Random ramblings Archives - Page 2 of 2

A tale of two cities – the life of the corporate commuter.

It’s been almost 3 and a half years since I moved to Cape Town from Johannesburg. Read my earlier blog, the Jozifugee when you have some time.

A lot of people find it strange that I don my suit every Monday and head off work. Not because I’m going to work of course, nor because I still wear a suit (even though most of the profession I work in have gone for less formal attire). People find it strange because I live in Cape Town and have my office in Joburg. Whilst many South Africans file into the traffic on our congested roadways, I squeeze myself into a cigar tube with 200 strangers who are doing the same thing I am. We are the corporate equivalent of a migrant labour force.

So what’s it like, and why do I do it?

I’m a liability specialist by profession and they need those more in Jozi than they do in Cape Town. I see you scratching your heads trying to figure out how someone could be an expert in liability. I mean you’ve heard of asset managers. And assets represent the other, nicer side of the balance sheet right? I’m in insurance. The kind that companies buy to protect themselves against law suits. Kind of like a paper Barry Roux. I put it to you.

I digress. I do that a lot so bear with me. I moved to Cape Town to be with my wife. Well she wasn’t my wife at the time but my courtship plans were being seriously hampered by the 1400 kilometers between us. So I left my job in Jozi and set off to the republic of Cape Town. Regrettably my time in the mother city was marred by beautiful scenery, friendly people and a generally rewarding lifestyle. “Awful”, you must be thinking. “I could see why he’d want to start working in Johannesburg again.”

Jozi, the city of gold. The place I grew up in and have spent 91.5% of my life. Now I see you thinking, “What a precise fellow the LiabilityGuy is, he must be good at his job, lets place all our liability business with him.” The number is actually accurate as I spent the first 3 years of my life in the UK and then a year in Cape Town before the commute started. So guess you could say I’m working back in my home town.

“Hey what about the girl, the one you semigrated for?” you may ask. Well she’s a commuter too now. We both take the red eye to Jozi in the morning on Monday. We don’t however travel on the same plane. Joburg, being the brilliant, sprawling metropolis that it is, has two main airports and we travel to different ones. I recall when we first started doing it, the strange looks from fellow passengers as we kiss and say goodbye on the airside of the security checkpoint. A regular scene from Casablanca. Here’s lookin’ at you.

The advantage of spending unusually large helpings of time in an airport is that you get to know people. I’m on first name terms with some of the security people. I mean if a dude’s gonna feel you up twice a week, and he’s not your doctor, might as well introduce yourself. Speaking of airport security, here are some tips:

Make sure you put all your metal shit in your bag so you don’t have to frantically pat yourself down looking for the phantom coin that keeps setting off the scanner. Your fellow travellers will love you.
For goodness sake, don’t lock your laptop in a case that requires you to input a Fibonacci sequence and a retinal scan before you can remove it at the X-ray machine. Your fellow passengers will not love you.
In SA for domestic flights you generally don’t need to remove your shoes at security check points. That’s a foreign thing and is likely to attract undue attention, particularly from the sniffer dogs that are likely to think you’ve got hidden quantities of anthrax in your socks. The security people will not love you.

Life on a plane isn’t too bad if you’re organized. I’ve got the very good fortune of having the wonderful Stef in our office who always gets me the emergency exit seat. This I’ve learnt gives you loads of leg room but does generally mean you’ll be seated next to a giant, the kind of person you secretly curse when they sit next to you in a normal seat, “why don’t these meaty monoliths sit in the emergency exits?”. Well they do actually.
I tolerate this, being a slight person myself. Firstly because I’m grateful for the leg room and secondly because I don’t want to get thrown out the exit in mid flight by a giant. Incidentally, I’ve noticed that most of the giants would not be able to squeeze out of the little emergency doors, blocking people from leaving what would probably be a flaming cigar tube in a crisis. The airline crew always ask if you’re willing to assist in an emergency but they don’t tell you that involves stuffing the 200kg Neanderthal through a veritable eye of a needle before you can avoid certain death by incineration.

