A while ago, I started my blog with the words, "I'm staying at an old English house in what once were the quarters of the maid. The view is fantastic. I look out at Table Mountain with Cape Town at its feet. This is the city where I will encounter people and listen to their experiences with and in the city." Meanwhile, we are two months later and I have a room with a different view.

The view is beautiful. The green countryside of Boutersem should inspire me immensely  but direct contact with the South African reality is no longer there, the motivating talks are no longer there, the domestic duties are calling again, dog and cat are crying for my  attention, preoccupations of friends and family require my attention , classes have begun and my view gets a bit hazy. It is all a bit blurry ... and I am giving into the many distractions that are surrounding me and often I try to find excuses for my lack of motivation. But I'm only human.

Until yesterday ... Nikita, a fellow student, and I decided to work in the library. She writes about her experiences in India, where she lived in a commune of leprosy. I decided to refocus  on my stories from South Africa. I have to submit a thesis this year in which I write about my experiences in an anthropological way. I decide to look into some literature that gives me some tips on how to to proceed, I rewrite some of my text, yet another time ... I am unable to write anything that gives me any satisfaction. I do not  really know what to say and even less how I should write it to comply with the rules of the art of anthropology and yet I am still desperately looking for that art.

Then came the break ... breaks are a welcome distraction for students. The break turned out to be the moment the vicious circle might be broken and the complaining and nagging might stop. Coincidentally, my supervisor also needed a welcome distraction, and perhaps even more his cigarette. Frankly, I don't dare to face the man. My openness, despair and frustration I  shared  too many times with him, but even more my lack of writings, make me decide that I'd rather look the other side than start talking to him.

But one has to do what one has to do ... I start a conversation ... a bit clumsy, and I tell him that I'm working for him. He's my supervisor and he must read the thesis. As usual, he was not really impressed but he tries to give me some promotoral advice: "Do not work for me,  you have to do this for yourself."  He even repeated it. Honestly, I usually am quick to answer but I lacked the energy to answer him. A lot of thoughts passed my mind and one of them was that maybe "I often put myself in a too vulnerable position and to be honest this is none of his concern. There are so many students, there are so many theses and this thesis is my main concern, for him it is just routine. Leave the man in peace. "

With almost no courage and a bit of despair and an advice of my promotor that really did not inspire me, I started reading again. "Even better, now I am writing a thesis for myself, I thought ... that helps ... If this was not real motivational advice ... "

But maybe the guy knows me better than I think, or maybe not, but it seems like he hit  a nerve. His words were crossing my mind throughout the day, I was a bit 'pissed' and I was thinking ... "hmmm ... for myself ... I choose to study: for myself? I came to Cape Town to satisfy my own curiosity? Did I study to enrich myself, literally and figuratively?" 

Meanwhile I was reading a lecture given by René Devisch, retired professor of our department. He gave the lecture for the occasion of his Honorary Doctorate of Kinshasa. The man talks about what motivated him to do anthropology and what he thinks an anthropologist is. It inspires me, for the first time in a long time, I am a bit motivated. I also want to bring stories of ordinary people. My decision to study anthropology was to learn how to look differently at people but even more so to write differently about people. How can I write about the reality of Capetonians without losing the authenticity of their experiences but also with a certain objectivity. In telling subjective stories of people, I would like to discover how  societies continually evolve and even more how people are dealing with it. So in a way, I am writing this thesis for myself. But mostly I am writing these stories for them.  These people trusted me to tell me their stories and experiences and they deserve to be heard. Their reality is not as black/white as history makes us belief, and based on their subjective experience, I hope I can offer a more nuanced picture. I owe this to them. And ... I am also doing it a bit for you, promoter, first and foremost because I want you to teach me how to write about people but somehow I am still hoping that I can touch you even for a moment with my stories of a group of Afrikaners in their city, Cape Town. 

