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.

The Wish

It’s Christmas Eve Day. I don’t have an evergreen tree in my living room or snow outside my door...but a ripe plum tree and a fresh rain make pretty nice alternatives.

Some things can even be duplicated. I have my favourite Christmas pop songs to listen to – Calista Flockhart’s “Santa Baby,” Mariah Carrey’s “All I Want for Christmas,” Jessica Simpson’s “Baby it’s Cold Outside.” I have Christmas crackers to distribute so that Mark, Doreen, Emily, Dodi, and I can wear those goofy crowns with dinner.

Some things can’t be duplicated. I missed the always memorable Bell family Christmas gathering yesterday. I don’t get to savour the sound of my mom wrapping gifts tonight. There will be no homemade apple pie for dessert tomorrow night. And at no point this holiday season did I get to exasperate my dad by repeatedly playing Hanson’s Snowed In CD.

I know and appreciate that this is a unique opportunity for me to experience a South African Christmas with an entire South African family. An entire South African town, for that matter! Tonight we’re dressing up for a neighbourhood costume party. The chosen theme is “Asian Fusion.” (I don’t get the connection either, and have been calling it “Asian Confusion.” ) Tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up to a church service in Afrikaans, then a gift exchange in the sunroom with my pseudo-family.

Furthermore, if I weren’t here, I wouldn’t have a puppy to spoil. Naartjie got her Christmas gift a couple of days early, actually. Over the weekend, she chased a rooster – literally ruffling his feathers – and destroyed a pillow - with much gusto - clearly indicating that she needed the new toy I had been keeping for her sooner rather than later. The animals and inanimate objects of the household are as pleased with her new cong as she is.

But paralleling this entire experience is the fact that my family, my friends, the ski hills, and the Boxing Day sales are a whole hemisphere away. Sigh.

I wish I could be in two places at once.

Doreen and Mark having dinner on the back porch.

Doreen is celebrating her birthday today, on Christmas Eve. We hosted a birthday party on Thursday night - here are the girls and I with the two "TV"cakes we created for the event.


Naartjie attacks her new cong!

Gingerbread

The Christmas holidays compound with the summer holidays down here, creating the ultimate vacation environment. It is generally accepted that no one works from mid-December until early or mid-January. There is a note on the door of the doctor’s office with an in-case-of-emergency number, because he too is gone. The guesthouses in Philippolis are booked every night with vacationers in transit from Joburg to the coast. They arrive in the evenings, stroll past the Christmas lights that decorate our main road in their flip flops, and are gone the next morning. I’ll join the migration in a couple weeks, when I head out for a 10-day road trip along the Wild Coast with my friend John.

The vacation spirit, however, has already hit me. I’m still getting up at 7 am most mornings, but the ensuring hours are not necessarily spent on my research project…

First, there was the family trip to Bloemfontein to do Christmas shopping. At a real mall! A day in the big city, I deemed, was occasion for wearing a watch and earrings. But I drew the line at mascara, which I haven’t put on since Cape Town, and don’t miss.

Then there was the morning that Emily, Dodi, and I spent in the Coloured township to help with the renovations being made to its nursery school. We played with the little kids, got covered in paint, and washed off with a swim at our neighbour’s pool in the afternoon.

On December 12th, Emily celebrated her 15th birthday. We baked two cakes - an E and a butterfly - and packed off to VanDerKloof Dam, on the Orange River, for a day of picnicking and swimming. The dam is a 2-hour drive from Philippolis, across into the Northern Cape, and we listened to Shania Twain’s Greatest Hits CD whenever we hit stretches of paved road.


Emily and Dodi with the birthday cake(s).

The very next day, my neighbour Jane asked me to come along with her to Colesburg, a larger town about 60 km away from Philippolis. A black woman she had once employed as a housekeeper passed away of AIDS a few months ago and Jane wanted to take her two orphaned sons on an outing to buy clothes and have lunch. I was really impressed by her initiative. The traditional fostering system among black families has been exhausted by AIDS – there are far too many orphans and far too few healthy adults to care for them – and new relations between whites and orphans could alleviate some of the burden, I think. The boys, in their early teens, spoke some English and I asked them about school, living with their grandmother, and their Christmas celebrations. We all ordered milkshakes at lunch.

