Freedom

On July 18, 1918 in Mvezo, South Africa, a child was born. He was named Rolihlahla, which means “pulling the branch of a tree” in Xhosa. More commonly it is translated as “Troublemaker”. Rolihlahla earned that appellation many times over. 

Rolihlahla was the first in his family to go to school and, typical of the time, was given a Christian name there - Nelson. After completing his primary and secondary education, he went to Fort Hare, the only university that admitted blacks at the time. True to his moniker, it didn’t take long for trouble to find him. He was expelled for taking part in student protests and fled to Johannesburg. It was there that he was initiated into the life of politics that would consume him for the rest of his days.

By 1942, Nelson joined the African National Congress (ANC). He studied law and took every opportunity to speak for the rights of blacks. When the National Party formerly ushered in Apartheid (racial classification and separation) in 1948, he organized protests and strikes. The government noticed. They issued bans, arrests and jail time, but it didn’t stop him. 

In 1964, Nelson was sent to prison on Robben Island. He steadfastly believed in his cause and touted it until his release in 1990. Undeterred by the long years in prison, he commenced talks to end white-minority rule with President F.W. de Klerk. They earned him the Nobel Peace Prize in 1993. By 1994, Nelson Mandela was elected South Africa’s first black president. 

The troublemaker finally made good.

***

This was my historical fiction submission for my creative writing class this week, I felt compelled to share it today, as it was a momentous day in Nelson Mandela's life; he was finally released from prison on February 11th, 1990 after spending 27 years behind bars.

Nelson Mandela believed in the equality of people, no matter their skin colour, and made enormous sacrifices for those beliefs. In so doing, he realized his goals, as Apartheid was struck down in theory by 1991. The multi-racial elections in 1994 were the true celebrations of its end though, as Mandela himself was elected President. What a reward for everything he had done. He was truly a brave and noble figure and accomplished all without inciting racism to battle racism, or bloodshed to vindicate shed blood.

South Africa, and indeed the world, is richer for having had Madiba in it.

- 46664 -

Nelson Mandela, Speech from the Dock, 20 April 1964

“I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die.”

The Trip Home

The last of my days in Africa slipped through my fingers. We returned to Cape Town and I managed to sneak in a few more visits here and there. I visited with my cousin Greg, went out to my aunt’s house for a last cup of tea with her and enjoyed a final braai with my uncle’s clan. It was heart-wrenching to let go of the continent, that I felt like I was just beginning to get to know, but it was also time. I had been gone for ten months and my homeland called to me. I longed to see my mother’s face, to feel my sister’s hug and to hear my friend’s excited banter. To know that this new continent that I had come to love would be so far away in a matter of days was bewildering, but acceptance tamed my qualms. It had to.

A phone call arranged a layover in Germany to visit with an old dear friend on my return flight. I would have a week to decompress and adjust to life away from Africa, before winging back to Canadian shores. It all felt so lacklustre, but I tried to muster up a little excitement at the prospect of seeing a long-lost friend and catching up on her life and times. I wondered though, how I would process stepping onto European soil after my earthy African adventures that spanned the southern half of the continent. Europe would be like a different world. Of course Canada would be an adjustment all over again the week later.

For now though, I tried to imprint every image, taste, feel and smell of this land that had gotten under my skin. The concept of leaving was akin to abandoning a homeland that I dearly loved and feared I would never see again. Africa was home to my soul and I ached at the thought of leaving. The fates refused to give me reason to stay though and I begrudgingly packed the last of my things, adding last minute trinkets to my battered backpack to keep Africa close forever.

On August 29^th the last full moon arose to wish me adieu to the continent of my dreams. The following day, I drove to the airport with kin that would forever hold a piece of my heart. With a few strings pulled, I was upgraded to the luxury of Business Class and slid into the ample seat with a sad sigh. A flight attendant materialized with a champagne glass topped off with orange juice and a smile. I peered out the window of the plane, tipped my glass to Table Mountain and let a tear slide down my cheek in farewell. I was going home, but leaving a heart-space behind. All the moments that I had lived in this amazing continent seared into my brain as the jumbo jet lifted off the ground. Just like my first flight, there would be no sleep on the return journey. With aching soul, I left a piece of me behind, but more importantly, took a bigger piece of Africa with me. It would always be, and continues to this day, to be a part of my heart. 

Looking North

“The spring flowers are a sight to behold,” promised my uncle.

He didn’t have to sell me on one last excursion though. The suggestion alone was all that was required to convince me, and with that I was travelling again. This time, I was in the back seat of my aunt and uncle’s car though and we were headed to Springbok to stay with my cousins for a few days. I would not have to carry my pack, nor stand at the side of the road in hopes that a ride would soon materialize. And I certainly did not have to worry about anyone’s hands or where they tried to put them. That was an adventure much more to my liking.

Namaqualand was well worth the drive as well. Just as my uncle had promised, the desert had blossomed into a multi-coloured patchwork of blooms. Orange, purple, yellow and white flowers filled the eye, as far as one could see. We wandered up on the dusty hillside behind Anne and Pieter’s house, but the trip to Namaqua National Park blew me away. Everywhere I looked, the daisies turned their pretty faces to the sun and I was in awe. The normal brown and dusty green shoots that struggled to exist during the rest of the year, exploded into a brief, brilliant rainbow after winter rains gave them a fleeting taste of life. Just as quickly though, those blossoms would be gone, burned away by the hot South African summer sun. During those few days in August, I was blessed to behold the desert miracle of life for its season of rebirth and renewal. The pictures I snapped were flat compared to the beauty I was surrounded by. I took them anyway though.

One prickly plant drew my eye in the midst of the blanketed foliage. Where most of the other plants were tucked close to the ground, Pachypodium namaquanum stood tall, if not quite erect. When I asked my uncle about the curious cacti, he gave one of his hearty laughs and launched into a tale of folklore about it.

“Do you see the bend at the top of it,” he asked.

“Of course, but what of it,” I wondered.

“So the story goes, a local tribe was being driven South by another bloodthirsty tribe. Attacked and suffering in numbers, they retreated from their homeland and made their way towards the Richtersveld mountain desert. In grief, a few of their numbers turned back to gaze North towards their former homeland. The Gods felt sorry for these poor folks and turned them into halfmens, the plants you see there. In that way, they could always gaze towards their homeland and find some small comfort in the view,” he explained. “The halfmens always grow with their tips bending north.”

