Dancing. Last night at the Market Theatre Nelisiwe Xaba turned black to white and back again in a piece that poked fun at our racial confusions through a kind of sophisticated slapstick that was all black and white bodies, fashion, accoutrements, film. Neli is a funny, sharp-dance-tongued, opinionated woman who happens to move like a magic creature. I am at the Dance Umbrella Festival, Johannesburg, South Africa. The piece: BLACK!…WHITE?
The night before, Vincent Sekwati Koko Mantsoe, invited us along on …”journeys and spirits of the Khoi-san people…” the inspiration for SAN. Considering the history-telling petroglyphs of the Khoi-san, the dancers search for a place that’s theirs even as the world keeps shifting markers. They battle interior and exterior forces with Vincent’s forceful, almost-aggressive, possessed-by-spirits-and-demons movements.
How’s that for the first two days of a festival? Plus vital discussion and getting to hang out in the best of all places/worlds/centers of art that matter—the Market Theater. More about the Market later. I think I could live there, in what I think are substantial rock and marble and granite constructions, arches, high ceilings, big fat leather couches everywhere, exotically-decked out and coffee bar restaurants.
My Perfect Life. IT GETS BETTER. In addition to this continuing dance feast, there is rain, pour-downs of pure water with no air between it seems. They mostly come at night and the guesthouse roof magnifies every beautiful noisy bucketful. Remember I’m from New Mexico…this is a water-heaven for my thirsty soul. The guesthouse, Tama Rumah, is the best! Rambling in oddly-shaped rooms with a bathtub here, a shower there, might be a double or single bed. Might be a grand mahogany-looking headboard-or none at all. Windows that open all about looking into one of many gardens and courtyards, coffeepots, cookies…it is just so so so damn…cozy.
I get up early, no alarm and write and write to the music of mourning doves and their chirpier cousins. Make a coffee, turn on the computer…don’t have to go anywhere until noon. It is indeed my idea of the perfect world. If I could just have the Bosque and my Rio Grande a few blocks away I would never leave.
Dance Umbrella/Jo’burg. Johannesburg, South Africa hosts the best dance festival on the continent in my humble opinion; one of the nicest anywhere. Almost all are SA artists, most from or connected to Jo’burg. It is impressive. Not so many cities could present a festival of this variety and strength, all with local artists—NYC, Paris/a few other Euro cities, Tokyo, Rio? maybe that’s it. Since I’m not a dancer/dance expert my colleague, who is here at the festival also, will surely be the one to give you the dancier details on her blog. I will pass that address on later. For me, for now I will just tell what I love and what moves me, and what I hear these captivating dance makers telling me. Maybe my role is to tell the layman’s dance stories.
In addition to two weeks of dance evenings, there’s a most helpful bonus in the series of 1pm interview-discussions that take place between Adrienne Sichel, Johannesburg’s long-time dance critic and scholar, and festival artists. Yesterday’s, with Adrienne interviewing Vincent and Neli was particularly eye-opening for me. I’ve seen both artists’ work several times and I’m always struck by Vincent’s very distinct movement style. When I described him as appearing to dance-fight his way out of a spiritual or demonic possession of some frightful intensity that is simply what I see, the personal story I am making of the art he is presenting to me. Vincent talked yesterday about his attempts to make work that is about the spirit, the search, the individual, not to let it be muddled with contemporary social and political reality all of the time.
Neli appears to be quite the opposite. Her work is all inventive, idiosyncratic , and full of humor and wry comment. Her perspective is ALL about society and politics. She works much of the time in Europe and also in Brazil. BLACK!…WHIITE? is about race…what Neli claims as an overwhelming issue world-wide, not just here in SA.
Both artists include white dancers/artists in their work and both have been criticized for it. Neli, with a slightly caustic laugh, says ‘it seems it’s okay for white choreographers to have black dancers but the reverse bothers people…maybe blacks still aren’t supposed to be telling whites what to do…!” The artists spar a bit over their differing approaches. Everyone agrees on one thing however. Without a renewed effort to gain support for contemporary work here at home…it will increasingly become making their work with and even for Europeans all of the time—that’s where the funding exists.
Jo’burg. We’ll get around this rich vital energetic city more in the next days…but I’ve been here before and I still don’t quite get it! Cape Town was so easy. A beautiful multi-racial city by the bay. Johannesburg. Is. Not. Africa “Lite.” Our neighborhood, Melville, could be any up-scale, yuppie, hip neighborhood in any city world over. And—there may not be anything else quite like it in this city of 2+ million. We drove through downtown/city center last night: Impressive, even grand in some cases, buildings. Wide streets. Parks. Corporate headquarters, City Hall. It was end of the work day so street activity was thinning…could have been Houston. What was noticeable to me—because I keep looking for signs of post-racial South Africa (or post-racial anywhere else for that matter) was there was not a single white person along the entire drive. Gerard, one of our friendly Dance Umbrella hosts says, in response to my comment about this, that not so many years ago you ONLY saw whites on downtown streets unless it was time for the cleaners and servants to go home for the day.
