Discovering the magic in CMC

That’s carboxymethylcellulose and it’s particles are water loving i.e: hydrophillic and it bonds fibre-to-fibre like noboby’s business. The paper-mache artist’s friend. Mixed up my first pot tonight and what a change from wheatpaste. Nice, thick, gooey gel.

Boxing dog basically finished (maybe more pics later)

 

I've decided to leave him as is.

Switched from red to pink gloves (tossed red out at the last moment because the undercoat pink looked great and worked with the ochre patina) and besides, he’s working overall. Nice and simple. I've left the newspaper open around glove-edges as it also looks good. I'm basically happy with the results, his rough form and skin patina complimenting the shiny gloves, etc. Mono-colour body with same glove-edge treatment on his dick. Lean and mean, like an eerie africanis dog of the African plains in a greater context of time, some timeless-looking creature that lives and thrives upon it forages and preys upon. A dog ‘o-war, stalking its prey like an exacting surgeon may be wont to do upon his patient. Clinical… perhaps… disfigurement? – for better or for worse…

So it's just the base to finish and he's done.

He has a very hieroglyphic feel to him and that makes me chuffed, being a lover of ancient Egyptian art. He has handsome lines and sculptural vectors to his forms and shapes that are pleasing to the eye in real life.

Now with the CMC I’m going to blend fibres and particles as in throw down the thick mushy gel-goo with colours soaked in toilet paper and see what the outcomes will be. A nice and free and exciting turn for my paper-mache art, to be working with the best of the fibre binding mediums CMC.

We discuss white filth on Facebook

(this incident had something to do with my POV)

Pierre Marqua Some people where dropped on there heads as baby's, The ones I deal with where thrown in to the air hit the ceiling fan bounced of the wall and fell out the window!

• Adrian Scholtz likes this.

• Therese Elizabeth Ries Baahaahaahaahaaaa ...........;op
  

• Mark Singleton Ha!!! That's nothing... the three fuckers who screwed my chances with a solid 8/10 28-yr-old blonde @ Old Hags last Saturday night were discarded and holes in their heads drilled with a Bosch PSB-700-RE; and their afterbirths given the gift of life... (damn) :-(((
  

• Juann Strauss Cock-blocking is NOT permitted under the guy code.
  

• Mark Singleton ‎...ja-ja... you'll hear about it awl on Radio Nu-Pierre... broadcast to you LIVE on the webz... (gosh son you're becoming a daily addiction!)
  

• Mark Singleton ‎100% Juann... three pricks (strangers) twice my size went to her @ night's end and said to her don't go home with him (me) he's an arsehole... f*ckkk... I HATE scum like that
  

• Mark Singleton a perfect night blown
  

• Juann Strauss I don't get that mentality. It's why I don't go out anymore. All the places I liked going to is now full of these people. But hey, I'm getting married in May, so it's probably for the best.
  

• Mark Singleton I figure it's pure hatred and jealousy at another (esp. a stranger) having a good time.
  Juann: ol' skool maxim. Marriage = sanity. Good luck 'bro. Else it's the crappy bar-life donkey-carousel; expensive and (for the most part) disappointing.
  

• Write a comment...

The late Thorn Hoedh – Dammerung Am Pog

Boxing dog progressives

There he is with his main bulk skin of paper plaster/clay, odd and ends still to do like final shaping, face, gloves. The clay mix is made from two rolls of toilet paper wet-mashed, wood glue, jointing compound, I added a pile of flour in for good measure and cement ochre oxide for base colour then mushed the whole lot up in a bucket that alchemized into gooey paper plaster which can be a beast to work with wet - the hound started sagging from all the weight of the wet plaster, so I propped him up and stuck him outside to dry, worried the poor bugger would collapse completely! But nah. We’ve had glorious sunshine here these last few days so he’s baked/set rock solid, what a relief. He’ll get his finishing tomorrow. Then dry outside again, and final paint job.

Rapoon - Dark Rivers "The Edge Of Nowhere"

Last night at Old Hags (the next night)

Not my fault.

