All Good Things

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Monday, August 14

My last day in South Africa was another bright, beautiful day. Maria made brunch for her parents and me and then Nora and Erhardt and Maria took me to the airport where I managed to turn in my cell phone and get 35 English pounds as a VAT refund.

Ladies and Gentleman, this is your captain speaking. Since we were able to finish boarding so promptly, we will be able to take off early, and since it is a such a beautiful day, I decided to offer you a tour of Capetown as we depart. Was this just for me? It felt like it. I had a window seat on the right side of the plan, forward of the wings -- how incredible. We took off over the "Cape Flats" where I now could recognize the communities of Maitland, Pinelands and Guguletu by their positions relative to the Huge power plant with its cooling towers that remind one of 3-mile-island, but are not, I am promised, nuclear. Out the window is signal Hill and Lion's Head, just below that the Muslim quarter called the Bo Kap. Table Mountain stands against a stark blue sky. We reach 5000 feet as we reach the Strand, where I saw the spice factory and on another occasion watched men bring in a catch in fish nets. On down to the Cape of Good Hope, and up the other side, Hout Bay, where I met a geography teacher from the Deutsche Schule and bought the King Klip I cooked for Frances and Michael Roux, on up the coast past Sea Point, close enough that I could identify Santa's apartment where I spent my first Capetown nights, the Victoria and Albert Warf, where I got my self phone and planned my teaching days with Lindiwe, Robben Island where I photographed Nelson Mandela's cell, and finally the south side of Simonsberg, with the Delheim farm (no, not visible at 5,000 feet...) but surely there among the charred tree stumps and new seedlings. It was indeed a glorious farewell.

On the 15-hour plane ride first to Johannesburg, then on to Amsterdam, and finally on to London, I tried to collect some thoughts about the whole experience. Vera had given me a book written by Alan Paton's second wife, and I thought that might be a good place to start. In truth the book was a disappointment -- she had seemingly no connection to his intellectual life, and said very little about his political involvement in those critical years from 1969-88 during which they were married. There was one paragraph on his admiration of Helen Suzman, only two on his conflict with the author Nadine Gordimer about the value of the Liberal party in the struggle against apartheid, and two more about a tiff with Winnie Mandela. I was surprised to learn that he took a public position against sanctions, and that he always flew the Concorde if he could, but not surprised to learn that this author of Cry, the Beloved Country "was very much the typical South African male in many ways." He took for granted that there were always servants around to cook for him and pick up his clothes. He enjoyed presiding as the patriarch when we offered the servants the festivities of Boxing day. How does one redefine a culture based on masters (even enlightened ones) and their servants?

On this topic she offers one story which reminded me of a number of stories that I heard or overhead in the last month, so I will share it with you:

"One regular skirmish [Alan and I] had was over the matter of the 'Tombies' raincoats. The 'Tombies' were the ntombazaans, which is Zulu for young girl. Two of these young women would always be at work in the garden, weeding, sweeping, cleaning gutters, or watering, while the made gardener -- when we had one -- would do the heavy work. These girls were usually in their teens, simple and uneducated, poor and mostly unemployable other than as garden workers. We would purchase raincoats from them to use in the garden if it rained. They would take them home -- strictly against the rules of the house -- and forget to bring them back the next day. Alan did not like to see them working in the rain, so -- when my back was turned -- he would go to the wardrobe and take his expensive nylon 'Packamac' and give this to them, and sometimes even his gabardine raincoat kept especially for his American travels. I would come home, see the smartly rain coated girls in t he garden, and start waving my hands about and shouting. The raincoats would be removed and Alan would be in big trouble. The I would go off to the shops and buy more cheap raincoats, and so the saga would repeat itself. Eventually Alan tried something else, sending them home when it rained, but this didn't work either, because they were paid on a daily basis and he didn't like to deprive them of their money." -- Anne Paton

It a story that reminds me of a line in the autobiography of Frederick Douglass' life as a slave, which I often discuss with my students: "Slavery was harder on my mistress than it was on me."

This is not the end. Now in London, I have just read through this journal and see how critical parts are missing from the days when I didn't have Internet access, in addition to numbers 11 and 17 which appear to be missing from my set -- and perhaps yours.