I’m being treated to a very good life in little Philippolis, a town 60 km away from any other settlements in the south-western Free State. I have my own 19th century home, stacked to the ceilings with books, one block from the main street. The property neighbours my professor’s office and her family’s home. There are no security fences here, and the three properties share extensive gardens with olive, apricot, lemon, and fig trees, grape vines, flowers, a hammock, a wooden swing, trellises, and terraces. Wandering about are the family’s cats, dogs, roosters, chickens, ducks, and turkeys.
In these idyllic conditions, I’m working on a research paper on reverse urbanization in South Africa. Although many papers have been published on this subject in other countries, Doreen, my professor, tells me this is the first study to be done on the phenomenon in South Africa. I’m moving along with it quite quickly. I spent one day reading background papers, designed a questionnaire, and am now interviewing 2-3 locals every day about their motivations for leaving the city and their experiences with rural life. The project ties in nicely with my undergraduate thesis, which was on the development potential of South Africa’s small towns, about which I was optimistic. Now I’m investigating how to attract migrants to build those potentially productive towns. Its working title is: The Ruralisation Crusade: I Like it Here and So Should You. Ha.
The days are passing quickly, and they are sprinkled with amusing anecdotes. Very generally speaking, South Africa’s cities are English-speaking whereas the countryside is predominantly Afrikaans. Yesterday, I was most thankful that I had taken an Afrikaans language course while at UCT. Out on my bike, searching for the home of the man I was scheduled to interview, I mistakenly entered his neighbour’s yard. I called out “Hello?” and an older white man, partially hidden as he sat beneath a thick leafy tree, responded. I started towards him, but stopped short, seeing that he was dressed in neutral colours and holding a hunting riffle! What might wander into his yard that was worth shooting, I don’t know, but a common joke around these parts is that the Anglo-Boer War is still being fought – i.e. the war between the British and the Afrikaners of 1899-1902. I hastily greeted him again, this time in Afrikaans, as he certainly fit the stereotypical mould of a rugged Afrikaner. I explained who I was and who I was looking for, and then he laid the gun down and cheerfully pointed the correct way to his neighbour’s. I left unscathed, marvelling at the re-enforced stereotype, and he returned to his hunting, bemused by the Afrikaans-speaking Canadian.
In addition to working, I’ve had a few social outings, which is exciting. On my first day here, I was invited to assist with an end-of-the-year party being thrown for the remedial kids at the primary school in the Coloured township. Treats and new toys were organized for them, and it was painfully obvious from their wide eyes that these luxuries were new experiences for them. Later that day, I went to a colonial-style afternoon tea party in honour of a lady’s birthday at the family’s sheep and cattle farm. The proximity of third- and first-world living still throws me for a loop. In fact, there has been some contention this week right on my street amongst the white neighbours over the lone black neighbour who slaughtered a sheep and a goat in her backyard as part of her religious customs to keep her grandfather’s spirit at peace.
I spend most evenings with Doreen’s family – husband Mark and daughters Emily (14) and Dodi (11). In the late afternoon, we girls set off for the 5:30 pm aerobics class that one lady runs out of her home. My one-through-ten counting in Afrikaans is quite good at this point. Afterwards, we all eat dinner together on the back porch, and usually watch a movie as well. I’m relishing the time with a South African family and community at large. It’s nice and warm and I’m easily settling into small-town life.