Not my fault that the hottest chick in the establishment makes herself available to me, sweeps me off my feet and come end-evening various cunts in the place complain to management that "our behaviour got out of hand". I'm a fucking romantic and if I say so, and given the right circumstances, am a damn fucking master at the craft. Because it comes naturally and from the heart. They then tell the chick that I'm an arsehole and they fuck my night up. She wanted to stay at my place last night, she was groovy, soft, blonde, young and gorgeous. And a bunch of cunts come and fuck it up for me. Men, especially those type of men who don’t have a clue with women and who live boring crappy lives, can get more jealous, more bitchy, of other men than women. I was a first hand witness to this last night. Because they couldn’t have what I had they had to fuck it up for me. White men. Jealous fucking arseholes. The black bar staff thought we were a hoot. Moral of the story: we should have left Old Hags earlier, hey Sam?

Last night at Old Hags

It's nine forty-five p.m and I'm late for Friday night's church service at Old Hags. A quick shave, in the shower, dry off, shove on the cheap Dettol deodorant, kit up and I'm out the house, a brisk 2km stroll up the road heading out for Babylon and Old Hags. I love the night walks, it's you with your thoughts and the night air, striding through suburbia then onto the footpath near the main road and straight until the lights of Babylon peep over the distant horizon. A quick cash draw for beer and reserve-resources and it’s cut a line through the all-night petrol service station to the parking lot gate, up the drive and Old Hags is going off in full swing.

Francois the bouncer greets me with a bone-crushing handshake (I've learnt to meet his match with steely-grin stare-you-in-the-eyes kinda buddy-buddy sizer-outers because Francois comes all the way from Namaqualand with a wholesome prop-forward country boy attitude and I like to keep things in a groove because Francois don't take shit from nobody and I'm still a newbie around here so...) "Hey howzit Keagan!" (the young restaurant manager and also a keen artist) "Hello Theresa!" (she owns the place and does a damn good job of running the show) and I sidle into the bar expecting to see Robby (because his bakkie was outside) and I do.

There's an old-time hipster duo playing lekker seventies rock, Credence-Clearwater Revival stuff and related and everybody's going off. Aha! There's Glen (my next door neighbour) and Glen doesn't smile much in the pub but he does a operate in a sullen, quiet manner. And he likes to fight when he’s morbidly pissed. I like Glen. I once lent him money for rent and he paid me back. But that, only after putting a bit of pressure on him, shame.

Meanwhile the cougars and hens and squawkers are going off, there's a pudgy young chick, sweating, hair dishevelled, face all twisted as if in a state of ecstatic intensity, jiving away with her beta-boyfriend and I think they're both on E. She is, certainly. In her mind she's an 8.5/10, thrusting herself around the boyfriend and pelvic- gyrating, but Rob and I are calling her a 2.5. Nah, a 2.2. In fact, if Boswell-Wilkie circus were around recruiting talent they would have had a steal with her as a born clown for the main show. I think some of the young overweight chicks have no shame in dropping drugs because they perceive it as a win-win situation, as in going off your rocker plus shedding loads of luggage at the same time. And oh, the passion!

Robs orders me my Black Label draught and I mark out a spot next to him that's become a favourite viewpoint for checking all the action out.

"Oi! What's this?" Something hit me. Well, something hit my mind and my head at the same time. Ha-ha, it's coming from that table over there! A trio of middle-aged cougars having a whale of a ball pelting us with shooter's glasses! And damn accurate they were too, the one chick was shot-gunning them, blowing them from her mouth and hitting her targets spot on from at least ten-twelve feet away, impressive stuff!

I felt honoured to be pelted with an empty shooter glass by a grimacing cougar, it made me feel loved.