'Afrikaans Kos' and more

Click here for more pictures

"What is this? This is for you, daddy told her. Because it is your birthday. It has four thick feeth. Two ears that look like towels which have been eaten. On his back and head there is a a bump full of thin red small hairs. Hanging from his thick behind, there is a tail hanging, longer than Ping's plait. But craziest of all, this crazy dog has a nose that is hanging till the ground. This is not a nose, this is a trunk, said daddy. And this is not a dog, Marthe , this is an elephant. " Antjie Krog was reading out of a 'miraculous' Flemish children's book "Sam, a true story of a daughter and her elephant" written by Ingrid Vander Veken and translated in Afrikaans by Antjie Krog. Lapa uitgewers organized its annual meeting where African writers could present their book. As the annual tradition wants it, there was also a Flemish writer invited. This time Antjie, renowned South African writer, had chosen the book. She stayed at the 'writers' apartment in Antwerp, and found on the book shelves this nice booklet Ingrid wrote. It is a story about a girl who received an elephant for her birthday. It is a story based on true facts. It was organized at the premises of the literary club of Dutch - Afrikaner literature. There has always been a close bond between South Africa and Flanders of which the meeting was a prove of. Is it the language or is there more? Afrikaners are natural descendants of Dutch and Germans but there is still a certain complicity with Flemish people. The language is closer to the Flemish than the Dutch. Ingrid told me that she thinks there are many similarities between West - ,East Flemish and Afrikaans. The sk-sound (instead of sch) for sure and also the double negation and words such gezei (said), seun (son) but it is not only the language, there's more. When I entered the building, I was thinking of a conversation with a South African friend, who has been visiting Belgium recently and was asked to make a work of art that is typical for Flanders but also to bring the different cultures together. The artwork still needs to be revealed, but food and drinks are involved. He told me that he was struck to see that people seem to find each other in restaurants, tea rooms, cafes and that these are the places where Flemish, Belgians and other cultures do not care about differences. We all eat Chinese, Flemish, Belgian, Turkish, Spanish. And just this is what strikes me about South Africa as well. Afrikaners also love food and drinks. You have to admit that receiving a glass of white wine at a literature event at 9:30 am, might only happen in Belgium as well. Although in Belgium you'd rather get a glass of beer instead. Not only wine was served to tickle our taste buds but also delicious dishes were being served. They all are the result of a history of several cultures as their names suggest. Huge platters with bobotie sosaties, samoosas, vetkoek and of course the melktert, sweets, koeksisters, malvapudding, tambo  colored the tables. And as it happened I just read the book of Antjie Krog "Change of Tongue". She describes the importance of the kombuis (kitchen) for Afrikaners. Her Ouma once made a feast for the English Governor General, the enemy of the Afrikaners. The love for eating radiates from the letter that her Ouma wrote about the the event: "Klasie presented this enormous pudding to him in a Newley painted wheelbarrow. With the coffee we served milk tart, koeksiskters and Aunt Stoffie's feather-light jam puffs and paper -thin slices of guava marinated in port. " Much has been written about Afrikaners and they very definitely have a complex history but now when I will return I will associate the Afrikaners, just like my South African friend says for him the Flemisch identity is associated with the food culture, with the delicious dishes and a glass of wine. And perhaps here lies our complicity, in the ability to experience the culture of the other in our own culture through the food culture.

Frustration

South Africa, a changing country, but also a country full of frustrations. The images of the past few days about the shootings are shocking and a lot of the analysis as well. Politicians fight over who is to blame. It is the fault of the ANC, it is the fault of the police, it is the fault of the unions, it is the fault of everyone ... but perhaps most of all of poverty. The riots last week in Cape Town as well. During my stay in the past few weeks I have been constantly trying to wonder how I could survive in these circumstances. People try to be creative, some try to make something out of it, others try to make their dreams come true ... but we can try to romanticize, the harsh reality remains that many have no running water, many no electricity, no plumbing and alcoholism, drugs, abuse of women is rampant. Take the miners, they live in similar settings, working in very unhealthy conditions and earn a mere 400 Euros per month. In all honesty, I have to say that in all my despair, frustration and anger I would protest as well and probably would do stupid things. Because, what have  have you got to lose? If you no longer have human dignity, what remains? Twenty years after apartheid, the weak still have to battle. All their hope was aimed at having a better life but still a lot of people are waiting for it to happen. Twenty years after apartheid, apartheid still remains. Not necessarily the white against the black, but the rich against the poor. And yet change must come. That's what this is all about, 'change'. Hopefully the political leaders will realize that change must come for everyone. Talking to people, the main tone of the conversation is frustration. There are probably political theories, economical, and certainly also anthropological, but sometimes when one witnesses images as the mining killings, one must be one's reason aside and let the heart speak. Once again, the poor Africans are the victims. Let me end with one of the figureheads of the negritudebeweging.