I listened to his tale and stared at the tree. It was a delightfully sad tale and one that resonated with me, as I gazed North towards my own homeland. The picture taken that day will stay with me forever.

A Lifetime

I signed back into Bob’s and was greeted by Terry’s familiar face. “You have returned,” he exclaimed. Yup, I made it. I was back in downtown Cape Town for a last foray around the city, before heading to the suburbs and my aunt and uncle’s house. It was nice to step into a familiar place again and be welcomed by a known face.

“You’ve put on weight,” Terry continued. “It looks good.” His eyes dipped briefly to the most obvious spot that the aforementioned weight had landed. Yes, my thread-bare bra was now stretched to the max.

“Yeah right,” I thought, but could not deny it. My chubby cheeks and straining pants were a tell-tale sign that not everyone is starving in Africa. The many days and nights spent in the passenger seat of a travelling truck had taken their toll. Not to mention all the food that I had scarfed along route. In fact, before hitting the hostel, I had stopped for breakfast at Nino’s. I decided that I deserved to splurge on breakfast after surviving the questionable transportation I had endured over the last month. A R20 English breakfast was no match for this eating machine and my servers were thoroughly impressed. The only thing left was a mere croissant, which I slipped into my bag to save for later. The lady can eat folks!

I made a mental note to cut back on the carbs when I finally hit Canadian soil again. And yes, a little exercise might not hurt either, especially after watching the arm on the scale swing wildly back and forth under my tread. Even with my shoddy conversion of kilograms into pounds, I was shocked to note that I was the heaviest I had ever been in my life. No wonder all I wore was my stretchy peasant skirt! Could I really have ballooned up to 70 kg? It was definitely time for some exercise.

With that in mind, I stowed my pack and headed out to walk around the city. Over the days that followed, I wandered through art galleries, perused the Cape Town Museum in a downpour, did some last minute shopping on my limited budget and even managed to hook up with my cousin Greg to say hello. I desperately tried to cram in as much culture as I could in my remaining hours. 

Now that the days were numbered though, the hours flew by. I realized that I would not make it to the top of Table Mountain, nor out to wander around Robben Island. There was time enough to visit with relatives, and as that was the reason why I came to South Africa in the first place, I returned to the arms of my kin. Indeed, when I returned to Brackenfell, my father’s brother greeted me with all the warmth he possessed, as if we had known each other my whole life, versus the short few months that I had been on the African continent.

In the grand scheme of things though, I suppose that my life in Africa was a lifetime in and of itself. 

Dark Passenger

The dark stole over us all of a sudden like, as seemed to be the way in Africa. Springbok lay behind us, but Cape Town was still a long way to go. I was committed now. There was no turning back and the night made sure of that. The highway was no place for idle hitchhikers after dark, so for better or worse, I was Mango’s passenger for the night.

When dinner became a memory and eyes fought for purchase to stay open, I began to release the day. I was not the only one who fought a battle with sleep though. I tried to chat with Mango to keep us both awake, but conversation gradually ceased and we drove along in silence. Reflective tape flashed towards us in the dark. My eyelids bobbed under the mesmerizing display, dangerously close to staying shut, until Mango’s voice jarred me awake.

“I am going to stop,” he announced. "I need to sleep."

“You’re the boss,” I thought, as I nodded in agreement. The truck geared down and eased to the side of the road for a much needed break for both of us.

We were in the middle of nowhere. No lights twinkled in the distance, near or far, that I could see. While there could have been people hidden in the depths of the dark, essentially we were alone.

“Do you want to join me,” Mango half-heartedly suggested. “No charge for the ride?”

This is what I had been dreading and hoping against hope would not happen. I was instantly awake and tense.

“No,” I stated

“Sure?” he pushed, but I shook my head emphatically. He waited a second and then lay down. He flipped over with his back to me, apparently unconcerned by my rejection. I remained rigid in the passenger seat. Long after Mango slept, I listened for his even breathing, to assure me that I too was safe to snooze. Needless to say, it was not a sound sleep that night.

Before morning light, we were rolling along again. The sky outside my window was steely gray and rain broke on the windshield as we drove. My eyes were dry and gritty from having slept in my contact lenses, but Cape Town approached. After spending almost 24 hours in the truck with Mango, he geared down once again. Where the N1 and N7 intersected, I lit from the truck into the pouring rain. I thanked him for the ride, gave him the promised money and watched him drive away.

Within minutes two lovely ladies stopped to scoop me out of the downpour. Next stop: downtown Cape Town. After 9 ½ months of meandering here and there between Cape Town and Lamu, my travelling days were finally at an end.  

Playing the Enemy: Nelson Mandela and the Game that Made a Nation

Playing the Enemy: Nelson Mandela and the Game that Made a Nation;
by John Carlin
(© John Carlin 2008; Penguin Books, 288 pages)

"One Team, One Country"; the slogan that brought the 1995 Springboks to victory on the rugby field, and more importantly, brought a country back together again, united under a new colourful flag as ONE people. Not an easy feat, and one that took years to bring to fore, but done with a compassion and panache that only one man could manage; Nelson Mandela.

"Playing The Enemy" is a book about rugby, but as the story unfolds, it holds so much more. Not one to follow rugby myself, I wondered if this month's book club pick would hold much interest for me. By the end, I felt like I was there in the stands as the final game was played on June 24, 1995. I was on the edge of my seat rooting for the boks with all my heart, aware that this game was so much bigger than just a mere rugger game. This game, played on the world stage, was a key piece in the defining moment of healing wounded South Africa's national pride. Every breathe in the nation was held and every eye was keenly aware that the game played was more than sport, but in fact symbolic on so many levels. The triumph of the day was ecstatically sweet, but moreso a triumph over old ignorance, mistrust, and hatred.

The final game would not have held such importance though, if not for South Africa's long and sordid history with apartheid. In 1948 laws were put in place to legally separate the races. Black people were restricted in their movement around cities, and in their rights as a whole. As their restrictions mounted, violence escalated and trade embargoes were meted out by nations around the world in protest to the barbaric laws and policies in South Africa. The sanctions against South Africa even went so far as to ban their sports teams on an international field. The Africaans beloved rugby was grounded. 