So I hinted to her to pelt Robby and she did. Robs got all flustered and confused for a moment and we all had a laugh. But I had my eyes on more youthful material which happened to be scarce last night, until a mob of young chicks came in like they were on a girlie's bottom-drawer party but with one hook: they were bumming money for the bride's wedding. A few were quite hot, the bride was a porky, and when they approached me I did the usual friendly entre thing until I caught the trick then went deadpan. They quickly got the message. But it all added to the carnivalesque atmosphere, then an old bloke who was really pissed started braaming me up, "Hey this oke looks like Sean Connery!" Yeah-yeah but without the kilt and the bank account and I've heard that one before a couple of times, it perks the ego but at the end of the day you are you. Or you could be a wannabee. Nah. Just gimme the moneee...!

Ah! An oke is cruising around with his girlfriend's handbag over his shoulder making wisecracks and small-talk here and there and she's dancing at the back with about five other blokes and I smell an achy-breakey break-up coming. She looked about the sanest chick in the bar and I would've gone for her, she looked attractive, intelligent and sort of in control, maybe creative. In fact later I did approach her with x-ray gaze and all, and began interrogating her about her occupation, callings in life and whatnot. She turned her head in intimidation and I liked that, a lot truth came out in that gesture. False confidence, propped up by a bunch of very mundane okies prancing around her like she was the queen of the party, but she wasn't, she was just an insurance clerk stuck in corporation lane. Heh heh. Playing mind games with chicks who are strangers can be good fun.

The band always stops playing at midnight prompt because of neighbours’ complaints about the noise, but they stick on rap-house music stuff which really gets the zombies going.

At about that point I normally hang with Francois because he's sober as a judge and, you know, it's nice to have an intelligent conversation and Francois enjoys a laugh. I know it's in bad taste but normally at that time of the night there's plenty of material to have a laugh about.

Oh! And there was one chick, a big tall blonde who was also a side-feature on the dance floor earlier on, with an "I'm so beautiful" attitude as she swung her full, buxom hips and swayed, intermittently puffing her cigarette for comfort, even a tad narcissistic but she could be forgiven because no blokes were really interested in making out with her, shame. Robs tried to egg me on but nah, not my scene, okay, maybe for a pump 'n dump but there would have been compatibility problems, my big head takes charge of life decisions these days.

"Drink up Mark I'll give you a ride home," Robs beckons and I promise him he'll get a paper-mache sausage dog from me some time. Some time. We had a good evening at Old Hags, again, so guess where I'm probably going tonight?

Boxing dog

Another view. Gonna skin him later as much as I adore him in his current state but… we’ll see. Cheers.

Skinning him with newspaper

…after a few skins to get him crispy I shape his head details and gloves, then start with the plastering and final shaping.

Gotta rant sometimes you know

Like yesterday’s diatribes.

But isn’t it weird how the moments of the days of our lives twist and turn like the weather? Well, if you’re a volatile idealist and free-spirited soul like this ranter is, that’s how the cookie crumbles. But the seasons change, summer’s in full-swing here, the days are hot and we get our regular afternoon highveld rainshowers and for me it feels like the days are nested within themselves as in one unbroken continuum, like life is just one big day, like today: huge intermittent stresses with PHP-coding and databases not working earlier on, then out and about for food and resources (I get most of my art materials for free, other people’s junk) then I’m kicking off afternoon art classes for a few sweet dearies in my neighbourhood who are now all fired up about starting to paint, fall asleep for an hour, then sorting out a client’s website database hassle in the mid-evening (almost had a minor nervous breakdown tonight doing that) then suddenly it all comes right and I am in love with the planet again.

So later tonight I lose myself in paper-mache sculpting a boxing dog amongst other odds and sods, that will roll on until about sunrise and when you wake up to go off to work I’ll be climbing onto the bed for a brief doss (don’t sleep much, and even then, lightly) and tomorrow it’ll be a mix of digital and analogue and so the show goes on.

A major stress slaughtered: my client’s website’s database is now working and the rest is basically just a walk in the park (Murphy’s Law permitting) and that’s how it should be - PLUS I’ve recovered from the solo Valentine’s Day ordeal (seeing all the kids in the class pic below was a mind-blower) and my head finds itself back in the here and now. Phew. Mood swings aside, I didn’t mean to offend anyone re: yesterday but that’s how it goes. Some things just cannot be bottled up.

