendricks and any surviving family, seize all available livestock, engage any hostile Zulus, and report to the quartermasters (presumably with the cattle I had seized.) I found the whole assignment incredibly absurd; the fact that my section under normal circumstances consisted of four men and I now found myself reduced to two was ironically irrelevant.

“Corporal Claiborne!” Capitan Fredrickson called after me.

“Sir!”

“Major Steele says you deserve these, with the Major’s compliments.”

I could not believe my eyes; Fredrickson held in his hand my Sergeant’s stripes, he gave me a congenial slap on my back and sent me on my way. I headed for my own bivouac. I paused only long enough to sew my new rank on my duty-blouse. While I sewed, I though of Color Sergeant Bourne, he would be so proud! There was no time to write him. I grabbed an extra Martini-Henry from the quartermaster and a full-fledged lunger; I left with as much ammunition as I could carry.

“BURLINGHAM, TO ME!”

Much to my satisfaction, the blaze of my new rank had the desired effect. Burlingham’s face soured like a man who’d just drank a great glug of curdled milk. I didn’t care; I didn’t have time to gloat. “Burlingham! Get off your ass! Get your rations and as much ammunition as you can carry. Take extra water too!” In regards to extra water, I wasn’t going to trust that particular detail to a dozy scouser like Burlingham. I filled three extra canteens. I considered this a dangerous reconnoiter, we were venturing far a field of the regular column. I had no one to count on except Burlingham, and that was worse than having no one at all. The veld of South Africa was a dry, unforgiving place, where water remained the most precious of all resources. There were confirmed reports of the hostile Zulus,

Zulus, I’d never really seen a real Zulu, I’ll confess I really didn’t know that much about these fabled black African warriors. What I did know about, were Indians, Apache, Comanche, Crow, Blackfeet. The way I figured it, if these Zulus were in any way half as dangerous as the Indians of the Americas, we were in trouble. The other soldiers of the command, indeed the hierarchy from the Governor General on down tended to discount, to underestimate the power of the Zulus. I myself, new better, I had a health respect for aboriginal people. I found these Zulus to be a noble people, a brave people, their culture and civilization venerable. I understood, indeed, I knew very well that it was “I” who was the invader.

“Oi, Claiborne, ‘ows comes we gits all the shit jobs?” Burlingham complained bitterly, it was then that Burlingham spied my new Sergeant’s stripes. I witnessed with a certain measure of satisfaction, his face turn from a common scowl to the blackest of black rain clouds. He mouthed the words, “Fuck’n todger . . .” It gave me great satisfaction to ignore him.

“Because we’re dependable.” I said. “Quit your complaining and finish packing,” I cinched down my own kit. “We still have six hours of daylight. I intend to make a good start.”

“I’s ‘ate being dependable, mate.”

At four O’clock on the 27^thof December, I rode out of camp, with Private Davy Burlingham; on a straightforward simple reconnoiter, find Hendricks’ station and rescue any survivors. Little did I know how these event were to change my own life. How could I have possibly known how my simple adventure, this most ordinary of all reconnoiters was hell bent on a collision corse to eventually shape the course of the British Empire.

The Joy of Gratitude

chrissopa — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 20:34:51 +0000

We had our last and final workshop today at the WP Blood Services Center in Cape Town. What a wonderful group of people! I always say as a speaker, I am only as good as my audience and this audience really was ON today! They came ready to learn, transform and walk out with new ideas and insights. This group was made up of the people who directly interact with the donor population. We talked about empowerment, self-worth, priorities and finding the courage to play bigger in the world. My favorite part was doing the communication exercise where they all learned a bit about themselves and what their tendencies are when they live day to day. What a crack up! One group talked about sex the whole time!!!

Chris in action

A few people had ah-ha moments (thanks to Tina!) and one woman shared hers with the entire group which was hard for her to do but she did it!!! One of the things I find is that no matter where I am in the world, people are all the same. We all have the same fears, anxieties and worries and seem to think we are alone…and we are NOT! Change starts with one individual who makes a choice to do something different, something unique and something to honor their many gifts to give.

Tina in action

After the wonderful experience and sense of giving Tina and I have been blessed with here in this country, we wanted to give something back so we decided that we would give blood. The process was fairly simple and “painless.” Once they found out our blood alcohol levels were ok (just kidding..) we went through the typical screening process. Unfortunately, Tina’s iron level was too low so she could not give. She gladly watched as they stuck a needle in MY arm!!

In the process of giving..Chris and Cindy

Tina and I went to a GREAT restaurant for dinner called The Green Dolphin. The whole theme of the restaurant is “dedicated to the preservation of Jazz.” We heard a great live Jazz band called The Lee Gelder Bloem Quartet. We always seem to meet the funnest people on this trip. We stopped a waiter named Zulu to take our picture and as he took it another waiter, Brian, decided to stick his head in the picture last minute to our surpirse. We had such a good time talking to these guys!!

Tina, Chris and...surprise - Brian!

Tina and Zulu making sure their eyes were open!

Tina and I discussed at dinner how blessed we feel for being given the opportunity to go on this trip together. It has been perfect in every sense of the word! We would not change a thing.

We head back to JoBerg tomorrow and then leave for the States on Monday night. Even though we have had a spectacular time, we both are feeling a bit homesick today and are ready to go home. We miss you guys!!

Until tomorrow..

Chris-Tina

Newness from High Contrast, J Majik & Wickaman and Wiley Back on Form

music2liveby — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 18:59:30 +0000

Got a new remix from High Contrast, he has remixed Tiesto’s track “Kaleidoscope”, of course into a drum and bass smasher. High Contrast is just a phenomenal producer, every track he touches seems to turn to gold. This one is no different, bit darker than usual, but that is no bad thing, and there are as always just great breakdowns. This is a definite download.

Tiesto – Kaleidoscope (High Contrast remix)

Also got the great new track from J Majik and Wikaman, well actually Zulu remix of the track “Feel About You”. This is a wicked track and the remix makes the beat more Jumpy and Grimey. I just love deepness of this track, that plus the chopped up vocal here makes this remix as good as the original maybe even better.

J Majik & Wickaman – Feel About You (Zulu Remix)

Last track is one I am loving at the moment, Its a bit different from the other tracks. Its Chew Fu and Wiley with a track called “Take That”. It is a proper electro banger, with Wiley rapping over it and it sounds great. Got some big wonky, dirty bass. Wiley sounds really good on this track, defiantly the best thing he’s done since “Wearin my Rolex”. Have a listen and I think you’ll be impressed.

