Archive for the ‘South Africa’ Category
Tamsyn de Beer, one of the authors of Don’t Film Yourself Having Sex, spoke to Sue Grant-Marshall on her Radio Today show, Reading Matters.
De Beer says that she and Emma Sadleir tried to make the book fun and readable, while giving solid legal advice.
Grant-Marshall says that the title is an odd and arresting one. De Beer says it was supposed to be a bit quirky and tongue-in-cheek, but the book also contains serious, vital information. The book is dedicated to a young woman who was the victim of internet sharing so malicious that she had to change her name in order to escape it.
De Beer says that when it comes to potentially harmful personal content on the internet, prevention is better than cure.
Listen to the podcast:
» read article
Penguin Books has shared an excerpt from Marguerite Poland’s latest novel, The Keeper.
The extract comes from the start of the novel, when lighthouse keeper Cecil Beukes and his wife Maisie get a report that another keeper, Hannes, has fallen and needs to be rescued.
The bad weather – “white horses right to the horizon” – poses a challenge, but more intriguing is what could have made such a careful man fall: “There were two commandments known to all of them: The light must not go out. The keeper must not fall.”
Read the excerpt:
* * * * *
When the call came, Maisie Beukes was alone in the keeper’s quarters.
Cecil had already gone on duty even though it was only five o’clock.
The call, she knew, would be from the Signal Office in the port. It should
have been no different from any other routine call – to relay messages, to list
supplies needed, to send news, to report on the light. The sole link with the
outside world. Island to shore, lighthouse to lighthouse through the medium
of the signalman’s radio phone. One lighthouse on its barren, bird-raddled
plateau – the most forlorn in the world – the other at the edge of a city.
That afternoon, a black southeaster blowing, the static was intense. It was
difficult to make out the words. Even after years of coaxing the radio-telephone
and learning to interpret its sudden startling squeals and plummets – sea
echoes, wind shear – Maisie could decipher little.
‘Hello? Can you hear me?’ shouted the signalman.
‘On and off!’ she yelled.
‘There’s been an accident in the lighthouse on the island. They need a
The static crackled again. Maisie turned towards the window to look out at
the bay as if, in doing so, she could make the distance smaller, gaze the voice
into existence at the distant port. It was no day for a boat to be out. There were
white horses right to the horizon.
‘Who needs the doctor?’
‘Mr Harker,’ shouted the signalman. ‘He fell down the tower.’
‘Oh my God! Is he alive?’
‘Yes. But something’s broken. I can’t be sure.’ His voice swooped and
darted. ‘The guano headman called and reported it.’
‘You must send the tug and a doctor. I’ll get hold of a relief keeper to
‘The weather’s terrible,’ the signalman said dubiously. ‘I don’t think the
Port Captain will let anyone sail. And anyway, it’s nearly dark.’
Maisie did not contradict him. She said, ‘Phone again in an hour.’
‘Goed. Dankie, mevrou Beukes.’ And he was gone.
Maisie glanced out again at the far curve of the bay, the turbulent sea, the
distant dune-fields. On impulse she called the Port Captain herself from the
house telephone in her dining room.
‘Bad weather,’ he said.
‘Who is it?’
‘The Senior Lighthouse Inspector, Hannes Harker.’
‘It’s dangerous to try and land a man in the dark. The weather will calm down
by tomorrow. Then we can make a decision.’
Maisie bristled. ‘He’s a lighthouse keeper, for God’s sake. If your tug was
going down he’d walk on water to help you.’ She wiped her face with the back
of her hand and drew a deep breath, calming herself.
Only lighthouse people knew; their code was unimpeachable.
‘Has anyone got hold of the doctor?’ the Port Captain asked.
‘I phoned you first.’
‘Jis!’ he muttered under his breath. ‘This could be a balls-up.’
‘OK, Mrs Beukes, listen. I’ll phone the doc and you find a relief keeper and
I’ll come back to you.’
‘Be quick,’ said Maisie.
Maisie went to the back door and called across the yard. The wind was
strong enough to whip the white-bleached skin of broken shells from the
A faint voice from the shed. ‘What is it, lovey?’
‘Come quickly.’ She peered out. ‘Cecil? I can’t leave in case the phone rings.’
Maisie went back into the kitchen and dragged the old kettle on to the
hotplate of the coal stove. She pulled the tray across the counter, took the
knitted cosy off the pot and emptied the cold tea leaves into the sink.
There were two commandments known to all of them:
The light must not go out.
The keeper must not fall.
Hannes – so competent, so careful, so assured.
Something had distracted him. Or someone.