It just freaked me out

I don’t know whether it was the hangover from last night (I got a sudden impulse to walk four kilometers to a pub at about nine yesterday evening and dived into a festive Olde Hag’s Valentine’s Eve with live pub bands, happy folks, etc. BUT I just had an epiphany over the pic in the post below (and a few others I saw on Fifi’s FB page, too). Girls seem to be better at preserving childhood memories than us guys (well, I told you that I lost every single thing that I owned in Finland a few years back over a faulty female decision… photo-albums, personal effects, working equipment, art collection, everything). It was material erasure. You are left with nothing in a foreign country because of a poor life decision and the family of your lover betrays you deeply, against said lover’s promises to the opposite. Promises. You live in railway stations and parks and have not a friend in the land, you are alone… you try handling that for at least two months. And I’ll call you a man.

I’m a low-status person. My mind lives and operates in the abstract so in a sense I am almost “mild autistic” but on the other hand I can be very extroverted and outgoing. But all that regular folks treasure and value, like mortgage bonds, car installments, a corporate job working for and with a bunch of programmable robots and idiots, I don’t. I detest that. So the chances are probably that I hate you, maybe I’m a tad jealous of you too, but I want not for all that stuff that you think will fly you to your Shang-ri-la. Because it’s all false high-status. I’ve seen how “high-status” men shrivel like prunes or shrink into their seats when you assert something to them with an air of complete, unpretentious naturalness and modesty, and that assertion is invariably something of an abstract or metaphorical nature. It might just be an observation or a silly little theory, something with a twist of the philosophical behind it, but “high-statusers” have fragile egos that are easily dented by the natural intellectual, irrespective of how the intellectual appears. No. The shoddier or weirder you appear (and I look both, bad) the more you’ll shake “high-statuser” and the more these A-holes will resent you. The high-statuser spends his life following the herd up the ladder. I am the snake, the serpent in this game.

They might even hate you enough to put a hit on you. Have you ever had people put a hit on you? I have. At least twice that I know of. But I’m still here to tell the tale, and how I handled both those hits makes me feel like a winner, regardless of fucking “high-status”. They’re fucking wankers man. It’s just a pity that women fall for them and their bank accounts because in the old days it was somewhat different, the woman would, through her steadfast support, etc. step in from the ground floor and endure the ride to success with the man, nowadays they want instant success and god help you should you falter or fall because the woman will leave you in an instant. Finding a woman with loyalty is like finding a gem. But most men today are weak fuck ups anyway so it kind of balances out nicely.

My class photograph, Std 3, 1969 (compliments Fifi, from her FB page)

 

We’re an average age of ten years old, all of us, in this pic. That’s me, back row, 4th left. Left of me is Andrew, right of me is Phillip (we three louts) who became my best pal two years later. Far right in the second last row is Sebastian who was the fastest runner in our high school much later. Sebastian and I used to steal petrol out motorcars every Friday night in Std 9 because Lawrence owned a car and if you wanted to ride, you supplied the petrol. I was no mean sportsman at school but when Sabs and I were pinching petrol and we got a cop alert, I could keep up with him sprinting to the getaway car with half-full or whatever gerry-can in hand. We travelled the whole South Coast and Transkei in a Fiat 850, hunting for waves, four-up in this tiny car including surfboards, bags and food. But back to the pic: Fifi is on the far left in row second to front. Always the class honey pie and cute as hell, Fifi also got the leading role for the school play which featured a painted castle as backdrop. Can’t remember the name of the play but the theme song went, “Open up the shutters let the sun come through, flowers in the garden waiting for you, pull back the curtains…” Something like that. These are all honey pies and good guys, no idiots in our school (except I became one later, much later) but if you wanted to know which little girl really steals my heart, thinking back now, it is Linda (tall, just behind teacher to right) she is what I consider to be utterly utterly beautiful not only in looks, but in ways. She was tallish, grey-blue eyed with soft, fluttering eyelashes like a young mare, with an ever-so-slight gap between the front teeth, demure, shy, languid, dimpled, and just so goddamned gorgeous, feminine, a real little lady but not prude, I remember she’d give off shy little giggles every now and then, and she hung out with a shorter friend (can’t remember her name) and would cup her hand over her shorter friend’s ear and whisper something to her, you know, when little girls like to confide in their pals about, say, a little boy – and giggle. You, Linda; you were other-worldly to this hopeless romantic, come to think of it you were breath-taking, I get all weepy thinking of you. You, Linda, should have been my Valentine’s last night. Perhaps in another life. So now you know my tastes in women. I have had a lump in my throat and watery eyes all evening from just looking at this photo. Moving. Utterly, utterly shaking, stirring to the soul. It is at moments like these that I feel caught up in the eternal moment, when the moment just freezes and feels like an eternity. And Love is the one necessary constituent for these moments of lucidity to happen. There MUST be love. My god, this life is beautiful! I just wish I could share it with someone worth sharing it with. Like a Linda.