This weekend we’ll go with our dance friends to Soweto. Now I think Lawrence, our festival driver, said a city of 4+ million. Biggest black city in the world he says.
Meanwhile I guess Zuma’s in London being feted by the Queen so maybe that attention will compete with his impulse to only appeal to the traditionalist, least progressive SA voices, and somewhere among his minions they will realize the art is good and not necessarily only important at ceremonial dances for a new wife.
God’s on the Bus. So close to Gaborone…so far from my travel goal of 192 (give or take) countries before I die. So what to do on a Saturday night but take the Intercape bus to Gaborone, Botswana and Immigration where the travel god will bless me with yet another passport stamp. And it did turn out to be something of a religious holiday. The bus rolls northwest out of Johannesburg through Illinois farm country—the corn is as high as … Right about here the on-board TV comes alive with what appears to be holy roller, fire and brimstone preachers straight from Elmer Gantry—except these have an Afrikaners accent. Through the farm country we go with pro-life ads, Christian pop and, through the small farm towns where only black South Africans seem to be fooling around and shopping and doing their Saturday night visiting. Starts getting dark as the umbrella thorn trees grow green and dense, earth reddens and fat brown and white cows and donkeys snack by the roadside against the sky-mountain purple dusk.
So still…where are endless roadside stands, knots of aimless men, women heading to somewhere with large baskets, kettles, bags perched elegantly on their heads. Where’s the trash? The smell from the smoky fires and the roadside rubbish? This, my friends is another Africa—southern being very different than western/central Africa. THIS IS PEACEFUL ORDINARY EVERYDAY SOUTHERN AFRICA.
At the bus stop I catch a taxi to the Gaborone Sun. I did try…I did…to find a reasonable normal hotel or guesthouse on line but Gaboronians aren’t big on response to such queries so when I finally decided to go I just booked what I could find easily and American Express-booked a resort gambling ex-pat-in-town-for-the-weekend-from-the-bush camp hotel. DO NOT DO THIS unless you’re coming overland from the deadly jungles of the Congo or have just gone by camel from Cairo to Casablanca. If this is your kind of hotel you should have stayed at home in Amarillo. The hotel staff is very nice however and quite astounded to have a little old lady appear in jeans and a backpack. Tucking myself in for the night to CNN earthquake disaster coverage was already boring…only CNN can repeat so much minutia about every disaster detail of every catastrophic calamity so that even the words and photos of death and destruction of the worst kind have a lulling effect. But I do love you in a kind of obsessive way, CNN.
Sunday Morning in Gaborone. Early, I’m rested, up, showered, out to breakfast. Instead of describing the breakfast myself I’ll let the author of my latest South African murder mystery do it for you. I was reading this while eating and I couldn’t do better myself. “across the deep tan industrial carpet flecked with tiny fern-like organic motifs…into the international-cuisine pine-and-etched-glass emporium with its compound-noun multi-cultural opulence. Sliced melons, German Hams, sausage links, glass jars of muesli and bran flakes weighted down the oversized teak table-top…an endless supply of full, dark coffee….glasses of papaya juice. Globalization. The last time … the juice was called “paw-paw”. Strange fruit.” Author Jane Taylor’s character goes on to describe the guests (except for me), “…Up-country South African parliamentarians, Nigerians, the deputy CEO from a Swiss blood bank attending a symposium on disease control, a French delegation from Rwanda, two Belgian forensic accountants investigating a tax fraud, and an American academic commissioned to write a hagiography of a South African left-liberal novelist. The American’s notebook computer was open in front of him as he jotted down a description of the group mingling around him.” (Of wild dogs: Jane Taylor, Double Storey Books, a division of Juta & Co. Ltd, Mercury Crescent, Wetton, Cape Town, 2005)
The idea I want to convey is that this crowd in some shape or the other is in every “resort” hotel in every developing country. I have always been so envious of the concept of ex-pat, knowing I’d make a more loyal American abroad than I can ever be at home; I’ve wanted to be one of them but I’m actually not so sure anymore. Whether cultural liaison or AIG rep or missionary or aid worker their lives seem to run parallel in every country. While my bus trip may not exactly introduce me to real life in this or any other country it is a tiny but bona fide experience!
Sunday morning then. After breakfast I try mightily to gather some ideas from various staff about what to do. “No, no,” they say, “you must rest, you can do nothing, everything is closed, it is the day people go to church and rest, you must rest too.” Now if I were economically-wise I would not be in Gaborone today…but even for me all of the dollars (rands, pula) I’ve spent on the bus and this hotel have to have been for something more than the passport stamp…don’t they? I get a little map of sorts and head for the Parliament and government buildings and the Main Mall. As your trusty Lonely Planet will tell you Gaborone primarily consists of malls and fast food joints but they are closed too on Sundays it seems.
