Goodbye Iowa

Once again, the end is here. These are my last few days of tranquil country life.



I’ve enjoyed every part of my days in Philippolis.

I like my morning ritual: Naartjie waking me up with boundless enthusiasm for the new day, taking her out for a jog, munching on tea and rusks, indulging in an episode of 7de Laan. I like my evening ritual: going to the tennis courts or an exercise class with Doreen, a family dinner with wine and the news, settling on a movie. I like everything in between: doing deskwork to the tunes of Tegan and Sara, reading a chapter of my book in the mid-morning sun, walking up to the corner store for a Coke in the heat of the afternoon.

But I need to start packing. I catch a bus at midnight on January 31 and will wake up in Cape Town on the morning of February 1. I’ll move my increasing heavy suitcases into a downtown apartment, pick up my rental car, and set off for an afternoon at my new place of work: the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) head office, where I’ll be interning with their monthly magazine, Equal Treatment.

I’m thrilled about working for TAC. And Cape Town has newspapers, video stores, coffee shops, fresh produce. I’ll be able to go to malls, beaches, dance clubs on weekends. But the transition will be overwhelming at first. The crowds, the traffic, the activity will all seem alien.

It has been especially quiet in Philippolis since Emily and Dodi returned to boarding school two weeks ago. I miss them all the time. But since our tearful farewell, I’ve spoken with them on the phone and exchanged text messages. Parting with my Jack Russell terrier will be more final. Naartjie and I have been inseparable these past two months – she even tries to climb into the shower with me – and I would love to keep her forever. But her owners are expecting her back. They have a big yard to accommodate her tireless sense of adventure, and I’ve been returning her for weekly visits so I know that she still feels at home with them. Nevertheless. The separation is going to break my heart. Maybe hers, too.

Why do they call it goodbye?

The I in Team

I’d been anticipating Thursday’s business trip to Orania for over a month. I wasn’t the only one: as I busily packed my overnight bag, I noticed that it was moving. I looked inside and saw that Naartjie had settled herself in amongst my shirts and toiletries. She was asleep, having secured her inclusion on the trip. My heart melted.

The pink roll is my hoodie; the white roll is my dog.

In the end, we only stayed for the afternoon, and the overnight bag was not necessary. I was a little disappointed; I’d hoped to get more of a feel for the controversial place.

Located an hour and a half from Philippolis in the Northern Cape, Orania was established in the early 1990s as a private town for the exclusive settlement of white Afrikaans-speaking people. It has its own flag; its own currency, the Ora; and its long-term goal is independence from the new South Africa. On a hill overlooking the town are statues of Afrikaner prime ministers and presidents from days gone by. It must be the only place in the country where a statue of Hendrik Verwoerd, the architect of apartheid, stands proud and undisturbed.

Verwoerd's son-in-law was one of Orania's founders.

Controversy aside, one cannot deny that Orania is a prosperous and well-managed little town. Its paved roads, perfect gardens, and computer-equipped schools stand in sharp contrast to neighbouring towns. I was most stunned to see recycling facilities – I haven’t had the opportunity to recycle anything since I left Canada.

It was this level of success and sophistication that drew Doreen, Mark, and I to Orania to meet with the mayor and two prominent townspeople. Doreen had several ideas for topics related to small-town development that she wanted to research, and I was to stay on as an interviewer if the town consented.

There were two flaws with our plan. Firstly, we had not anticipated that Orania would have already conducted surveys on all the topics that Doreen laid out. These people are seriously well- organized. Secondly, I would not have been any help. I am very proud of the amount of Afrikaans that I have learned in the past six months, but I would not be able to run interviews in the language. And English is not welcome. I sat through the two-hour meeting and hour-long lunch straining to understand as much Afrikaans as I could.

As a foreigner, I have a feeling of immunity in race-conscious South Africa. I wasn’t on anyone’s side during apartheid. But in Orania, my foreigner status was viewed with deep suspicion. My white skin was not enough. That I’m well-versed in Afrikaner history and have been learning the language for the past six months was a moot point. I’m not a member of the club. My presence was tolerated, but nothing more.