Chew Fu & Wiley – Take That

Zulu's Zoo: Join the million dollar contest for the best operated Zoo!

marthakr — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 20:02:09 +0000

Cape Town: Zulu Dance Group - Working the Blowburg beaches - So they & their families can eat.

hoh — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 19:03:28 +0000

We bumped into each other as they were rushing to catch the dwindling crowds on the next beach -They broke into song & drumming as they patiently posed for me – what a powerful sound – It gave me goose bumps
Such dynamic young men – Filled with optimism and determination to create a better life for themselves and their families. Delightful to witness their enthusiasm and energy & their love for their art. These young men look one in the eye with confindence and pride
I wish they could see how amazing they look – I’m waiting for them to get in touch

To enlarge image – click on it

KTC, dance group is 15 strong & they all live in KTC,Nyanga [Guguletu]

HOT PR E S S

UPCOMING EVENT! Saturday 28th November
KTC youth dance group, would love you to be there!

Where?
In their neighburhood – KTC [Nyanga]– see map below [follow the pink line]
He laughed when I ask him if lighter coloured skin folk would be “safe” venturing into their neck of the woods?! “Very safe, no problem!” he said and offered to meet us to show us the way to the venue

WHERE? WHEN? TIME?

Saturday28th November celebration in KTC
Time: 14:00 (2pm – 5pm)
Tickets R 10.00 [Children R 5.00]
@ KTC Hall
E Mjodo street & M Mbewana street where the 2 meet – North east corner of KTC Nyanga
See map for directions

For more information Contact:
Zolani Pasiya 083 2828365

Lets support them in thier community youth efforts!
See you there!

To enlarge map- click on it

From Cape Town direction – EXIT 15 Heidelveld.Guguletu. Bellville
[The one BEFORE the Airport Exit]
Turn Right to go over the motorway [M10]

N2 Settlers way / N10 Dunefontein Rd / M18 Klipfontein Rd / NY6 / Miller St. / NY 78 / M.Mbewana St. / BIG Hall!

Life is Good

sockgirl — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 01:53:08 +0000

I’ve certainly been busy since the last time I posted something! Where to begin with what I’ve been doing?

Well, for starters, I was given the chance to act in a college film. I was there for 8 hours of filming, and I only acted for about 2 hours at most in it. But, it was fun anyway. I learned that my college does not have digital video cameras. We have the 16mm film cameras (the first design to have a zoom button!). I learned that actors need to find a way to keep themselves entertained between scenes. There is a short period of movement and action, accompanied by long moments of nothing.

An interesting note about this filming experience was that I was nearly arrested. Our director had found ‘the perfect spot’ to film the movie. (I will be saying ‘our’ and ‘we’ because there were about 5 or 6 people working on this film every moment I was there.) So, we all crammed into the pack of gum he calls a car and went off to this dirt lot on a fairly busy road next to a liquor store. (Needless to say, my claustrophobe self was more than happy to get out of the car.) Now, the story has a homeless man in it. So, one of our actors set himself up as a homeless man. We were recording for about an hour before the liquor store owner came out. Man, the owner was seriously P.O.ed. He was angry because we were recording a ‘bum around his establishment.’ Our director told him that his store wasn’t on the film. We couldn’t prove it to the owner because we were using the old 16mm film. He said that we had to prove to him his store wasn’t in the film, or he was going to call the police to arrest us. We didn’t want to get into trouble with the police, and we couldn’t prove to him that his store wasn’t in the film, so we had to leave. It really orally evacuated that we had to move. That dirt lot was an awesome place to shoot, and was better than the place we had to go to film the movie.

I saw Celtic Thunder when they came to San Diego! They were only here for one night, but it was a beautiful night. I fell deeper into love, had my heart broken, and fell in love with them all over again. I’m convinced that only a Celtic Man can pull such emotions from me. I had so much fun. I couldn’t hear properly for a day (due to my own screaming), and my throat was a bit sore from the event for about 5 days after they event. I can’t wait for them to come back to San Diego, though. I just hope that I can get better seats next time!

I also had the chance to see The Lion King in the theatre! Alright, I had nosebleed seats (what do you expect for $28?), but I still saw it! I took my aunt with me to the show, as she’s never been in the audience of a theatre, only on stage. She, for some reason, wasn’t as impressed with everything as I was. She was expecting the actors to be in more of an animal-looking costume. We had the chance to go with the Director behind the scenes of The Lion King. I learned so much information from there. Apparently, there is 2 of everything for the traveling show. There were two traveling shows in the USA, and when it became 1 show, that show ended up with both sets of props, costumes, and equipment. The show I saw had the most South Africans then any other Lion King show being played in the world. 6. 6 South Africans in the USA Touring Show. That doesn’t seem like a lot to me, but it appearently takes at least that many to keep everyone in the show on track! There are about 5 differnt African languages spoken in the show, which I found to be fascinating. The one spoken the most is Zulu.

On the school front, I have been working on two group projects, a midterm, and a couple of essays. I think that my group projects are going well. One is going to be a Civic Engagement speech on the Ugandan Children, and the other is 10 minute play for my Theatre class. Our play is going to be a comedy of the LA judge that refused to marry an interracial couple. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, here’s an article about it on CBN News.) I think that my midterm went well – it was in math. I hope that I passed it! I need all the good grades I can get in that class.

I’ll probably be putting the theatre project and play up onto Youtube when I get a copy of them. I’ll post the links/put the video on here when I get the chance to.

Well, now that I’m done telling you all about my life, I’m off to do some school work. Group projects really take all possibilities of having a life away from you.

Brightest Blessings,
Sockgirl

Zulu's Zoo: Join the million dollar contest for the best operated Zoo!

lisadrem — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 09:04:13 +0000

La verdad sobre el 2012

Desintonizada — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 03:07:37 +0000

La verdad sobre el 2012

Muchas películas y documentales alarmistas están tratando hacerte creer que el 2012 es el Apocalipsis o el fin de la humanidad, en primer lugar el único fin que se da es el fin de de la noche galáctica, y también de la era en la que nos encontramos la cual es la era de Piscis, ya que estamos entrando a la era de Acuario la cual es una era muy prometedora para la humanidad, las verdaderas profecías de muchas culturas son que en este nuevo ciclo al que entraremos al dia galactico y a la era de Acuario se dará el despertar de la conciencia, la iluminación, la evolución humana.

