Keep an eye on things – we are still here.

I was too young to go – by one day.

My birthday falls on the day after New Year – then I would turn sixteen.

We’d spent fourteen years of Decembers there.

With the same families and their children.

When exams started, pre-Blue Marlin anticipation intensified – comparable to the pre-birth anticipation parents feel, memories mysteriously wiped blank of previous Births of Death.

My father [a famous racing driver] would then attempt to break his record time there, to be greeted by Uncle Clive [all adults were ‘aunty’ and ‘uncle’], stopwatch in hand, and Bobby the barman – a scotch in his.

We couldn’t wait to get inside – in fact, the Standton’s kids used to travel in their cozzies so they could run straight into the pool from the car! The pool – now liquid, would slowly morph into a solid over the following three weeks.

The dining room was run by Dori the one-eyed head-waiter, where
the same Indian staff would serve the same meals every year. We always landed up with Basil. I remember him because he shared a name with my legendary father [insert sound of ironic chuckles here].

The manager Tony Thompson lived in the penthouse with his wife and three handsome sons [if you cracked an invite up there your name rapidly advanced a massive leap on the leader board].

I went up.

With one of the cool girls.

A mercy entry – she was part of the ‘Cool Crowd’ with whom I hung out, by no choice of theirs, but because they were the offspring of my parents’ friends.

She’s fat now – I’m thin [But why couldn’t I be then when I gave a shit and needed to be popular?].

They were allowed to be teenagers.

I was allowed to watch them.

So most of the time they were safe to include me by exclusion – inviting me everywhere, knowing that I wouldn’t be allowed to go.

They’d suntan outside the Lifesavers Club, competing for the attention of Goldie – the sun-bleached-tousle-haired-lifesaver, who’d broken more hearts than he’d resuscitated. Guys wanted to be him, girls wanted to be with him.

I wanted to be with anyone other than my parents waiting to turn sixteen.

I remember having witnessed them smooching, smoking, sneaking out and getting slammed – accompanied by feelings of soul-contaminating shame, feelings stemming from a design of values my parents had tattooed on my cerebellum.

Eventually I lazered them loose. They didn’t get far. They now envelop my entire body in a design of a Phoenix bird – rising from the ashes of the Blue Marlin Hotel.

On “Countries Of The World Night” Uncle Dave came as ‘Thailand’ – with a zillion neckties tied around him.

Uncle Keith came in his jogging gear – ‘Iran’.

I went as ‘Romania’.

That’s because I’d chosen to stay in my room rather than attend such a lame event – so had Patrick Swayze.

The Cool Crowd were at a disco in town.

The next day I turned sixteen and, like every year, we spent my birthday on the road home.

I was lobotomized.

I was Jack Nicholson at the end of ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’.

Which is exactly what Aunty Cecile [real-life bird’s nest pinned in her hair!] came as on “Movie Night”.

It is important to realise that when it comes to going away on holiday, there are two types of farmers – those who are happy to leave the farm for a few weeks at a time and those who hate the idea of being separated from their beloved farm for more than a few days at a time. I am the daughter of a farmer that falls into the latter category.

They believe that in their absence, all the sheep will die from some inexplicable disease, it will rain too much or too little or the entire staff will suddenly decided to leave the farm without notice. So, unlike other families, we had to stay at home over Christmas and New Years to make sure none of the above-mentioned disasters did actually occur. Instead, we had to wait for all the Vaalies, “who always take over all holiday destinations,” to return before we could set off to the coast. 10 days maximum.

These places will usually not be somewhere glamorous (like Margate) or big (like Port Elizabeth), but rather a little seaside town with one miserable shop. Therefore, my mother had to be an expert packer and even had a dedicated room set aside for this mammoth task and had to skilfully anticipate anything we might possibly require during our trip. The packing predictably included a game and sports section for anything that was fashionable at the time and without fail, scrabble was always top on the list. A beach section, a linen, bedding and towel section (not to be confused with beach towels), the toiletries and a medicine kit, all the regular household groceries and by far the most important – FOOD.

