Fault Lines Of A Color Divide

While we often partook in the best that modern Jozi had to offer after hours, we came to South Africa to also get a sense for the country’s troubled history. To this end, first on our agenda was a visit to the Apartheid Museum. Upon arriving, we were made to use separate entrances (one for Whites and another for Non-Whites). We both found the museum to be an incredible tribute to the dignity and resilience necessary to overcome a horrifyingly-inhumane condition.

Nonetheless, we found it difficult not to be enraged by the depravity of the Afrikaaner regime (which was tacitly supported as a hedge against communism by both the U.S. and the U.K. during the Reagan and Thatcher administrations). Apartheid atrocities, just to name a few, included the butchering of black schoolchildren in Soweto in 1976, the torture and murder of activist Steve Biko during imprisonment and the cowardly assassination of Chris Hani while he stood in his driveway after purchasing a newspaper. The intensity of our feelings as total outsiders underlined the strength and character of a Mandela to both forgive and indemnify his white tormentors.

After experiencing one graphic exhibit after another, the bad taste in our mouths magnified when we caught a potential glimpse of contemporary race relations in South Africa. Observing a guided school tour of the museum, we noted that black schoolchildren were engrossed by the guide and the displays while their white counterparts stood around gossiping with one another.

It was only when we came to the final wing of the museum (devoted to reconciliation) that our moods brightened. A victorious photograph of the Reverend Desmond Tutu casting his vote in the 1994 democratic elections perfectly represented the ideals of the Apartheid Museum. In the picture, Tutu is seen flashing his trademark wide, irrepressible grin while he triumphantly raises his ballot in the air. After exiting the exhibition hall, we paused for reflection at a sign asking us to consider what it meant to be able to walk away with freedom.

Moments later, our enthusiastic Soweto tour guide, Mandy, picked us up in the museum parking lot. Mandy came recommended to us via the Rough Guide; it was only after meeting her that we learned that she was the first black woman tour operator in South Africa. After giving us a candid and unsanitized perspective on post-Apartheid life in black South Africa, Mandy took us to lunch at Windy’s, a Soweto lunchtime institution. During lunch, we met two amazing native Sowetan women who talked with us about their community’s capacity for forgiveness and generosity. In keeping with the theme of the discussion, one of the women invited us to stay with her the next time we visited South Africa.

Filled with good food and warm feelings, we made our way to the Hector Petersen memorial. Petersen was the first student killed during the 1976 Soweto school protests. A famous photograph of his dead body being carried away by an older boy with his grieving teenage sister astride garnered international outrage and today graces an exhibit wall in the Apartheid Museum. Over thirty years later, Petersen’s sister spends her days at her brother’s memorial and, surprisingly, often poses in pictures with visiting tourists. Although we would have never initiated such a request at a memorial site, we were honored to stand next to the girl in the famous picture and to express in person our appreciation of her suffering.

Next, we visited the Mandela (Mandigo) homestead where we saw an eclectic collection of memorabilia, including photographs and press clippings, honorary degrees and personal effects (including the shoes from his prison days as well as the first pair he bought himself after his release). We were terrified to hear that Mandela’s children slept on the kitchen floor because their room at the front of the house had been bombed on more than one occasion. We also learned that, after his release, Mandela spent ten nights in the family home before having to move for both privacy and security reasons. Mandy drove us past Mandela’s ex-wife Winnie’s house (a woman she still held in high esteem despite some dubious conduct) nearby before continuing with the tour.

We proceeded to the Regina Mundi church, which was the epicenter of the 1976 protests. Because political organizing was unlawful, the church provided a space where students though they could gather safely. Unfortunately, the students overestimated the decency of the Afrikaaner authorities; the police forcefully raided the church causing widespread chaos and bloodshed. We walked carefully through the church, pausing to observe several bullet holes in the ceiling and a marble altar smashed by an angry rifle butt. We also saw the famous black Madonna and Child painting with a stylized map of Soweto at its underside. Ironically, the poignant painting was commissioned by the head of DeBeers (a man who will have much to account for in the afterlife). He created Soweto’s shack housing for the express purpose of keeping his black workers from taking time off to visit their remotely-located families.

Our last and most emotional stop of the day was at a shantytown section of Soweto named Kliptown. Mandy told us that most tourists never venture into Kliptown to talk with the residents out of fear for their personal safety. As a result, most stand by the freeway voyeuristically taking pictures of the settlement. Our experience, however, was quite the opposite. By making our way into the shantytown on foot, we had an intimate vantage point of the gentle dignity of the community’s denizens.