Aime Césaire

those who have invented neither powder nor compass

those who could harness neither steam nor electricity

those who explored neither the seas nor the sky

but those without whom the earth would not be the earth

gibbosity all the more beneficent as the bare earth even more earth

my negritude is not a stone, its deafness hurled against the clamor of the day

my negritude is not a leukoma of dead liquid over the earth’s dead eye

my negritude is neither tower nor cathedral

it takes root in the red flesh

of the soil it takes root in the ardent flesh

of the sky it breaks through the opaque prostration with its upright patience

Eia for the royal Cailcedra!

Eia for those who have never invented anything

for those who never explored anything

for those who never conquered anything

Pink Boots

Click here to see more pictures

‘God created the rose in the likeness of Woman '. It was written on the card Kamilla and I received on one of our visits to the townships of Strand. Five ladies in blue t-shirts, accompanied by their male colleague in police uniform, handed the cards out . They visited the school to wish all female teachers a nice Women's Day. This is was not the only Women’s event we witnessed that day. When visiting the school, we noticed all female teacher were absent.  The school principal had taken all of them out to have a cop of coffee. Should this this have happened at a Belgian school all kids would have been shouting and having a party. In this school, children were working and this without having a teacher in front of the classroom. ‘This would never happen in Belgium’, said Kamilla. Elsa, the lady who was my guide for the day, is very proud of the township school. She contributed a lot and invested a lot in the school. She even is paying for a music teacher who started a choir, but she also made sure there were computers and a lot more. The school principal  is proud to say that the number of pupils has tripled in recent years.

I would like to dedicate this story to celebrate Women's Day and you can be a witness of these  'wonderful women' as they are called. In my quest for stories about people in post-apartheid, I was brought into contact with Elsa. She was a doctor in psychology in Potchefstroom. Like many others, when she retired, she traded the dryness of the desert for the coastal beauty of Cape Town. She is a convinced member of the Dutch Reformed Church, and precisely because of her faith she thinks it is her duty to care for the less fortunate. My first conversation with her had me baffled. Stories of people who have experienced apartheid as Afrikaner and were part of a system, evokes ambiguous feelings. At one point, she told me that during the eighties the Cosby show was shown on TV, people realized that 'blacks’ also could be intelligent. It became clear to her that everyone is equal in the eyes of God. It kept playing my mind ‘How could a teacher psychology (psychology) think like this?’

Like every Afrikaner I talk to, she is convinced that getting rid of apartheid was a good thing and at least everyone gets an equal chance now. This opened up a whole range of possibilities for a lot of people but it also the gave opportunity to people that has been so haunted by their history to re-profile themselves. Although religion is declining, South Africa is still a very religious country. There are so many religions as there are people and despite the many problems in this country, between different religions, there appears to be no conflicts. Elsa is a convinced member of the Dutch Reformed Church and finds that in the present circumstances it is her duty to help the less fortunate. She raises funds for the local school in the township to buy food, organizes food handouts in the hospital for HIV-patients who have to take their pills with food, she wants a daycare center for children in the poorest township in Strand, Casablanca . Casablanca has an exotic name but it is a sad sight of deteriorated houses. Elsa shows me the plot of land where they want to build the daycare center for children. Now they make do with a small container without water and electricity for the children. There is only room for 12 kids from the neighborhood and it is Elsa’s dream to be able to house all the kids of the neighborhood. The poverty of the area is hard to describe. Not only Elsa is doing a lot but the women of the district are putting in their weight as well. Irma is one of the people who are better off in the neighborhood. Her husband works in construction and they have build a 'proper' house. It is not huge but cozy. She also has a stove on which she prepares soup. Elsa provides the ingredients and Irma prepares the soup  twice a week in her Sopkombuis (soup kitchen). The locals can get soup for free. At least they eat healthy twice a week, she says. Last Friday we helped at the 3-monthly second hand clothes sale in Casablanca. The magnitude of the poverty struck me at that moment. The sale had the same effect as sales In Belgium. The people rushed onto the clothing and for 0.2 cents a piece, they could get a whole outfit. Elsa said she had to ask money because the first time when everything was for free, people started fighting  and burned down the place.