Out the door for what turns out to be a perfectly perfect 2 ½ hour morning jaunt in the warm overcast Botswanian morning. Church-goers walking the neatly swept streets to a scattering of imposing and simple structures among the thorn trees and thorn bushes here on the edge of the desert. I know there are other trees but so far Google hasn’t yielded the information I need to name them. The people I can better describe. Race and tribe are obviously surer things here than in South Africa. The people are mostly Tswana, dark sculpted people of facial dignity and strength. They’re dressed very like our parents and grandparents dressed for church. The women in conservative, crisply-ironed, dark or brightly-patterned dresses, the men in suits or white shirts and slacks. Children spit and polished. They walk at a comfortable pace, not fast, not slow, small groups, obviously even here most people are sleeping in on Sunday morning. It’s a mile or two before I reach the government complex.
Government…as it should represent itself. Here a surprise. Pleasant buildings. well-maintained. Modest. MODEST. No armed secrurity—obvious at least. NO ARMED SECURITY. Am I in Africa? I’m certainly not in DC! Where’s the opulent Presidential Palace where you will be shouted at if you take pictures? It is not like Botswana has nothing anyone else wants. It has DIAMONDS. The biggest building in the neighborhood is in fact Debswana, the conglomerate of De Beers and the government of Botswana, with the majority of profits reverting to the country and apparently not into the private bank accounts of the government leaders. Seretse Khama Ian Khama is the president, son of the first great leader of Botswana who married an Englishwoman and was exiled to Great Britain for some years. The son is said to be quiet, smart, modest, unmarried, a pilot, wildlife advocate and fitness fanatic. Sounds like Barack’s single brother. Well, actually the Obama brother I’ve seen on TV appears to be rather crazy so I take that back. I am so impressed. I am sure this is government as it should exist. With apparently no one, local or international fundamentalist, gunning for the leader. I stroll from this quiet retreat in the heart of non-blood-diamond political power down the Main Mall, a collection of tacky storefronts offering loans, fried chicken, cheap clothing and videos. Only a couple of vendors are about so I purchase my Botswana souvenir, a brown and gold woven wall hanging for about $3.
Sunday Afternoon in Gaborone. I don’t know this yet but the adventure part of this trip is over. I’m back by noon, greeted by awed desk staff who say “you WALKED, wow, you are strong for such an old person is the subtext of course but that’s okay…if I’m going to get to every country in the world I need to be able to walk the streets when I’m there.
The Gaborone Sun. Gift shop. Decide not to buy the $300 ostrich feather scarf but do get one of South Africa’s gossipy fat Sunday papers. It’s not the Times…well actually it is the South African Times…less serious than our Times perhaps, but then a colleague arrived from the states yesterday with the NY Times for me and the Sunday Styles features an article on a new fad, bus-drinking…in comparison an article about Zuma’s fourth wife’s luxury home seems relatively weighty.
God of nomads, bless Gaborone and the Intercape bus company. No, god bless travel and passport stamps and new countries and curiosity. And thank you for Sunday in Gaborone oh mighty toothpick tree.
A note: I feel rather guilty about not exploring further somehow in this rather odd and elusive country. Two bits of information then: 1) Read Michael Stanley’s murder mysteries starring Detective Kubu (A Carrion Death and A Deadly Trade). They are much better in my humble murder mystery-expert opinion than the Women’s Detective Agency books. Not quite as simplistic. And then I found this poem on line at Off-the-Wall Poetry, a Western Cape web site. I share it to counteract any sense that Botswana is all mall and KFC.
Personal lives, emotional lives, social lives, sex lives, economic lives…blah blah blah…what about our geographic lives?
I grew up in the woods at the end of the gravel road (Minnesota, not Mississippi, otherwise Lucinda Williams Car Tires on a Gravel Road is my childhood memory too). The variety of green available in that world was pretty well covered by the balsam, cedar, spruce, balm of Gilead poplars (baummies to us), aspen/poplars, willows and more surrounding the tiny farmstead and stucco/log house; sometimes in late spring it was seeing all of the world through a kaleidoscope that only included shades of GREEN. And in spite of being rather poor how very secure it was. It was warm in the winter, full of friendly insect life in the summer, big yeasty loaves of white bread baking, maybe cinnamon rolls too, the kind with sour cream topping adding just a touch of tart to the warm sweetness of cinnamon and brown sugar, dogs barked, neighbors came for coffee, an environment that will always represent my version of the nest we probably all need.
This is to say I had a proper nest from which to approach the world. Somehow my apartment in Albuquerque, New Mexico manages to almost equal that early environment: Many trees because I’m near the Rio Grande, just minutes from the Bosque, now they’re cottonwoods and there is never quite the sense of falling into vat of ‘essence of green’, still…, my apartment is small, full of the bright dark colors that everyone says makes rooms seem even smaller, which for me is a goal—just recreated home. So there are not a lot of baking smells, should get a bread machine I guess (sorry, mom) but coffee perking and Amy’s Enchiladas cooking in the microwave supplies a bit of scent to the place. Besides when I walk by the river in the morning I can smell elephant dung and hear Africa Land awakening at the neighborhood zoo. That is why I do not need to go on safari when in Africa.