What awesome days! What beautiful people. Look at the little girl with the bandage on her arm and plaster on her knee, bless her!

We schooled in Westville, Durban, and this era-1969 was when apartheid was rock ‘n rolling along and three men were about to supposedly land on the moon and most of our families had black domestic servants. Artie (Athalia) was our maid and like my second mother and her son Kenneth shared the same bed with me for eight years. Little black kid! – in the height of apartheid? His English was better than his Zulu and my Zulu was almost on a par with my home language English. I could read and speak and understand Latin properly at age fourteen, I’d read 150-page full-on Latin books, borrowed from my grandfather… Kenneth was younger than me and hadn’t started school yet but when he did he went off to Kwa-Mashu and I never saw him again and this broke my heart. At eleven years of age and a best friend disappears, it hurts. Even if he was black. So all you fucking idiots who scream Marwinsing WAYCISS go FUCK yourselves you cunts, go fuck yourselves… because you know nothing… about me. I am an enigma. And I like it like that. A black that I hate I will call a kaffir to his face and a white that I hate I will call a cunt to his face and that’s how it works here.

Boxing dog – adding the meat… (newspaper and wrapping tape)

What hiz listenin’ to RIGHT NOW

Melissa - Mercyful Fate: an underrated Danish band from the 80s who’ve since split but who still (individually) produce magnificent allegories in good ol’ fashioned acoustic metal… you go boyz! Listen… (and weez all had a good nite @ Ol’ Hagz and my left foot had a Jolly Good Time too!) Secret p/w: King Diamond (ex-Mercyful Fate) Abigail: do yourselves a favour and… listen…!)

Boxing dog workings

My first decent-sized paper-mache piece, early in-progress pics. Initial wireframe. We’ll see what comes out of this. In pic 1, mid-left hand side you’ll catch a glimpse of basically what I wish to render/re-create. Boxing dog. Amen Bubu a.k.a. Bosco, He of the finest that ever lived! (but right now it’s Saturday night which means union rules down tools itz… Ol’ Hags wif Robz ‘n krew – bye!)

Interesting things happening on the home front

My left foot, coming right from a week ago (thought it extremely important you know this) - thanks to ice-packs!

“Eat buggers eat!” (‘coz you never know where your next meal’s gonna come from but it always does… innit?)

First Vodacom, now Cell-C have gone rubbish

I have a theory, and I call it The Theory of Perpetual Consumer Demand. It's not original, but I've got my own version of it wrought from The School of Hard Knocks. Some of the more cognizant and percipient among us will notice that large companies seem to keep their customers in a permanent state of need of service, i.e: our demands for economic (mega-capitalist) reasons are never quite fulfilled. One man who is a master at deploying this economic strategy in South Africa is one Alan Knott-Craig, former CEO of Vodacom and now CEO of Cell-C. I closed my Vodacom internet airtime account because of this man. Vodacom were charging exorbitant rates and delivering poor signal quality and their branch staff were useless, Affirmative-Action types. So I moved my account to Cell-C and immediately noticed a pick up in service, their signal quality was strangely enough more consistent, and I was generally happier with Cell-C.