Hopis Predicen un periodo de 25 años de purificación seguido por el Fin del Cuarto Mundo y el comienzo del Quinto
Mayas Lo llaman el “fin de los días” o el fin del tiempo como lo conocemos
Maoris Dicen que en cuando se disuelva el velo, se mergiran el mundo físico y espiritual
Zulu Creen que el mundo será dado vuelta (así, “patas para arriba”)
Hindus Kali Yuga (fin de los tiempos). La llegada de Kali y la llegada en masa de los iluminados
Incas Le llaman ‘la Era de conocernos interiormente nuevamente’.
Aztecas Lo llaman el tiempo del Sexto Sol. Un tiempo de transformación. Creación de una nueva raza
Dogon Dicen que la nave de los visitantes, el Nommo, regresará en forma de una estrella azul
Pueblo Reconocen la aparicion del Quinto Mundo
Cherokee Su calendario termina exactamente el año 2012 exactamente como el calendario Maya
Tibetanos Las enseñanzas Kalachakra son profecías dejadas por Buddha prediciendo la llegada de la Era Dorada
Egipto De acuerdo a la Gran Pirámide (calendario de piedra), el ciclo del presente tiempo termina el año 2012.
El libro sagrado del Zohar dice:”Todos los tesoros celestiales y los enigmas ocultos que durante generaciones no han sido resueltos se descubrirán en la Era de Acuario”

Pero para esto tenemos que ser concientes de la verdadera realidad, existen dos caminos uno es el despertar y la iluminación de la humanidad y otro es el de la destrucción mutua de la humanidad, nadie nos va a destruir, nos vamos a matar unos a otros a menos que cambiemos en el poco tiempo que nos queda:

Los mayas nos dicen que el período intermedio al traspaso, dura 20 años, y ellos lo llaman “El tiempo del No-Tiempo” (esto lo que estamos viviendo, el último katún, empezó en 1992), en donde ocurren grandes cambios. Es allí cuando debemos ser capaces de transformarnos, puesto que será nuestra decisión seguir como humanidad o perecer en nuestra autodestrucción. Esta transformación implica algo tan profundo como la elección de evolucionar. Energéticamente, concientemente, completamente. El final de este proceso, es el año 2012, cuando termina el “Tiempo del No-Tiempo”.

Así que mi única intención es que tomes conciencia y te armonices con todo y contigo mismo, sabes que existe la ley de atracción, la voluntad, la fuerza del pensamiento, trata de atraer cosas buenas a tu vida y a la vida de los demás seres que te rodean. Existen muchas elites malignas que controlan a esta humanidad consumista y quieren que el mundo siga siendo su basurero y su matadero están contaminado tu mente con miedo, con mentiras, con distracciones, para que no tomes conciencia de lo importante que es este tiempo que tenemos, ya que si te dejas llevar por los pensamientos de destrucción, Apocalipsis, muerte, y toda esa basura que te meten a diario con los medios controlados por ellos, el miedo masivo creara una obstrucción de la energía vitalizadota, suprema y cósmica que recibiremos en la era de Acuario, así que no te dejes influenciar por la negatividad y su odio, se mas fuerte que el miedo y toma conciencia de ti y del universo.

Tantas culturas predicen esta era de Acuario como la era de la conciencia, la era del conocimiento, la era de el despertar, todos somos tan afortunados de existir en este tiempo, de nosotros depende nuestro futuro y el futuro de la humanidad, si queremos que sea algo bueno para todos piensa cosas buenas y atrae cosas buenas, aun que sea en este corto tiempo trata de cambiar para bien para armonizarte con todo el universo, vamos a ser presentes de unos de los hechos cósmicos mas importantes de la galaxia.

Cada era dura 2100 años aproximadamente y nosotros vamos a contemplar el cambio de era además de un evento muy importante el de el de la alineación galáctica que sucederá el 21 de diciembre del 2012, esta cuenta empiezo en el año 3113 A.C. que fue la “Entrada al HAZ de Sincronización Galáctica” y terminará para el año 2012 con la “Sincronización Galáctica”. Este ciclo dura 5125 años, además lo mas importante estamos cerca del centro de la galaxia ahora estamos en el amanecer de la galaxia (en el tiempo del no tiempo), estamos saliendo de la noche y entrando al día a la mañana galáctica, cada noche y día en la galaxia duran 12.800 años. Somos tan afortunados de vivir en esta época en que tantas cosas maravillosas sucederán.

Así que no tengas miedo del 2012 si tu quieres será algo muy lindo para ti, para la humanidad, para el planeta y para el universo, yo no soy religiosa pero respeto mucho las creencias de todos, así que de la religión que seas, de la creencia que tengas trata de armonizarte con todos y con todo a tu alrededor.

Música para el domingo - The Lion Sleeps Tonight (The Tokens)

Carlos — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 10:01:52 +0000

El domingo es día de asueto y nada mejor que un poco de música para amenizarlo. Por ejemplo, este “The lion sleeps tonight” en versión de The Tokens. Compuesto por Solomon Linda -un cantante zulú- en 1939 (puede escucharse aquí), no tardo en convertirse en un gran éxito primero en Sudáfrica (donde el nombre de Linda llegaría a inspirar todo un género musical) y luego en el resto del mundo gracias a innumerables versiones del mismo (una de las últimas la incluida en El Rey León de Walt Disney). La versión del vídeo adjunto corresponde a la que hicieron The Tokens en 1961, una de las mejores y que más popularidad le daría a la canción. !Que lo disfruten!

#78. Poppies Again (Accepting Barbed Wire

zevstar — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 01:29:24 +0000

can we survive more poppies?
accept them?
entwined with barbed wire
with the death of millions
afghanistan
to flanders field
to antietam zululand jerusalem
afghanistan over and over
china rome everywhere
to prehistory
human kind proves its insanity
expecting
something different?

remember?
“all we are saying is give peace a chance”

how does your dick measure up?

leatherflavoreddonut — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 17:50:20 +0000

Well I needed some hits, so what else was I supposed to do? Write some news, or a thought-provoking article on cabbage, or comment on this or that aspect of modern life? Or just start talking about my dick?

Well that’s a no-brainer: dick = hits and don’t you forget it!

. For women and their breasts it’s a bit more clear-cut: although breasts can be fluffed up with the right undergarments, it is not that difficult to see how yours compare to everybody else’s. But getting a look at another man’s erect member is a difficult job indeed.

The average woman has seen vastly more erect penises that the average man. We get to see only one in detail, and usually from a non-flattering angle. So we gaze at other men and wonder – how does mine measure up? And although everyone says “It’s not how big it is, it’s what you do with it”, we all know this is just some garbage made up by men with little peanuts. Let us apply the same logic to, say, the world’s tallest building, and see how far that gets us.

So we are reduced to peeking at articles in our girlfriend’s Cosmo, or searching for “penis” on the Internet with one hand poised ready to clear the browsing history before the missus gets home. And now and again we stumble across those articles and surveys disclosing the size of the nation’s collective knob.

Now, I suspect these may not be so reliable simply because, in most of these surveys, they just ASK the men how big their dicks are. I mean, come on! You think that is going to give you any honest answers? And anyway, it’s impossible to know how to measure it properly. A good deal of the dick is under the surface of the skin, and if you pull it out a bit before applying the tape-measure, you can normally squeeze out another inch or two.