One man watched from a jail cell, as his nation slowly collapsed under the weight of its oppressions. That man was Nelson Mandela.

Nelson Mandela was a high-ranking member of the African National Congress (ANC) when he was arrested in 1962 and convicted of sabotage. He was sent to prison at Robben Island off the coast of Cape Town, along with several other political prisoners, and remained there for the next eighteen of his twenty seven years of imprisonment. In the book, Mandela's tale is picked up in 1985, when he started the negotiations that began the process of liberating himself and his country. 

John Carlin skillfully relates the details of Mandela's struggles to bring his country together, united as one. Carlin paints a picture of the embattered humanitarian, learning about his captors and their world. The Africaans people begin as an anomaly, but through mastering their language, and learning more about them as a whole, Mandela recognizes that they are people too, scared and not unlike himself. Through skillful negotiations, he gently builds relationships with the white world, that ultimately leads to breaking down the walls and laws of apartheid. 

Well aware before picking up this book that apartheid existed and had ended, what I loved about Carlin's story was his mastery in bringing the human emotion to the story from so many viewpoints. As I poured through the pages, I learned more about the delicate relationships that Mandela crafted, and I found tears in my eyes more than once. So much pain existed in this war-torn country, but Mandela was able to bring the races together as one in a heartfelt victory for the entire nation. He allowed blacks, whites, and all people in between to let go of their hurts and embrace each other as brothers. With Carlin's words, I wept at their hard-won and very deserving victory. 

I leave you with the South African national anthem sung at the 1995 rugby game that brought a nation back together again, via the strong figure of Nelson Mandela. Thank you for sharing this story Mr. Carlin. I truly enjoyed it.

Showing a Little Leg

Settling back into the familiar setting of Sable Lodge, I reflected on the last few days.  The warm sun shone on me again, as I lazed poolside thinking about what direction my life would spin in now. Brett and I had finally sold Arnie and made our way back up to Harare. It wasn’t near as comfortable a ride, but the taste of new adventure whetted both our appetites for life on the road again. The road was a different thing entirely now.

How did we make our way back to Harare without our beloved van to chug along in, you wonder? Why, by hitchhiking of course! Dear Brett used me as a pawn to attract attention, pushing me closer to the roadway and encouraging a little leg. Nasty bugger, but it worked. We got a ride in Pietersburg that took us as far as Louis Trichardt. Standing beside the highway, we bumped into another traveler that we had met hitching back in Pietersburg. On this section of the journey, we shared a lift with our new friend Deon. Since they had both been pushing for me to flag down a ride for us, I got the luxury of the front of the bakkie, while they got to ride in the back of the pickup wearing every sweater they owned and tucked into their sleeping bags to keep warm. Seemed only fair. Teehee! Mind you, I did have to play up my “relationship” with Brett to keep Alex, the driver, away from pawing at my knees, and beyond! No matter. We arrived in Harare late that night and Deon was good enough to put us up for the night at his apartment. He even cooked us steak and eggs for breakfast. A treat for us poor lot who had been subsisting on dry noodle soup, and peanut butter for the last while.

 With our first taste of hitchhiking behind us, I was able to relax a bit on my constant worried path of where the future would take me. The sun felt good poolside and I smiled at the possibilities that lay before me. A glance at my watch made me realize that for right now, it was time to go though. After leaving Deon’s apartment that morning, we had settled back into our makeshift Harare home at the Sable Lodge. Deon had made us promise that we would return that afternoon to join him and his roommate for a home cooked meal and some TV viewing. As the television had been a foreign object for a long while now, we couldn’t resist. Making a plan for where we would head next could wait for another day, but the Simpsons were a luxury that just couldn’t wait. 

Goodbye Arnie

Pietersburg was a town. It had the same amenities you would find in most small-towns in North American; bank, grocery store, gas station. Nothing special. No terribly interesting tourist sites to explore. No handy game parks to scour for ferocious animals. No real reason to go there except for our present one; to sell the van.

We had hit our last stop with Arnie. We crossed the border back into South Africa and travelled to the closest spot to part ways with our last travelling companion. Pietersburg wasn’t far from the border and was big enough to support the potential sale of our van. It wasn't beautiful, but we hoped  it would fill our needs.

 We found a campground on the edge of town and set up camp for the last time. We picked up a few supplies, but were loathe to buy too much, as we would be carrying everything on our backs from here on out. Brett and I packaged and shipped off any souvenirs or other valuables that we wanted to keep, but did not want to schlep around. We needed our camping gear until the van was sold, but it too would go. My sleeping bag would stay with me, but our tent was a luxury that neither of us wanted to carry. It all had to go.

With our possessions thrown out of the van, we drove Arnie to a little carpark that we had heard about. A South African family that was camping across from us had suggested it as a good place to sell the van. Arnie was too old to try to sell to a dealership. Parking the van at the side of the highway with a sign in the window was presented as our best option. It had good potential to be bought and used to transport hordes of people as a local taxi. It seemed a sad fate, after all the love we had pumped into our dear van, but it was time to part ways. We needed the money and that was what Arnie represented now. He would fetch a better penny now too, as the South African family re-wired the ignition system. It would seem that it was not the starter motor at all that caused us to have to push Arnie for the last two months, rather faulty wiring. Within five minutes, they had fixed our ignition woes and installed a new set of spark plugs. No more push starts! Miraculous! It was like being in a brand new van!

“Nevermind,” we told ourselves with sheepish grins. We would now get more money to line our pockets with and memories we could laugh about forever.

A big Thank you! was offered to our new friends. They were a warm hearted lot that you could tell would offer the shirts off their backs. That was, only as long as you were the right colour. We were definitely back in South Africa and the racial tensions were glaringly apparent once again. It was difficult to justify the strong beliefs that were everywhere, but I tried to  just be thankful for the kindnesses of the moment. I could not paint all the people I met with evil brush strokes just because I did not believe in their thought patterns, so I let it go as best I could.

We washed and polished Arnie better than he had ever looked and dropped him off near the highway for his Show and Shine. A box of wine was our reward and final celebration to a remarkable journey. It was also our Easter celebration and we dined like kings on instant noodle soup and tomatoes. The wine and conversation flowed until the thread was lost. At some point, my bladder roused me from a sleep I don’t remember falling into. Crawling out of the tent, I could see the sky beginning to lighten and I knew that it was going to be a long day. I was pretty sure it was not going to be a good one either.