The food section would comprise of plenty of meat for all the braais, tins of rusks and biscuits and anything else that could help us fight the big hunger between meals. Naturally, we had to be fully prepared for the great munchies, caused by the fresh sea air, since only one trip to the nearest Pick & Pay could be made to replenish the supplies mid-way through the holiday or if the weather was bad.

How on earth my dad managed to pack all of that and us into the car will remain a mystery to me. On arrival, we loved exploring the new house, each rented cottage having its own quirks while providing us with an insight into the lives of its owners. We had a splendid time at the sea, pretty much like every other South African family that went on similar holidays.

My dad had to phone home just to make sure that none of the earlier mentioned, or any other unforeseen disasters, did occur back home. Contact with the staff back home required careful planning since none of the beach houses had landlines and mobile phones were but a dream back then. My dad would arrange to phone the staff at 6 pm on a specific day from the phone booth at the café from where he would attempt to conduct his farming from 500 kilometres away. I am happy to report that there were never any major disasters while we were away on holiday. The cell phone has truly revolutionised holidays for farmers wherever they might be in the world.

I still remember the 2 litre coke bottles we filled with sea water for the people back home, most of them never having seen the ocean before. I miss the old sea cottages now replaced with huge mansions. I miss school holidays when you didn’t have to ask for leave and synchronize diaries. I miss discovering the shortest route to the beach or getting ice-cream at the shop on the way home. I miss meeting new friends next door or spending time with the cousins and family.

I only hope that the tradition of a yearly family holiday will never be replaced with anything more “fashionable”; each child should have the opportunity to create similar memories and spend quality time with their siblings and parents.

Fear will keep you safe.
If you are a South African raised during the last 50 years or so, you know this for a fact: fear will keep you safe. Fear will keep you alive.

My parents taught me.
SABC 1 taught me.
Huis-Genoot taught me.
School taught me.
Experience taught me:

Be suspicious. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t talk to the ousie on the corner. Don’t touch unattended parcels. Go to the big field if the siren blares twice. They hate you because you’re black. They hate you because you’re white.

I am an excellent student. I learned well.
So I sit in my kitchen, 15,811 long, long kilometres from my homeland and I shake. It is barely perceptible, but the ripples reach far, far, daar doer aan die anderkant…**

My fear is a soldier home from the war; a war I went into too young to understand and finished too old to forget. It used to have a purpose, but now… now the war is over – suddenly, unexpectedly – and after a brief period of indulgence for the telling of stories and ooh-ing and aah-ing over scar tissue, it is expected to reintegrate seamlessly into polite society.
But the soldier wakes, screaming in the night. It has brought the enemy home, safe inside my skull, where I can never escape.

Fuck you, South Africa! How much farther do I have to go before I can outrun the acrid stench of fear that envelops me so completely? The Gift of Fear – ha! Some gift. You keep your fear in the box it came in, the packaging still pristine; a collector’s item. Talk talk talk about the gift of fear and you’ve never had to wrestle the shrink wrap off while a woman howls and bleeds in a public bathroom.

Lies.
This is the legacy of apartheid.
Fear.
This is what we were trained to do.
We.
Every colour in our new rainbow nation.
Fear your neighbour (but fear his garden boy more).
Fear the culture that is not yours. Fear the skin not like mine.
Fear the dark, fear the day. Fear the crowds and fear the quiet places too.
Fear the man with no teeth and holes in his clothes; the woman screaming for help down the road.
Keep apart.
Fear will keep you safe. Fear will keep you alive.
Fear will keep you apart.

Lies. Isolation.
Fear will eat you alive.

I was born into fear.
Into a country gripped by fear, torn apart by fear, a few short weeks before the Soweto Riots. It is my inheritance. It is my legacy.
And now I sit in a kitchen 15,811 long, long kilometres from my parents’ house. It is my kitchen. It is my house. And I shake.
But I am safe and the shaking will soon stop.

* I shamelessly stole this phrase from the book of the same title – Country of My Skull – by Antjie Krog. It is magnificent and heart-wrenching and the movie adaptation doesn’t completely reek.

