From Zen to Zef (in one short drive to Kraaifontein)

Here is a transcript of an actual conversation I recently had with my Higher Self.

Me: Hey, did you know we have a sex therapy clinic in South Africa?

Higher Self: A sex therapy clinic? What on earth for?

Me: Didn’t you know? A sex therapy clinic is a hospital where people go to be cured of sexual addictions.

Higher Self: Surely sex is a natural function of the human species, and not an addiction!

Me: Yes, but some people apparently have such high sexual drives that it becomes like an addiction. The world-famous golf player Tiger Woods recently visited South Africa to attend the sex clinic.

Higher Self (in a mock theatrical tone): A tiger? In Africa?

Me (irritably): No, no, not a real tiger. Tiger Woods. The golf player.

Higher Self (increasingly theatrical): Maybe he should rather have stayed in America. I heard there are some good clubs there.

Me: No, seriously! I’m getting tired of your lame puns. This sex therapy clinic actually exists. Look! Here’s a sneaked aerial photograph of it, taken by a journalist in a helicopter.

Higher Self: Let me guess. The journalist works for Mail & Guardian?

Me: I don’t know! Just look at the photo! (I shove it under his nose.)

Higher Self (heavy with sarcasm): Tiger himself is nowhere to be seen, I notice. He’s probably indoors, practising his strokes.

Me (in conciliatory tone): Probably. But just look at the size of that place, will you? Check out that swimming pool … maybe I should pretend to be a sex addict just so that I could go there, too! What do you reckon?

Higher Self (frowns, scrutinising picture): Wait a minute! I’ve seen this pozzie before! Remember that high-class brothel in Kraaifontein you once took me to?

Me (indignant): I’ve never taken you to any high-class brothel!

Higher Self: Yes, man, that big house just opposite that garden nursery place!

Indeed. It’s a sad day when one can’t even talk to oneself without being constantly contradicted.

Lately, I have had numerous arguments with my Higher Self. I sometimes wonder whether we are drifting apart altogether.

Before encountering the entity known as my Higher Self (couple of years ago, during a meditation session in Greyton), I had long been fascinated by the shadowy Hindu/Buddhist concept of “the Atman”. “The Atman” means slightly different things in different spiritual traditions, but, in essence, it is probably the closest thing to a home-grown monotheistic tradition in the Far East.

The most common view of the Atman is that it represents one’s own best possible alter ego, or perfect individual being, free from emotional baggage or selfish desires.

It is supposedly possible, and even healthy, to have conversations with one’s own Atman. Some practitioners of mysticism even believe that, when ordinary people in the West pray, or have conversations with “God” or “The Universe”, they are basically contacting their own Atman.

This is, of course, a tempting theory, but I am reluctant to fully endorse it, as it would officially turn me into an atheist, and despite the one obvious advantage of becoming an atheist — the fact that Gareth Cliff might finally respond to my fan mail — I’m not quite sure if I’m courageous enough to relinquish belief in an absolute Creator. I mean, what about life after death, the long dark teatime of the soul, all that stuff?

Nevertheless, my Higher Self exists. He resides, peacefully, in a secluded spot in my mind, in an imaginary house on an imaginary beachfront in an imaginary, idealised town which looks nothing like Kraaifontein, but rather resembles Swakopmund (anyone seen the mini-series The Prisoner?)

My Higher Self even has a name. He is called “Harry Krishna”. He has co-written some of my books. He has his own Twitter profile (harrykrishnaPhd). He is a completely authentic personality, separate from the more base and somewhat vulgar persona known to my fans and colleagues as Koos Kombuis.

But is this supposedly perfect guy, this personal Atman, the individual spark of the divine flame in my own soul, really as perfect as he pretends to be?

I recently caught him out trying to sneak a third rewrite of The Secret Diary of God to an American agent under his own name.

I don’t really trust the guy any more.

I’m starting to suspect he doesn’t really have a PhD, either.

As I said, we have had numerous arguments lately. This is very disturbing! The fact that I am no longer getting on well with my Higher Self is, frankly, a great source of concern to both of us. It does not bode well for my spiritual development! What’s more, should the media find out about our disagreements, it will probably prove to my numerous enemies in the music industry that I am truly schizophrenic, as many of them have believed all along!

As I sit here, writing this blog — my very first contribution to the prestigious Mail & Guardian forum called Thought Leader — I’m constantly aware of ol’ Harry peering over my shoulder, critically, not saying a word, but thinking very loudly.