The bright side is that the hangovers that punished us that day served to give us something to do with the idle hours of waiting. Laughter was scant and a painful ordeal, but I didn’t have much mirth as I crawled from shade patch to shade patch with groans or occasionally made the longer trek across the campsite for water. Food might have saved me, but the box of wine that still sloshed a little, offered its accusations by its shockingly empty state. There was plenty good reason for my sour and heaving stomach. No amount of swearing off booze would save that day, but blissfully the sun eventually sank back into the horizon again. I would survive. My prayers and dreams for that night centered on a speedy sale of the van, so that we could leave Pietersburg and its rowdy memories behind.

The Peace is Broken

We piled into our baby blue, hippie love van and sailed away from Port St Johns. The days could have quite easily flown by into eternity on its shores, but the road called to us. Feet were itchy and adventure awaited around a new bend in the road. The road that we pointed Arnie down followed the same path along the coastline. The destination was nothing like what we had come across thus far though. We left behind a quiet, rustic, caught in time village surrounded by the rural countryside. We entered Durban, said to be the urban capitol of the area. It is the third largest city in South Africa and has the busiest port in Africa. Traffic lights and high rises clogged busy roads with the din of city life. A vibrant Indian population was a new and interesting sight to behold. This part of Africa was a new experience for us all.

Our first stop was of course to the beaches that touted some of the best surfing around. With the competition of several surfers per wave, the experience was more akin to the familiar swells back home in Australia for our man Brett. Gone were the quiet beaches he had surfed alone or with a small handful of others. Here aggression reared its ugly head, as competition for the best curls was fierce. Miki and I walked the Golden Mile and splashed in the warm ocean waters. Brett took a break and came to sit with us for a spell, but soon enough headed back out to the swells. Taro wandered off to explore our new domain in his own way. After peacefully floating along in our idyllic setting in the Transkei, we all felt a bit out of whack in this boisterous city. The tension seemed to be everywhere, including amongst our little band of travelers. We had been in close quarters for long enough that we all needed some space. It was only a matter of time before we were all exploring this new metropolitan city in our own ways, alone.

I headed out from our home at the Banana Backpackers to gather supplies and discover what intrigues Durban held. I marveled at the mixture of mosques, readily apparent Indian heritage sites, the heavy black population, and of course the smattering of whites around. Here they seemed to mix reasonably well, unlike in some of the other  places we had seen. I delighted in my freedom to wander wherever my feet took me. There was a certain underlying tension that seemed to fill the spaces around me, but I drifted along confidant in the peace that I had attained from our last sojourn. That peace was about to hit a jarring halt.

I returned to the hostel from my wanders about the city to relax and catch up on letters and my journal. As I reclined in the airy courtyard, a commotion caught my attention. A man stumbled in breathing heavily and seemingly dazed. He was a guest at the hostel and someone ran over to see what was wrong. He was weaving on his feet and it quickly became apparent that something had happened to him. He was lowered to the floor and that was when I noticed the blood. Another traveler pushed in to the growing circle around the injured man and took charge. An ambulance was called. The shirt that had blood creeping across it was cut open to reveal a stab wound to the man’s shoulder. Cloth materialized that the angel cloaked in a travelling medical aide’s guise, used to try to staunch the wound that threatened to fill the courtyard with the injured  man’s life-force. A friend of the fallen took the man’s camera that still clung around his neck.  A story emerged  of this blithe tourist that had wandered the city in broad daylight taking in all that the city had to offer and being attacked just blocks from our hostel. He was knocked down, kicked about and stabbed in the shoulder, the last unbeknownst to himself at the time. With his camera still intact, it would seem that robbery was not the motive for the attack. What was, no one could say. After an appalling 45 minutes, an ambulance finally arrived to whisk the fallen traveler away for treatment. An air of heavy spirits settled on all those around that lasted through the rest of the day. The space where the man had lain was avoided, as if bad spirits still lingered there. Unease took over our little band of travelers.

As we recounted the events of the afternoon, other stories emerged regarding other’s experiences of the city. Miki had spied two people struggling in an alleyway the day before, one with a gun in hand. Taro had seen two fights involving bloodshed that very day. Even Brett had witnessed a scuffle. Our illusion of peace and security that we had fostered in the Transkei was broken. We were faced with the realities of violence that were commonplace in this struggling country. This gave evidence to all the horror stories that had been droned into us from so many. We could not ignore it or pooh-pooh the tales any more. Unease set in and we listed the last of the tasks we had to accomplish before we could move on. No one felt like staying on in Durban much longer. It was time to go.

Before we could make our plans and set our destinations, another twist was thrown into our travelling midst though. This one came from amongst us. With little surprise, but some regret Taro decided to part ways with us. He had come with us from Cape Town, but had not entirely committed to the journey with us from the get go. He opted not to go in on the purchase of the van with us and now opted not to continue with us. Travelling with his sister had been wonderful, but also difficult. She smothered him, and he worried her over seemingly obtuse decision making. Neither party was unscathed in their criticisms of each other and their relationship had become noticeably strained. Before anger got the best of them, Taro decided to make his way on his own. The decision pained Miki, but we all understood. We went for a last supper together and offered fierce hugs to our erstwhile companion. His big heart would be missed. His space in the van did not remain vacant though. As we pulled away from the waving Taro, a new hand waved farewells in the form of a German traveler by the name of Oliver. We four headed East and looked towards better karma and a new country.

My Homeland?

Being in Port St. Johns allowed me to stop and think. We had been travelling  with frequent stops for the previous month. We hugged the coastline stopping at little surf towns, so that our Aussie surfer dude, Brett, could jump out and catch a wave whenever he spied one. The game parks of Tsitsikamma and Addo sported sighting of elephants, black-backed jackals, kudus, vervet monkeys, tortoises, ostriches,  bush bucks and even a rare white rhino at Addo! We met locals who were generally hospitable. I had a chance to visit with cousins in Port Elizabeth that I had met briefly for the first time at Christmas. All of these things were accomplished in a matter of hours or a scant few days. It was exciting and exhilarating, but also exhausting. We pulled into Port St Johns and stopped. We were there  for two weeks. It was a time to relax and process the journey thus far.

