Free "But I Digress ..." by Darrel Bristow-Bovey Page A

unsuccessfully to plight his troth for two minutes, 25 seconds of the song, while the foxy lass jangles her jewellery and looks unavailable.
    How depressing, you might think, but fear not: you can tell by the waggle of the gentleman’s eyebrows and the suave way he ruffles his moustache that he knows how the song ends. Finally, in the last five seconds, the foxy lass smiles and melts and accepts his troth and the pair scamper off screen, presumably en route to a good plighting.
    Fortunately, the satellite service offered a full bouquet of channels from around the Arabic-speaking world. I tuned in to a Moroccan channel, or was it from Dubai? It was a live broadcast of a stage play. Two Moroccans in chinos and bowling shirts stood on stage, just outside the spotlights. Every time the spotlights tried to settle on them, they sidled away again. The spots danced around on stage trying to find them, a delicate pattern of loops and squiggles, as though the lighting guy were spelling out swear words in Arabic. In the foreground, a dwarf was speaking on a phone.
    I couldn’t follow what they were saying, of course, but apparently it was a comedy, because the two Moroccans kept slapping each other on the back and yelling their lines in unison, which is something they also do on e.tv sitcoms to signify a punchline. Ah, the universal language of comedy.
    You could also tell it was funny because the 17 people in the audience kept chuckling. You could tell there were 17 people because a camera kept panning over them. Every time they noticed the camera, the audience members would wave and pull faces and try to pull their friends’ jerseys up over their heads. It must have been a little puzzling for the performers. It was puzzling for me, but perhaps it was an innovative scheme for luring audiences back to live theatre: “Come to our play – you could be on television!”
    I tried to tune in to the Saudi Arabian channel, but the service wasn’t operational. What an opportunity lost. I lay there a long time, trying to imagine the wonders of Saudi television. A curtain draped over the screen, perhaps, with low voices in the background discussing the price of oil and laughing. (“Tell me, how much oil actually goes into a barrel, Sheik Ahmed?”
    â€œHmmm, not entirely sure, Ali. As much as we feel like, I suppose. Don’t tell the Americans, heh heh heh.”
    â€œHeh heh heh.”)
    There are many reasons to visit Yemen, the land of Sheba and Sheherazade and the Arabian Nights , but television is not among them. I left the hotel and took a walk along the seafront, where groups of men sat and smoked and played dominos and drank strong, sweet coffee. Everyone invites a stranger to sit with them.
    I chose a table that spoke English. “How you like Yemen?” someone asked.
    â€œI like it better than Jerry Springer,” I said, which is my way of giving a strong compliment.
    â€œWho is Jerry Springer?” they said. Suddenly I realised all over again what a beautiful country I was visiting.

Father’s Day
    SUNDAY INDEPENDENT, 24 JUNE 2001
    L AST SUNDAY WAS Father’s Day, and I forgot all about it until The Story of Fathers and Sons (SABC3, Sunday, 5pm) reminded me.
    It was a documentary celebrating what some goof wearing a back-to-front baseball cap was pleased to call “the mystical, spiritual bond between father and son”. I have always wondered why people mistrust the emotional and the material so much that they feel obliged to reach into the ether to account for the strength of their feelings.
    No matter. Much of what was most moving on the show was conveyed without words: the scene in which Dad hugs his son who has just struck out in Little League; Dad kneeling to hug the son who cannot walk; Dad and son standing together in the fine awkwardness of a pair who love each other, but aren’t sure what to say to one another. As is usually the case, when words were used