There was a kind of roughness in the room. Boys rushed to our car upon arrival, hoping to earn some money by helping us carrying bags. The cringing behavior, sir, madam ... I do not get used to it. Yet, there was also some happiness. Adolescent girls found a pair of pink boots with very high heels and this was reason enough for them to spend some time in a dream world and have the illusion to be a model.

I talked to Jennifer that day. She also lives in Casablanca and is considered the mom of the neighborhood. She also helps with the sopkombuis because she wants to care for the people. ‘I love people’, she says, ‘I do not have anything but I like to give because I know what it is to be hungry.’ She has three children, and has already known a lot of misery in her life. Her son was hooked on tik, a type of drug, and he even robbed her of what little they possessed, because he needed the money. Luckily he gave up on the drugs, she said, and now has a job. Her youngest daughter was pregnant when she was 15 and now Jennifer takes care of her four year old grandchild. She is so proud that despite her daughter's pregnancy, she is a good student at school. This could not have happened without the generosity of the people from church, she says. She really wants her daughter to get her diploma so she can find a job. ‘I keep faith in the Lord above. He means the best with us ‘ she continues. She is a member of an African Christian church and this keeps her going. ‘God is there to take care of us.’

I only had one thought in my head when we drove away. God can never have wanted all this misery.

And yet it is moving. Elsa with her group of volunteers from the church, living in the nicer part of ​​the city, trying to give their fellow citizens in the slums a dignified life. The religion as a bridge between two parts of the city. Many questions still haunt my mind but for now I stick to the testimony of women who get the strength from their faith. One to help each other, the other to give meaning to her existence. And if only for one hour, a few teenage girls get pleasure from a pair of pink boots ... 'God created the rose in the likeness of Woman '

Madiba's Birthday

Click here for more pictures 

It was Nelson Mandela's birthday. He turned 94 on July 18 and for one day, everyone was under the spell of Mandela. Blacks, whites and everyone in between, everyone loves Madiba or tata (father) as he is called here. We only saw pictures of the man and only a small crowd of people was allowed on his party, but an entire nation celebrated his birthday by doing 67 minutes of charity work that day to honor his ideas.

67, since the man devoted 67 years of his life to fight for equality for his people and all other cultures. Exactly on that day, the nation was relieved from a period of bad weather, and the people Mandela fought for could take a break from all the water misery that plagued the townships. The sun and warm temperatures were doing community service  for more than 67 minutes as a tribute to Madiba.

How a people that has been so oppressed and so humiliated, keeps believing in a better world but even more so how a man after being plagued by so much misery and was excluded by the government based on his skin color, forgave these people, is almost unreal .

The day before, I visited the District Six Museum with my family.  District Six is an ugly wound in downtown Cape Town and is a symbol of the apartheid policy that ruled the country for years. It was a working-class area, but very lively and multicultural, so the stories tell. Many nationalities were living together and it was a vibrant neighborhood with lots of restaurants and bars. The colorful picture of this district did not fit into a clean and Calvinist lifestyle that the apartheid government had in mind. Spatial planning in all its extremity was executed and what does not belong, should better be removed to another area. In the 60's it was decided to evacuate the area completely and change the area into a new white neighborhood. In the end, the white neighborhood was never realized. Visiting it today, you will see a partly built area but most of it is empty land. The inhabitants were exiled to the ‘Cape Town flats’, on the other side of Table Mountain. To date, these are the townships that are still embracing Cape Town.

