A Seed is Blown: Cape Town to Cintsa. Part 2

 The flyover started under Apartheid in CapeTown, (photograph 2005)

Had my romanticised ideas of Cape Town and South Africa been naive? Perhaps, but I wasn’t totally ignorant of the issues. At the impressionable age of seven I had seen Zoltan Korda’s ground breaking film, “Cry, the Beloved Country”.

Was it mere coincidence, or a manifestation of karma balancing up some invisible scales of justice, that Alan Patton’s novel, “Cry, the Beloved Country”, on which the film was based, was published in the year that Apartheid was instituted, or that Zoltan Korda’s film of the same name was released in the year the infamous Pass Laws came into effect?

The Pass Laws met with intense resentment, because they further tightened restrictions on the movements of non-whites, and had their origins in the slave trade. By 1952 non-whites had been deprived of the right to influence their destiny through democratic means, the right to move freely in their own country, the right to land ownership in all but a tiny fraction of the vast territories of South Africa, and the right to marriage and sexual relationships with whites. It seemed not much had changed since the days of slavery. It also seemed that under white rule, South Africa had brought its own brand of slavery up to date with the modern world.

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“Cry, the Beloved Country” is a heart rending story of how dire the consequences of Apartheid could be, and with that special talent possessed by children to grasp the essence of emotional realities, my mind concentrated the message of the whole film into one scene that stayed with me into adulthood.

Inside a dwelling, surrounded by silent black hills, a shadow looms over the faces and into the hearts of a simple country man and his wife. It is the shadow of fear, a fear greater than any they have known, for they have lost their precious ones to something sinister and uncaring. As if I had witnessed an unspeakable crime, a shadow passed over me, and with the great darkness it cast I awoke from innocence, and felt horror and pity for the first time.

*

The film opens with an idyllic scene of lushly pastured hills and a road following the soft rolling contour of the land, sweeping gently and curving into the distance. A neat cluster of thatched rondavels dot the hillside, and a nearby segment of woodland sits tidily into the ordered patchwork of fields. The impression is of a peaceful land; prosperous and cared for; a kingdom of harmony unthreatened, but not without fear. The scene changes to a craggy, claw-like form reaching up into the sky. It is the edge of a deeply eroded kloof. Cattle graze anxiously on the meagre stubble and dry grass that pokes out of the bare cracked earth. Women labor with hoes at the soil; one has a baby tied to her back with a shawl. The scene is accompanied a narration:

“There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. .These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it. The grass is rich and matted, you cannot see the soil. It is well tended and not too many cattle feed upon it. Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men, cares for men. Destroy it and man is destroyed. But the rich green hills break down. They fall to the valley below, and falling, change their nature. For they grow red and bare; they cannot hold the rain and mist and the streams are dry in the kloofs. Too many cattle feed upon the grass and too many fires have burned it. Down in the valleys woman scratch the soil that is left. They are valleys of old men and old women, of mothers and children. The men are away, the men and the girls are away. The soil cannot keep them any more.”(Zoltan Korda, 1952)

As the story unfolds, of Kumalo a simple country minister who travels to Johannesburg in search of his sister and son, all of South Africa’s woes are encountered, in a tale of the miserable fates human beings inflict upon each other.

“We shall live form day to day, and put more locks on our doors, and get a fine fierce dog when the fine fierce bitch next door has pups, and hold on to our handbags more tenaciously; and the beauty of the trees by night, and the raptures of lovers under the stars, these things we shall forgo. We shall forgo the coming home drunken through the midnight streets, and the evening walk over the starlit veld. We shall be careful, and knock this off our lives, and knock that off our lives. And our lives will shrink” (Allan Patton, 1948:71)

There is a complete sense of tragedy that comes with the knowledge of an irreversible wrong, and once innocence has been defiled by fear, the clock cannot be turned back.

“ The tragedy is not that things are broken. The tragedy is that they are not mended again.”

Says Msimangu, Kumalo’s guide in his search for his sister and his son in the slums Johannesburg. (Allan Patton, 1948:25)

*

“...O if we but knew what we do

When we delve or hew— 

Hack and rack the growing green!

Since country is so tender

To touch, her being so slender,

That, like this sleek and seeing ball

But a prick will make no eye at all, 

Where we, even where we mean

To mend her we end her,

When we hew or delve:

After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.”

(Gerard Manley Hopkins, Binsey Poplars)

*

On the train to Johannesburg, Kumalo is filled with awe and dread at the  harsh, barren landscape of bare white mountains of rock and sand passing by the window. These are the mines and, with eyes sparkling in naive fascination, Kumalo asks: “Can we see the gold.” (Zoltan Korda, 1952). His fellow travellers are old hands and their lives are already consumed by a machine that is indifferent to human needs.

