Ysterplaat airshow

Barbed wire, golden eagles, khaki and kudu biltong. Gripen fumes wafting over blue Nestle ice-cream umbrellas. Blowup men and weapons to blow up men. Camouflaged Isuzu KBs, baby pram cavalries, Ray Ban aviators and flame grilled Spur burgers washing down deep fried chips on a stick. ‘Mr Airshow’, Brian Emmenis, croaks between swoops of B-52’s. Puma blades chop through hot grassy heat waves while dropping special forces in special black boots. A flare of Rooivalk’s and the all new Casspir Mark IV, a polished blast from our past. The slick operation of global warfare exhibition halls. Air-conditioned trade exhibits stocked with toys that appeal to the boy in every dictator. Violence is just such good business. Especially on a continent with a great deep cut of it.

It’s been a long time since I felt conscription gap pang. I didn’t fight on the borders. The DENEL stand, a proudly South African treasure, with it’s assistants in neat name tags and chino’s handing calendars to children. It’s the Military show and everything resounds with an action movie sans bloodshed. Military vehicle demo’s play over super-sized flat screens. Trying to be Hollywood without actually killing anyone. Ranging monster trucks with “ballistic protection up to 5.56 x 45mm as well as 7.62 x 51mm NATO ball ammunition” and enough other small arms to flatten Kabul one lazy Sunday afternoon after the game. Ramping up and down a great gravel test track like a bull in a cage. The destruction potential is in the subtext.

It was an interesting afternoon in the valley of Ysterplaat, between Rugby and Canal Walk. A suburb so close and yet so far. Vendors selling blow up airplanes. Today it’s candyfloss, tomorrow it’s cocaine. I think spotted Yolandi Vi$$er’s cousin on BMX. Oh yes, I’m not a social commentator, I’m a photographer. Another jet pops past. Boooooom. Children clap as I snap a R10 Jesus and the Last Supper next to ice cold Coke zero.