About 4 months ago we also got an apartment in Joburg. This really has made life a lot easier as I no longer have to travel with a suitcase. That suitcase really was a source of much irritation. Lugging around a small house like a tortoise. An endless cycle of packing and unpacking every week. The circle of bag-life. Furthermore I found that the wait for my bag on the conveyor was almost as long as the flight, only without the comfy chair and sweaty giant.
If there’s any advice I can give to anyone commuting, its that you have to get a home base where you can keep your clothes and recharge your batteries. Unless you’re a politician and can afford to stay in the presidential suite of your hotel, an apartment is the way to go. Furnished is ideal so you don’t need to worry about buying two of everything. We found this great place close to my office. It comes with this old, retired caretaker guy who insists on calling me by the name Colin. I corrected him a couple of times but now I’ve just settled on Colin. Colin Colman. His name is Charles but I call him Fred for that is a good name for a caretaker.

I also have no car in Jozi. I recall a few years ago, not having a car in Joburg meant you were stranded with perhaps the only upside being the reduced likelihood of being hijacked. If you wanted to go somewhere you’d have to put your life in the hands of a taxi driver. This privilege of being nearly murdered in a twisted, mangled mess of metal would also cost you a small fortune. Thankfully this is no longer an issue.

Uber is the most brilliant service I’ve encountered. It’s really made an enormous difference in my life. It costs me about R60 a day to get to and from work. For 4 days a week that’s just R240. I can’t buy a car for that and I was spending more than that on petrol. I also get to chat to a different driver each trip. Here’s an interesting stat. I’ve done about 250 trips so far this year and have never had the same driver. It’s a shame really because the most engaging conversations are always cut short by the end of the journey. This does get irritating because it’s a bit like watching an episode of a great series and then never seeing what happens next. “You see sir the only way we’ll be able to sort out the economy and government is…ok here you are, bye” or “I’m so pleased to meet you sir because I think I know the true meaning of life and it’s …ok here we are, have a good day”. Again my advice is get an apartment as close as possible to your office and use uber. Your life will be better.

So if you ever find yourself in the position of travelling constantly between these two spectacular cities (or any others), don’t complain, embrace the privilege and be the best Jozifugee you can.

I’m the LiabilityGuy.

The whole tooth and nothing but the …

I really had a fabulous week. It all started with breaking my oral accoutrement. That’s nothing dirty by the way, I’m just hoping if I use the word oral in a blog, I’ll get loads of Google hits. I lost a tooth.

Actually the broken tooth thing started several months ago. I was eating a box of smarties (next time, empty the smarties out of the box first, I hear you cry). Anyway, I was eating smarties and one just cracked my tooth, a right incisor. Surprisingly there was no pain. Pain, I’ve learnt is the sole reason I visit my dentist. The absence of which I took to mean said visit was not required.

This assumption of course was coupled with the ridiculous notion that I have the miraculous ability to heal myself and even grow new teeth in my mouth, a bit like that invincible cheerleader in the tv series Heroes.

No not Debbie from Texas. That cheerleader had the somewhat miraculous ability to grow many things in her mouth, none of which were teeth.

So predictably my tooth did not heal and eventually decided that it was time to leave my mouth, like a teenage upstart moving out of home. I pray it has gone to a better place. Perhaps being ground up and sold as an aphrodisiac to endangered rhinos in the Kruger park?

Losing a tooth at my age (forty something) got me thinking about politics. I’ve had full control of my dental constituents for well over three decades. Of course I realise that my enamelled friends didn’t elect me after I spent billions on campaigning but that doesn’t mean they didn’t rely on me for their wellbeing. I’ve been more than happy to use them every day, even posing with them in full view for the occasional selfie. But, in many ways I guess I’ve taken them for granted, often ignoring their problems, imagining that they’ll somehow fix themselves and that they’ll be with me forever no matter what. The reality however is that once a few unattended cracks started developing, it was only a matter of time before the system crumbled and the once loyal inhabitants began their exodus.