Finally, I have been distracted by the necessity of picking up my new Jack Russell Terrier every 5-ish minutes to tell her that she is the cutest dog in the whole world and that I love her to pieces. (!!!) I think this picture says it all.


My tiny African dog, Naartjie.

Naartjie, as I’ve re-named her, is actually one of four dogs belonging to my neighbours. They have graciously allowed me to foster her for the duration of my stay here because I was looking for some company in my house at night. Naartjie (pronounced ‘naar-chee’) is the Afrikaans word for a clementine and one that I thought would make a cute dog’s name when I first came across it. Naartjie is so smart that she already responds to it. She is brave enough to bark at dogs ten times her size and silly enough to bark to her own reflection in the mirror. I want her to emigrate back to Canada with me!!! (Please, Mom?)

Back in October, one of my reasons for postponing my internship with the Treatment Action Campaign until February was because they would, of course, not be operating from something like December 17 – January 12, and I really didn’t think I’d want a month-long vacation. I still don’t think I need it, but I’m nevertheless happy that the vacation spirit has followed me up here to the Karoo...


Philippolis under two (two!) rainbows.

Living Conditions

The night sky is fiery with stars and I wish upon every single one that I could write for a community paper in this town. Here is what I would gleefully report…

This Week in Philippolis:

1. Goats took over part of the main road, the church grounds, and the newly-opened coffee shop for the duration of Friday afternoon. No one paid them much mind and their owner retrieved them before sundown.

2. The village’s grocery stores are running on empty. Basic goods such as milk, yogurt, and rusks (biscotti-like biscuits eaten with tea) are nowhere to be found. When, if, they’ll restock is uncertain.

3. The annual Christmas concert at the Dutch Reformed Church was held on Sunday evening, featuring a song freshly composed in Afrikaans about the joys of a summertime Christmas. The concert’s only hitch was the power failure caused by a surprise thunderstorm, corrected by a generator within 15 minutes.

Alas, a community paper is hardly necessary in my tiny new home, where word of mouth travels faster than a paperboy ever could.

More personally:

The most exciting part of my week was a visit from five UCT friends! Leo, Neil, Nikki, Kate, and Aukelin have been road-tripping across South Africa since the end of exams and spent a night at my place enroute back to Cape Town. We caught up over dinner at one of the town’s two restaurants. (Reservations and meal preferences were required one day in advance, so that the owner knew to open and to purchase the requested food.) I delighted in showing them the town and explaining all the maddening politics behind it – how white parents pulled their children out of the local school when integration began and it eventually closed because of low enrolment, how the town is still divided between black, white, and Coloured areas, clearly distinguishable from the tops of the country roads, and how if we were to go to the local pub my Chinese-American friend Leo might find himself unwelcome in what is customarily a place for whites only. The geographical set-up of Philippolis really is like stepping back in time to pre-1994 South Africa. And in my conversations with some locals, it is made clear to me that not everyone has accepted the end of racial rule.

In terms of work, I’ve now interviewed more than 25 people for my project on reverse urbanization. I can greet many people on the street by name. And when I had trouble with the VCR over the weekend, I knew of two people who were willing and able to help. The working atmosphere with my professor is fairly relaxed, and if I want to spend time between interviews on some of my favourite summertime activities – reading, cycling, running, sun tanning – then that’s just fine.

My desk

And finally, national news:

As desperately as the right-wingers want to deny it, this is in fact 2007, and the African National Congress is set to choose their next leader this month. This is a very important event, as the new leader will undoubtedly be elected the next president when South Africa goes to the polls in 2009. Yesterday I heard the distressing news that Thabo Mbeki and Jacob Zuma are thus far the only candidates running. Mbeki has already served two terms as president and is not constitutionally allowed to run for a third term. A break from this tradition, I worry, would be the start of a president-for-life mentality. On the other hand, Zuma, with a record of corruption, a rape charge, and an infamous declaration in court that he took a shower to avoid contacting HIV can hardly be considered presidential material. No. I love this country as if it were my own and don’t want to see it left in either of their hands.

“The transformation this country is undergoing is fascinating,” said one of my neighbours, “But I wish that, like you, I could watch it from afar.”

The Freshman

What a difference 800 km makes. The roads have turned to dirt, the language has switched to Afrikaans, the mountains and the sea have been replaced by sheep farms and a desert climate.

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.