HOWEVER IN SPITE OF ALL OF THIS COZY-SOUNDING HOMESPUN RHETORIC, I AM ALWAYS MOVING ON–A NOMAD. Just need a nest to which to return.
Two Kinds of People
There really are only two kinds of people in the world (sometimes the lines blur or the multiple personalities overlap):
We have, then, the nesters and the nomads. Although again we must agree that nesters sometimes want adventure, to see the world’s sights and experience the world’s wonders—but it is probably not their priority. And nomads want to have a nest to which to return for connections, financial regrouping—as in work, the sheer familiarity of one’s own bed and shower.
In my own family there are examples of people confused about the category into which they fit. Robert and Marsha, you know who you are! Looking for the perfect place. Buying houses in Minnesota, Alaska, Florida, trying to love New Mexico where there’s family, maybe loving Louisiana or Alabama or Georgia…but not quite. Not moving beyond U.S. borders much because there is the DOG. But always always looking for the perfect nest while struggling with their evil nomadic twins
Here’s one way to know you’re a nomad. Two nights ago I was trying to shower, doubled over from the pain of an RA flare-up, vomiting up the sole thing I’d eaten in 24 hours. I was in Windhoek, Namibia—a very long way from home. Supposed to take buses over a couple of days to Johannesburg. Pain won the battle, besides which I could not walk, and I spent an extra day feeling lost and sorry for myself in a very foreign city. Early flight yesterday to Jo’burg, to doctor, massive dose of prednisone, night’s sleep and today I’ve planned and finished booking my bus trip and hotel in Gaborone, Botswana tomorrow!
We all envy each other. The nesters and the nomads. I wonder if it’s nature versus nurture. My family history includes apocryphal stories of gypsies and reindeer herders which generally I choose to believe, not based on fact but if we nomads only relied on fact where would we be—home saving money. And my dad came over from Norway on a ship. So there’s nature for you. I was nurtured in that snug nest ringed by trees so tightly you couldn’t see the storm until it was over your house. I knew I had to move on from a very early age—since my tiny self could turn the pages of mom’s old grade school geography book with the maps everywhere and big hand-colored photos of Rio and Yellowstone Park. Guess nature wins. Although I discovered after many years that my wayfarer father who had an itinerant fiddler for a great-grandfather really hated to leave his northwoods and my mother, who grew up in the relatively stable environment of the Dakota River Valley, was a closet nomad. I should have known since she remembered every single detail of every scrap of geography and history she ever had in school.
Okay…well I will think of this some more as I head up the road to GABORONE. Yes. With one small backpack. What a luxury for a nomad; usually you must take more than clean underwear a couple of books toothbrush billfold lipstick! Jackets tied to backpack in case the bus is cold. OFF TO ANOTHER PASSPORT STAMP.
Cape Town is disdainfully dubbed Africa Lite, intended to separate its European ambience from the real Africa of out-of-control cities such as Dakar or destroyed cities like Kinshasa. It is true; Cape Town is surely one of the most delightful cities in the world but the fact that it shares a continent with Mogadishu does not make it less authentically African…does it? Cape Town proper is in the process of getting its best foot beautifully shod and putting it way forward in June for the World Cup. You cannot not sense what this means to all of Africa—a place on the world stage of important game-worthy, tourist-worthy continents. And South Africa, former pariah of the sports world—hosting the cup. Makes Africa-aficionado hearts beat just a little faster whether you care about soccer or not!
I try to figure out my fascination with this country—where I am about to spend over a month, a few days of that traveling by bus just to feel what the non-urban South Africa is like. Of course I am drawn to every corner of this continent with some old-fashioned desire to explore or maybe explore-lite is a more apt term since I’m not exactly sleeping in the bush. But South Africa is unique; it is the country in the world with which we share the most history. We (the US and South Africa) are so alike, almost mirror images of each other in some ways with the colors reversed like one of those old negatives. It’s true that the black minority has never dominated in politics or finance in the US while the white minority in South Africa did for a very long time. But the history of apartheid is similar in both of our countries and white power has never been anything except harsh in either. Now it’s a new day…and we look at what might be. It feels like both countries could get it right with Barack Obama in our present and Nelson Mandela in South Africa’s past and, hopefully, Joseph Zuma up to the task of South Africa’s future.