We were lucky Noor, a former resident and banished from the neighborhood, was witnessing about the good days in District Six. That day, he accompanied a group of Muslim schoolkids, neatly in their uniforms, some girls with vails, some guys with fez,  but mostly a cheerful bunch of teenagers, now living in the surroundings of District Six.

Noor was born in District Six. He was second generation in the area. He started his family in the District, had a job until one day in 1975, everything came to an end. His family had one month to empty the house and move out of the area. Every day, for six years long, Noor revisited his former house and on one day it was gone. Noor witnesses about  the colorful life in the district and about the many cultures living together in harmony. Perhaps the memories are more romantic than real life was, but how can a government decide that a neighborhood that was created by its inhabitants was inferior to that of its own people? How can a government be so obsessed with protecting its own species that it compares the lives of the inhabitants with stones and hope that everything will disappear with a bulldozer? These are questions that are crossing my mind and my conversations with the Afrikaner people that were part of the apartheid regime, confuse me even more. Maybe because they are humans as well and a lof of them victims of a dogmatic policy.

Not only families were torn apart in District Six, but an entire community was destroyed. The consequences are dramatic, especially for cultures where community life is so important and family is the foundation of their existence. To blame apartheid as the only culprit for the huge misery in these townships, would not be correct. Twenty years have passed since apartheid, and a lot of the poverty and despair is also the result of a constantly changing world where globalization, neoliberal policies and as a lot of people are telling me, a failing policy of the current government. Poverty is becoming more poignant and the values that ​​were once so important to different communities are disappearing and leave people adrift.

Yesterday, my daughters and me visited an education project in one of the poorest townships of Cape Town, Lavender Hill.  Gangs are controlling Lavender Hill and there is a lot of violence. We were told that this was one of the areas where people of District Six were removed to. We participated in a program that assists parents in raising their children. Coming from Belgium, the sight of the houses with corrugated iron roofs and old billboards that are used as a wall but also houses with small gardens to make it a bit cosy, remains hard to getting used to. It remains incomprehensible that so many people can live on such a small area. And yet people try to make the best of it, they bike, women are gossiping, you see men chatting ... But my ignorance of life in a township became clear when I talked to Natasha, one of the parents. She is a single mother of a boy of seven and lives with her mother not far from the school. Quality time with the children was the theme of the meeting. We had to tell each other how we spend quality time with children. I said I had it with my kids in the kitchen during cooking. She replied that this was not possible for her because they only had one room which served as bedroom and kitchen and it was too small. When I replied that they could do this at the table, she replied that they did not even have a table. At this moment, I realized that I can not even begin to imagine how life in the townships is. Both of us are a mum, and we both want the best for our children but the odds are not the same and when I saw these mothers, teenage mothers, aunt, grandma and dad sitting in the room, I knew that these opportunities are so important. They themselves never enjoyed a good education. They are being teached how to talk to their children. How important it is to read stories to their children in order for the kids to learn new words. For us, this seems so normal for these people, it is not.  The moms, aunt, grandmother proudly tell us how they spend quality time with the kids and how they teach them new concepts by doing things together. One of the moms was so proud to tell us  ‘my child would love this whale book because he loves boats and whales’, is moving but also hard. They want so badly to provide their children a good future, but to realize that these children may never get the opportunities to enjoy a decent education is a harsh reality. The environment in which they live is one of gangster violence and drugs and quick money and this is the future of many innocent, happy children we met that day. Desmund Tutu put it nicely, the day after Madiba's birthday: "Madiba’s heart would bleed, luckily he does not know everything."