Before leaving Canada, I had done a little research on South Africa. I had exchanged letters with my uncle and connected with my aunt. I was aware that apartheid had been a significant part of South Africa’s history. I had heard the song “Sun City”  and watched the video by  Artists United Against Apartheid. I knew that Nelson Mandela had been released from jail and that he was even elected to the position of  President the year before I arrived.  I felt marginally prepared to embrace this new country to me; my homeland. These were all small snippets of the true reality of the country though. As a visitor to the country, I was able to hear some people’s stories, but could not truly understand the reality that had been lived in the climate of fear that had officially reigned for 46 years (it had been part of the micro-climate for many years before that though). My Father had been born and raised in South Africa. His was a reality of segregation of the races. The fact of his white skin gave him privileges not afforded to others of black, mixed or Indian backgrounds. I did not know him and was not able to hear his stories about his childhood in a fractured and violent environment. I had to make do with the tales I heard on the road.

My South African relatives cautioned me by saying “Don’t go off the main roads onto any dirt roads and DON’T pick up any hitchhikers! Be really careful. Call us every once in a while to let us know that you are okay. We would hate to have to tell your Mom that we let anything happen to you.”

I heard “You haven’t lived here, so you don’t know how it is.” A fact that I cannot deny.

An overheard conversation between one of my travelling companions and a German man expressed anger, “The violence is exaggerated!” “You can see the fear in the white population.” “I feel safer walking around here, than I do in some American cities.” All statements made whilst in the middle of the Transkei.

From  yet others, “They are lazy.”

“The maids steal from you,” was a truism put forth from a white woman that had fear written all over her face.

From a white man living in the Transkei for eleven years, I heard that the reputation of violence that the area had was not fully deserved. The incidents of violence existed, but not to the extent that was advertised. The Transkei tried to set up a system of self-government to a certain degree, but the government was just a puppet to the federal government. There was unrest and negative reactions to the white populace in the area. This is where the horror stories started. It was a backlash against the injustices meted out by the white government. The Transkei was a black homeland. The blacks took it back. He happily lived and worked there though.

My experiences in the Transkei did not reflect this violence. I found people friendly, with smiles and hellos prevalent as you passed them in the street.  As I bathed one morning on our hike, I looked up to see cows wander  past. The (black) shepherd that was tending them smiled and waved shyly as he followed his cattle.  I felt it was a beautiful moment that struck through all the horror stories that had been rained upon me. I felt cleansed in body and mind. I know that atrocities happened in ugly numbers and that fostered a state of fear and anger in the population. In my transient way, I tried to understand and move through this world the best that I could.

Stoep in Rain

Here is my attempt at concrete poetry from many moons ago. I thought it was quite clever at the time. I share it here as an addition to my African tale, as it was written in Port St Johns, South Africa. I  will also include it over at Jingle's to see if anyone appreciates my whimsy at Jingle's Poet's Rally. I will transliterate below;

Green, leafy

STOEP in RAIN.

Pine tree Sprinkled

with moisture

D

   O

      W

          N

at the 

Beach.

Grey clouds

Sque tears ezing

on

ME.

Wet F o o t p r i n t s

Trace 

THE PATH

2

The Toilet Bowl

I spent a lot of time thinking and creativity came back to me a spell while in this tranquil locale. I would suggest it in a heart beat for anyone wishing to travel in a quiet kind of way with nature on your doorstep and all around. 

Enkosi means Thank You

In Port St. John’s, I discovered Africa. A new Africa, that I had not seen yet. A black Africa, where white faces were a minority in visibility and actual numbers. We entered the Transkei. I had been forewarned of going into the district from relatives and white faces we met in our travels. We were told not to stop, pick up hitch hikers, drive on dirt roads and God forbid an accident occurred and we hit something; again the message was to NOT STOP! For anything. It was dangerous and full of unrest, was the message that was drilled into us. With some trepidation, we did stop though. And for that I will be forever grateful.

Port St John’s is on the coast of the Indian Ocean in the middle of Pondoland. It is considered to be a traditional black homeland and as such, has a very limited white population. The language was another new one to me, so communication with the locals was limited to sign language and what little English they could get by with. Even with that, I felt the difference here though. For two weeks we made the area our home, and it was a beautiful, lush and peaceful place. We stayed in a hostel that was five kilometers from a beautiful beach, full of sand and shells. The town had a traditional market, “Take-Aways” aplenty, a more “formal” supermarket and a bank, if you were willing to stand in the long and very slow line. My van mate Taro even discovered that the Town Hall played movies and he attended with a few local youths that he befriended. They became fast friends and spent several days together just doing and being whatever they liked and required.

I found a measure of quiet, that I sorely needed to recharge my tattered soul. I made new friends and acquaintances.  I discovered a new faith in the country that struggled with its identity after so many years of apartheid and unrest. It was a simple place steeped in tradition. Labelled rustic by some, I found it quaint and it stole my heart. Many words flowed from me as I sat  by candle light. A hike to a waterfall, spawned a longer hike along the Wild Coast Trail. For four days we hiked through back country. We skirted deep, dark chasms, jumped from boulders to rocks, waded through tall, waving fields of grasses and discovered magical streams to take the sting out of burning, sun-baked skin. This was topped off by spending the last night in a traditional rondavel with a Xhosa family that fed us in the manner that they were accustomed to. We slept on the ground in our sleeping bags surrounded by stray dogs and scattered chickens. We were fed rice, samp (beans), mussels  and fish from the ocean we had just been hiking beside. We were steeped in the smiles of the locals. The children seemed to have such an amazingly pure energy and joy of life that was contagious. You could not help but wave and carry on the smiles that they handed out so freely. Those smiles buoyed me up and the simplicity around me made me appreciate all I had and knew. It was a far cry from our previous stops in Port Elizabeth, Addo National Park and East London and that was a good thing.

*Enkosi means Thank You in Xhosa, one of South Africa's Eleven official languages. I noted that was the only word I picked up in Xhosa in a post card written home

Here is a link to Miriam Makeba singing the Click Song in Xhosa.

The Dassie

I sat on the rooftop watching the night sky without seeing a star. I sat staring out the window of the moving van, missing all the wonders of the world that travelled by me. I sat crumpled on cold boulders waiting for the tears to come and willing the ocean’s power to absolve my aches. I sat and sat and sat.