I left the US, happy to be gone from endless news of the American fundamentalist forays onto the political battlefield from every ditch and cave. I come here to a society in big economic trouble with a president who is on the verge of becoming a stereotype for bad boy behavior but nevertheless a country that in many ways feels more eager and open than us to discussing the BIG issue which is how to move past race and get on with the work of the nation. Americans said on election night November 2008 we had done that. Wrong. Nelson Mandela hoped it would happen here when apartheid ended. Wrong. Still, considering the relative newness of both countries attempts at color-blind societies, it is amazing that the US has a black president and that South Africa, a country whose leaders once considered Adolph Hitler their political guru, is witnessing a multi-racial society pretty close to working pretty well.
My airline seatmate on the flight from Dakar, a pleasant and successful young white South African who markets expensive liquors and other high-end products in West Africa—what could the Congo possibly need more than high-class gin and vodka—says of course apartheid was terrible but, he also says, instead of simply replacing whites with blacks in as many positions as possible couldn’t there have been some thought given to training and education first. Of course he’s right in a way, but how does any new leader say to a people who have been hugely repressed and discriminated against for their entire lives that now you must somehow spend the next many years getting educated (as though the facilities existed to do that) before you can have a position that pays you a living wage. Impossible. So the alternative is sometimes putting people in jobs they’re not qualified for but will grow into, and watching the country slip a notch or two on the efficiency ladder. It can right itself, and in fact is, with the government hopefully sincere about paying extra attention to education. While the problem is bigger in South Africa, the US has a ways to go before we reach an educational high ground that includes every kid of every race and ethnicity. More similarities.
My taxi driver from the airport, a black South African, said “Yes, the President is doing some good maybe, but he’s a joke with all those kids and wives and girlfriends.” (President Zuma just took a new wife, his third, and the news just broke that he has fathered a new baby with the daughter of one of his government officials. “And” says the driver, “Now the blacks are treating the whites just like the whites did the blacks before.” He doesn’t seem to think that ‘turnabout being fair play’ is going to get the country anywhere. But did I know that Thursday was the 20th anniversary of the day Nelson Mandela was released from prison? “We’ve come a long way,” he says.
I was in Cape Town for more than a week and it is a lovely low-key city. Beautiful old buildings, Table Mountain looming above, the Atlantic right at the city’s edge, full of restaurants and stores and prosperous looking people of all hues. I have been describing it as San Diego with character. But San Diego doesn’t have townships? And on the edge of Cape Town, everyone’s-favorite-city, lies the Cape Flats…where the black, coloured and Asian populations were forcibly moved during apartheid, in fact moved into separate neighborhoods even in the Flats. Now downtown and the ‘good’ suburbs are increasingly home to coloureds and Asians but still not so many blacks. The mythical color-blind society is still a long ways in the future. But, admittedly knowing little of New Orleans, I understand that it is a city of neighborhoods approaching the intensity and color concentration of the townships of South Africa. Am I wrong?
It seems to me from my various conversations that one difference does stand out as the races reconsider who they are. In the US, people of mixed parentage typically identify with the race of color or the “minority” race that makes up some part of their heritage. Two of my grandchildren are half-Filipino and they very much identify as Asian. Barack Obama has described his path to becoming African/African-American. In South Africa, with apartheid’s divide and conquer strategy always in play, the divisions between white, coloured, Asian and black were so clearly marked and so programmed into the minds of the population that the divisions still exist although one would never know it in downtown Cape Town. More complicated than simply being a ‘person of color.’
The racial criss-crossings and animosities and attractions and the very way history records and defines the relationships creates something of a conundrum. If Cape Town doesn’t feel very “African” because so much of its visible downtown population is white and whites are a tiny minority in SA, then does New Orleans not feel very “American” because much of its visible population is black and only a minority of Americans are black? We think of New Orleans as practically our favorite American city, don’t we? Or another way of saying this. Why do African Americans seem completely American and white Africans not quite African? The latter is a topic of discussion and dissension all over Africa, apparently always has been. I’m sure there’s an easy answer like—whites came willingly to Africa, Africans did not come willingly to North America. But I’m not sure it’s that easy.
I mentioned to my Cape Town friend that actually in South Africa it did feel that whites were South African and I’ve never quite had that feeling elsewhere in Africa. Did that make sense I asked. She said, “Yes of course. Think of it this way, whatever good and bad was to follow when those early Dutchmen arrived they came to stay, not to colonize and return home. They started calling themselves Afrikaners early on whereas the French and the Brits never claimed Africa as their homeland.”
The Township Tour!
I have always felt a little queasy about poverty tours from the old photos of Bobby Kennedy in Appalachian shacks to the favela tours of Rio and on down to me with some other Europeans taking a van into the Cape Flats. I have now been on two such tours in South Africa, a few years ago to Soweto and now to Langa, Khayelitsha and Crossroads. All in all, I guess if it is done respectfully and it brings business into the township and a bit of understanding of what real poverty looks like to a few more comfortable people, it’s worthwhile?