And yet I do not want to end on a negative note and despite those harsh realities, there are people out there who are active in order to help these communities. The teachers at the school that accompany the children every day, the many volunteers such as Brigid and many others that try to give the people the tools to create a better life for themselves. There is a lot of misery in this country but also a lot of good-will of its citizens to give everyone equal opportunities. Such as the anti-apartheid movement at the time changed the course of the country, different communities, black and white, rich and poor,  will make it possible,  little by little, to overcome the poverty and misery and make  Madiba's dream come true. As Desmund Tutu  ended his interview: "there is a lot of wonderful people of all races that love South Africa with a lot of passion." These are similar findings I encounter in my search of the evolution of the postapartheid society. 

A day in Cape Town

Click here for more pictures

I love cities in the early morning. Jacques Dutronc allready sung about the city mornings in his song 'Paris s'éveille’. For me city mornings are the beginning of a day in a city far away and heading for an unknown end.

I started my day in Cape Town City Centre in the early morning. Residing in one of the suburbs of Cape Town, and without a car at the time, I was forced to take the train to Cape Town. Brigid and Craig told me it was best to take the train during rush hour and to take a seat in first class because it is safer, even more so as a white woman. Class differences are not only a matter of trains here. They are sadly enough a big problem amongst the population as well. As a good student, I bought my first class ticket for 8 Rand or 0.8 Eurocents, and my safety lesson in mind, I followed the largest group of people on the train, all hopping on third class. As the only white person, I joined the colored and black commuters and had to rely on my neighbor to know where my stop was. Trains in Cape Town look more like subway trains, full of graffiti and because of the very weathered windows, a limited view of the outside world. There are no announcers on train and so you have to rely on the goodwill of people to tell you where you are. As in Belgium, commuters look just like Belgian commuters: same boredom on their faces,  the MP3 player and a book or newspaper in the hand, even in third class.

Cape Town was still shrouded in fog when I arrived but soon the streets were colored with a lot of people. Office boys and girls in suits were on their way to their desks, the street stalls were being built, the smell of coffee came from the many trendy coffee bars and shops opened their doors. Opening doors is relative in South Africa. In most of the stores, one must ring the bell to get inside, especially in the more exclusive boutiques and book shops. I found one of the coolest bookstores in Cape Town: Clark's. Wooden shelves,  tables, all full of new books, secondhand books and this all stowed in a little old shop. Two elderly ladies are running the shop and were willingly to help me to the part of anthropology, novels, history and were more than excited to guide me through the rich history of literature of their country. It almost felt like being part of an English movie, called ‘The Old Book Shop ‘ where the only character missing is a Dicken’s figure. Cape Town is a bizarre mix of races, colors and everyone colors the city in its own way. African figurines and jewelry shops, English teahouses, hallalshops, chain stores, many vegetables and fruit stalls along the road and even a Democratic shop ... they are all part of the city center and blend into one city. After my thorough introduction to South African literature and asking if I could leave the books at the store until I was going home, I started  my tour of the city. ‘Sure’, they said, ‘we will put the books in a nice bag for you '.

The fog had now disappeared and the city was full of life. The City Centre of Cape Town still has the grandeur of the old days with historic buildings and parks and green, despite of the skyscrapers that have taken possession of the streets as well. The park is a nice relief and not just for me. Many couples, even on a weekday, make use of the benches in the park and even in winter many camellias and roses are in bloom. One of the attractions of Cape town is Green Market where tourists can buy souvenirs. And yes, vuvuselas are still popular, even decorated with pearls now, and probably adorning many rooms somewhere overseas.  Just on this market crowded with tourists, I am stopped by a street child. ‘Ma'am, can you buy me some food’. I try to ignore them as the other Captonians, but he keeps following me. ‘Ma'am, please, no money, just buy me some food, I am hungry. I look at him and do not know what to do.’ ‘How cruel can you be, I think. Buy this child something.’ On the way to the store someone stopped us and told the kid to 'leave the lady alone.’ I decided to take the child to the shop anyhow, and he immediately grapped a box of cornflakes, a milk bottle and a pack of sugar. Do I need to feel like a good Samaritan? I am not sure what to feel. It leaves me with a bad feeling. The child won’t be hungry for a day, maybe two, ... and yet ... why him and not me. I can not get rid of the feeling.

