Men of Letters: From Me to You

By Leslie Downie

Leslie frogmarches men into writing letters again, followed by a ‘how to’ for kickstarting your own writing. Ten sets of fascinating letters about life, the universe and everything from nine Africans: Mark Peters the war photo journalist and first to snap Mandela released from prison, Glenn Caithness the boy next door desperately seeking advice on how to get a girlfriend, Marc Leistner the former EU banker offering surprising insights into true communication, Ian Downie the security specialist investigating the joys of food, wine and recipes, Mark Miles the S.T.E.M. thinker meditating on massive disruption via nanotechnology, Joel Greenberg the serial entrepreneur putting pen to paper, Craig Hepburn the 1986 Orlando Pirates goalkeeper bridging sporting divides, Charl Hugo the deep-thinking professor reflecting on the arts, spirituality and mortality, Graham Giles the employment lawyer and bibliophile - AND - last but not least one Brit: Mervyn Stutter the satirical songwriter and comedian, better known as The King of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. If you enjoy subverting censorship based on gendered stereotypes the second part of the book Leslie’s Guide for Writing to Men explains how you can initiate your own letter writing group, with each writer describing how he felt about being approached by a woman to be part of this one, followed by practical advice and templates for starting your own group and self-publishing your letters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Digital On Demand
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9780639727103

Book preview

Foreword

Cape of Good Hope

1 November 2022

Dear Reader,

      Lawyers are called solicitors for a reason. They are trained to solicit, and that is exactly how I persuaded my men of letters to participate in this volume. Twisting ten men’s arms to write to me in a personal way has raised some eyebrows. The default inference is that women with that sort of intention aren’t trimming their sails to head towards men’s minds, but rather in the direction of the saucier side of solicitation. Most social taboos are re-assessed periodically to consider whether they are still useful, but prohibitions around close heterosexual friendships are seldom challenged. If you enjoy subverting censorship based on gendered stereotypes you should enjoy the second part of the book. It explains how you can initiate your own letter writing group, with each writer describing how he felt about being approached by a woman to be part of this one.

      Authentic communication is much easier when you have time to order your thoughts and develop a theme. An email is to a letter what a wildebeest is to a buffalo: a pale mimicry of something far more powerful. A renaissance of letter writing is long overdue, particularly after this distanced Covid era, when connecting with friends is recognised as central to wellbeing. I didn’t choose the men in this volume because they are famous or infamous, although one or two of them are. I chose them because they are friends (from the past or present) that I find really interesting. After thinking through potential writers, including some family, I first thought I would aim for a multicultural group of writers, but then decided to leave this for a second volume of letters, and to rather start with the letters of nine White men who grew up under apartheid.

      I enjoy the coming-of-age genre of writing, particularly if it has a historical bent, and I felt it would be interesting for readers to see how the lives and thinking of White men whose formative years were conditioned by apartheid have moved on. I deliberately chose friends from very different backgrounds with contrasting life experiences to avoid the kind of stereotyping that has become so common in South Africa. While they do touch upon the grand themes of Covid like mortality, corruption, war and racial or other inequality, there’s a soupçon of everything; autobiography, humour, military history, recipes, feminism, poetry, sport, science... The writer of the tenth set of letters is related to South Africa only by marriage, but I couldn’t resist having a stand-up comedian make the final curtain call.

      The world and South Africa are in a dire situation, so most of us chose to write about topics that kept us upbeat and thinking resiliently. My memory map is now delightfully populated with funny, profound or thought-provoking vignettes: Mark Peters the war photo-journalist reflecting on how to attach freedom to his life; Joel Greenberg the baby boomer looking in the mirror and asking the real Joel to please stand up; Mervyn Stutter’s comedic Priapric Kevin with his hormone throbbing ardour; Graham Giles the legal beagle’s cautionary court room tales; Charl Hugo the law professor’s moving poem on the loss of a close mutual friend; Ian Downie the risk management specialist and Escoffier Disciple joyfully connecting through cuisine; Craig Hepburn the social entrepreneur’s passionate defence of the beautiful game; Glenn Caithness the teenage boy-next-door agonising over his girlfriends; Marc Leistner the former EU banker’s profundities on communication; and last – but not least – Mark Miles the all-rounder enthusiastically looking though Alice’s teeny, tiny looking glass at the delights of nanotechnology.