The day before we left, I had made a phone call across the oceans, that was inspired by dreams of home. That phone call stole my breath away, as my not-forgotten mate had been heavy on my mind. The receiver had burned in my grip, as a picture was painted of my lover in another’s arms. The phone had seemed to jump from my hand and swung loosely, as my feet lead me away into the night. Anger swarmed me from all sides, but I walked out of its grip. Where I walked, I do not know. My lack of excitement at exploring this new land matched the gray horizons that I woke to. I had no heart to move forward and be, so just sat staring at the world around me through glazed eyes. On one hand, I had expected something like this, but on another I was shocked still. The days that had passed had presented me with offers. I had battled away from them, not sure where I was leading my travelling heart. Now it seemed obvious that I had orchestrated this all along, and I wondered what direction I was to move in next. Africa held my heart excitedly in its grip and beckoned me to stay today, tomorrow and forever more. I was numb. I let the world come and present to me what it would. It did not disappoint. A misty morning found some friends to keep me company on my last day in Mossel Bay before heading off down the coast to Jeffery’s Bay.

Dassie

Hello furry friends.

You come to smile at me.

You see a tear

Hang in my eye

“Pray disappear,”

I hear you cry.

But I must leave.

The porridge calls

And tea so cold

Will never go.

But blessed be you

For coming by.

You heard me sob.

You heard me cry.

I needed a friend

And this you knew.

The morning starts.

I say goodbye,

But I’ll hold you dear

For the silent hug of mine.

Go well.

Stay well.

Fly away

Cape Town faded into the distance behind us. Mossel Bay was the destination point for us to lay our heads for the night. It seemed dream-like to be sitting in the little baby blue kombi travelling in South Africa. I had not imagined anything as perfect as this when I dreamed up a trip to my Father’s homeland so many months ago. Now I was part-owner of this precious van that we had made ours by going so far as to stitch our own curtains. The van even got a name, as was befitting such a quaint vehicle as this. “Arnie” became ours on January 8^th. He was named after the man we bought it from. He was a right proper Afrikaaner by the name of Arnold. He had taken good care of the kombi and now it was ours to explore in. The country lay in wait for our meandering ways.

We spent our last days in Cape Town amassing implements to aid us on our journey. The local market provided us with such things as a stove, tent, pots and pans, plates, bowls, cutlery and of course food. I had left my uncle’s home shortly after Christmas to house-sit for a friend of my cousin’s. I relaxed into solitude, but not for long. That was followed by a move into a hostel in Cape Town to make the night life more accessible. This I took advantage of. It was there that I met Miki’s friend Brett, who flew in from Australia. We went to a rave New Year’s Eve and became instant inseparable friends. Over many a drink, we concocted the plan of taking South Africa by storm behind the wheel of our own vehicle. It all fell into place perfectly and now the waves of the Atlantic Ocean gave way to the Indian Ocean. Whatever excess baggage I had was left behind at my uncle’s. I was free. Free to be me and go wherever the wind blew me. I had new friends by my side who fuelled my excitement at life’s turn. Sunshine warmed my cheek, as I bent my head to write tales of my voyage thus far in my trusty journal. I had stepped onto a new path and my old history was no more than a whisper in the back of my mind. “Fly away” was all I heard in the cavernous echo of my head, as ripe tomorrows peeked through the windshield in front of us. Brett, Miki, her brother and I were on a date with destiny. In all its corniness, it was infinitely true. The tomorrows to come would hold experiences to fill a jealous bird’s lifetime. Yesterday disappeared in a little puff of smoke out the back of a brilliantly blue kombi. We were set on an unknown path down the N2 highway of South Africa.

 

It's Christmas time...

I fell into my aunt and uncle’s arms exhausted, as the bus that had tortured my posterior completed its epic 14-hour journey across the country. I was back in Brackenfell, a little worse for wear, but ready to face the rest of my African adventure with gusto. I had conquered the wilds of Botswana and touched on a little corner of Zimbabwe. The impressions were worn into my psyche and I wore them like a badge of honour. I gushed to my kin about the animals I had seen and the adventures I had survived, trying to give the PG-13 version, but with flair. I am sure they saw a very different niece than had left them three weeks previous, but they were happy to see me return with such excitement. They let me prattle on, as was my wont.  When I paused for breath, they announced a surprise for me as well. I had had visitors! My brush with Miki, in what felt like a previous life time, had not been forgotten.  She had arrived in Cape Town herself and had called after me. In fact, upon us arriving back to my aunt and uncle’s house, a note had been stuffed in the door. She had popped by, knowing I was to return that day. She immediately shot up to the top of my list of priority people to call and see, but first bed and a shower called.

The following days seemed to fly by faster than I could process. It was a week before Christmas, but being South of the Equator, felt nothing like the Christmases I knew. Not a speck of snow was visible except in television commercials. I wandered in shorts, when not swimming outside. I visited the Waterfront in Cape Town with a cousin and her friend. We took in the touristy sights to my delight and ended the day by checking out the Christmas lights in Sommerset West. On a subsequent day, a wine tour was enjoyed. With all the renowned wineries in the area, we made a day of it with yet other cousins escorting me along for the fun. And of course, I reconnected with Miki. Just as her South African friend had noted, he lived mere minutes from my home base. We caught up on the adventures the two of us had experienced since seeing each other last and made plans for an evening out.

And with that it was Christmas. The first I had ever been away from my mother and sister. While I could have been melancholy and sad over their presence being missed, I was instead slightly hung over.  Christmas Eve, Miki showed up on my uncle’s doorstep to take me out for a glass of Christmas cheer. She returned me back to his doorstep closer to the 4 AM point and my morning at church was a little painful, but weathered. Christmas day was set poolside at my cousin Marianne and Weppie’s home. We dined on a cold buffet lunch, which was a far cry from the turkey dinners I knew and loved. The heat was not conducive to oven roasted fare though and I knew that while I piled my plate high. My best Christmas present of the day was a treat from my cousin Naude though. He surprised the family by coming down from Johannesburg for Christmas and he brought me some leftover turkey with stuffing from a previous Christmas feast he had attended. It was a very sweet offering and it made my day. We laughed and cheered, ate and swam. I survived my first Christmas without my closest kin, but instead was surrounded by the kin of my father and surrounded by love. It was a very special day, not to be forgotten. 