** “Waaaaay over there on the other side…”

The first trip back that I can remember with any clarity was when I was about eight years old in the early 70’s. We flew over in December to spend Christmas in Yorkshire. We left in the heat of summer and I can remember being confused because my mother insisted on us carrying our winter coats and having jerseys in our bags not realising that we were travelling into the teeth of winter. I can clearly remember being highly upset that I had to wear long trousers, warm socks and shoes to travel in, telling us that it would be cold when we got to London was not really a concept we understood.

We arrived on a cold sleety day to warm, happy reunion with Grandparents, and a huge family we had all but forgotten. It seemed as though the entire village was either related to or friendly with my extended family. The warmth of the welcome embraced us and we felt a bit like the return of the prodigals. We were home from foreign parts, you have to understand that my parents were the first in either of their families to travel and live anywhere other than the local surrounds, some of the older members of the family had never even travelled as far as London. Africa was considered extremely remote and “foreign”, South Africa had to be looked up in an atlas to make sure where it actually was.

After the welcome came the disbelief at how we sounded.

I was used to being called an immigrant in South Africa and being told that I spoke funny by other kids, I kind of used being English as a talisman against the alienation, that was where we came from and was where we belonged. It was a bit of a shock to the system, to be told by my cousins that I spoke funny and was not English anymore either!

My brother and I were treated like peculiarities by our aunts, uncles and cousins, being pointed out to perfect strangers as being “All the way from Af-ri-ca” almost as though it was the other end of the universe. Every time we opened our mouths to speak we were stared at because we sound so different. We were spoken about as if we were prize exhibits. The comments went along the lines of:
“Have you spoken to Our Ian’s two?”
“Don’t they talk funny?”
“Why do they talk so posh?”
“Wot yuh talkin’ posh fo’ ?”
All in broad Yorkshire accents, I had thought I sounded just like them!

It was very disconcerting and disturbing for young kids, who had been told for months that they were going “Home” for a visit. Even more disconcerting was the fact that my parents slipped straight back into the local accents and did not even realise that they sounded like strangers to us.

How could this be home when no-one sounded like us? Some people can be so inadvertently cruel, young children have ears and can understand a lot more than you give them credit for. I think this was my first perceptions that I did not belong anywhere in particular and is a feeling I have carried with me for most of my life since then.

Eventually the novelty factor wore off and we were accepted back into the bosom of the family and had a wonderful Christmas, it even snowed and my dad had the pleasure of following the snow plough down to the local pub on New Year’s Eve. We were also suitably spoilt with toys and clothes that had to be carted back to South Africa in an extra suitcase. I was very sorry to leave my Grandparents but was equally happy to be home in South Africa.

It was a Sunday afternoon. My dad had taken me out walking in veld; the pale winter Transvaal sun on our skin, the tickle of tall, dry grasses around our legs. At some point I dropped my blankie but sounded the alarm too late. My dad turned around just in time to see two young black boys run off with it. When we got home, I burst into the kitchen, flung my arms around my mom, shrieking, “The flater-boys stole my blankie”. I was two and couldn’t quite get my tongue around “native”. It could have been worse. It could have been coon or kaffir.

The thing is; I had always considered my parents to be liberal, certainly more liberal than the Afrikaaners. They treated our maid well. Sarah was one of the family, except that she was only allowed to use the peppermint-green enamel plate, bowl and mug. She lived on the property, except it was a back room, and her shower was in the toilet. She could come and go as she pleased, except she had to use the service entrance. And, she couldn’t really come and go as she pleased, could she?

As a young South African growing up in the late 70s and 80s there was a lot I didn’t question, there was a lot I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice that there were only whites on the beaches in Durban in the Christmas holidays. I didn’t realise that the bomb drills at primary school were because there was a State of Emergency and we were too close to Alex for anyone’s comfort. I did know there were toilets for whites and toilets for blacks at Eastgate, but I didn’t know there were different coaches on the trains, different rows on the busses. I only heard about the pencil test well into my twenties. Ignorance is bliss.

And now?

I rebuke my parents who exist in some sort of racist overdrive. Words like kaffir, coon, and native aren’t tolerated anymore; black doesn’t feel PC, so now it’s just “they”. “They” broke into the neighbour’s house. “They” shot the guy down the street. “They” are causing trouble at work. “They” give shit service at the mall. You know the drill. They won’t say it, but we know what they’re thinking. The signs aren’t there anymore, but the words are. Perhaps that was the dialogue all along, when the adults were talking. And I’m ashamed.