      Being one woman against 10 men I couldn’t resist the urge to press a few gender justice buttons. I have needled men in this way for years in search of the particular points at which pressure can be applied to bring about healing. So, in the interest of a non-partisan spirit, I will now poise my needle to pierce a few of my female readers. Suppression of heterosexual friendships is enforced mainly by the fairer sex, with more women than men looking askance at the crossing of this line in their social circle. Not being the covert or unfaithful type myself I struggle with the mindset that it is bad manners to find the ideas of another woman’s ‘significant other’ totally absorbing. Or indeed that it is indelicate to show a single man that you find him fascinating, unless you intend to flirt with him. While I do have many male friends, these archaic assumptions closed the door on quite a few friendships that would have greatly enriched my life, had they been ‘permitted’.

      I value my female friends who have close male friends, but they are definitely in the minority. So I have a question for women who don’t fall into this category: Why do so many of you have a male friend from the past who you miss, that you would like to communicate with, but don’t? Are we all children that platonic emotional attachment is so feared? Neanderthal notions of men seeing women as property, to be held separately from other men, lurk behind these attitudes. Ladies if you make the insulting assumption that all women can’t be trusted with men you are letting the sisterhood down. Of course there are black widow spiders out there, but inasmuch as you give every woman you know such labels (irrespective of their character), you are labelling yourself in the same way.

      It’s time for men and women to renegotiate the rules around heterosexual friendships. Letters are a very good place to start. If you feel the need to keep one foot on the floor to show you are chaste, letters intended for publication are likely to work for you. At the end of the book Leslie’s Guide for writing to men (or women) explains how you can use my templates and blame the idea on me when approaching the opposite sex to write. Real friendship between grownup men and women outside of the workplace may well be the golden key to women’s lib. It’s over to you now to open this door for yourself and for our children.

Warm regards,

Leslie

Part A: THE MEN’S LETTERS

1  Mark Peters

About Mark

I am an international motivational speaker, raconteur, war journalist and photographer based in Cape Town. I worked for the Johannesburg Star, the New York Times, LA Times, London Sunday Times, Chicago Tribune and finally Newsweek Magazine. I covered numerous wars, from Rhodesia (later Zimbabwe) to Afghanistan, and I have been sentenced to death three times in the line of my work.

(See www.markberrypeters.com)



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Cape of Good Hope

28 October 2021

Dear Mark,

      This is intimidating, what do I pitch first? The death threats you outfaced as a photo journalist in hotspots all over the world? Your iconic Newsweek cover photograph of Mandela coming out of prison after 27 years? Or Mark the debonaire ladies’ man, with your paradoxical devil-may-care chivalrous persona? Or maybe the you who slept rough as a bergie on Table Mountain to survive your life, versus the you who enjoyed a life of leisure as a gentleman wine farmer? I haven’t felt daunted about writing to the other men of letters so far. While the quality of my own writing strikes fear in my heart (whether it’s boring or hitting the wrong note) how to choose a subject for my opening letter to the others has always been easy. You have so many faces Mark, and all of them equally fascinating. Which to choose?

      Hmm. I think my first choice for subject would actually have to be your physical face, which is so absolutely the face of someone who has lived those experiences. Your face reads like the quintessential map of an extremely hard life spent peering into a terrifying abyss, with just enough balance not to fall in, to be able to reveal to others that the abyss really does exist. I would love to put that map somewhere in this book, so please would you think about someone taking that iconic photo. What do you think?

      I know you shun taking photos these days – even with your phone – but why let a lifetime of superlative skills go to waste? You could be the backseat driver and choose the location and composition. Ian strikes me as a good contender to take the shot, after a few glasses around his fire pit. Like you, he’s a man of many hidden parts, and his photos are as good as you get for an amateur. Who better than Ian to wine and dine you into the split seconds necessary to capture the essence of your unbelievably unusual soul off guard?

      My first choice of subject decided, what should I write about next to fill up the two pages I promised you? Hmm. I don’t know. I need someone with real expertise in understanding what people would want to read about you to help me decide. Aah, a strategy has come to me. I’m heading to the hairdresser shortly. Hairdressers are a woman’s version of a bartender. Like them, they work long hours on their feet plying their patrons with chemicals, listening closely while they bare their souls – be they merry or maudlin. The person a woman trusts her hair to is the person entrusted with her deepest secrets. Successful hairdressers are always very good company, and they are the specialists in understanding what women want to talk and think about. So I’m going to ask Allyson what female readers would most want to read about vis-à-vis you. Hopefully it will surprise you, and me!