Penis measuring is a science in itself, as you can see by searching on Google for “How to measure your penis”. (Warning: do NOT go to Google and search for “How to measure your penis” unless you want to stumble into a deeply unsettling, neon-light-blinking part of the Internet.)

here are the results…

In order to expedite the writing process of this communication, I have followed the same format of previous editions. A number of topics, however, are covered in slightly greater depth than before and I have introduced three new graphics.

BEFORE WE BEGIN

In a number of the analyses that follow, penis size has been classified according to the subject’s perceived endowment status (ref. question 43 of the questionnaire). The dimensions of this “self-ranked endowment status” are summarized in the table below.

MEAN VALUES OF SELF-RANKED ENDOWMENT STATUS

VARIABLE	MODEST	AVERAGE	ENDOWED
Erect Length	141.5mm (5.6″)	161.8mm (6.4″)	181.1mm (7.1″)
Erect Circumference	117.6mm (4.6″)	127.4mm (5.0″)	137.8mm (5.4″)

With the exception of “Penis Size and Age” and “On Circumcision, the analyses discussed below pertain to adult subjects, 18 years of age and older.

The inclusion of minimal, and particularly maximal penile dimensions have caused many of you to question the validity of my data. Blatantly fraudulent responses (from 17 year old lawyers or those claiming “American Zulu warrior” ancestry, for example) are excluded from entry into the database as are penis lengths in excess of 360mm (14.2″). As an additional safeguard, the bottom 1% (for those 18 years and older) and top 2% (for all age groups) of each of the five penile measurements studied have also been excluded from the analysis. I realize that this is a rather conservative approach, but the fact that my results are very close to that reported by Kinsey et al. and the almost symmetric distribution of erect penis lengths, leads me to suspect that any residual and unavoidable contamination has been kept to a minimum.

SUBJECT CHARACTERISTICS

Personal Data of Adult Subjects

Variable

Value

Sample Size

2,545

Average Age

29.7yrs

Average Weight

80.9 kg (178.3 lbs)

Average Height

1.80 m (70.8″)

PENIS DIMENSIONS

	Mean± Standard Deviation	95% Confidence Interval	Maximum	Minimum
Please note that all measurements are expressed in metric units with corresponding imperial units in brackets.	VITAL PENIS STATISTICS FOR MEN 18 YEARS AND OLDER
LENGTH OF FLACCID PENIS	86.3mm(3.4″)± 27.0(1.1)	85.2mm(3.4″)- 87.4mm(3.4″)	157mm(6.2″)	25mm(1.0″)
LENGTH OF ERECT PENIS	161.5mm(6.4″)± 31.5(1.2)	160.2mm(6.3″)- 162.7mm(6.4″)	260mm(10.2″)	68(2.7″)
CIRCUMFERENCE OF ERECT PENIS	127.6mm(5.0″)± 25.5(1.0)	126.6mm(5.0″)- 128.7mm(5.1″)	200mm(7.9″)	60mm(2.4″)
LENGTH OF HEAD	39.5mm(1.6″)± 9.9(0.4)	38.5mm(1.5″)- 39.5mm(1.6″)	76mm(3.0″)	12mm(0.5″)

Figure 3 illustrates the bell-shaped distribution of erect penis lengths, thereby justifying the use of the parametric statistical tests that follow.

MEASURING UP

To determine more precisely how you compare with the 2,545 adult subjects who participated in this survey, I have divided the data into percentiles of 10 percentile increments. If, for example, your erect penis measures 155 mm, the table below indicates that this size falls between the 40th and 50th percentile. In other words, at least 40% of the men fell below this value and at least 50% were above. In the upcoming expanded version of this edition, the chart below has been replaced by three graphs which provide an even greater degree of precision.

PERCENTILE	FLACCID	ERECT	CIRCUMFERENCE
PENIS DIMENSIONS BY PERCENTILES FOR MEN 18 YEARS AND OLDER
0	25(1.0″)	68(2.7″)	60(2.4″)
10	50(2.0″)	125(4.9″)	95(3.7″)
20	60(2.4″)	140(5.5″)	110(4.3″)
30	73(2.9″)	147(5.8″)	120(4.7″)
40	80(3.1″)	152(6.0″)	125(4.9″)
50	88(3.5″)	160(6.3″)	130(5.1″)
60	95(3.7″)	170(6.7″)	134(5.3″)
70	100(3.9″)	176(6.9″)	140(5.5″)
80	110(4.3″)	185(7.3″)	150(5.9″)
90	120(4.7″)	200(7.9″)	160(6.3″)
100	157(6.2″)	260(10.2″)	205(8.1″)

PENIS SIZE AND RACE

Since the release of the fifth edition, the number of Black and Hispanic participants has not substantially increased. Because of the continued low sample sizes therefore, the results reported below concerning the aforementioned groups must be considered tentative, pending a larger number of responses.

Surprisingly, it would appear from Figure 5, that contrary to popular myth, Black males have shorter erect lengths than their Caucasian counterparts. However, due to the small sample size and large variation in lengths, this “difference” is not statistically significant. The average flaccid length among Blacks however was 93.8mm (3.7″) compared to 87.7mm (3.4″) for Caucasians, which may be responsible for the impression that Black men have greater erect dimensions. Again, I emphasize that these observations must remain tentative.

There was a significant difference in length between Caucasians and both Hispanic and East Asians (those of Chinese, Japanese, Korean or Vietnamese descent). Whereas with Hispanics, such a difference was limited to erect length only, with East Asians all five measurements were statistically lower in comparison to Caucasians. Although part of this difference may be due to the shorter stature of East Asians (see “On Correlations” below), height matched comparisons with Caucasian subjects nevertheless failed to alter this finding.

The figure to the left summarizes the results of question 44, in which men were asked to rate members of their own ethnic group with respect to size. Of particular interest was the response of East Asian subjects. Among East Asians residing in the East, 31% felt that they were generally of modest size, compared to 56% of those living in the West. This is probably due to the fact that Western countries tend to be more racially diverse, allowing for greater interaction and hence comparison with men of different ethnic backgrounds. It is also interesting to note that the vast majority of Black subjects stated that they tended to be well endowed; an opinion which was not borne out by the results of this study.

PENIS SIZE AND AGE

I was initially surprised by the number of responses from teenagers and, although my survey wasn’t specifically designed to detect changes in penis size during puberty, the data collected so far has revealed some rather interesting findings.

As of this edition, and as illustrated in Figure 7, average erect penis length increased until the age of 16, a finding that marks a departure from the five previous editions of this page, which reported that such a developmental milestone occurred at age 17. With respect to adolescent lengths, it is interesting to note that the results presented here are almost identical to that of another online survey, the results of which are located at http://www.dnai.com/~ibex/jackmisc/jacklib/jacksurvey3.html. The apparent variation in average size between the ages of 16 to 49 was due to random sampling error and was not statistically significant..