"I speak and (think) in AFRIKAANS"

Orania could be studied as a model of local economic development. But it wouldn’t shed light on the South African situation at large. It cheated. Orania’s success comes from the skills and money that its well-educated, wealthy citizens brought when they migrated. All of them earned their status through apartheid’s systematic upliftment of white people at the expense of black people. If the town could incorporate poor South Africans into its Utopia, then that would be worth commendation.

Throughout the afternoon, the suspicious looks I got gave me the impression that the townsmen didn’t want me there for fear of what I would think. And if one fears being judged, doesn’t that mean he knows he’s doing something wrong?

Where the Wild Things Are

Each passing week, I feel more comfortable in South Africa and life here becomes more normalized. I remember, early on, having to convert prices back into Canadian dollars to understand costs. I remember the rush of pride I would experience when I saw the South African flag waving in the sky. I remember staring at world maps, in awe of where I was located. That doesn’t happen anymore.

But just when I thought I knew the country pretty much inside out, it threw me for another loop.

I should have expected it. After all, South Africa is incredibly diverse in land and people. “The world in one country” is a popular slogan in guidebooks. And I’ve just returned from exploring another piece of the puzzle.

My friend John and I travelled together for 10 days along the Wild Coast over the New Year period. The name ‘Wild Coast’ is not a marketing tool. It’s simply accurate.

The region was formerly part of the Transkei, one of the ‘homelands’ which the apartheid government declared independent in single-minded pursuit of its policy of separate development between blacks and whites. Legally, this Xhosa-dominated agricultural region became a separate country from ‘white’ South Africa, complete with its own capital city and parliament. The international community never accepted the Transkei’s independence as legitimate, but the South African government’s charade had a lasting impact. John – who is South African – said that he experienced the sensation of being a tourist for the first time ever while we were in the Transkei.

The Wild Coast puts the Africa back into South Africa, I joked, with its mud-hut homes, its unspoilt coastline, its cattle wandering on pothole-infested dirt roads. This all stands in stark contrast to the first-world feeling of Cape Town’s city centre and even Philippolis’ large-scale sheep farms. The people in the region are more traditional in their livelihoods and culture, and very friendly, interested in talking to the white visitors. Although they are not wealthy, they seemed to me to be better off than the people living in shantytowns on the edge of South Africa’s big cities..

I’m posting pictures below that I hope capture the feel of the place.

We set out from Kenton-on-Sea, where John's family has a holiday home - and his brother has a boat, which we took out along the Bushmans River.

At the far end of a dirt road (which couldn't be travelled along faster than 40 km/hr and which gave us sightings of antelope, warthogs, and a giant lizard) we arrived in the mountain town of Hogsback.

We spent 3 days at a Backpacker's in the coastal village of Mpande without electricity or running water, but with this breath-taking view of the Indian Ocean's shoreline.

More of Mpande's landscape. Across the whole Transkei, livestock meander about. There are no fences to keep them on anyone's property or off the road. John and I still haven't figured out how ownership is claimed.

Take, for example, this cute (random) donkey!

This is John horseback riding on Mpande Beach, before the horses began to gallop. The beaches were never crowded. They looked like they belonged on a remote tropical island.

We got drumming lessons from a local on New Year's Day. It was not easy.

This shows the town of Qino, where Nelson Mandela was raised and still maintains a residence. We drove by, but alas he wasn't home.

We visited John's friend Shannon, who has just started her year of community service at a hospital in the Transkei. She just completed her studies in physiotherapy and must by South African law work for a year in an under-serviced area before she can be employed in a locale of her choice. I think the policy must be very beneficial to the country.

Look what I found! A town called Bell with its own police station. I was there of my own accord...honest. The search for the town got our car stuck in the mud, but I think it was worth it.