      Right, my expert Allyson (black toenails, gold toe-ring, spunky short hair and diamond-studded glasses – the epitome of sixties and sexy) suggested off the cuff that you write about this:

What did the locals in the hotspots think of you, particularly the women, and how did they treat you, since they must have worried about you being a threat, or danger following in your wake?

Why you didn’t marry (or did you?)

What were the personal reasons for the big turning points in your life?

      Allyson had time to reflect more seriously on my question while I was at the basin. When I returned she added that she has plenty of friends who would really like to meet you, if you want their number. When I asked if I could quote her comments and name her in the book, she replied:

  All my friends know I am a straight shooter. So when they ask me something they know they are going to get the truth, whether they like it or not, and actually they respect me for that. So yes.

      So there you have it, from a woman with a lifetime of relevant experience: The above questions are what most women would want to know about you. Your call if either the photo or Allyson’s suggestions are where you want to go in your response. If not you are free to pitch what you write to the butcher, the baker, the banker or the candlestick maker, all of whom are probably pretending that personal issues and feelings are not what makes the world go round. Or pitch it like you would to your favourite bartender... but only if he’s as astute as Allyson.

Totally intrigued to get your response,

Leslie

Footnote

Bergies: An Afrikaans slang word referring to homeless people who shelter in the forests of Table Mountain.

Cape Town

8 February 2022

Dear Leslie,

      Wow! It’s the year 2022 and nothing state owned in South Africa functions above 1%. As for the postal service, a place for wholesale theft, surely it doesn’t exist. But here it is, an envelope with a 45 cent smiling Nelson Mandela stamp holding up the top right corner, its value smudged out by a dark official stain across Mandela’s head. My name and home address boldly hold centre stage. I ran my fingers gently over the front and back, felt nothing sinister then I took a good sniff and no unusual odour, all seemed good to go but just for good measure I gave it a 10 second blast in the microwave (not really!)

      What an amazing surprise to receive this letter from you Leslie, even if as an attachment to an email. How long has it been? I see your life has travelled along a good road, your children have excelled and have grown into adults holding outstanding qualities. You asked about my life? The only word that comes to mind is ‘lost’. How I wish I was 25 years old and could start all over again!

      After spending a year living as a homeless person on Table Mountain and through many lonely hours of cogitation, did I find what I was looking for? In fact, I already had an understanding I just did not know how to attach it to my life, it’s called freedom. Then one day while watching a surfing competition, a photographer let me look through his camera and my life’s destination light came on. For the next 20 years as a witness and a trained observer I entered into the role of a foreign journalist covering 16 wars, being sentenced to death three times, flying Concorde 5 times, hobnobbing with royalty, movie stars and famous politicians. I even attended the Seoul Olympic Games as an official member of the Swazi olympic team, the list rolls on.

      In my next letter I will go into more detail on the world events I have had the privilege to witness. Leslie, I would like to end this scribble with a short story that will forever ignite a memory soaked in sadness which will explain the spider web of furrows that have carved their way into my face.

      In April 1994 I arrived at Kigali, the capital of Rwanda, at the start of a barbaric genocide between the Hutus and the Tutsi’s the two dominant ethic clans in this small African country. I won’t go into too much detail of the scenes of slaughter unfolding in the city centre with both groups hacking each other to death with pangas, except to mention I rescued four of Mother Theresa’s order who were running from a mob hell bent on murder (nuns run like ducks). It was a very close call as I had to literally toss each one into my car as I made good our escape, a few panga strikes did hit the boot of the car.

      As the mayhem took over the country a million Hutus fled on foot for the Zaire border, so I decided to follow and photograph the slow-moving river of misery. At one point I noticed five women hitting a young girl with sticks so I departed from my vehicle to render assistance to the youth. Tossing a packet of biscuits to the ground next to the attackers, this did the trick as all hands abandoned causing injury with attention now turned to empty stomachs. As I approached the child I immediately understood the cause of the assault, emanating from her body was the nauseating stench of decaying human flesh. She had a dead baby in a blue towel attached to her back, but seeing a chance she slipped back into the human chain of suffering and disappeared. Later that day I crossed the border and entered Zaire, I am  not sure it could be called a border post, it was just a two roomed building sitting next to a single road with a steel boom forbidding entry. A kilometre up the road I booked into a guest house. Inside this high walled establishment guarded by a solid steel gate was a colonial homestead of Belgian design and attached to this structure was a 10 roomed guest wing with two large trees standing guard next to a beautiful rose garden. It truly was an oasis. Early next morning I lay on top of a two meter anthill watching the lead body of refugees standing stationary behind the steel boom about 45 meters in front of me, the queue behind them snaking its way towards a nearby large hill possibly three kms away and over the top and beyond.