The situation with regard to erect penis length beyond the age of 50 remains somewhat nebulous. According to the graph below, there was essentially no difference in size with respect to younger age groups. However, I have detected a progressive, yet slight decline in length among older men in this group. Unfortunately, due to the modest sample size of such individuals, it was not possible to determine whether this was a statistical anomaly or an anatomical consequence of the aging process.

ON ERECTIONS

The data indicates that during an erection, the average increase in penis size was 197.9%. However, for men whose flaccid penis measured 80 mm (3.1″) or less, the increase was 263.2%, compared to 165.3% for those greater than this length (p<0.0001). This principle is demonstrated in Figure 8, which reveals a strong negative correlation between flaccid length and the percent increase during an erection.

It is also interesting to note that there was less variation in erect penis lengths relative to flaccid lengths. This convergence in penis size is illustrated by comparing the coefficient of variation (CV), a unitless measure of variability obtained by dividing the standard deviation by the mean and expressing the result as a percentage. The CV for flaccid lengths was 31.4 whereas in the erect state it decreased to 19.5.

When erect the position of greatest girth was as follows; head 36%, uniform 32%, base 25% and some other location 7%.

Forty eight per cent stated that their penis was straight when erect, 28% reported a deviation to the left or right and 24% claimed to have a bend (presumably in the shaft).

ON CIRCUMCISION

Unlike a previously published study in the medical literature, I did not detect a significant difference in erect length (or the other four measurements) between circumcised and uncircumcised individuals.

Overall, 70% of the subjects were circumcised, 27% were uncircumcised and 3% did not specify their circumcision status. Of the 633 men responding outside of the U.S.A. and Canada who specified their status, 64% were uncircumcised. Not unexpectedly, this compares to 40% of Canadians and only 15% of Americans.

The proportion of those claiming to be content, neutral or discontent concerning their circumcision status was almost equal between the two groups (approximately 66%, 21% and 13% respectively). Among those who were content however, there was a striking difference with regard to sexual orientation. Seventy-two per cent of circumcised straight males expressed contentment with their circumcision status while only 58% of circumcised gay or bisexuals felt the same way (p<0.001).

ON CORRELATIONS

With the rather impressive number of responses I have amassed since the inception of this survey, I have detected that, on average, there exists a strong relationship between erect penis length and height, as illustrated in Figure 9. For the purposes of demonstrating possible correlations between length and various hand and foot measurements, it became necessary to control for this phenomena by performing a partial correlation between length and the various measurements in question. The results of such an analysis are presented below.

With the exception of shoe size, there exists a significant but weak correlation for each of the body parts studied. (Please note that questions regarding nose length and width are recent additions to the survey, and at the time of this writing I had insufficient data to perform a reliable statistical analysis.)

Figure 10 reveals the significant relationship between erect length and circumference.

SOME PENILE TRIVIA

As in previous editions of this communication, body builders tended to be more endowed than “couch potatoes” (170.5mm or 6.7″ vs. 160.7mm or 6.3″ p<0.001).

In addition, the difference in flaccid length between those who are reluctant to potentially expose their penis to public scrutiny and those who are not remained strong (81.0mm or 3.2″ vs. 89.6mm or 3.5″ respectively p<0.001). A larger difference however, existed with respect to erect lengths (166.8mm or 6.6″ vs. 153.3mm or 6.1″ respectively p<0.001). A similar relationship was seen with regard to potential exposure to male family members.

As illustrated in figure 11, well endowed men had more sexual partners per year than their average or modestly endowed counterparts. The data reveals that these men were more self-confident which may, in part, explain this finding.

As illustrated in figure 12, a striking difference existed in the response pattern between gay/bisexual men and straight men when these individuals viewed a well endowed male (ref. survey question 47). Gay and bisexual men tended more to express arousal (36%) or awe (28%), while straight men were more likely to be indifferent (29%) or envious (21%). Among both groups, those who were indifferent had significantly larger erect penises than those who felt either intimidation or inadequacy (p<0.001).

10 more top war films from Xiphos

Bartleby — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 18:22:13 +0000

November 9th, 2009– A month or so ago, I posted Xiphos’ list of his top ten modern Ameri

Chapter Fourteen

smcallis — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 14:03:27 +0000

TESSA CLAIBORNE

Novel
by Smcallis This is a work of fiction. No similarities between any person living or dead is intended, and any such similarity is purely coincidental. All characters © 2007 by Smcallis.

Chapter 14

HENDRICKS’ STATION

IN THE BANTU LANGUAGE, the word amaZulu literally means “People of Heaven,” and I can tell you first hand how quickly I discovered kwaZulu Natal, the land of the Zulu to be every bit as beautiful and venerable as its people. There beneath the baking heat of the subtropical African sun, I surveyed the terrain. Consisting primarily of vast expanses of scrub brush, scraggly trees and prickly plants, there is grass and bracken, the low-lying undulating hills are lush and verdant in the springtime, but for the remainder of the three seasons Zululand is a dry and desolate place. Not without certain subtle charms, if you pause to listen, you can hear the shrill cry of the titihoya bird hiding in the brush. Enormous rocky escarpments, dominate the landscape; sometimes rising to five-hundred feet, beyond which I could glimpse the snow-capped Drakensberg Mountains shimmering hazy-blue one-hundred and fifty miles in the distance. This was December; the height of the African summer and the ground lay parched, a more treacherous, unforgiving country I never could have possibly imagined.

I snapped my spyglass shut, I didn’t have time for sightseeing. The stony ground under foot was treacherous and uneven; this was not good horse country. To make matters worse, I was lost. Perhaps lost amounted to a bit of an understatement, come to think of it, lost wasn’t even close to the precise word for it . . . I was bloody hell fuck’n LOST! Jakey, my navigator, my best mate, was laid up in hospital. Alone, I amounted to probably the worlds worst orienteer. Maps, compass, these things I had. Unfortunately, I never learned to use them. I’d always left the navigation to Jake Parker and now without him, my fat was really set to sizzle in the fire. My sixth-grade education in a one-room Welsh schoolhouse failed me. While I could read and write with above average facility, I found math, especially the advanced calculations involved in navigation, utterly befuddling. I don’t want to make it sound like I was a complete addle-brained fool―Orienteering with map and compass requires some serious mathematical calculations of which were simply beyond my basic understanding of addition and long division.

Stubbornly, or stupidly, I pressed forward stalwart. I figured as long as we kept moving, sooner or later either by dumb-luck or dead-reckoning I could locate Hendricks’ station. After all, how hard could it be? So, I continued to pretend all that long afternoon that I knew exactly where I was and where we were headed. I was determined not to let Burlingham know I didn’t have a clue. I suppose my arrogance, or my simple desire not to allow this Liverpool arsehole the satisfaction of knowing that “Yes” I was a Sergeant, “Yes” I was in command, but “No” I didn’t know everything. The whole situation spiraled out of control very fast. All my basic assumptions were wrong. I figured if we rode in a straight line for fifteen miles then turned west everything would turn out tickety-boo. I was adamant even at this point not to allow Burlingham in on my secret. Therefore, we rode on into the long rays of the setting sun until dusk and darkness overtook us.

