Category Archives: South Africa

A developing multi-culturalism for South Africa – Rhythms of the Eastern Cape

Arts, Ideas, South Africa, ,

Something special is happening in the Eastern Cape. Or at least, something special is happening at the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown later this month/early next month: the beginnings of the disaggregation of the catch-all categories, that have plagued and defined South Africa’s history, into self-selected, fluid, fascinating groupings.

For years (decades? generations?) South African people have been categorized – assigned to different groups by outsiders. Whether it was the British Government in the 1800s or the Apartheid government last century, and probably long before that. Groups were considered static, inflexible and uniform. Of course, the largest of these unbending group categories was race. South Africa, under Apartheid – and still today because of employment equity – had 4 race groups: Black, White, Coloured and Indian, further designated ‘white’ and ‘non-white’. All people were assigned to one or other of the race groups (whether or not they fitted) and their future would hence-forth be determined based on that race. The classification was so important that even ID numbers indicated a person’s race.

In the new South Africa, things have relaxed a bit and there has finally been a recognition that race is not a real indicator of the group to which a person belongs. But a society used to classification does not move easily to a flexible multi-culturalism. For many, the 11 official languages present a neat set of categories to replace race in the country. But the 11 drastically oversimplify the complex multi-cultural society that is South Africa. The idea that there are 11 distinct and internally homogenous groups in the country is laughable. These 11 groupings, while based on language are seen by many as a mirror of 11 (or at least 9) black ‘nations’. But this is a completely inaccurate picture of the country. These supposed ‘nations’, these static, homogeneous classes of people do not exist. People don’t fall neatly into 11 distinct ‘nations’.

The country is far more complex than that and is home to many more cultures.  Some of these cultural groupings are being explored/exploring their own existence through their distinctive music and dance at this year’s National Arts Festival. Through a series of lunchtime concerts – Rhythms of the Eastern Cape – the music and dance of five groups of Eastern Cape people will be presented: AmaMphondo, AbeSuthu, AmaKhoisan, AmaBhaca and AbaThembu. These groupings are not categories sustained by the imposition of an external labels; they are created and recreated on an ongoing basis by people who self-identify as part of the groups. They have distinct cultures in the sense of culture as a way of being and expressing identity. Their histories are necessarily complex, incorporating many influences, from the groups their ancestors met and interacted with on their long journey, over millennia, from the heart of Africa to their Southern home – a history often predating the recorded or recognised existence of the specific group – to the people they met on arrival in the Eastern Cape and the settlers with whom they shared their land and later a country. All these interactions influence the development of each distinct music and dance style.

True multi-culturalism is not simply attempting to assign each person to a pre-defined group in order to make it possible for these people who have different (static, unchanging) ‘cultures’ to work together. It requires a mental shift from externally imposed categories to the recognition that cultures are eternally adapted, adopted, created and recreated by the people who self-identify with those cultures, who view that culture/those cultures as an intrinsic part of their identity as ‘self’. It requires that each person be treated as a unique individual because generic categories imposed on others are never enough to explain or understand the cultural identities of individuals – crude stereotyping as illogical as assuming that all women or all people from the continent of Asia will think and act the same.

Multi-culturalism is the pioneering work of the groups performing at the National Arts Festival, not as activists, but in celebration of their cultures. Through sharing, exploring and enjoying their own ways of being, they will begin to reject the crude categories that were once imposed by others and implicitly celebrate the kind of multi-cultural society that will (and should) be.

Rhythms of the Eastern Cape will be at ILAM at the following times:

Friday 1 July 13:00 AmaMphondo
Sunday 3 July 13:00 AbeSuthu
Tuesday 5 July 13:00 AmaKhoisan
Thursday 7 July 13:00 AmaBhaca
Saturday 9 July 13:00 AbaThembu

Duration: 1 hour                  Tickets: free

Backpackers fail: Banana Backpackers, Durban

Adventures, bus, KZN, ,

South Africa has some excellent backpacker spots, in Cape Town and Joburg and I’m sure in Durban. Banana Backpackers is not one of them.

My bus was nearly 2 hours late leaving East London. The trip was mostly uneventful except for that minor incident when some muppet on the side of the road threw a glass bottle at the bus managing, by some miracle to hit and subsequently shatter the right-side front window. No-one was sitting in those seats (I was a whole row back), so no harm done but seriously, our cricket team should think about drafting in the person somewhere between Kokstad and Port Shepstone who can hit a moving bus at 20 metres with a projectile as unpredictable as a coke bottle!

Other than that, uneventful, if particularly pretty. As a result, it was pushing 11 by the time I arrived at the Backpackers. At this point, things got weirder. The cab dropped me off on a city street, beside a run-down building. The front door was open and the security guard directed me up the creaking stairs. On the first floor, the rickety-looking black gate was opened by two girls at reception. Over the thumping, distorting noise of music in the adjacent bar area, I was told to follow them to the dorm. I dragged my suitcase past the central courtyard area, where people were braai-ing and drinking.

Just off the central courtyard, in a dark hall, the reception person knocked on and then just pushed open an orange door. The 10-bed door looked pretty standard – white linen, pillow and thin duvet on each bed, bunks that look like they’ve seen better days. I was sharing with one other person, who was already asleep. I put down my bags and returned to reception to check and pay. The girls at reception could hardly hear me over the music. I went out onto the balcony – hunching against the wall to avoid the rain – in search of somewhere I could hear myself think. Pretty soon, I gave up and headed to bed.