It really becomes important to read a history of this country in conjunction with being here and before doing this. I had just picked up Dominique Lapierre’s 2008 book, A Rainbow in the Night, and spent a mildly-sick day in bed reading it from cover to cover. It’s as even-handed as one could possibly be when considering apartheid is at the heart of this country’s history, and it was an update for me on details that had been forgotten or never known. For example the story of District 6 and the forced removals of its multi-cultural population into their own compounds/ghettos by race: black, coloured or Asian; then the area was razed so the sinful example of races living peacefully and equitably together could be erased from history. And Crossroads where the march against the bearing of passbooks originated, or Landa, the first township and the home of our guide.
The tour was well done. The guide was matter-of-fact and comfortable,taking the six visitors into all but the “informal” sectors where no services are provided among the shacks truly cobbled together from whatever scrap of material can be nailed to the next. Areas within townships are classified by degree of stability and, in a way, prosperity from the “informal” on up to areas where the shacks have gradually been replaced by tiny concrete structures then by larger concrete homes with several rooms, plumbing and small yards. The single men’s dormitories that housed the thousands of men who came from all over South Africa and the rest of Africa to find work in the cities and who were absolutely restricted to hideous overcrowding with no facilities to maintain any measure of privacy, cleanliness, humanity still exist. Woman and children came to join their men, initially living in the same conditions. Now, very gradually, these structures are being turned into apartment blocks; at the low-end a family of six or so sharing a room with bunk beds climbing the walls, shared cooking facilities, pumps in the yard, miserable outdoor toilets. At the high end and the eventual goal, they become two or three room apartments with proper plumbing, etc. It’s also true that modern life goes on, hard to maintain but TVs are on with teenagers doing homework while their cell phones charge; the mamas are cooking and shooing the babies about and the men are at work.
We stopped at a dirt-floor dark and claustrophobic Shebeen, shared a pail of traditional beer, all yeasty like bread dough in the process of rising; at a traditional healer’s, nasty skins and tiny heads all about; and visited a bed and breakfast where I will certainly stay for a day or two when I return to Cape Town. It’s in an area of Khayelitsha where the structures have all become concrete houses and the dirt streets are trash-free but it’s still smack in the middle of the Township. It is a lovely B and B really, airy bedrooms, neatly made beds with their traditional quilts; you can tell the house is pieced together over time but all the more character because of it. I’ll publish the name of it when I return home.
Art and Stories
This meandering travel commentary needs lots of editing but I must get it on the blog before it keeps me in blog block any longer. Just to finish with a note. The stories one hears from friends, artists, taxi drivers, hotel staff are endless. Like the US, South Africa subjugated more than one race, treated them brutally and will be dealing with the results for decades to come. The complicated consequences are being explored by everyone and—whether the story is of Native Americans and African Americans raising their voices through theater or the young African choreographer I met yesterday talking about the role the history of this country (Namibia, where I am now, was part of South Africa) plays in his work—it is a rich field of inquiry destined for many art, social and political investigations in the decades to come.
Since I only eat free-range meat or none at all and think hunting is not a real sport but rather some kind of bizarre male bonding ritual leftover from the ‘hunter-gatherer’ era and since I believe in conservation of natural wild things…tonight’s dinner was solely done to prove to my San Diego son that I’m not an exotic-food wimp. I did not break all of my rules; I am quite sure the springbok, kudu and impala I ate for dinner were wild and happy until slaughtered by some great white hunter type who took the heads home to White Bear Lake or Syracuse, and they’re not very endangered…are they? And ostriches are living everywhere. This one probably got loose from the local ostrich farm and was hit by an out-of-control truck between here and Stellenbosch.
Here’s how it all happened. I was wandering around my lovely Green Market Square neighborhood after a site-based performance work that started oddly but ended normally with Jesus (I think) dragging a big broken metal table over the cobblestones and out of sight, his feet all bloody and robe torn and a haunting African melody to cheer him on his way. There’s a sweet restaurant called Da Capo next to my hotel so I decided a meal would be a good thing since I’ve only eaten exotic pancakes since I’ve been here. Through a long and convoluted discussion with my waiter I wound up ordering the following plate under their tapas menu:
I copied that directly from the menu as I said a silent forgiveness prayer to the pagan Norwegian god of turnips and rutabagas.
PROUD OF ME, SCOTT?
And here’s the critique. Kudu is REALLY good. It’s very light somehow. Like the best steak imaginable—the melting in your mouth kind. Absolutely elegant. And I never have to eat it again. Like going to Luxembourg; it’s done and you don’t have to go back even if it was a pleasant experience. Springbok tastes like a nice light pork with a slightly liver-like texture and Impala tastes like a wild animal. I know I must have eaten venison growing up in Minnesota, and once I tasted bear meat. Impala tasted like I imagine that tasted. About ostrich. I could not do that. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because the Swiss Family Robinson kids rode around on them so I associate them with horses. Or because they are so truly ugly. Or because they are being farmed, penned up, not wild and free like I like to imagine my meat having been just prior to my chewing it up.