One of Kliptown’s resident teenagers showed us around, walking us past very modest ramshackle homes, a make-shift restaurant, a small corrugated tin shack and several outhouses. Looking inside the dwellings to see furniture, tablecloths and other personal touches as well as talking with various relatives and neighbors underscored the permanence and vitality of Kliptown. While some of the local adults looked at us curiously, the community’s toddlers were less restrained in their greeting. One small girl barreled straight into Kaberi before throwing her arms around Kaberi’s knees and grinning sweetly. Several children held our hands at every stage of the visit. All in all, the experience was quite moving. At the end of the walk, Vik gave our sensible young guide some money to buy fresh oranges to share with all of the children in the development.

Our dinner with Kgomotso that evening was filled with much talk about contemporary race relations in South Africa. We especially appreciated hearing her perspective on growing up in Soweto during the 1976 rebellions. Her firsthand recollections helped give context to much of what we had seen earlier in the day. It was a powerful conclusion to an emotional day and a wonderful visit to South Africa.

Jozi and the Pussycats

With our time in Cape Town coming to a close, we prepared for a two-day sojourn in Durban, South Africa’s third largest city. Durban is known primarily as a subtropical beach destination as well as the hub of South Africa’s Indian culture (Gandhi honed his philosophy of nonviolent resistance of satyagraha here). The day prior to our flight (when Vik’s ability to secure two nights of midweek accommodation proved surprisingly difficult), we learned that all the rooms in the city were sold out for a librarians’ convention. Left with little alternative, we truncated our time in Durban by an entire day. While Vik spent the next few hours questioning the need for librarians to convene (he could only imagine the scintillating Dewey Decimal conversations conducted in hushed tones), Kaberi chose to castigate Vik for devoting undue attention to fantasy football draft preparation. Suffice it to say, our respective positions were not in accordance. Our twenty-four hours in Durban unfortunately proved to be rather unmemorable. Our guesthouse was located in the staid Berea neighborhood above the city center and we did not have enough time to devote to exploring the city’s more redeeming cultural locales. We did, however, manage to find Kaberi some inexpensive traditional Zulu beaded jewelry and sample Durban’s trademark delicacy of bunny chow (Indian bhaji served in the center of a hollowed-out loaf of bread) before whisking ourselves back to Johannesburg. Our jubilant return to Joburg (or Jozi as it is affectionately called by its denizens) began with dinner with Kgomotso at the Portuguese Fish Market in Melville. We had a lively night of conversation recounting our Cape Town exploits before turning in early, knowing we had a full week remaining to enjoy each other’s company. The next day, Kgomotso and Cassandra took us out to the Newtown district to partake in a quintessential part of Jozi’s renowned music scene, the Joy of Jazz festival. Cassandra’s uncle’s college roommate happened to be the bassist for the night’s featured act, the Count Basey Orchestra. Despite having never met him before, Cassandra first managed to usher five of us backstage with one of the band’s saxophonists before procuring complimentary tickets to the show. Figuring that we were already playing with the house’s money, Vik shamelessly led us to front row dead center seats in a sold out venue. For the next ninety minutes, we enjoyed the Count Basey Orchestra’s inaugural South African performance. Even Vik, who admitted to not being much of a big band fan, was blown away by the musical virtuosity onstage. After sleeping in the following day to recover from our eventful night out, we indulged in an afternoon of mindless American filmed entertainment (the Steve Carell vehicle Evan Almighty). That evening, we made our way to a yuppified part of town for a westernized African meal and another night of live music at Moyo. One of our dinner companions was Kgomotso’s friend C.J., a transplanted South Side Chicagoan who identified himself as an African born in America. C.J. brought Vik up to speed with his notions of scientific socialism while concurrently sharing some of his distinctive new-age pronouncements (Vik’s favorite: “I’m totally in me right now”).  We used the better part of the following day to make travel arrangements for our subsequent two weeks in Europe. By the time we finally purchased discount airline tickets and booked hotel rooms in Lisbon and Dublin (a slower process than one might expect with an intermittent network connection), it was two in the afternoon and time for lunch. Kgomotso and her ex-husband Matthew then took us out for a memorable meal at the landmark Nambitha’s restaurant in Soweto (South West Township). Filled with almost exclusively with black South Africans, the restaurant offered an authentic atmosphere in which to sample samp, pap and a host of other traditional dishes. On the way home, we drove by the Nelson Mandela homestead in a preview of our forthcoming Soweto tour. Early the next week, we successfully relocated to a Melville guesthouse after a little bit of drama (the Afrikaaner owner of our first choice lodgings basically told us to go elsewhere when we mentioned that the much-advertised wireless Internet connection did not work). Having promptly complied, we found ourselves thoroughly exhausted a few hours later after walking all over Melville with our bags in tow. After we finally settled into Tama Rumah in the late afternoon, we enjoyed a late lunch/early dinner before resting on our hard-earned pillows. Later in the week, we explored three different Melville hipster spots for a combination of meals and boutique shopping. We had soon worked out a system whereby we’d enjoy a meal together at a trendy spot. Thereafter, Vik would patiently sit and read while Kaberi mainly window shopped. By the time evening rolled around, Vik could plead for time off for good behavior. One evening, Vik successfully begged off on hearing Angela Davis speak locally at Wits University. Attending the lecture together, Kaberi and Kgomotso agreed that it was only appropriate that they were listening to Dr. Davis speak more than a decade after their days of on-campus activism at Carleton. In so doing, they both reaffirmed a friendship that picked up seamlessly where it had left off in a prior life.