A few months ago, my car was broken into, in my secure parking lot, in the middle of the night. I called my dad and shrieked down the phone, “the flater-boys stole my car radio, my gym bag, my Havaianas …”

My life lesson.

Mrs. C** was formidable. A blonde Valkyrie who smoked cigars, swore like a trooper, who no one would dream of calling anything but MRS C**, she ran her household of 5 sons with the most relaxed version of an iron fist one could ever imagine. But there are volumes to be written about this extraordinary family, but I fear I can’t digress, as limits are limits, readers mine, and the focus now is a weekend trip to LM. Simple as that. But here’s the thing…

Going to LM with the C**s was no walk in the park. I didn’t even know that we were leaving South Africa. I was young – about 10 or so – and only figured that out months later. Bear in mind we grew up with brothers that listened to LM radio and Long John Berks. LM was a household name. I had no idea it was in another country. So when Mark asked me if I wanted to go with them, I jumped at it. Mum and Dad were an abstracted lot, and I think only half took in my asking, so off we went. Me and Mark and two more brothers and mum and dad C piled into this amazing Pontiac Parisienne – lime green, with wings and all – and set off down the North Coast road.

Through what was then Zululand and further until the nice wide tar road was a shaky memory, we eventually ended up in serious bush. This was before the bush war, and the road just went on and on for hours through the most extraordinary mangroves and dense forest, with here and there miles and miles of bushveld and then we hit what seemed like a dense black fog….. ‘cept this fog was alive. After a few minutes that seemed like terrifying hours it was gone, and the windscreen was a mass of squashed mosquitoes. We must have the hit the mother of all mozzie swarms. The outskirts of Lourenco Marques a few miles later were most welcome and we quickly warmed to world I’d never known about. Vendors everywhere, selling everything… cheap cheap cheap. And then I learned how Mark always had money. The day before we left, he bought hundreds of packs of small cheroots, apparently made from some part of the banana, for next to nothing. These he secreted in his case, and snuck it into the boot while his dad was packing.

Thinking back I don’t recall there being any formal border post on that extraordinary road. We certainly didn’t stop at anything like that. Whether the ingenious Tony knew some secret backroad or not I still don’t know. Very possible. He was a man of many schemes, and Mark must have got his idea somewhere, because no sooner home than on his bike and off to Hilton, where he made a killing selling cheap cheroots to the form fives. No wonder he was the only kid no-one at school messed with. So there we have it… international smugglers at the age of ten. Who would have thought.

It was Eden in Africa, but as a kid who grew up in that world it’s taken me near half a century to see that we were truly blessed, beyond the religious trappings of that notion. This was heaven on earth.

Is fear a reason for apartheid? Or ignorance? Or is it rooted in intolerance and hatred?

While chatting about this subject a couple of weeks ago on a forum, someone suggested that going to an exclusive (read: all white) school was actually a good thing, because how could you become a racist if you’ve never had interaction with a black person… How could you hate something you know nothing about? That doesn’t sound right to me, in fact, I know it’s wrong, but yet…. But yet… there seems to be something there.
None of the people I went to school with are racists. At least I don’t think so, but at the same time they live in small secluded little worlds that don’t allow them to interact with people of different colour or ethnicity. It’s not hatred… it might be fear… I simply think its ignorance. Is that the same thing as racism?

I don’t know.

I do know this: I don’t like segregation. I don’t think it’s good for the country, or the community or the individual.

And yet I still see it all the time. My nephews go to an all Jewish school – and they have little to no interaction with kids of different faiths or class or colour. To them life is all about keeping up with the Jankolowitz’s.

How sad I think, in a time when it’s cool to diversify, to be a part of something bigger, to be exposed to a larger world.

I love my childhood friends, we’ve grown up together, been through so many of life’s important moments, and I see the same traits in them. And it bugs the hell out of me.

Is this the legacy of segregation? Not hatred, but simply apathetic ignorance.
Shit, I hope not. It’s gonna take a long time to sort out this country, any country, if it is.