      In Africa, never expect the norm. The first mortar shells exploded in the distance somewhere at the back of the line causing a shoulder to shoulder, side by side, all in agreement mass of human fear to begin to surge forward. I lay watching as the domino effect took hold and came crushing down the human path towards the crowded steel boom.

      Dust, lots of dust engulfed my ant built fortification. To my left and right moving, screaming howling, blurred grey shadows falling earthwards to join the crushed dead and hurt. I see two little boys pulling the arm of their mother, trying to wake the dead. All around me I see dead and dying, not a standing soul, I look for the tree, where is the tree? I had cased it out for an advantage spot but it had too much foliage and decided on the anthill. What’s that waving feebly to me at the base of what was 10 minutes ago a small tree? I stagger towards the tiny figure standing on soft dead people, ignoring the pleas for help from the injured people.

      I see it’s a young girl in her early teens, she’s sitting down leaning on the tree stump, as I get near her she lifts her filthy white dress to reveal she has just given birth. The  baby is still attached to the umbilical cord. With both mother and attached child cradled in my arms, I make my way gingerly through the human nightmare. People surround me, arms reach out, my load is lifted. My hands are sticky and covered with blood. I hear a baby cry, it’s a baby girl born in a stampede and yelling at life. Back in my room I shower, wash away the afterbirth, blood, sweat and dust, I realise it’s only 9am.

      A few hours later I ask the security guard to slide open the steel gate. I stand for a few minutes watching the human mass drudging along to Nowhereville. I go sit in the rose garden to write my notes when the security guard comes walking towards me, his hand is covering his mouth and nose, behind him is a young girl who is still carrying her blue towel. She hands me the bundle, she has no expression, her mind has switched off, the stench is unbearable as I flip the corner of the towel to expose a face of decay. An army of ants are moving from the mouth up and through both nostrils getting ready to do battle with a grumble of maggots who live in both open eyes. I take the child by the hand to the cleaning ladies who do the rooms, I issue instructions to wash, feed and look after her. A new dress is needed, so I hand over one of my T-shirts.

      The gate guard returns with a spade I asked for, I hit the soft flower bed like a man possessed. It takes less than 10 minutes to place the blue bundle into a four foot deep hole and refill it. In the early evening whilst zigzagging my way through a bottle of Jameson whiskey I return to my notes.

Title: A day in the life in the Rwandan genocide:

In the morning I saved a baby girl's life.

In the afternoon I buried a baby girl in a rose garden.

The names of both infants I do not know.

What I do know is it was one ‘very out of the ordinary day!’

      Leslie, I hope my story will resonate an understanding of the many facets that make up my life’s journey, looking back I can only describe my past emotions, the highs and lows by placing myself in an army patrol walking down a one way street and getting ambushed in a cul-de-sac of fire and being the sole survivor – ‘the story teller’.

Looking forward to receiving another letter in the near future, stay safe.

Your old friend,

Mark

Cape of Good Hope

7 March 2022

Dear Mark,

      Thanks for your letter, so much to ponder on. I don’t think the human psyche is built to withstand seeing the things you photographed over the years. When we lived in Umbogintwini in the late 1980’s a battle broke out in a poverty-stricken informal settlement between local and migrant workers. Our house was on a hill about a kilometre away overlooking it. Over one hundred people died violent deaths and more than 5000 dwellings were burned down in just over a week. I had three small children under five and was too afraid to go close to the violence, but the memory stayed with me my entire adult life, reminding me how little I really understand about joblessness and desperation. You would’ve understood this long before I did, through your year as a homeless person on Table Mountain. It gave you, I am sure, a much better education than any post-graduate degree in sociology on the subject.

      You write about one of your key experiences being in the context of Hutus fleeing, not Tutsis. I saw a movie recently about this, reminding me that the Rwandan tragedy wasn’t just about Tutsis suffering, but Hutus as well. Why are we so inclined to categorise people as right or wrong by group or ethnicity, rather than according to their personal conduct? I should imagine every war or genocide starts with an equal spread of good and bad people on each