“ There is the wheel. A great iron structure rearing into the air, and a great wheel above it, going so fast that the spokes play tricks with the sight.” (Alan Patton,1948:17). Kumalo’s mind is in a whirl of bewilderment. He feels sadness and terror.

“Railway-lines, railway-lines, it is a wonder. To the left, to the right, so many that he cannot count. A train rushes past them, with a sudden roaring of sound that makes him jump in his seat…. Stations, stations, more than he has ever imagined. People are waiting there in hundreds, but the train rushes past, leaving them disappointed.” (Alan Patton,1948:17)

These men of the land, pulled from the land are like children caught up in something beyond them, something they cannot understand, and like the train speeding along its track, incisively cutting through the land, unremittingly the future comes too fast for them. When the future collides with the past there are casualties on both sides. It seems at first, as it bears the brunt of the collision that only the past is suffering, but the two fates are intertwined and losses of the past become losses of the future. 

Wrapped in brightly patterned blankets, shabby ill fitting jackets, woolly hats, or bashed trilbies cocked on their heads, they travel together segregated from the white owners of the harsh uncertain world to which they are going. They have left their women and children and they have left the safety of their homes, driven by white men’s greed for treasures of the earth, for diamonds and gold, and for the very land itself.

At Johannesburg station Kumalo is overwhelmed by the melee of people and confusion.
“Cars and buses one behind the other, more than he has ever imagined.” (Allan Patton,1948:18).

Remembering the story of a child from his village that was crushed by a lorry crossing the street in Johannesburg, Kumalo reels back from the roadside, paralysed with fear.

By 1899, just three years after the discovery of gold, Johannesburg had grown to be the largest city in South Africa, and for rural black Africans it was a place of bewildering complexity and unimaginable tribulation.

“Oh my husband, why did we leave the land of our people? There is not much there, but there is not much here. There is not much food there, but it is better than here. There is not much food there, but it is shared by all together. If all are poor, it is not so bad to be poor. And it is pleasant by the river, and while you wash your clothes the water runs over the stones, and the wind cools you.” (Alan Patton,1948:52)

One thing was certain: black Africans had little to choose from between scratching out an impoverished living in the homelands, or the promise of wages in the mines, no matter how pitiful those wages were, or how poor the conditions. But leaving the land was a terrible price to pay, because in the towns conditions were poor and overcrowded, and away from family and community, gangs, prostitution, violence and crime flourished. And so one crime begat another. and a seed of darkness was sown in the hearts of men, spawning a cycle of fear and distrust that spiralled out of control. The opulent homes of the whites made an easy target for the black gangs, and in response any sympathy whites may have had for the conditions of the poor turned to resentment.

Something did cry out to me from that film:

“Cry the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.”(Alan Patton,1948:72)

Because I was a child when I first saw the film, it cast a great darkness across my innocence, and even though I was just a child, I knew the cost of living with fear would mean losing the thing I loved most: to be able to love without fear.

“Under the live oaks, shaded and dusky, the maidenhair flourished and gave a good smell, and under the mossy banks of water courses whole clumps of five-fingured ferns and goldy-backs hung down. Then there were harebells, tiny lanterns, cream white and almost sinful-looking, and these were so rare and magical that a child, finding one, felt singled out and special all day long.” (Stienbeck, 1952:9).

*

In 1948, when Apartheid was officially made law, a final sense of permanency was rendered to the countless laws that had nibbled away at the rights of black and coloured people for three centuries. Like an enduring boxer reigned down upon by blows in a punishing beating at the hands of a more powerful opponent, the knockout punch was finally delivered. It was an ignoble victory for the Reunited National Party. However, as we know, in the rematch forty six years later in 1998, a decisive victory was delivered by Nelson Mandela and the ANC, and Apartheid was knocked, permanently out of the ring.

A Seed is Blown: Cape Town to Cintsa

Cape Town with Table Mountain shrouded in mist. Dec 2005

My journey to Cape Town was inspired by some romantic notions: being on the tip of Africa at the cusp of two great oceans, the legend of Nelson Mandela, and the up beat, brass driven sounds of Cape Town funk.

Shortly before going there I became friendly with Deborah, a South African woman who was studying photography at City of Westminster College, London, where I was lecturing in Art & Design. By coincidence, Deborah’s ex-husband was living in an artist’s community in a suburb of Cape Town. Intrigued by the possibility of meeting some South African artists, I decided to visit the community and spend a few days there.