And who could possibly distract him on that island?
Maisie wiped her face again. A chill ran through her and she twitched her
shoulders and leaned more firmly against the rail of the old coal stove.
– Don’t be ridiculous, woman. She almost spoke aloud.
She made the tea and set two cups. She carried the tray through to the
lounge, a small waddle in her step, side to side, her slippers slapping quietly
on the wooden floor. The back door opened and her husband, Cecil, called
from the porch. ‘What’s the matter, lovey? Are you hoping for a cup of tea?’
He came in, tugging down the edges of his old green jersey, his nose
purple-veined from the wind outside, his knees pinched by the cold above his
long grey socks. He looked at her. ‘Maisie? What’s the trouble?’
‘Hannes fell down the tower. He’s broken something. He must be in dreadful
pain. That fellow from the signal room phoned. I got hold of the Port
Captain and told him to send a tug.’
‘You should have asked me to do it.’ Cecil was admonishing. ‘What’s he
going to think, being bossed by a woman?’
‘Don’t you talk nonsense, Cecil,’ retorted Maisie, the flush deep on her
neck, her chin bobbing. ‘It’s Hannes, for God’s sake.’
‘Of course, lovey,’ Cecil said. ‘Sorry I spoke.’
‘We have to find a relief at once while they raise the doctor. They’ll call
again soon so we must hurry.’
‘Ockie will have to take over there for a while,’ said Cecil. ‘He’s not going
to like it.’
‘You’ll get exhausted here by yourself,’ objected Maisie. ‘Think about your
heart, Cecil, and don’t be foolish. Can’t we phone Seal Point?’
‘Too far,’ he said laconically. ‘It’s Ockie or me. We can’t leave the light.’
Maisie said nothing. She knew the first rule just as well as he.
Cecil went away to the single quarters to speak to his assistant. Maisie did
not follow him to hear Ockie grumble, sucking at his teeth and pulling at his
great ear and glowering. She could hardly blame him. No one ever wanted
such an exile. Even for a week.
For him, a posting to the island was always going home.
When Cecil returned he said, ‘Ockie’s packing and then I’ll run him down
to the harbour.’ He came and sat beside her on the settee, waiting: two old
people, grey-headed, the steam from their cups drifting between them.
Then the telephone rang.
It was the Port Captain. ‘We’ll be leaving in an hour,’ he said.
‘My husband will bring the relief keeper down now,’ said Maisie.
‘The doc’s on his way.’
‘Good man,’ said Maisie as she put down the receiver.
‘Of course I’m a good man.’ Cecil reached for her hand. ‘Even your mother
Maisie – comforted – half laughed. ‘You really are a good man,’ she said.
‘No matter all the other things my mother said!’ And she wiped her eyes.
Oh, Hannes. Not another blow.
She rested the side of her head against Cecil’s shoulder. Then they turned
simultaneously and in silence to peer through the salt-rimed glass at the
darkening sea in the bay and the waves breaking as far as the horizon. The
island lies five miles offshore – south-west from the densely wooded cape
but thirty-one miles from port. Between it and the mainland is a channel,
taupe green, cobalt blue. Sometimes that blue is all of the sky and sea,
indivisible. And sometimes the heat bounces off the island rocks, an aura
of fire, and the waves glitter as if scattered with mica chips. Sometimes
the air is a tumult of gannets – a rising tide of wingbeats – and sometimes
it is so still that the piping of a land-bird blown off course can be heard
above the breathing of the sea. But when the southeaster blows, the wind
whips the water to a saltgrey bile. Even its fish must flee the turbulence.
Even the sharks. It is on those days that boats never venture near.
Nothing comes except the wind – a great baleful beast.
» read article
Penguin Books would like to invite you to join a Twitter Q&A with Emma Sadleir and Tamsyn de Beer, the authors of Don’t Film Yourself Having Sex.
Sadlier and De Beer will discuss social media and the law around it, the risks of social media in the world of work and for children, and any other social media matters you would like to know more about.
Three copies of Don’t Film Yourself Having Sex will be given away during the chat, so join in!
The conversation will be taking place on Tuesday, 14 October, between 3 and 4 PM. Use the hashtag #socialmedialaw to follow the conversation and ask Sadlier and De Beer questions. You can send in anonymous questions to firstname.lastname@example.org; please send them by 12 October.
Don’t miss it!
» read article
Lauren Liebenberg, the author of the novel Cry Baby, has posted a blog entry called “Your Pocket Sibling Warfare Survival Guide” in The (Very Bad) Advice Column for Parents on her website.
In this post, she gives her advice for handling sibling antagonism in four steps – with a bonus step included.
