Confessions of | a conference virgin...
The old hands say it has never been like this, too close to call, writes
IT DOESN’T matter how much you read about it, the actual experience is something totally different. The logistics alone of hosting more than 5 000 delegates, 1 000 journalists and all the support staff, from security to caterers and cleaners, is stupefying.
Here at Nasrec, the giant exhibition centre outside Soweto that’s cheek-by-jowl with the great calabash that hosted the start and end of the 2010 Fifa World Cup, it’s all running like clockwork.
Everyone is unfailingly polite, everything works – except the internet in the media lounge. It doesn’t work, then it does, then it’s slow. The place, a hall to the side of the huge complex is filled with journalists on Saturday, the first day of the conference.
It’s a little like the first day of school: there’s a lot of back-slapping and hugs, and then there’s people on the side looking a little lost, ready to burst into tears – I’m one of them. I’m a conference virgin. It’s strange; there have been six since I first began working as a journalist in 1991: Durban, Bloemfontein, Mahikeng, Stellenbosch, Polokwane, Bloem and now Nasrec, near Soweto. I’ve never attended one, but the ramifications have affected my life – all of ours, in fact.
The conferences, originally a convocation of the faithful, rubber-stamping policy and anointing leaders, have morphed into a real-life House of Cards, culminating in Polokwane and the ascent of Jacob Zuma as party president and the unseating of Thabo Mbeki.
By the time Bloemfontein rolled around, House of Cards was segueing into Game of Thrones, with pretenders to the presidency getting skewered. Now we’re at Nasrec. The old hands say it has never been like this, never so close to call, never so tense.
The hacks, scribblers, bloggers, TV schlebs are all, literally, corralled in opulence, it must be said: white settees, stools, coffee tables and patio furniture lavishly garnished green, gold and black, from flags to posters and scatter cushions. There is no access to the delegates whatsoever. Plenary, the open session, is closely guarded, it has to be.
This year, joked Zizi Kodwa, the party’s national chairperson, there was initially almost one journalist/media worker for every two delegates. The numbers submitted for electronic accreditation were cut down to more manageable numbers by the media houses themselves. The final figure is supposed to be 1 000. It’s still a lot, and not everyone can get into plenary.
It doesn’t matter because there are TVs dotted all over the lounge. The only difficulty is the schizophrenia of having ANN7 on one TV and the TV immediately behind it being tuned to SABC. When they broadcast live, there’s a bizarre, almost hallucinogenic echo, made even worse just before the opening of the conference and the procession of associated priests, pastors, gurus and shamans invoking supernatural and divine intervention for everything from peace to unity and goodwill to all.
The Wi-Fi that had been problematic is now first class after the technicians arrived and installed so many routers that the roofs of the little offices that the media groups have against the walls of the lounge look like a Joburg northern suburbs street, all high walls and CCTV cameras. It’s obviously something the hacks who have plenary access have wised up to.
By the time Zuma is halfway through his mammoth 6 625-word speech, many of those who had plenary access are back in the lounge feverishly typing away, pausing to listen to the speech.
It’s hectic, old-school journalism. The conference has been delayed for almost five hours because of the urgent meeting of the national executive committee (NEC) to discuss the ramifications of the hat-trick of court decisions on Friday barring entire prov- incial executive committees, an assortment of branches and scores of delegates from attending.
Newspaper deadlines don’t wait for anyone; they certainly don’t respect the niceties of political conferences. Afterwards, a calm descends. The deadlines have passed and now the conference is locked down as the delegates discuss the NEC’s decision of how to implement the various legal rulings.
It’s crucial stuff, literally down to the wire, because every vote will be needed, even though the two opposing camps of Cyril Ramaphosa and Nkosazana Dlamini Zuma are exuding confidence.
There’s no resolution by Saturday night. Eventually, the debates are adjourned just after midnight and the delegates are sent home, or to their hotels.
When we arrive the next morning, we’re preparing for the doldrums; a day of closed debate and even less access to sources among the delegates.
An old, seasoned reporter thinks back to his days at Polok- wane.
“It was different then,” he muses, “we stayed in the same hotels, we ate meals with them, we drank with them, we knew what was going on.”
This time, though, there’s no chance. There’s a corridor that passes through the media area between the delegates’ area. It’s made up of crowd control fencing, folded in by police and ANC security when the delegates move between the dining area and the hall. All we can do is peer forlornly at them as they pass through. They don’t look at us. Nobody speaks.
Then, in the middle of the morning, there’s a hubbub. An unscheduled press conference. It’s short and to the point. The credentials have been accepted, there’s a bit of party stuff to be thrashed out in the closed session – like the rules for the rest of the conference – and then there will be the nominations, which will be in public.
They were set to vote last night. South Africa could well wake up to a brand-new ANC leadership today.
LOUNGE LIZARD