He’s not allowed to say a word, because after yesterday’s argument — our worst ever — we are, by mutual consent, no longer on speaking terms.

Yes. It’s that bad.

This cat-fight, our worst ever so far, came about when I found out, to my utter consternation, that Harry Krishna is a fan of the new world-famous Afrikaans hip-hop group, Die Antwoord.

That, after I had gone to great lengths to write a column for Rapport, accusing Die Antwoord of all sorts of evil things, such as saying words like “p**s” on stage!

(The “f” word I can handle — as mentioned in the blurb to the right of this blog entry, I probably hold the unofficial Guinness world record for the most “f” words in one song — but I find the “p” word distasteful, sexist and rather disturbing, especially when it used in such a superficial, gimmicky way by that irritating blonde with the dollar signs in her surname!)

“How can you like Die Antwoord?” I asked my Atman, in disbelief. “You are supposed to be my Higher Self! You’ve always hated the Afrikaans music industry and all its phony intrigues! It was you who persuaded me to call Steve Hofmeyr “Whatsisname” in my latest book!”

“Well … ” Harry said, squirming uncomfortably. “Some of their songs are quite funny … ”

“Jack Parow is funny,” I fumed. Marc Lottering is funny. Even Vernon Koekemoer is sort of marginally funny, especially if you don’t know him personally. But Die Antwoord is nothing but a phony bunch of copycats out to make a quick buck out of gullible Americans and Belgians who can’t understand what the fuss is all about because they think “jou ma se p**s” means “your mother’s cat!”

“I’m not so sure any more, you know,” my Higher Self retorted. “I kind of tend to agree with Adriaan Basson’s criticism of you in the latest issue of Mail & Guardian. Sometimes I wonder if Koos Kombuis isn’t just another bitter old rock ‘n’ roll dinosaur who cant keep up with new trends. Besides, you’re probably jealous of their international success.”

“That’s it!” I attempted to stomp out of the room, but didn’t quite know how, as my Higher Self was situated in my own mind (and, as everyone knows except Julius Malema, it’s very hard to just turn your back on your own mind and simply walk away as if it doesn’t exist). “I’m not talking to you any more!”

“Fine by me!” retorted Mr Krishna, spitefully.

So here I am, trying to conclude my first contribution to Thought Leader, but I find it hard to think of a fittingly endearing ending, a punch-line worthy of my talent. If I have talent at all, that is. After the scathing attack by this shadowy spiritual presence who does not even have a PhD, my self-confidence is at an absolute low! To be truthful: I feel like a real p**s!

But how’s this for trying:

I still don’t like Die Antwoord, that remains an unfortunate fact.

However, after long self-reflection, and numerous lonely road trips through Kraaifontein in search of a good nursery, I can honestly conclude that, to the best of my knowledge, I am no longer bitter about their international success. I have, in fact, come to realise that the international success of Die Antwoord is good for South Africa. Yes! It’s very good for all concerned, even if their music sucks!!

Why? Because they have done at least two things right.

One: they have opened the door to other South African bands to make it abroad, the way Nirvana opened the door for bands such as Pearl Jam and the entire grunge movement. All of a sudden, Bellville is the Seattle of the new hip-hop craze, and that can’t be a bad thing. After all, some of my best friends live in Bellville! (Not to mention Kraaifontein!)

In the second place, Die Antwoord, together with Jack Parow, and Gazelle, and Snotkop, and those lovely lads from Mitchell’s Plain called Brasse van die Kaap and Kallitz, have finally stumbled upon the ever-so-faint trail towards that elusive Holy Grail so often talked and speculated about, in numerous discussions among musos, and in countless conversations between old-timers like David Kramer and myself: a truly original, cross-cultural South African pop music style. The one thing that will unite kwaito, hip-hop, old-fashioned kwêla, rap, boeremusiek, and all the other strands of local musical traditions, and weave it together until it morphs into something truly original and spectacular.

For now, this new thing is aptly called “zef”. But who knows what it might become, or what it will be called, once it is fully developed, and once every dysfunctional suburban Afrikaans kid whose parents can’t afford a private school education has become world famous?

I can sense Harry gently nodding his head in silent agreement. At least His Highness is more or less satisfied with this last statement. More or less.

Maybe, some time in the future, my Atman and I will be on speaking terms once again …

Once I agree to take him along when I go clubbing in Kraaifontein again, I suppose.