Now I am having instant cappuccino and dried out ginger cookies for dessert as I write this. Already too much adventure for one day.
The late summer sun beats down on this denuded island of scrub brush and the odd patch of faded weed and dry grass, but the ever-present Cape wind cools its glare. We’re tourists come over from Cape Town on the Robben Island ferry. “Anyone here want to get married today?” Thabo, our guide for the first part of our trip asks. Funny question I think. But after all it is February 14th and there are 29 couples marrying today on what seems an odd choice of sites. Thabo offers his crowd-pleasing explanation, “They say marriage is a life sentence so where is a more appropriate place to begin serving your time!”
Thabo asks us from where we hail and the answers include Japan, Gabon, Belgium, California, the Netherlands, Johannesburg, New Mexico, Botswana and, he laughingly adds, “and my township, this mama in the front row knows me, I better speak well…” The tour bus drives slowly about the Island stopping often for the young man’s stories of life at Robben Island. His soft and easy South African-accented English is almost mesmerizing as he tells the tales of an island used through time as a place for isolating the region’s troublemakers. “I know you are anxious to see where Nelson Mandela lived but he would be the first to remind us that everyone coming through here during apartheid played a part in the struggle.”
After an hour or so with Thabo he bids us good-bye and we are turned over to a stocky smiling man in his fifties, an ex-prisoner, who will take us through the prison compound. Here the story becomes more personal and both more and less horrific than we imagine it to be. John was here for over six years. He lived in the open barracks, a long room heavily barred but for most of his years without window panes to keep the cold and stormy ways of the Cape at bay; they had only mats on which to sleep at first although eventually bunk beds were installed. There were three meals a day but even then the cruel pettiness ever-present in the “divide and conquer” schemes of the apartheid government came into play. A menu board lists the daily rations for “Coloureds/Asiatics” and for “Bantus” who simply received less of everything, including “No jam/syrup” while the lighter-skinned “coloureds” got treated to a daily “1 oz.” of the treasured sweets.
In response to a question about daily life though, John says “I’d be lying to you if I told you every day was bad. It wasn’t. We made a life under the conditions that existed and it had its joys. We worked five days a week, mostly out in the quarries, and we played soccer and tennis on Saturdays. We could socialize, each within our building mostly, but the best thing was our education programs for the kids who wound up prisoners. They had their first real schooling by all the professors and doctors and lawyers sentenced here…remember for most of the apartheid years Robben Island was only for political prisoners and many were professional men.”
We finally get to Mandela’s cell, the climax of our trip. The 8 by 8 cell holds only the bucket which for many years served as the prisoners’ only container for, in turn, drinking water, bathing and waste; a small stool and a mat and blanket. The leaders of the movement had their own cells, sparse though they were, and usually the ability to communicate freely inside and outside where they grew their gardens of flowers and vegetables, both to make time pass and try to maintain some vestiges of normalcy.
This sunny Valentine’s Day in 2010, it is hard to get my mind around the impact of this place on the men who lived here and the society that put them here. Robben Island wasn’t a place of physical torture or outright murder for the most part—that was done elsewhere. This non-descript island with its fairytale view of Cape Town and Table Mountain just a brief span of blue sea away, was a place to play the mental games necessary to break spirits not bodies. What a testimony South Africa today is to apartheid’s inability to conquer those spirits.
John shared a closing thought that would make a striking Valentine’s card image. “You know the prisoners could have visitors, their wives and children over the age of 16, but no one younger could come to the Island. Well, one summer the guards who lived here got to bring their small children to their compound which was at the other end. It seems that by mistake, their babysitters brought them over to the guards’ golf course near the quarry to play. There were many prisoners working in the quarry that day, digging, pounding, crushing the hard rock, when the sound of children’s laughter came to them. All of them stopped dead still and just stood in silence, almost at attention, with tears making tiny rivers down their dusty faces as their thoughts went to their own children and life as it was supposed to be lived.”
But it’s 2010 and there is a Robben Island souvenir shop, and a summer swimming competition is being organized to commemorate some event of Island history, and animal rights activists are up in arms over a government scheme to shoot all the Robben Island bunnies because they are consuming every shred of plant life on the island. So life moves on.
I have a butternut squash pancake and nice South African wine back on the mainland and think about the reality that never quite lives up to the hope and inspiration of big movements but how inspiring it all is anyway. And I think how one of the few places I ever feel lonely when traveling alone is when I’m participating in a group tour. Can one be ‘a wallflower at the tour?’
It’s that last 36 hours before the journey begins. When you wonder what in the world you are doing. Why does anyone leave the comfort of their own space to be humiliated by security, trek down endless halls to your next flight which is always at the other end of the terminal. Get the seat next to a person eating something full of garlic and onions. Wonder if the snow in DC will ever stop. Know you should read the instructions for your new camera. Pay the utility bills. Stop the papers. Throw out the last of the milk. AAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH! But tomorrow I’ll be in love with whole idea again. My hotel in Cape Town is booked and apparently staffed by lovely people who send e-mails to assure me they’ll pick me up at the airport where I’ll arrive quite late at night. And to get to my hotel in Windhoek the next week I should tell the cab driver at the bus station to take me to the hotel across from the “fruit and veg” street. Okay…I’m already happy again.