Enter the Samil

   I stood on the edge of a growing group of people. Naude encouraged me to talk to someone, but I hung back not quite ready to commit myself to the adventure I had signed up for. A black and white striped truck stood central to the waiting cluster of people. Two men stowed the adventurer to be’s bags in cubbies under the seating area; one a young white man heavily tanned from many days spent in the sun and the other quiet individual, black as night. My eyes moved from these two strikingly different men to our mode of transport. The vehicle was nothing like I had ever seen let alone ridden in. My home for the next two weeks was a Samil truck or overland cruiser. I suppose it was akin to an army transport truck for human cargo. It was big. There were bench seats facing each other in the back, with nothing but air and the height of the monstrous tires to protect us. Bulging rolls at the top of the windows appeared to be flaps for protection from the elements, if necessary. While I hoped it wouldn’t be, I wondered if those plastic flaps would give any protection from the animals that the brochures promised we would spy. Not likely.

   The truck appeared to be able to hold twenty people, but thankfully there were not that many milling about. I wanted to meet people, but was not keen on being over-whelmed right off the hop. By the looks of our guide and his assistant, plus the smiles on some of the faces around me I suspected that true adventure was upon me. The group was made up of a couple in their late forties, another in their early fifties, two young women (sisters) that appeared to be in their late teens or early twenties, another couple in their twenties, a tall blonde man in his late twenties or early thirties, a single young man, a single young woman and myself. We picked up another woman in her late twenties farther down the road to complete our band of adventuresome amblers. We were a diverse group collected from Austria, Germany, South Africa, Switzerland, USA, and of course Canada. With a final farewell bade to watching friends and family we all clambered up into whichever seat took our fancy. Our guides Karel and Masters swung into the front cab and with a rumble the truck was alive. With my passport tucked close to my body and a smile playing across my lips I waved Johannesburg goodbye. The next stop, Nata Lodge, Botswana.

Fate

   I woke up to a sun-filled day in a new part of the world. I had briefly touched down in Johannesburg for a short layover before continuing on to Cape Town upon my arrival in South Africa. I had been awed by the purple landscape that grew in front of me, as jacaranda trees in full bloom seemed to cover the city. It was beautiful from the bird’s eye view of my little airplane window. I would only be in the city for a few nights now, before heading out for my overland tour though, so whatever images I could retain were fleeting.

   The plan for the day was to go pick up Naude’s wife at the airport, before heading out to Sun City. She had been in Italy on a business trip and was returning early this fine morning. I received a perfunctory bowl of cereal and then we were out to the car. It was not exactly a glamorous start to the riches that Jo’burg offered, but more kin would be added to the growing list of relatives. I soaked in all that the speeding vehicle’s window offered before we pulled into the parking lot at the airport. We headed inside and stood milling about with a large group awaiting their own arrivals. Naude chatted away about his wife and step-children, Johannesburg and his version on the politics of the country. I too added stories from home, but then paused.

   Naude saw me staring into the crowd and said, “ what are you looking at?”

“There is a person over there that looks like someone I went to highschool with,” I commented.

“Go and talk to her,” he exclaimed peering into the crowd.

   The odds of standing in the middle of the Johannesburg airport and spotting a familiar face from a home thousands of miles away were very slim.

   I shook my head and said, “It can’t be her. What would she be doing in South Africa?”, but I did continue to peer in her direction. I could not get over how familiar this woman looked. It couldn’t be her though. I turned back to my uncle and we continued our conversation.

“Katherine?” I heard called out.

   Oh my God! Familiarity was true.

“Miki?!” I shouted with excitement and surprise.

   We rushed over to each other and hugged each other with disbelief.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“My brother is flying in to meet me,” she explained. “He has been in England, but we made a plan for him to come here and travel around South Africa together.”

   I was floored. She was waiting for her brother. He was flying in from England. I was waiting for my cousin’s wife. She was flying in from Italy. They were on two separate flights, but yet coincidence had both flights arriving at around the same time. I bumped into a high school acquaintance on the other side of the world by the sheer luck of timing. The coincidence did not stop there though. Miki introduced me to her travelling companion. It was a young Africaaner she had met while touring around Europe.

“Where are you going?” he inquired of me.

   I explained that I was headed to Botswana for an Overland tour in the morning. Then it was my turn to ask of their destinations. They were headed down the coast and planning to arrive back in Cape Town closer to Christmas.

“I will be back in Cape Town at Christmas as well,” I said.

“Whereabouts?” he inquired.

“My Aunt and Uncle live in Brackenfell,” I replied.

“Oh ja, whereabouts?” he inquired again.

   I was impressed. He knew the suburbs of Cape Town.

“They live in Protea Heights”, I said.

“Oh ja, whereabouts?” he asked.

   Ok, now I was getting freaked out. He knew the town, subdivision and now was asking for their street! And you know what? He knew exactly their street was as well. It had gone past coincidence in my mind. Now it was fate, kismet, destiny even! I was flabbergasted.

   As Miki’s brother had arrived, followed shortly thereafter by my cousin’s wife, we quickly hurried up our conversation. We exchanged phone numbers and addresses amongst the throng of people now jostling towards luggage carousels and gave a final hug goodbye. It was incredible to have met Miki so far from home and I knew that our destinies were to mesh again. For now though, other excursions were planned. A smile followed me out the door as we headed back out into the Johannesburg air once more.

Jo'Burg Jaunt

   Despite suggestions by Weppie of flying to Johannesburg, I loaded up my backpack and headed to the bus stop. He made promises of cheap flights with the connections from his job at the airport, but I wanted to see the countryside, if only from the flight of an Intercape Mainliner. I waved goodbye to Uncle Jock and Aunt Elsa and settled into the posh seats of the double decker luxury bus. We were offered beverages shortly after we left and I was introduced to coffee the African way; sweet and white. No questions of how you took it (I was used to black at that point, so almost choked on first sips). The chicory blend had nothing on Tim Hortons, Canada’s national coffee emporium. If I wanted a coffee, I had to suck it up though and learn to get over it. It was a 15-hour bus ride and Timmies was nowhere in sight. The South African landscape was what was on offer and I had no choice but to sit back and enjoy the ride.