I came to the realization that all my basic assumptions were wrong. This whole reconnoiter turned out to be a disaster; it was time to face the fact that I was hopelessly, irrevocably, lost. By nightfall I’d formulated what I thought was a workable plan. I knew by dead-reckoning that we had made at least fifteen miles due west of the column. If we traveled another ten miles in morning and then turned east, well, we were bound to find something. If I didn’t find the Hendricks’ station, I only hoped that we could find water. By the light of the campfire, I studied the maps in forlorn solitude. I was so screwed! Not only did I not have the slightest idea where I was or how to locate Hendricks’ station. We had more critically failed to find water today, water for the horses, water to replenish our canteens. Water, in dry, parched, desolate Zululand NOT being lost was rapidly becoming my main concern.

Never mind that! If let that bother me, I’d never figure out a way out of this predicament. I dared not allow the slightest inkling of my troubles to show. I poured myself a cup of tea. This was all so frustrating! I hated being incompetent, what I hated even more than the thought of my own stupidity, was the idea that Burlingham was soon to discover my incompetence. An opportunity to revel in school-yard antics at my stupidity. Burlingham was sure to make the most of the situation, I was sure of that. This was one mistake he was not soon to let me forget.

We made a sparse bivouac. I allowed only a sufficient fire to put the kettle on. After a hard days ride, I felt a cup of tea, a chance to wash my face was only civilized. After the fire died down, we sat there in silence, Davy Burlingham and I, we had nothing in common, therefore there was nothing to talk about. The reality was I didn’t like him very much, so there was no point in idle conversation. I drank what tea was left and ate ship biscuits (I selfishly didn’t share the last scrapes of raspberry jam from the pot). I set Burlingham to first watch as I was knackered to the bone. I crawled into my bedroll, not before placing Sergeant Bourne’s revolver within easy reach. I was so tired I was dying for a kip, I’d barely closed my eyes before I fell fast asleep.

I think it must have been some three hours later. I got up, stumbled behind a bush to relive myself. When I got back, I planned to take the next watch and allow Burlingham to get some sleep. What I found, when I returned from my pee, was Burlingham sacked-out, sawing logs, snoring loudly even.

I was so angry. “WAKE UP YOU DOZY SCOUSER!” I kicked him savagely. I was angry with myself for getting us lost, now I was doubly angry with Burlingham, for sleeping on sentry duty, this was all too much. ”WAKE UP YOU SLOVENLY SOLDIER! YOU WANT TO GET US BOTH KILT! YOU ARE ON REPORT, MISTER!”

Burlingham groused, he yawned widely, and acted as if he’d been wide-awake the whole time, “Oi, Claiborne, lay off! What time is it mate? I’z der any more tea? Gimme some water, mate.”

“What?” I was incredulous. “We drank what tea there was at supper time. Git up! Go on get up. What about your own water? I told you to bring extra water.” I couldn’t even believe we were having this conversation. Burlingham continued to pretend this reconnoiter was all a lark.

“I’s forgot mine, mate, now gimme some water. I’s parched.”

“You are one addle-brained dolt! I told you before we left to carry extra water; you’ve been guzzling water all day as if you were at afternoon tea. I already gave what water there was to the horses; you stood right there and watched me. If the horses die, we die. I have one canteen left, and that’s for me, for tomorrow.”

“Oi, I’s told yous, I’s forgot mine mate, yous got water, now gimme a drink.”

“You cocked-up big time Burlingham!” Now I was really mad. “You made your bed, now you can lie in it. You’ll get your drink, after we make Hendricks’ station. And another thing, I’m not your mate!”

”Why don’ts yous jest gives up Claiborne? We’s never gonna find dat Hendrick station!” Burlingham sneered, ”Yous iz fuck’n LOST! Don’ts yous tinks I’s don’ts knows dat!”

“That’s not true, I know exactly where we are.” My voice cracked—it was a lie. It was so pathetically, painfully, pitifully obvious—I knew it—Burlingham knew it. Yet I still couldn’t bring myself to admit it.

“PISS OFF! Yous leetle three-striped todger! Yous so full you shit, I’s don’ts wants to even hear it! Now yous got water, mate, don’t be so mingy, gives us a drink!”

“NO!”

“Gives us some water! I’s wants some water now!” Burlingham’s eyes narrowed to evil little pig-slits, “Don’ts makes me take it!”

“What?”

Burlingham was on his feet, the Martini rifle dropped to a position known in pugilists training as “advance garde” the triangular point of the bayonet flicked, leveled square at my chest. In that second, I knew I had lost command. This threat was serious; I scrambled a few feet backwards, my hand closed around Sergeant Bourne’s revolver. I drew the weapon, my thumb on the hammer. I didn’t actually point the weapon; I still thought there was a chance to regain control. “Stand down soldier! Put down that rifle Burlingham, that’s an order! You’ll get your water in the morning, when we reach Hendricks’ station!”

“Piss-off ya leetle todger!” Burlingham’s face was full of hate and profanation. ”I’s knows yous. Yous tinks yous so bloody smart. Oi! Major Steele ‘ee tinks yous a bloody grand fuck’n todger! What ‘cha do’n suck’n hiz cock? Yous don’t fool me Claiborne, yous noth’n but a bleed’n fairy boy! ‘Ow many times ‘ee bin pound’n dat tight leetle boy-arse of yous to gives yous dem stripes? We’re fuck’n bleed’n lost, why don’ts yous fuck’n admit it!” Burlingham sneered, the point of the bayonet flicked. “Yous scared of me Claiborne? Well, yous fuck’n well should be!” Burlingham towered over me, he out weighed me by eight stones. I was defiant, but my lower lip quavered, betraying my fear. Burlingham seized on my weakness. “Me tinks I’ll takes dat drink now, gives us dat canteen!”

“NO!”

Burlingham was in no mood to take no for an answer. All my affronts, both real and imagined came to a boil. “I’s don’ts need dis to teach yous a lesson.” Burlingham discarded the Martini and charged; he fell on me in a full rugby tackle. Sergeant Bourne’s revolver, the only object that separated me from exigency, went flying into the dust. I myself was knocked to the ground, the wind sucked from my gut. Burlingham punched me in the face; I tasted my own blood. For some reason the only coherent thought I could muster while he pummeled me was: That assault on an officer was a hanging offence. Of course, that was purely academic, because Burlingham was intent on killing me. He was full on top of me; he grabbed me by the throat. I kicked and struggled, I fought like a wildcat. I’m a pretty good scraper but I was no match for a full-grown man. He punched my face and held me in the dirt.