If I don’t take action and invest in the wellbeing of my gum-dwellers now, I’ll be a lonely, old toothless wonder, desperately trying to remind whomever will listen about the glory days when I could smile confidently without drooling all over myself.

Fortunately my dental quandary can be remedied before the rest of the pearly voters start planning their exit strategy. Granted, the lost tooth will be replaced by a 3D-printed ceramic implant and no-one but you or I will know that it’s not part of the original team but I guess that’s what makes for an interesting coalition.

I’m the @LiabilityGuy and its never too late to care…

Time to say goodbye – Treating Employees Fairly

You know how to recruit good people right? But do you know how to say goodbye to them?

I read an article recently about changes in the employment environment over the past 10 years. The author wrote that he’d attended a corporate presentation and the CEO was talking about how he’d been with the company for 25 years. Two younger men in front looked at each other and commented about how awful that must’ve been. Practically a life sentence.

The message in the article was clear; millennials (age 20 to 30 aka Generation Y) probably won’t stick around in a job for as long as their Generation X predecessors, and a business can only expect to keep top performers for as long as they feel they are being challenged and are making a difference in the world. Money is a factor in making any job more attractive to any age group but there is a growing body of articles and studies to suggest that to the younger generation in particular, remuneration is a bit further down the list than it may have been for their parents.

We must accept that our rising stars in business are probably only going to be with us for 3-5 years even if they’re presented with growth opportunities and told how much the company values them. A recent report in Fast Company found that 60% of millennials who leave their jobs in less than 3 years, do so because of a poor cultural fit. It is also true that this group of employees place a lot more stock in being treated like valued individuals and not just heads in a corporate office plan.

As employers perhaps we should be acknowledging that this new relationship could be relatively short term, certainly by prior standards. By 2020 this group will make up half of the workforce in most countries. If we’re going to find ourselves in a new era of shorter term engagements, a more transient workplace perhaps, then businesses should prepare for how they conduct themselves when departure becomes imminent. Not only does every business require a strategy for attracting talent but it should also have a clear idea as to how it says goodbye to its good people.

You may ask why? Why should an employer care how an employee feels after they log off the network for the last time?

There are a number of reasons why this matters in the 21st century. One should remember that if a good employee moves on, then its the right thing to do to send them off with a blessing. When we talk about sending them off with a blessing that includes the way they are discussed internally after the move. Poor leaders, and I’ve witnessed this myself, do not support employees moving on and the worst kind will often set about trying to sully the reputation of the soon to be former-employee, during the notice period and in fact long after their departure from the business. This actually reveals more about everything that’s wrong with the business rather than any previously unnoticed shortcomings that the former employee may have. This also guarantees that re-employment in the same business will never happen in future.

Don’t get me wrong, not every employee is a loss to the business but when a high performer moves on, any attempt to chip away at their reputation will only be perceived as “sour grapes” by the remaining employees. They may very well be left wondering if its worthwhile giving their own best efforts, if they too may be the subject of such treatment in future. I know some organizations where merely mentioning the name of the dearly departed employee is frowned upon, almost as if the moniker itself conjures up the Voldemort of the office.

Its natural for remaining employees to engage in a bit of blame shifting. They may genuinely be frustrated with the additional workload that could come their way or perhaps the training burden that will inevitably be foisted upon them when the replacement joins. Junior staff and other former colleagues will of course largely take their lead from the seniors in the team and it would be massively inappropriate and unprofessional to see character assassination from the CEO or other high ranking employees.

Hard work and committment in the preceding years can’t and shouldn’t be erased as a method of dealing with the exit. In my own experience true leaders do not take the loss of a once-loyal employee personally. It’s not an affront that an ambitious employee seeks greener pastures or more challenging terrain. Even the case of employees joining the opposition it is actually a tremendous compliment to the business when the organization is viewed by competitors as a fundamentally sound training ground.

The best attitude any business can have is to let good workers go with best wishes and the hope that they’ll continue to be ambassadors of the brand long after they leave, even if they’re joining a competitor. Remember that as an employer you may never get the good ones back again but the ones that have left may end up sitting next to your next star performer in their new office environments. A business reputation isn’t just about earning the respect of a customer. It’s also about attracting talented stars of the future.