   While I did thrill in the adventure of finally being single, mobile and free, the bus ride quickly lost its appeal. The red soil of the surrounding countryside fascinated me, as I could not mesh the idea of crops growing in it, versus the rich brown humus of home. Soon enough my mind’s eye was focused on the future though. I shifted my weight from butt check to butt check and imagined what Botswana would hold. Flyers of Victoria falls in Zimbabwe lay across my lap, as I gazed into the pictured possibilities in my head. Eventually my tortured posterior gave up caring about tomorrow and the adventures that would unfold and screamed at me to get over the adventure of today. With Johannesburg finally coming into sight, I breathed a sigh of relief for cramped muscles. The bus ground out a final goodbye and with the applying of brakes gave blissful release into my cousin Naude’s waiting care. I would spend the next few days with him toodling around and even getting a chance to explore Sun City. Sadly, I  found even more barbed wire in Johannesburg and many heavily gated communities. I did discover their savoury pies though. They came in a multitude of flavours, like our chicken pies back home, but also spinach and feta, cheese, pork pasties and a delicious assortment of others. The most important event of my time with him though was a trip to the airport to pick up his wife. A surprise that I never would have anticipated was to greet me with unforeseen consequences.

I'll just have a water please

   As the burbles slowed, I looked out into my new world again. My eyes finally adjusted to the strength of the sun. I opened them onto adventure. I was ready. Just one more glass of water. Sip.

   “Now I can stand. Now I can run!” I thought to myself.

   Reality answered, “ Well, maybe jog a little”.

   I still felt weak as a newly hatched bird, but a smile returned to my pasty face. What adventures could I conjure up?

   My first adventure was with food again. I hear you groan, but this time I was gentle with myself. I was about to meet my father’s eldest sister’s side of the family now and they wanted to take me to brunch at the “club”. There were golfers aplenty on this branch of the family tree, so a lovely posh brunch buffet was my fair. Normally I am one of those people with no sense of the true size of my stomach and heap a plate three times over, just to sample all the goodies spread before me. Today, my stomach had shrunk to the size of a dried up cumquat. I took a humble plate with a scant few items, nothing too racy and nothing with a hint of acidity. Good natured teasing and concerned eyes accompanied me as I nibbled away at my offerings. I am happy to report that I kept it together though. No raced trips to the WC (water closet or bathroom for my Canadian readers) to say goodbye to brunch. A crooked smile wavered across my cheeks as I wove tales of home, family and Canada for my aunt, uncle, cousins and second cousins. I was treated to a tour around the golf course with Greg and Richard, second cousins that were the first people I had met close to my own age. My delicate constitution held back the reveries of hanging out with a younger sub-set too terribly much, but we did discuss possibilities of outings. An errant bubble curtailed thoughts of it happening immediately, but I yearned for it in the future. As much as I loved getting to know all the relatives, I was only 22 years old. I craved conversation that held less purpose and more spunk. It was time to gather the backpack and hit the dusty road.

Blame the Cumquat

   The first few days in South Africa were a barrage of experiences. I fell in love with the belly laugh of my Uncle Jock and felt at home in his warm presence. He wandered me around in his back garden showing me his strawberries (that I devoured), cape gooseberries (that I had never seen before, let alone eaten) and other plant life. He loved his fruit, eating several pieces every day after dinner and I was introduced to paw paws (like papaya) and oranges like I had never tasted before. They were so sweet and juicy! The food did not stop there. My Aunt Elsa was a lovely woman that cooked new and intriguing dishes for me to discover. I tried skulpakie (liver wrapped in fat and braaied), rooi hakskeentjies (translation: small red heels - pickled onion dish), home-made rusks(dried crusts of bread), bobotie (curried meatloaf with egg topping), brawn (gelatinous curried sandwich meat made of calf’s heels and pig’s trotters) and of course was introduced to a braai (a barbecue on a specially built outdoor hearth where a coiled sausage was the headliner amongst several other meats).

   Not only did I have food to discover, but a whole new language to discern; Afrikaans. I thrilled at this new   language and tried to take baby steps at learning words of objects around me.

   “Chicken - hoender. Meat – vleis. Katjie- kitten. Hond- dog.” I stated.

   “Een, Twee, drie… One, Two, Three,” I intoned to the mirth of watching relatives.

   “Dankie,” I beamed to their claps. “Baie dankie”

   Yes, thank you. Thank you very much. My pronunciation was horrible. They were happy to teach me about their culture and world though. Initial introductions were filtered through a foggy brain, but I was keen to learn as much as I could. I took notes on pronunciation. I read books written by local authors, including one relative Uys Krige. I plotted out a family tree to help me figure out who I was meeting and how they were related to me (the first day alone I met 2 aunts, my uncle, my cousin, her husband and one of their children). I listened to tales of my relative’s adventures while visiting in Canada many years before. I shared tales of my own of my country, culture and familiar family that was so far away. And of course I asked questions, questions and more questions. It was exhilarating. It was also exhausting. I made it to 7:30pm the first night and slept straight through to 10:30am the next morning. It is a wonder I had the strength to breathe, I was so tired.

   After about a week in the country, I slowly got over my jet lag. I added another uncle, cousin, her spouse and two children, and another second cousin Francoise to my list of relatives. I ventured out on my own one morning for a walk to the store and took my life in my hands attempting to cross the street. Again I was confounded by transit driving on the other side of the road. Look right, look left, look right, start to cross, and jump back as a car approaches with haste from the wrong direction. It took a lot of getting used to. The experience was empowering though and set me on a path for the independent travel that was to come.

   I also continued to experiment with new food and slowly began to regret it. One too many cumquats pushed me over the edge. The first tentative soft bowels were soon replaced by a full-on case of Traveller’s Trots. It had nothing to do with poor sanitation or contaminated water. It had everything to do with my love of new foods and lack of forethought by ingesting mass amounts of fruit to a body still thinking it was going into the hibernation of winter. Nothing stayed in me and I dropped over ten pounds in less than a week. My aunt fretted that my mother would be horrified by their lack of care of me in such a short time. As I pushed away dried toast and desperately tried to keep down sips of water, I thought again about what a journey I was on. The sounds of bubbles shifting around in a tummy racked in digestive distress did not celebrate the adventure I heralded. This too would pass.