Grape Expectations

After two lazily-paced weeks in and around Cape Town, we embarked upon a drive to South Africa’s renowned wine country for the weekend. Our accommodations at the Le Quartier Francais boutique hotel in the upscale hamlet of Franschoek had come highly recommended by Cassandra who had even gone so far as to secure for us a suite at the exclusive Four Quarters wing at a 30% off-season discount. Despite some initial trepidation, Vik was coerced into doing the driving (on the opposite side of the road, to his chagrin, in a country with a formidable contingent of aggressive drivers). Fortunately, with a map in hand, we were able to make the one hour northeasterly journey with relative ease.

After passing by the prison where Nelson Mandela was transferred after his incarceration on Robben Island, we arrived in Franschoek at ten in the morning. Once on the Le Quartier grounds, we assumed that we would merely drop off our bags before soliciting some local advice on which vineyards to visit. To our surprise, however, we found that our room was ready and that we were able to check in immediately. Once we entered the threshold of the more 1,000 square foot suite with separate living and sleeping quarters, heated floors, old-fashioned fireplace, double plasma televisions and mini-bar stocked with complimentary bottles of local wines, ciders and champagne, it took all of our collective willpower to even consider leaving the premises.

After a scrumptious lunch (included in our nightly rate), the lush winelands nestled in the nearby valleys of several rugged mountains range beckoned us. Over the proceeding afternoon hours, we sampled reds, whites and even schnapps at several Franschoek vineyards, all within a twenty-minute drive of our hotel. We found that we enjoying our stay to such a degree that we extended our stay for an additional night in order to have the entire weekend to enjoy and explore the picturesque countryside.

That evening, we made our way to Haute Cabriere to enjoy the gastronomical delight of a delectable three-course meal paired with the perfect bottle of red wine. Upon leaving the vineyard, we looked up to behold the brightly-shining stars in the crystal clear southern sky. As we stood gazing at the unfamiliar constellations of the Southern Hemisphere, we both noted that we had never seen such an impressive and brilliant array of stars. Walking back to the rental car in the brisk evening air, we greatly looked forward to returning to the warmth of the blazing hardwood-fed fire in our room.

The next morning we arose to a private breakfast on the balcony and a lazy day in the suite. Despite the secluded nature of Four Quarters, the hotel grounds were situated near the town’s main street. We took a leisurely stroll down Huguenot Street, listening to the street musicians and poking our heads into various boutiques. For the remainder of the day, the arsenal of DVDs available had us engrossed in quality movie after quality movie, including Born Into Brothels, Little Miss Sunshine, Bobby and Hotel Rwanda. Primarily to give our weary eyeballs a rest, we went out for a quick dinner that didn’t quite compare with its predecessor.

When Sunday arrived, we bid a fond farewell to our suite. On the way back to Cape Town, we stopped at a few vineyards in Stellenbosch (although several others that we drove to ended up being closed on Sunday). Our short drive back passed without incident and Vik let out an audible sigh of relief as we pulled into the rental car return lot. Our romantic weekend had been a perfectly-relaxing and satisfying getaway.