RETURN TO SOUTH AFRICA

Three weeks ago tomorrow, we arrived back in South Africa. It was my birthday, my 56th—the year that I will marry Glen and commit to him and to our relationship for the rest of my life. To be under the same roof again, albeit a leaky one, brings me great pleasure,

The first thing that struck me upon our return, aside from the distinct chill in the air, was that so many of the trees are bare. It’s the end of winter here and about 75% of the trees are bare. The others retain their leaves—the flora of South Africa remains a mystery to me! Our lush overgrown yard at the Emmarentia house is filled with light. And it is a quality of light that takes me back to 2006, the only time I spent winter here. How can one describe something as fleeting and ethereal as a quality of light? Yet, it is a remarkably distinctive light—clear crisp and outlining every tiny sprout as the leaves just come peeping out on these bare trees. It is a dry light—if there can be such a thing. Fortunately, after the chilly long nights, the sun warms the afternoon to a mild 20C. The front of the house faces north so we open doors and windows to let the warmth flood into this damp old house. Our bedroom, located on the south side (we’re in the southern hemisphere here where all seems reversed to us northerners) never seems to warm up and I insist on using our sole heater there to take the chill off before bed.

The day after our return, Grace, our friendly hard-working cleaner arrived. We greeted each other warmly as we caught up on news. She told me of Constance, a friend who had worked with her here when the house was in too rough shape for one person to clean. They worked together happily chatting away but never stopping working. Grace told me Constance died a few weeks ago—a woman likely in her early to mid-30s—she gave birth a few weeks ago and while making a bottle for her two week old son, she collapsed without warning. An ambulance was called and she died en route to hospital, reason unknown. Her two children will now be raised by her parents in Venda. When I told Glen, his response was. “Was it AIDS?” but it doesn’t appear to have been so as Grace said she had not been ill. I would guess it had something to do with the aftermath of her giving birth and the lack of post-natal care here. Life is incredibly harsh if you’re poor in this country.

Grace also told me she was no longer working for Glen’s daughter and son-in-law. I was surprised because Grace, a single mom of one, can’t afford to be without work. She told me how they needed a domestic for an additional day per week and Grace was booked elsewhere, so they hired a woman from Zimbabwe. Grace proceeded to tell me how all Zimbabweans are illegal and will steal from you. I was taken aback by her xenophobia. I decided to tread lightly but couldn’t let her comments go unaddressed. I said, “Well, Oliver, our gardener, is from Zim and he’s nothing but honest and hardworking and is also legal in SA.” To which she replied. “Sometimes it takes a long time for before they steal from you……” These comments, from Grace, a normally bright calm woman were unnerving—one can see how the riots in the townships of only two years ago happened in which those perceived as foreigners were attacked and their houses burned. Take it a step further and it’s Rwanda all over again. Is this country where so much is based on black vs white, there are many scary shades of black in between. So much for Pan-Africanism………..