Ode Molen Village - as the compound housing the artist's community was called - was a huddle of buildings on a bare patch of ground near a motorway. The high security fencing gave an appearance, more of a prison than a village. Cape Town wasn’t how I imagined it either. There was the worry of violent crime and, since I had to rely on the local train service, which wasn’t recommended, to get around, I wasn’t tempted to do much sightseeing. The city centre, well known for its party culture, seemed largely dominated by white people. As hopes of immersing myself in some of South Africa’s wonderful music began to fade, feeling a bit deflated I took a trip up Table Mountain. From the rocky heights, buffeted by a chill wind I looked out on to a view of sprawling docks and sixties concrete office blocks, only adding to my disappointment, because it seemed that, except for the clear blue sky it was a view reminiscent of Swansea in Wales, and not worth travelling 6000 miles. Why did everybody rave about this town? Surely I was missing something. Anyway, it was time to move on, and I was thinking about where to go, when Bruno, Deborah’s ex-husband suggested the Transkei. Even though it was a long way to travel from Cape Town by road, and I knew nothing about the place, the attraction was irresistible. Later I discovered that "trans" means across, and the Kei River is a natural tribal border, so in Afrikaans, Transkei simply meant across the Kei. I would also discover that the Transkei was home to the Xhosa people, birthplace of Nelson Mandela, and one of the original “homelands".

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The “homelands”- such a quaint name for a travesty - were reservations for black Africans. They supposedly functioned as independent states under autonomous democratic rule, but were ruled instead by those chiefs who were prepared to compromise on principles and ignore the wishes of the people they ruled. Being dependent on the South African economy, but without having a stake in it, and therefore not reaping any rewards from it, they acted as pools of labor, form which white South Africa extracted the low skilled workers it needed to service its economy. The land of the “homelands” were often not of a quality sufficient to support the populations that lived there, and with the young men and women away working in the cities, agriculture suffered and malnutrition and famine were not unheard of. Clearly guided by the principle of divide and rule, the effect of the “homelands” policy was to emphasise the distinction between the different indigenous peoples by allotting them different territories to live in. Along with this, the loss of South African citizenship made travel outside of the “homelands” impossible without a passport. Furthermore, the South African Parliament maintained absolute authority over the “homelands”. It was a system ingenious in its wickedness, and sadly to this day, in spite of the dismantling of Apartheid they remain ghettos of poverty and neglect.

Simba 1984 - 2016

Simba, Ruarwe, 2009, age 25

Like a speck of dust floating in an enormous watery eye, a lone canoe makes its way on the vast expanse of Lake Malawi. Simba dips his paddle and the canoe glides smoothly along.

A sudden rush of wind ruffles the Lake. The canoe rocks. Simba’s wife holds on to the sides. A baby is tied to her back. Thunder rumbles. Rain falls. Forked lightning crazes the sky. The clouds boil fiery-red. Whip-like cracks of thunder ricochet into the distance. 

As a splinter of wood had works its way out from under the skin of a great, hoary hand, a small pale object emerges from the dark cloak of the storm. Simba paddles furiously, then in one cat-like leap bounds ashore, and hauls the canoe to rest. His wife clambers after him. Simba’s bulging muscles tremble with adrenaline, his eyes roll like marbles. 

(All this happens in a phantasmagorically creation, whose  proportions are infinite; a creation that exists through time, but is timeless, that destroys and rebuilds universes,\; a creation whose awesome beauty demands appreciation; a creation that enacts its role without malice or guile, no matter how savage and cruel it may appear to be)

The child is awake, cradled in its mother’s arms. She rocks it gently.

Anyone who has seen Walt Disney's, “The Lion King”, will be familiar with the character of the lion called Simba, which by no coincidence is the Swahili word for lion. Maybe it is a coincidence, however, that the Simba in my story resembles a lion. For example, when he gets excited, his voice booms in a gravely roar, and when he pulls himself proudly up to attention, strikes his chest with his fist, and says: “I am a soldier,” he exudes leonine prowess. 

Simba was the first and only person I ever met whose nickname was a brand of whiskey, Johnny Walker, which was what I called him until I discovered it wasn't his real name. Simba had huge amounts of energy, courage and determination, and was thoughtful and kind. It was a great shock to discover that he had been fatally stabbed, while working in South Africa. The incident happened outside the front door of the house where was working as a house boy, when he returned after being with some Malawian friends playing cards. He leaves behind a wife, and at least three children.