Liebenberg’s advice is thoroughly practical, as being a mother of young boys disallows rose-tinted idealism when it comes to parenting.
Read the blog entry:
Step 1: Swear, on mute
I stumbled upon this life line years ago when I found myself stranded in the check-out aisle at Woollies with someone thrashing around on the floor at my feet wailing, “But it’s myyyy turn to push the trolley!” while someone else repeatedly rammed the trolley against my shins.
I’d gone in promising myself that this time it would be different: I’d go in for the toilet paper and two Chicken Noodle Doo’s and leave with the toilet paper and two Chicken Noodle Doo’s without tears, from any of us. Yet the trolley that was now being used as a battering ram contained a half-eaten a packet of Ghost Pops which Russell had stolen and a Kinder Surprise with which I’d bought William off. I’d left him snivelling “But whyyy can’t I have Ghost Pops? You’re so mean. You’re the meanest mom in the world,” somewhere down the tinned foods aisle whose shelves Russell was mounting, and as I’d hurried, slightly, around the next corner and checked back to make sure they hadn’t been abducted by child traffickers, I was greeted with the sight of Russell sprawled on top of William on the filthy floor who was throttling Russell with his bare hands as Russell banged his head on the tiles. I will never forget the look on the face of the mother who witnessed the scene with her two innocent little girls. It reminded me of the last line in Heart Of Darkness:
The horror. The horror.
» read article
Penguin Books invites you to the launch of Don’t Film Yourself Having Sex by Emma Sadleir and Tamsyn de Beer.
The launch will take place at Love Books in Melville on Tuesday, 14 October, at 6 for 6:30 PM.
Please make sure that you RVSP.
See you there!
- Date: Tuesday, 14 October 2014
- Time: 6:00 for 6:30 PM
- Venue: Love Books,
The Bamboo Lifestyle Centre,
53 Rustenburg Road,
Johannesburg | Map
- RSVP: Kate, email@example.com, 11 726 7408
» read article
Penguin Books presents Weeping Waters by Karin Brynard, translated by Maya Fowler and Isobel Dixon:
Inspector Albertus Beeslaar has left the ruthless city, only to have his hopes of finding peace and quiet in the Kalahari shattered by the brutal murder of artist Freddie Swarts and her adopted daughter.
But Freddie’s journalist sister Sara is not convinced that this was a typical farm attack.
Amid a spate of stock thefts, Beeslaar must solve this high-profile crime, all the while training his two rookie partners, Ghaap and Pyl.
After more murders, the disturbing puzzle grows increasingly sinister, as age-old secrets and hostilities surface, spurring the local inhabitants to violent action. No one is above suspicion, not least the mysterious Bushman farm manager and falconer, Dam.
Weeping Waters is Fowler and Dixon’s translation of the Afrikaans bestseller Plaasmoord, a novel that peels away the layers of a landscape steeped in conflict, and hails the arrival of a bright new voice in South African crime fiction available in English.
About the author
Karin Brynard is the author of the novels Plaasmoord and Onse vaders. She has won several literary awards, including the University of Johannesburg Debut Prize and two M-Net Awards. She is a journalist and has worked as political correspondent for Rapport for many years. She lives in Stellenbosch.
» read article
Koos Kombuis het verlede week ’n artikel geskryf vir Netwerk24 waarin hy sy bekommernis oor die verdeeldheid tussen Afrikaans-sprekende Suid-Afrikaners gedeel het.
Die outeur van I-Tjieng: ’n GPS vir verdwaalde siele skryf: “Dit breek my hart om dit te erken aan myself, maar ons ou volkie is vandag meer verdeeld as ooit tevore. Dit wat die Engelse nie eens met twee Vryheidsoorloë kon regkry nie, dit wat die Wallabies nie op die rugbyveld kon vermag nie, het ons nou aan onsself gedoen.”
Kombuis sê verder hy hoop die verdeeldheid sal nooit in ’n gewapende stryd ontaard nie:
Solank hierdie verdeeldheid in ons volkie nie eendag so ernstig word soos die geskiedkundige stryd tussen die Bosniërs en die Serwiërs nie, solank ons nie mekaar se koppe – met of sonder kopdoeke – begin afkap soos Isis nie, en solank ons dit kan regkry om mekaar se standpunte te respekteer – hoe moeilik dit ook al is – is daar darem gelukkig nog hoop vir ons.
Dit sal inderdaad ’n kwade dag vir Suid-Afrika wees wanneer gesonde kompetisie ontaard in werklike haat of selfs ’n gewapende stryd en oorlog.