This is WINDOW SEAT. Now, before this slightly misleadingly-named blog proceeds, I have a confession. After years and years of ALWAYS taking the window seat in whatever conveyance, I’ve now had a relatively short period of asking for the aisle. I used the excuse that I was getting older and wanted to access the bathroom more freely, stretch my legs to prevent deep vein thrombosis and most of the time it was either black night or a sunny blue-domed cloud-carpeted world outside the window anyway. Okay, I repent. I’m back to my window seat. It is actually worth the climb over a bulky sleeping seatmate to catch that first glimpse of the hills or valleys or streetscape of my next NEW place. Here’s an itinerary that will be admired by some, but envied by few if the truth be told. Most people actually do not want to travel. Took me a long time to believe that about apparently rational people. Some of my best friends in fact. But travel as opposed to vacationing isn’t for everyone. And I must admit to being rather a softy as travel goes…no Amazonian rapids or Himalayan peaks…just the next cup of coffee at a very distant counter. But that’s okay. My itinerary feels a little daunting to me too. Roughly it’s this. 7AM to DC, 5:40PM to Johannesburg, an 18 hour flight, gas up in Bamako or Dakar. Late that evening into Johannesburg. (All courtesy of frequent flyer miles—keep your mileage, every single mile and then if you actually wanted to go somewhere you could!) Couple hours flight to Cape Town and I’m home for a week. Although at this moment in time I don’t have a hotel. Cape Town has HISTORY. The Afrikaner stronghold. The white town. The most beautiful city in the world. The racist heart of South Africa. Seems to be all of that. I hope to walk many streets and climb Table Mountain and find Deon Meyer, one of my favorite police/detective novelists and to think about what this city means in relation to Birmingham or New Orleans or Mobile or any one of the American cities where our own racial history is writ large. But in my everyday life for the week I’m focusing on dance and theater. What are artists in a city that is geographically at almost the bottom of the world—9351 miles from Albuquerque—thinking about right now? How to find that out in one week? BUT here is what endlessly fascinates me. How we each think we live at the center of the world. And then we fly for 24 hours or so and it’s somebody else’s center of the world. So then I’ll have a cup of coffee and sleep and get up and walk around this center of the world.
Okay, I vowed that I would blog every other day if I got into this. Now it’s the third day and I must say something about travel…or dance. That is primarily what this blog is about. I’ve been writing grants all day (for dance) and now a wine and NCIS LA—which isn’t nearly as good as the other NCIS. Although I’m thrilled that little old lady (we must support each other) Linda Hunt has a role. What does this have to do with travel? Well in my moments of pacing before the next grant paragraph I thought about all the steps to make my Africa journey productive, inspiring, fun and how to lose eight pounds while I’m away. This is pertinent why? Because the only way I can do the latter is to walk and walk and walk. And I can’t afford to eat anything really delicious anyway (that’s part of the travel budgeting decisions). Walking a lot will put me in touch with the streets of Cape Town, Windhoek, Gaborone and Johannesburg. And during the overnight (maybe) in a town in Lesotho. As most travel books will tell you, planning is half the fun. I did most of my packing last weekend. So early. Because. The suitcase MUST be light. Clothes, a couple of emergency books, although I want to buy many books in South Africa where a splendid display of literature we never hear about is available. Need some instant coffee, underwear, one pair of flats in case dressing up calls for something other than a big size of white tennies. That’s it for today. Am I allowed just to chat like this on a blog? Or is that really tacky? Where do blog virgins go to learn protocol?
WINDOW SEAT is alive and well…as a travel blog with some dance and theater and maybe a personal bit or two thrown into the mix. WINDOW SEAT, the book, will be how I got to here—a not-very-young woman with limited funds who is compelled to go-to-every-country-in-the-world-before-I-die. I have so far been to 61 countries which leaves 131-134 to go depending on who is counting and what month or year it is. Countries do come and go—for example, who knew TWO (Soviet Union and Yugoslavia) would become MANY (about 15)—so I must be concerned about whether my travel stamina and curiosity can keep up. I am fortunate to have a great job working with contemporary artists of every culture, every background and every ability. Often my travels are to see new work and perhaps invite these creative global adventurers to our art center in New Mexico. AND SOMETIMES MY TRAVELS ARE BECAUSE I NEED TO GO ROUND THE NEXT BEND OR SEE OVER THE NEXT RIDGE—revealing my love of road trips even if most places on my travel agenda cannot be reached in my trusty but aging Mazda.
But now…ENTERING BLOG LAND