Which meant braving the bathrooms. They’re not the worst backpacker bathrooms I have ever seen – that honour is reserved for a particular hell-hole in Mozambique – but they’re a good, solid second. And they shared the problematic characteristic of being available for general use by the bar patrons, most of whom were not residents. The place was a mess. The kind of mess where you simply grit your teeth and get through it because you’re not going to find anywhere better tonight.

By this stage I was tired. All I wanted was to fall into bed and sleep. I got to the dorm and turned to close out the noise and the people. The door wouldn’t close. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get the door closed. I went to fetch someone from reception. She said she’d send someone later. I objected until she came herself immediately. She explained that I couldn’t have a key because it was a dorm (for the record, this is absolutely not standard practice at SA backpackers). I explained that I could live with not having a key, if I could only have a door that would close. She shrugged and said it was a difficult door and there was nothing she could do. And that was it.

I lay in bed for hours, fuming, tossing and turning, attempting to find the mosquito that was hunting me and wishing there was a way to block out the thumping music and the screeching people (like a door, perhaps!). Through the un-curtained windows, a street lamp blinded me whenever I turned over. After a couple of hours two girls, clearly a little worse for wear, wandered through our dorm to the balcony to have a chat. The other person in the dorm got fed up, threw them out and found an old, plastic chair to put against the door. That didn’t close it, but at least it was obvious that it was supposed to be closed.

In the morning light, the dusty floors, the dirty bathrooms and the noise were glaringly obvious. The linen on the beds seemed clean, but beyond that there was little to recommend the place. I’d initially picked it because of the location but I’d certainly rather have been a bit further away and had a backpackers that was closer to the usual standard of SA backpackers. The place obviously used to be quite pleasant – walls painted, posters advertising adventures, 24-hour reception. Plus, paddle-pool and braai area. But those days are long gone. And all this for exactly the same price as I recently paid for a classy, clean, comfortable backpackers with excellent service and even better location in Cape Town

For the record, anyone seeking a better SA Backpackers experiences could start with Cape Town Backpackers, iKhaya Stellenbosch Backpackers, Penthouse on Long (Cape Town) or The Backpackers Ritz in Joburg, to name just a few.

Snapshot: Rural Eastern Cape

Eastern Cape, rural areas

Drive out of King, towards Peddie, on the road I know so well. The road I used to travel to and from University every holiday for those years. And so often since. The road to Cape Town. The road to Grahamstown.The road home.

Pass the turn off to the Steve Biko Garden of Remembrance and wonder once again whose idea it was and who is supposed to maintain it. Pass the garage where the bus stops. Under the railway bridge and on, to the open road.

It’s late summer and everything is green. The grass is long, ready for winter. The thorn trees are rich, dark, close to the ground. It’s been a good summer.

Past houses and open veld, a graveyard near the road. Past men working to build a fence around a patch of ground.

Around a bend and there, a small settlement beside the national road. Beside a dam. Behind a fence. I can’t remember it clearly from the early days. I think it was smaller. Just one or two huts visible from the road. Now it is more built up. Houses with gardens. Fields. A sign on the main road – turn-off to a Zimbaba. A real place with a real name on an official name-board. How much of a difference does that make?

We turn off, across the grid, onto the dirt road. A couple of hundred metres on, the road T-junctions at a medium-sized dam. The water is calm and blue on a beautiful, sunny day. Rippling across the day. Gum trees line the other side. They’re invader-trees and are technically no longer welcome in SA but they’re still beautiful beside the dam.

The dirt road is not bad, especially considering the recent rains. We pass some rugby fields. A few soccer posts lie, stricken, overturned, obviously unused, but the rugby field is newly mowed and freshly marked. This part of the world is rugby country.

Turn right after the sports fields and follow a poorly-graded road. Just as we leave the first settlement, three horses are grazing in a paddock not far from the road. They look rich and well-kept after the good season of rain and grass. All the animals look healthy and well.

Along the road, driving slowly on the gravel, we pass sheep and goats. A lamb looks back at me before its mother hurries it over a small rise beside a pool of water. We stop while three donkeys take a leisurely (and reluctant) stroll from the middle of the road. One is a young one, with a shaggy coat in many colours and mournful, watching eyes.

At the village, we pass the high school. It looks well-kept – fresh white paint on the walls, a row of new toilets. Someone must have run a school garden project here once but the garden has gone to grass and weeds. The fence around the school is all intact and shiny and the gates are closed and locked during the school morning. A few younger children watch the car pass from the verandas of their homes.

Brick homes, often with several buildings on each property. And glass windows. Such a contrast to the stark desperation of urban poverty. Poverty here is more subtle, less spoken of, carefully hidden away from the prying eyes of a small community. No less deadly. We pass a house with a 4×4 in the driveway. I wonder who lives there.

Most houses have animals of some sort. A sheep or two grazing in the garden. Some chickens wandering the yard. A goat in the vegetable patch. Cattle. Donkeys. Pigs. There is something so real, so normal about it. My heart sings just a little. This is how the world should look.

Beyond the houses and gardens, the chicken hoks and goat-herds with their animals, past the kraals enclosed with poker-red flowering aloes and the full farm dams, the yellow-green hills of the Eastern Cape roll away into the distance and a thunderstorm begins to gather on the horizon.