We often hopped into his car and drove into the Garden Route, stopping at Tsitsikamma or Storms River for the day, a hastily packed picnic in the boot. Or we would simply pack up and drive to visit family in Cape Town over the weekend – my uncle believed in spur of the moment adventures.

Over Christmas times we would often all pile into his car and hit the long road to Upington (from Port Elizabeth). Have you ever followed the road north to Upington? It snakes out in front of you like a shiny gray ribbon, while the heat conjures up ocean mirages in the distance. If you ignore the small bushes and grass, you could imagine that you are driving through the red hills of Mars. The Orange River snakes through the red sand like a green artery, bringing magnificent colour into a world that could otherwise fool you into thinking it is dead. When the sun sets over the Karoo, it turns the clouds into orange islands in a pink sea. If you are lucky you might see a shooting star as it arcs across the diamond encrusted sky of the Northern Cape. If you are not-so-lucky you might have to stop suddenly for a kudu, as big as a house, as it leaps the fence at the side of the road and then walks past your car, while curiously inspecting the people inside. Sometimes we pulled off to the side of the road and tried to sleep under a sky so filled with stars that its brightness kept us awake.

I think that the fun of a holiday, for me, was always the trip there, never the destination itself.

Once in Upington we would complain about the heat, our toes being baked in our black patent leather shoes, but taking off your shoes was not an option either, as you then had to contend with the hot earth underfoot and the scorching sun on your toes. I would seek the cool shelter of the grape vine in the backyard, with beds placed under it. I would happily munch grapes the whole day, pretending to be alone in the world, until one of my cousins would grab me by the hand and we would go for a walk down to the Orange River. The walk lead through green cotton fields, across a small bridge and a copse of Weeping Willows and once we got there I would always be afraid of the river, rushing past in a deluge of muddy brown water.

Perhaps my favourite place in the world was Augrabies National park. I remember the thunder of the water and the spray on my face. I remember the little multi-coloured lizards that ran up and down the gorge walls like acrobats. I remember the Moon Rock and wanting to run up it with the bigger children, but my mother, ever aware of my accident prone self, would keep a firm hold on my hand and I could only watch. I remember crossing the swaying bridge over a gorge to the rhino enclosure, where nobody was allowed to enter. And I remember Echo corner, where you could hear yourself replying ‘hello!’ a million times over.

I do not have the traditional holiday memories. There are very few ‘us at the beach’ photos, but I do not really mind that. While writing this I have come to realise that these are the memories I cherish.

The Karoo and its beauty.

I didn’t know about state of emergencies, sanctions and such other things.

None of it affected my life, it simply didn’t concern me.

However, there are a couple of very vague, very confusing memories in my head, and I think this is about the time I started realising. One of them was when the beaches were “opened”. I don’t know if I actually remember ever seeing a sign that said “slegs blankes”, or if I added it to my memories from seeing them in pictures years later, but I sure as hell remember the day they were taken down.

I don’t recall anyone in my “camp” being particularly happy or upset about what was happening, it was pure apathy.

But, I do remember hearing a family acquaintance letting everyone know how he felt. It was likely the first time I had heard the word “k****r” used with true hate. The barrage of swearing and metaphors about animals made me almost think that this was a big joke, he couldn’t be serious.

Could he?

It wasn’t until years later when I first visually recalled that memory that I realised it was not a joke at all. Two epiphanies had occurred at once. Firstly, I figured out that we were separated, so much so that we couldn’t even share the same piece of sandy beach and blue water, and secondly some people were actually upset that they now had to give up their “private” beaches.

Really?

How did it ever get that far?

Somehow, I learned the “feeling” of separateness and with that came the fear of the unknown. He was the bad guy, the one who would steal everything I had, kill my family and destroy everything I loved – but I never saw him.

He wasn’t the the “boy” who did our garden once a week nor my father’s colleagues, nor was he the father of the black kids in my school. They were all regular people, sharing (and I’m pretty sure about this) the same faults, tendencies and good traits as their white counterparts.

But they got the bad rap, all because of the invisible man who was waiting to wreak havoc.

How blind we were.