Homeland

Chapter 1: Another White Girl in Africa

It is dawn in Pondoland, the wild, rugged coastal region on the eastern most flank of the old Transkei. The wild night orchestra, best known for its scratch and screech section, has finally put its instruments to bed, just in time for my alarm. It has been one of those nights when your dreams are wracked by fears and you wake feeling like you have already lived the day that lies ahead. I tumble out of the hand-embroidered white sheets of Thea’s guestroom and out onto the balcony to breathe in the cool morning air.

On the opposite side of the Umzimvubu river, tiny curls of smoke are drifting above a pink hut. Between us, hanging heavy in the sub-tropical valley, is a thick early morning mist, as if Mother Nature has sent me an ethereal bridge to connect my world to the one across the river. If only. Today is the first official day of this journey and I am gnarled with self-doubt. “Another white girl in Africa. Just what it needs,” chastises a voice inside my head. “Why don’t you go home and do something useful?” It is a voice that I hope will be hushed by the stories of people I meet, but right now, as the world is caught between sleep and a new day, the monologue takes centre stage and commands its audience of one. 

I get dressed and head down to the early-morning chatter of Thea’s open-air kitchen, where she and Rex, her Malawian right-hand man, are already conjuring tonight’s dinner. Thea is a bit like your fairy godmother, only she would probably char grill the pumpkin, transform her three dogs, Pablo, Mamba and Bombelina into footmen, and drive you to the ball in her 4x4. The first time I got into her car she confessed she had nearly had four head-on collisions that day. "I keep thinking this is my driveway, but it's not, it's actually a road,” she giggled, as she steered down the one kilometre dirt track from the main road to her house. “My poor neighbours," she cackled again, hooting and waving as a neighbour swerved and waved back.

Transkei drivers are not renowned for their motoring skills, and as I cradle my morning coffee, I wake up rather belatedly to the fact that I am single-handedly going to have to navigate its gravel roads and mud ruts. I feel exhausted at the thought, wishing I had someone to drive me. Ironically, most people who live here do have drivers. Most people are crammed into the back of minibuses and bakkies, enduring hairpin bends and potholed roads with no say as to how fast or slow they go. Road accidents are one of the major killers in South Africa. In 2008, nearly 15,000 people died on the roads, with minibuses and bakkies responsible for a third of these casualties. 

I could taunt myself further and say if I really want to understand life in the Transkei, I should cram myself into the back of one of these vehicles. In his book I Write What I Like, Steve Biko, the black South African anti-apartheid activist who was beaten to death in detention, was scathing about white liberals who wanted to be part of the anti-apartheid struggle. He argued that if they really wanted to be part of the struggle they should step out of their privileged lives and education systems and get one of the menial jobs that were only on offer to black people during that time. That the only way to really be part of the struggle was to live it. If I really wanted to get to know my fellow South Africans, should I be squeezed, cheek, jowl and armpit, against them?

I often take minibus taxis in Cape Town. I will never forget a sunset ride from Seapoint to Camps Bay with an elderly driver who sang Nat King Cole the whole way, but there is not a lot to be scared of when you are stuck behind an old Jewish granny in a battered Toyota, chugging down Seapoint Main Road. There is a lot more to fear on the cow-lined, potholed, narrow byways of the Transkei. As I finish my breakfast I find myself daydreaming about a minibus taxi service aimed at wimps. You could call it eSlowCoach and their company slogan could be: “We’ll get you there – eventually”. eSlowCoach would obey the speed limit, take hairpin bends at the recommended 40 km/hr and would never, ever overtake on a blind corner. They might even play soothing whale music. It would cost a bit more, but I could live with that. And so would everyone else.