It was then his hands groped my chest.

“What the fuck!” Burlingham ripped at my duty-blouse, tore off the buttons of my union suit exposing the muslin bindings of my chest. “Blimey O’Reilly! Looksee what-the-fuck we ‘ave ‘ere! Now ain’t dat jest the cat’s meow! Yous ain’t no bleed’n fairy boy! Yous a fuck’n girl!” The discovery of my sex caused a momentary pause in the assault. I clutched my chest, and scooted backwards from him, this time genuinely afraid as to what was to happen next. The revelation as to my sex imbued Burlingham with unmitigated power. Each one of my perceived chastisements, admonishment; disciplinary actions came cascading down and crystallized into to one singular entity. I WAS A GIRL. I wasn’t supposed to be a girl . . . I couldn’t be a girl not in the Queens army, and yet there I was. Now he knew the truth—Now he had me.

“Yous ain’t nobody’s fuck’n fairy boy!” Burlingham launched, he crushed me in a full body tackle, he pinned me against the ground with his knee. He rifled my skivies; he ripped at the cotton muslin that bound my chest. “Jest looksee at dem pert leetle bee stings. Mm-mm, yous iz one fine look’n piece ‘o quinny. Yous ain’t no solider boy, yous noth’n but a fuck’n gob-shite whore!”

“BURLINGHAM, STAND DOWN!” I said, breathless, desperate to regain a semblance of command. “I AM YOUR SERGEANT! I AM IN COMMAND HERE. YOU WILL DO AS I SAY!”

“Fuck’n ay!” Burlingham punched me in the face. His backhand came across my face with the full merciless force of his Liverpool boxer training. I should think he broke my jaw. “Yous jest shut the fuck up! Yous bitch!” He grabbed me by the throat and started to choke me, he slammed my head against the ground. “Yous ain’t nobody’s fuck’n Sergeant ‘ere. I’s knows yous; yous ain’t noth’n but a fuck’n gob-shite girl-cunt. Sex-on-a-stick! Dat’s wat yous are! I’s jest want to fuck’n murder yous when I’s tinks of all the shit yous ever done me!”

I felt Burlingham paw at my breeches; I felt a sharp yank as my bare bottom ground in the dirt. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth. So this is how it was to be. I pictured my Henry, my beloved Henry. Now, I was to die; raped, murdered by this bloody Liverpool Scouser in this god-forsaken African desert.

In that same instant, before it even began—My eyes shut tight, my teeth clenched. I suddenly, miraculously no longer felt Burlingham’s weight on top of me. My breeches were disheveled around my knees; yet Burlingham was gone. I rolled over and laid my hand on the Webley. My thumb drew the hammer back to full cock; I knew in my heart if I even so much as fuck’n glimpsed that sonofabitch again, I would blow his fucking brains out.

There was no time for revenge. There was no time for any further thought of Burlingham. Whoever or whatever scared off Burlingham promptly scared the shit out of me! Up close and personal, out of my blackest darkest nightmares, appeared a Zulu warrior in full regalia, plumage like a peacock, his oiled black skin gleamed, his white teeth flashed in the moonlight.

“USSUTHU!” The Zulu war cry rattled my brain, shook my soul. The sound alone is enough to curdle the piss of a dozen brave men; once you heard it, you will never forget it. There in the dying embers of the campfire, the Zulu stood over me brandishing a stabbing spear, a young warrior, impetuous, eager to wash his spear, to kill a British soldier. He paused, in an almost otherworldly slow motion I watched as he raised his ishlangu, the buffalo-hide shield to the heavens, eclipsing the moon. Instincts kicked in and I rolled to one side. The Zulu spear jabbed itself deep into the sand next to my head, close enough to cut my ear.

I fired blind. I should think I only had enough time to scramble into a semi-up right position, my breeches still disheveled around my knees, before I was beset by two more Zulus, silhouetted perfectly against the backdrop of the full African moon.

“USSUTHU!”

I remembered lying in my berth during the long passage to Africa, reading in one of my ten-penny novels. A story of the savage American Wild West, a tale of an American, of a Texas Ranger, a man named Jack Hayes, who in 1841 fought off ten Comanche Indians with armed only with a .50 caliber Hawkins’s rifle and his Colt navy revolver. These were the days of the single-shot muzzle-loading rifle. The indians were quite used to the settlers giving one good volley and then they rose up and charged with impunity. Hayes and his six-shot revolver came as quite a shock to the Comanche Indians. HAYES’ BIG FIGHT they called it. I didn’t know for sure, if my particular battle with the Zulus was destined to be immortalized in a pulp novel—But it was a desperate scrap all the same. Everything happened so fast. I have no specific recollections. I don’t think I even felt the shock of the recoil. What I do remember is the smell of black-powder, the bullets came so fast, so close together. Afterwards there was nothing but silence and the click, click, click, of the empty revolver. I didn’t know it at the time, but as I lay there in the dirt, my breeches disheveled around my knees—I, a thirteen-year-old girl, a coalminer’s daughter from Wales, had just shot and killed three Zulus warriors at point-blank-range. Jack Hayes, I should imagine, had nothing on me.

When it was over, I stood up. I pulled up my breeches, and with all the dignity I could muster, I dusted myself off, buttoned up my duty-blouse. I found my helmet, reloaded my revolver and surveyed the landscape. The Zulus were dead. Burlingham, the horses, and the much-coveted canteen, were nowhere to be found. I was still alive, disheveled, but my life and virtue intact. It seemed I owed a great debt to Sergeant Bourne and his Webley revolver.

That was how I found myself alone in the African bush, twenty-five miles west of the Central column. Lost, with no horses, no water, an unknown number of hostile Zulus in the area, and a desperate homicidal rapist named private Burlingham on the loose.

* * *

“CLAIBOOORNE . . . ‘ELP ME.”

There it was again. I thought it must be a trick or a trap, it was Burlingham, the bastard, trying to lure me into a situation where he could jump me and finish off what he had started. Not only was I fearful of Burlingham, I was besiged by the possibly that there were more hostile Zulu, lurking out there somewhere in the darkness. I located a Martini-Carbine, and crouched there a the base of a sandstone boulder for three hours. Intermitatnly, I heard Burlingham cry out, he continued to call for me, his wails of grief became increasingly more plaintive. I did not answer him. I waited until long after the first rays of the African sunrise crept out from beyond the hills.

It was there between the rocks and a prickly pine, I found him. A groveling Davy Burlingham. He struck a pathetic figure lying there, miserable, utterly dejected, defeated, wallowing in a pool of his own blood. The broken halft of a two-foot Zulu spear pierced his chest. He had pissed himself.

“Claiborne, ‘elp me! I’s ‘urt so bad; deys gone’n stuck me likes a pig.”