Recently Alan Knott-Craig moved over to Cell-C and coincidently enough it seems my signal quality has gotten poorer, I'm getting frequent signal drop-offs and spend half my time on the computer logging my internet dongle on and off to try catch signal. I think Alan Knott-Craig is a curse to the South African consumer, if you search his name and Vodacom on this blog you'll find a few articles excoriating this man. They milk you, these corporate big-wigs, and you get nothing back of value in return.

The Saga of Karbuncus (Part IV)

Vee vill now take a muzak break - mit "Evolution Ov Sin" (by Project: N.A)

The Saga of Karbuncus (Part III)

The Interview: (excerpted from a live SABC recording)

The scene is set. Karbuncus's timeous arrival for the interview as prospective SABC1 newsreader and stand-in anchor man is marred by a slight administration error on the SABC's part: they thought Karbuncus was BLACK. Nevertheless the interview proceeds forthwith, conducted by the up-and-coming Sowetan DJ and radio/TV personality, Missie Jules Mthetwa, popularly known by trendy Sowetan socialites and various A-A spend-like-there's-no-two-tomorrows as "DJ Makwerriekoek-koek" - and we, the editorial board at Marwinsing's artwork ‘n stuff were privy to authentic snippets gleaned from the original studio recording. Here are a few salient pieces from the Karbuncus/Missie Jules recording:

Missie Jules: are you a hater?

Karbuncus: yes.

Missie Jules: why?

Karbuncus: because you are, hating is a privilege you and your kind have already been granted for some time but for me it is one that I must fight for, that's why.

Missie Jules: oh - carry on...

Karbuncus: ...okay I'll continue with a question for you, Missie Jules: how many children do you have?

Missie Jules: My gosh, I wasn't expecting that?! Uhm... lemme see... ah I've had two from my recent boyfriend, then when I was at Soweto High School Tokyo Sexwale's nephew (who Tokyo’s never met) knocked me up with three, and in Primary I had my first pregnancy - twins - didn't know who the father was but... let's see...

Karbuncus: See? That's racial hatred! - you drop baby-bombs.

Missie Jules: ...and then... I dunno, seven or eight or nine lil' niglets I guess... I guess I'll have to check with my older sissie, she's kept a few of them but I don't know if they're still around, you know... with AIDS and all that stuff?

Karbuncus: Okay, fine, I'll accept that - but do you get my point?

Missie Jules: Whaa-a? You mean… you mean you want me to give you a (<--cut/cut-->) live on set???

Karbuncus: No, please! Please don't misinterpret my metaphoric meanderings for Soweto jive-talk! - what I meant WAS...

(to be continued)

Home security upgrade

Following the recent theft of my bicycle and a pumpkin plant by the usual suspects as in those of a duskier hue, I bought a new dog from a fellow Apostate to guard my cottage. It was a little more than I thought I should pay, but I think when word gets out we will be a relatively crime free neighbourhood. The nice part is he is a year old and already fully trained. For your own safety please call the house from the driveway and kindly wait inside your car.

"Rrr..reciss!!!" (or WAYCISS - whichever)

Can you imagine training in a posh gym and some 250-pound slab of umber whale blubber is toyi-toying whilst screaming “Yebo!!! Yebo!!!” at the top of her voice in your ear as you’re earnestly doing your damnest to crank out those final few reps… huh?

Well, some loud, selfish and obnoxious, lying middle-aged bitch of a duskier hue causes a stink at the Morningside Virgin Active gym by branding a white male gym member with the dreaded "R" word and the liberal MSM are all over it... of course Whitey gets villified once again in this never-ending tirade "against evil, white men" but we don't hear HIS side of the story. My message to Virgin Active: throw this beastly female out! Get rid of her... (I have been informed from a reliable source who actually trains there and knows of this woman, that this female is a rabble-rouser and trouble-maker of note)

MSM links: IOL; M&G (who have even gone so far as to launch a witch hunt into this ridiculous incident with an online Rrrecissm Survey in S.A gyms – how pathetic!)

