Ladies in Red

Nicky Rehbock, a writer and sub at Big Media, goes to cover Deputy President Kgalema’s speech to Cosatu, South Africa’s largest labour federation, at its tenth national congress. She likes the vibe and walks away with some additions to her wardrobe.

Go in, listen to the speech, get out.

As a journalist on deadline sent to cover a portion of the national congress of Cosatu, that was my strategy.

I confess I’ve never been a huge fan of trade unionists. Too much protesting and marching and ideology, I always thought.

I was about to have my thinking rearranged.

I arrived early. Caterers were heaving tubs of chopped carrots and flour to the kitchen. Officious-looking security staff circled the building outside. The media accreditation room was empty. A red tag seemed to guarantee entry to the venue. I couldn’t get hold of one.

After milling about outside for a bit, I tapped the shoulder of one of the marshals in bright yellows bibs with Cosatu insignia. Her name was Judith. “Follow me,” she said. She and a guard exchanged whispers. It was agreed I could be let in without a tag – until the accreditation team arrived.

Judith sat me down at a desk in front of the Department of Labour stand in the foyer. A good place to wait, she assured me. I didn’t mind. In fact I felt quite important as I found myself fielding questions about the department. I had a good chuckle. Faithful Judith came to check up on me from time to time, and at one stage summoned her husband Sidney, also a marshal,to meet me.

She was a volunteer police officer in Soweto and sold vetkoek on the side to earn money, she said. She also took in street children when she could and helped cook and bath the elderly. Now she was looking after me.

The buses rolled in and the red-shirted Cosatu members started streaming into the hall in their thousands, whistling, dancing, singing, waving flags and flashing posters of struggle heroes. The energy was infectious. Sure beats the humdrum, monochrome world I hail from, I thought. I whipped out my camera and clicked away.

At last the accreditation “team” arrived in the shape of one rather harassed-looking woman, fretting because she couldn’t find her box of red tags.

“Patrick’s coming now, he’ll sort this crisis out,” she assured me. Who’s this Patrick fellow, I wondered, and what makes her so sure he’s going to have any more luck.

I was getting worried. Most of the delegates had already settled in the hall and I feared I’d miss the deputy president’s speech – the one I had been sent to cover.

Just then Patrick arrived. Slight, smiling, grey-haired gentlemanly. I could picture him as someone’s very kind uncle or grandfather. He ruffled around in some bags and produced a card of white school labels.

“Look, we’re just going to have to make a plan … the proper tags aren’t here so just write your name on this label and attach it to the red lanyard,” he said.

Fair plan, I thought. No one asked me for a press card or ID, I just scribbled down my name and was let through. “Jeez, these socialists are such an easy-going bunch!” I thought. Patrick turned out to be the Patrick Craven, Cosatu’s spokesman. Should’ve made the connection!

Entry gained, I was relieved to discover the formalities had yet to begin. “African time”, as our impatient detractors like to call it, has its uses.

The atmosphere was easy-going, full of energy and kindness. I was able to zip up and down the aisles and climb on chairs to get action shots of the singing and dancing, while delegates moved aside for me to position myself. No one shoved, told me to stand back, or get out of the “restricted area” – as often happens on shoots. It was open access all round, total freedom for a shutterbug.

Satisfied that I had a few good shots, I snuck back to the media table just before the speech started.

I was furiously scribbling down quotes when “Uncle Patrick” came to the rescue again: he appeared suddenly, grinning broadly as he dished out copies of Kgalema Motlanthe’s speech to us frazzled reporters.

Then I could relax and pay proper attention, although every now and then a very friendly woman from the Young Communist League lent over and asked my opinion on various statements the deputy president was making.

I was flattered she thought I might have something useful to say, and ashamed I had no insights to offer her. Then the speech was over and it was time for me to get back to a world that suddenly looked more wan than ever.

On the way out, I asked the accreditation lady if I could buy a bright red Cosatu caps. “Oo no, no we not selling anything here today,” she said, “what do you want one for?”

“I want to become a comrade,” I said.

She looked delighted and promptly whipped out three different shirts, two caps and a couple of badges. Like a proud mother, she slipped one of the caps o my head and tugged a bit until it fitted snugly. “There, now you’re one of us!”

Precious parcel in hand, I headed back to my car brimming with new respect for trades-unionists. I was itching to break open the neatly-packaged shirts. How, I wondered, would I look in red and black.