Social media exposes a lot of employers. Millennials in particular know how to research the online profile of a business before they join. Most prospective employees will engage with others who may have worked at the business before. The modern day job seeker may not only provide references to the prospective employer but may in fact do their own research by communicating with former employees. Simply typing the name of the business into the LinkedIn platform produces a goldmine of reference points, both past and present. Type in the name of your company and you’ll be presented with a long list that includes the staff who’ve moved on.

Managers with a modicum of emotional intelligence shouldn’t need to be told about this. Its about doing the next right thing and encouraging people to grow, even if you aren’t around to enjoy the future benefits of their work.

Remember that if you continuously destroy the fruits of a great worker’s labour, you will eventually land up with way-more compost than fruit.

I’m the LiabilityGuy.

http://www.fastcompany.com/3043370/hit-the-ground-running/how-to-stop-treating-your-millennial-employees-like-enigmas

http://www.zenworkplace.com/2014/09/how-you-treat-employees-after-they-quit-matters/

(watch the Apple video below which appeared in the original article by Zen Workplace)

Teenage kryptonite. The death of SuperDad

I’m a father of two teenagers. A boy, sixteen and a girl, fifteen. They haven’t lived in the same house as me since they were two and three years old. I’ve always tried to be the most involved dad I can in spite of this separation. I’m sure even residential parents of teens can relate, but lately it seems that as they grow bigger, so my hero status shrinks with frighteningly, inverse-proportionality. The teenage years have proved to be kryptonite to my SuperDad alter ego.

I’ve been emotionally relegated. No longer do I feel I am the strongest, funniest, smartest, most magical father alive. Now it often feels like I’m the uncool, taxi driving banker who can’t, or perhaps shouldn’t dance. Ever.

In fact after some of my regular trips up to Joburg I have to say I left feeling energized by my new job but somewhat floundering as a father.

I moved to a different city last year (2013) in May. I’d really decided that I wanted to move to Cape Town from Johannesburg almost a year before I actually did it. The long distance relationship I was in had reached the point where cohabitation with my now fiance, had become a necessity for us both. The actual delay in relocating though was informed by a number of factors; obviously finding a job was important but I also needed to make sure my children were going to be ok with the transition. I recall being completely petrified to break the news to them. Fearing that they were going to fall to the floor, gnashing their teeth, hysterically crying and hanging onto my legs, begging me to stay.

So after deliberating for weeks as to how I would share this traumatic information, I took the afternoon off work, picked them up and took them to lunch. The news of my impending move was delivered over dessert at the local Spur restaurant and was received with all the sorrow and emotion of a child whose just learnt that the square root of 64 is 8.

After the lack of emotion had dissipated, the non-event-void was gratefully replaced with a question. Primarily about whether or not I could drop them off at a friend’s place after lunch. I politely reminded them that I’d taken the afternoon off to spend time with them, possibly in the comfort of an air-conditioned cinema. This news was not received quite as well as the news of my relocation. In fact a debate ensued between the two as to whose turn it actually was to spend time with me.

It was then that I knew they’d be just fine without me. In fact in subsequent conversations I learnt that they were almost relieved that I was going. Not because they wanted rid of me but because they both knew I was moving to live a healthier lifestyle with the woman I love (whom they love too). It turns out my young children worried about me. Worried about me being alone in Joburg and spending nearly every waking moment in the office.

This week, the obvious finally hit me. My children really are growing up. My secret wishes to keep them young and dependent upon me are no match for the inevitable passage of time and the bio-chemical wizardry of Mother Nature.

I recalled how after my mother passed away when I was 21, I often worried about my father. These worries were often coupled with immense guilt that I was enjoying myself out with friends whilst he sat at home alone. These feelings only left me some years later when I knew for sure that he was ok (largely after he met the wonderful woman who is now my stepmom).

So it would appear that losing my godlike, hero status with my children is not nearly as important as us all acknowledging that things must move forward. My children must be free to grow up without worry and guilt just as much as I need to allow them their space to spread their wings.