Liberalism is a Mental Disease! I HATE White Guilt! I HATE Liberals 'coz they stink! These self-loathing knuckle-wringing P-C do-gooders should all be hauled into an MMA cage to face Georges St. Pierre one-by-one! (Yeah, that's you too, white male M&G editors)

Julius Malema – right back home where he belongs

AUN - Out of Mind

Garrett McNamara rides 90 Foot Wave! (***huge praises***)

I can’t stand advertising but…

...ol’ turkey-face had me transfixed for a few moments, enough to put this post up. He slides onto the orange background, gazes into cyberspace for a few moments then disappears off the stage whilst the message flashes. And that’s okay. At least the hippy who created this ad had the good sense to try make his viewers laugh and for the most part has probably succeeded. It’s off this page, headlined ‘Malema guilty as charged’. The hell with insurance.

Anyway from turkey heads and hands to feet. Check out my left foot (no it’s not gout thank heavens) those are stretched and/or partially-torn anterior talofibular and calcaneofibular ligaments from tripping on a step in the dark because I misjudged distance two weeks ago (although I was on the way to the alehouse at the time and did have an all-nighter thereafter - on the hobble) but yeah, I was worried that it might have been compounded by uric acid build-up and have even done the sodium bicarb thing to make double-sure but the good old twice-daily ice-pack seems to be helping the healing along. And lots of sweet-talkin’ tender loving care with Germolene ointment massages. Raise the foot six-to-ten inches above the heart level with a wrapped icepack and that does wonders, twice a day at least for twenty minutes each time. It was worse two days ago, like a club foot. Oh, and bugger the overgrown toenails!

Nice wave

South Africa: January 2012 farm murders

Names and details of fatal attacks on farms and small holdings

On Tuesday the farmers union TAU SA stated that, according to their information, six individuals had been murdered on farms and small holdings in January 2012, up from one during the equivalent period last year. There were five other attacks, during which no deaths were recorded. Below is a table with details of the six killings - with links back to the original press reports.

The South African Police Service published statistics on farm attacks and farm murders up until 2007. While it apparently still records this data it refuses to release it to the public. TAU SA relies upon press reports and feedback from its members for its statistics, and as such may undercount the extent of the problem.

Date
Name
Area
Details

1
14/01/2012
Dries du Toit, 56
Klipplaatdrift farm, Ventersdorp North West. Opposite Eugene Terre'Blanche's old farm
Beaten to death in his bed by five robbers at around 4 am in the morning. His wife also beaten, but survived.

2
16/01/2012
Koos Bisschoff, 71
Mooihoek Avondale farm, between Rustenburg and Koster, North West
Attacked at his home by five robbers. Hit over the head with a rifle, bound with plastic ties and locked in a room with a plastic bag over his head. Died later of his wounds. Bisschoff suffered from asbestosis.

3
22/01/2012
Michael Stenger, 30
Barbeton Road, Nelspruit, Mpumalanga
Attacked by four robbers on his small holding. Used as a human shield in a shoot out with a colleague of Stenger's. Accidentally shot and died of his wounds.

4
22/01/2012
Frans van der Linden, 57
Rashoop, outside Brits, North West
Attacked on a small holding he was staying at. Beaten and twice shot by robbers at around 3am, who fled with a purse, cellphone and two watches. His daughter was about to be married. Arrests later made.

5
23/01/2012
Francois du Toit, 38
Game farm outside Roossenekal, Mpumalanga
A nutritional services expert at Alzu Feeds in Middelburg. Shot twice by robbers who entered his house at around 1am in the morning. Died shortly after of his wounds. His wife and children were tied up.

6
28/01/2012
Hendrik Johannes (Boet) Cilliers, 77
Farm near Stella, North West
Found dead on his farm with a gunshot wound on the forehead. His legs were tied up and he was badly assaulted

Source URL: http://www.politicsweb.co.za/politicsweb/view/politicsweb/en/page71619?oid=278122&sn=Detail&pid=71619