Mag die Allerhoogtste, of die Heelal, of wie ook al in beheer van alles is, verhoed dat so ’n verskriklike ding ooit weer in ons landjie gebeur.
» read article
Penguin Books invites you to the launch of Comedy Club by political cartoonist Jeremy Nell, also known as Jerm.
The launch will take place at The Book Lounge on Thursday, 9 October, at 5:30 for 6 PM.
Nik Rabinowitz will be the guest speaker and the launch comes with a disclaimer: “You’ll not be able to contain yourself!”
See you there!
» read article
Justin Bonello’s latest recipe book, Cooked in the Karoo, was celebrated in fine style recently in a spectacular joy-fest of chef meets chef. Karen Dudley, author of the newly released Another Week in the Kitchen, welcomed a number of guests to her new restaurant, The Dining Room, in Woodstock. She served a sumptuous three-course meal inspired by the recipes contained in Cooked in the Karoo.
The main course was utterly sumptuous – a seared leg of lamb with anchovy mayonnaise, roasted potatoes and aubergines, beetroot and butternut cooked in pear and moskonfyt, and a medley of greens. For those whose sweet tooth is their undoing, this meal was something to be encountered to be believed.
Many more dishes were on the dessert trolley that trundled out of the kitched. Chocolate ginger tart with pistachio icecream, Woodstock custard mess (strawberries and meringues!), melon and basil sorbet and salted caramel pots left no tastebud asleep.
This latest must-have recipe book will make a welcome contribution to bookshelves of food-loving South Africans who love to get into the kitchen. It follows in a similar style to Bonello’s popular works, Roads Less Travelled: Ultimate Braai Master and Justin Bonello Cooks for Friends.
For starters, a tremendous array of tiny bowls appeared with delicious morsels offering each guest a sample of the starters. The appetite-whetting the appetite were boerenkaas balls, beef carpaccio with lentils and horseradish cream, pork belly with apple windows, beautiful tomatoes, Gorgonzola and onion, and Kentucky fried quail with Asian dipping salt.
Publicist Kim Taylor kicked off the proceedings by pointing out the emergency puncture repair kits that awaited each guest at their place setting. The kits, which included two wheels of licorice, a couple of squares of bubble gum, a lollipop, a sticking plaster, and a long screw, were in honour of the numerous tyres that Bonello had had to change along the many roads he had travelled while writing this book.
“Everyone who reads this book may well be inspired to take to the open road of the Karoo, to follow in Justin Bonello’s footsteps and experience the delights of the region first hand,” Taylor said. She also confessed to having had an instant crush on the dishy author and to having waited seven long years to work with him.
When she encountered his first book she dreamt of the day she would be able to collaborate with this original chef on a publication. It took the merger of Random House and Penguin to effect this. Nothing could have pleased her more. Nothing, except the staggeringly delicious meal that was served that night!
Liesl Jobson (@liesljobson) tweeted live from the event using #livebooks
» read article
Ilse Salzwedel se boek Van sprokie tot tragedie in die kollig kyk na die tragiese oomblik toe Oscar Pistorius sy vriendin op Valentysdag 2013 noodlottig geskiet het. Die boek word aan haar, aan Reeva Steenkamp, en almal wat haar liefgehad het opgedra. “Mag tyd die pyn minder maak,” skryf Salzwedel.
Vir hierdie boek het Ilse Salzwedel deur ’n vloedgolf menings gesif om sin te maak van die Oscar-saak. ’n Fassinerende prentjie ontvou waarin sleutelaspekte ontleed word, soos die belang van forensiese besonderhede, die kundigheid van polisie- en regsbeamptes, die rol van die staat en die verdediging in die hof, die effek van mediadekking op die publiek se persepsies, en nog meer.
Lees die eerste hoofstuk uit Van sprokie tot tragedie in die kollig:
Die oomblik to alles verander het
‘However fast he sprints, however advanced the blades that help to propel him around the track, he will never outrun the tragedy of killing someone he loved.’ – Oliver Holt, Britse sportjoernalis
Hy was die superster, die ikoniese Paralimpiese atleet wat so selfversekerd was oor sy vermoëns dat hy selfs bereid was om die Internasionale Vereniging van Atletiekfederasies (IAAF) in 2008 na die Sportarbitrasiehof te neem vir die kans om teen nie-gestremde atlete sy staal te wys. Na ses goue, een silwer- en een brons Paralimpiese medaljes, en ‘n persoonlike beste tyd van 45,07 sekondes in die 400 meter, was hy die goue seun van wêreldatletiek, ‘n inspirasie vir miljoene.
» read article