I’ll keep my SuperDad cape folded neatly in the cupboard, secure in the knowledge that I can slip it back on whenever my flourishing offspring need me to.

For now I am content in just being me, the LiabilityGuy.

So far South its North – Sub’urbanville

Since I’ve been here I’ve learnt that there is a certain stigma attached to the northern suburbs of Cape Town.

I cannot fathom this. I grew up in the southern suburbs of Johannesburg which also has a stigma attached to it. The two places are nothing alike. Growing up in the South, in the eighties was interesting. I grew up with lots of Lebanese, Portuguese and Greek kids, so it was a fairly olive-skinned, cosmopolitan environment although I’m pretty sure no one has ever used that phrase to describe the area. There were kids in my class that were much older than me in standard 6. Some had been “kept back”, several times. I got in a fight with a fellow student once who had a spectacular mustache. Apparently she looked a lot like her father, who’d run off after his chop-shop (not a butchery) had been raided by the police.

Anyway I digress. Durbanville is amazing. It has a unique charm and the folks are generally very friendly. In fact at a four-way stop, one can sit for several minutes with drivers in all four directions waving each other on and then subsequently getting pissed off because the offer has been met with a counter offer to proceed first. Perhaps this aggressively polite disposition has something to do with the fact that the place is practically surrounded by wine farms and everyone is permanently drunk?

In the latter part of the 18th century, the town was actually called “Pampoenkraal” which translates into “a circular enclosure for pumpkins”. I would imagine the local folk resented being associated with a comical Halloween vegetable and the name was changed to D’urban in 1836, after the Governor of the Cape at the time. Unfortunately a further name change necessitated itself when the locals became frustrated with sunburnt stoners seeking the town’s KZN namesake, Durban. And so we have the derivative, Durbanville – creative little fuckers, those town fathers.

They grow grapes in Durbanville and also very large people. I’m not a very big fellow, height-wise. I’d say I’m probably average height, in any other part of the world. Here I am a Lilliputian in a land of Gullivers. I often feel like a child when I’m standing in the queue at any of the local stores. Even Woolworths. Where I am often the only male in the store. Even then I’m still the most vertically challenged person around. An English People-Mcnugget.

People in Durbanville speak a variety of languages. Most folks are bilingual and both English and Afrikaans are spoken fluently. Apparently the schools are dual-medium. This is a term that I had not heard before I moved here. When I first heard it I thought it must be some kind of seance involving two psychics. It turns out its a process where the teacher communicates in both languages to the scholars. Perhaps reminiscent of the safety demonstration on a 1980’s SAA flight. My Afrikaans is improving although Christelle has forbade me from speaking it. Apparently I sound something like a throat cancer sufferer with a hot potato in my mouth.

There is a hardware store up the road from our new house. The store presents one with a very interesting shopping experience although I’ve noted it’s a bit fishy. I mean no disrespect to the owners. The place sells some good quality tools and also fish. Yes you read that right. They also sell fish. Dead ones. Packed in ice. To eat. It’s a wonderful idea, shopping for power tools always makes me want to indulge in gill-bearing aquatic craniate animals.

Seriously though, the area is truly beautiful. We often go running around the town and into the surrounding wine farms. It is on the winding dusty paths of the vineyards that we wage weekend war with the mountain bikers for control of the FOOTpaths. These cyclists intrigue me, for they complain bitterly about the inconsiderate drivers on the roads and then act like two-wheeled tossers themselves. It is wrong to generalize, perhaps only 90% of them give the other 10% a bad name.

So I don’t really know about this whole northern suburbs thing……..If I think about it, I have come from Johannesburg which means Durbanville is technically in the south. Problem solved.

I’m the Liability Guy and unless you live in the North Pole, you’ll always be south of something.

Category: Random ramblings

A tale of two cities – the life of the corporate commuter.

The whole tooth and nothing but the …

Teenage kryptonite. The death of SuperDad

So far South its North – Sub’urbanville

The Jozifugee

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