“You are a pig Burlingham!” I kicked him hard in the ribs; he uttered a low groan and rolled over, his scarlet duty-blouse soaked in blood. He was indeed stuck, he had this Zulu spear sticking out his chest at a grotesque angle. I was overcome with cruelty, I wasn’t sorry for his misfortune. I was furious. I kicked him again. “That’s for what you done me back there you fucker!”

“Don’ts ‘urts me Claiborne,” Burlingham cowered, he acted as if somehow I was now the villain. He threw up his hands to protect his face, he blubbered on incessantly. “Fer Gawd sakes Claiborne, ‘ave pity, be a mate, can’ts yous see I’m stuck!”

I squatted down to eye level; I looked him straight in the eye. I pushed the barrel of the Webley into his face, so close he could see the cylinder rotate as I pulled back the hammer; he could smell the spent black powder. “”I-fuck’n-don’t-care! Tell me why, tell my why I shouldn’t just do us both a favor and blow your fuck’n brains out here and now?” I hissed.

“Oi, please, ‘cuz yous ain’t likes dat Claiborne.” Burlingham allowed himself a weak chuckle, followed by a groan of intense pain. He was indeed stabbed, stuck to the bone. I could see the broken shaft of the heavy Zulu stabbing spear protruding from his clavicle, the iron blade penetrated deep. I did what I could. I pressed the muslin bindings that had formally concealed my sex into the wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding. I feared the wound was mortal.

Like the doomed first thief on the cross, Burlingham was a sonofabitch to the very last. The unspoken spectre of court-martial weighed heavy on everybody’s mind. “Yous know I’ll tell . . . I’s swear, I’ll tells dem yous noth’n but a gob-shite girl!”

Hmph, I scoffed, as if such threats had any leveraged with me. “Shut-the-fuck-up Burlingham, if you tell or you don’t—it makes nary a difference to me. They may court-martial me, but belive you me, I’ll have the final laugh when I see you dance a merry jig at the end of a rope.”

Burlingham grimaced; more blood seeped from his wound. “I’ll tell . . . I’ll tells dems yous nothing but fuck’n gob-shite cunt . . .” Burlingham coughed, weakened from loss of blood he closed his eyes. “Claiborne . . . I’s don’ts suppose I’s could ‘ave dat drink now?”

* * *

I WAS NO DOCTOR. It was plain to see, even to a layman that Davy Burlingham was fucked-up. The iron blade of the Zulu stabbing spear was stuck fast, imbedded deep between the bones of his clavicle. I was at a loss of exactly what to do. If I pulled it out, (and there was never any question that it needed to come out), he could bleed to death. I hated Burlingham; I hated him with every fiber of being. I could have left him for dead there in the African wilderness without even a twinge of moral conscience. After what he done me, he deserved such a fate. Unfortunately, I held the Queen’s NCO, I was the officer in command. Burlingham, he was my soldier. There was no escaping my duties.

I knew in the end he would rat me out, tell the high command my secret that I was a girl. He promised to do exactly that. There was to be an investigation I was doomed to be exposed. They would court-martial me; I didn’t exactly know what the penalty was for impersonating a man, and by extrapolation, impersonating an officer in the Queens army. Whatever it was, I didn’t care; that was not my immediate problem. The fact remained Burlingham had struck me; he had assaulted me, while I held the Queens NCO. He tried to rape me. They could throw me in the stockade; they could line me up and shoot me for all I cared. None of that mattered. I was determined not to allow Burlingham to die; he wasn’t going to get away with what he done.

All this weighed heavily on my mind. I took stock of my situation. I had three Martini-Henry rifles, plenty of cartridges, my own revolver, and a wounded, useless Private Davy Burlingham, of whom I now considered under arrest. I was alone; in the middle of the unforgiving African bush. Dawn was just breaking. As it turned out the majority of my problems were both simply solved and instantly complicated all at the same time.

Burlingham continued his derisive babble, even with a two-foot iron spear sticking out of his chest; I, his only possible salvation, he continued to seek ways to hurt me. “Yous knows it wasn’t likes I wuz really gonna bust you . . . yous tinks yous iz better looking dan yous really iz. Truth iz—Yous iz flat as board, yous gots a nasty split ‘tween yous teeth, ‘n yous gots a big nose. Truth iz, yous just plain too ugly to tap!”

“Shut-the-fuck-up Burlingham, you filth!” I was disgusted, ”If you’re gonna die, you’d best git on with it, ‘cuz I don’t want to talk to you.” I was so pissed off, my finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger, I felt the revolver’s mechanism actuate. I came to with in a hairs breath of blowing his worthless brains out right then and there. All that stopped me was the soft sound of a horse’s breath. I heard a familiar nicker. I paused in my murderous pursuit, it was Star, good old loyal Star, she came trotting back in the morning. Spooked, the Zulus had broken her loose of her picket line, like the loyal horse she was, she returned to me. With Star’s help, it was a simple matter to corral “Duke.” Now I had my horses back; it seemed that I was not destined after all to die in miserable company of thirst here in the African bush. I gave Davy Burlingham his wretched drink. I cradled his head and let him have the first drink from the last canteen. He drank greedily, spilling most of it.

“We need to get that spear out. I can’t move you with that thing stuck in you.”

“Pull it out Claiborne, Gawd, it’s kill’n me, it’s grind’n me flesh!”

“No. Not just yet.” I’ll admidt, I couldn’t help but derive a certain measure of schadenfreude pleasure from his suffering. However satisfying I found Burlingham’s misery, my main concern was still the completion of my mission, to find Hendricks’ station, to rescue any surviors and report to Major Steele. In order to do that, I need to reconnoiter first. “I think we’re very close, if I can find Hendricks’ station there’s water there, we can hole up for a couple of days, and get that spear out . . .”

“Don’ts leave me Claiborne!”

“Burlingham, five hours ago you were fuck’n gonna rape me. Don’t tell me what to do now.” I checked the Martini it was loaded. Against my better judgment, I left him with a loaded rifle. “Okay, you’re locked and loaded; I’ll be back in two hours.” I figured he wasn’t very dangerous, lying there with a spear stuck in him like a prized Christmas turkey.

Burlingham continued to blubber like a little child lost. “CLAIBORNE!”

God I hated him.

As it turned out, either by dumb luck, or by dead reckoning, or perhaps I wasn’t quite as stupid as I imagined, Hendricks’ station was just beyond the next rise. I rode up to the Hendricks’ station, my Martini in my hand. Smoke continued to rise from the mud-brick rondavel farm-house. I could see the dead bodies strewn about the kraal, mother, father, and children. No Zulu bodies, the Zulu always carried off their dead. All that was left was the Boer family, all dead, Pieter, Helena, Jan, and Geoff. There was a hired hand; I never knew what his name was. The aftermath of the massacre was some twenty-four hours old.