My second encounter in the city is of a different nature. I had an interview with Roelof Peter Van Wijk. He is an architect, photographer and has an exhibition running in Cape Town with impressive photographs called 'Jong Afrikaner'. His subjects are depicted as the portraits of the Dutch portrait painters in the old days. He wants to show us the diversity of the Jong Afrikaners of Dutch and German descent. The history they share can not be wiped away but they also have a future ahead of them. A future that offers a lot of opportunities, especially giving them a chance to be released from the Afrikaner, Christian conservative identity with all their prejudices against other races, homosexuals, as they are often associated with. It is not obvious. He says ‘we are more than Afrikaner, we are also Afrikaans and even have African blood and we share a history for centuries. We are also a part of this country but we also have the responsibility, more than the rest, to ensure that this country will be a better place to live for everyone. ‘ He is convinced of his mission and his next project will be a series of portraits from the Van Wijk descendents. Van Wijk's ancestor entered South Africa in the 17th century and left behind a lot of sons and daughters. He was a busy man, Roelof jokes about his ancestor. The family Van Wijk has descendants from San (Bushmen) over Zulu to the Afrikaners with blue eyes and blond hair. This series of portraits will be a witness of what unites us more than what separates us as South Afrikaner, he says. Pictures tell us so much, he goes on and photography can bring an added value as a testimony. He believes in the role of art that can serve as a trigger and can open doors for people to look  at society in a different way. After this inspiring and enlightening conversation I walk back to the bookstore to pick up my books. One of the ladies of the bookstore offers me a ride back home. ‘I live in the neighbourhood anyhow and I was about to leave’, she says. On the way home she tells me she is a retired English teacher. Her oldest daughter lives in London, she tells me, and I miss my grandchildren so. But my daughter prefers to live in Europe. She believes it is safer for children. ‘There is no future here, she continues. You are no longer safe and white people do not stand a chance here any longer.’

During this day I was confronted with three different stories, all of them are a resident of a city: a street child, a bookstore servant and a photographer, all struck by the disparity that exists, injustice and the security that goes with it, but each in their own way.

Meanwhile I am in Strand, a coastal town near Cape Town. I have an idyllic view of the ocean and Cape Point, almost the southern tip of the continent. A continent that  looks up to South Africa. A country where the confrontation between two different paradigms is so very visible and therefore making it very fascinating as one paradigm is now taking over from the other.

Room with a view

Press here to see all the pictures

Here I am in Cape Town. It is starting to feel like my second home. The place I am staying at the first two weeks seems like the perfect place for writing. I'm staying at an old English house in what once were the quarters of the maid. The view is fantastic. I look out at Table Mountain with Cape Town at its feet. This is the city where I will encounter people and listen to their experiences with and in the city. Craig and Brigid, my host family are not the typical "white" Africans. There is no resident staff. Most of the well-off families have resident staff. I come across the 'maids' during my daily walks in the afternoon. They are usually strolling the dogs, wondering themselves why those animals need to be walked every afternoon. I became acquainted with one of them. She wondered why I was walking and even more without a dog. Did I get lost? I said no. I just arrived from Belgium and I can do with some excercise. She started laughing. Just a little walk without anywhere to go? Yes, I told her. I'm going home, she told me. I live just outside of town but am actually originated from the Eastern Cape. I visit my family monthly. But I do not like to walk, she said with a big smile and wandered off. Every day we meet, and she is letting me a bit more into her life, calling me the crazy walker without a dog. Cornelia is Zulu, a young grandmother and her youngest daughter is changing schools. Her bosses are paying a part of the tuition of the youngest daughter. She is a good student and schools in their neighboorhood are not very good. Most schools in the townships are not so great, she says.
Brigid, my hostess, explains me in the evening - sitting in the family lounge by the fireplace with a cup of tea, because it is winter in Cape Town and there is no central heating in the houses - that education for the black and coloured population is poor . Especially in the latter group there is a lot of 'gang' violence. Coloured are not really helped by the black government. Brigid is actively involved in educational projects in the townships. We often hear these heartbreaking stories, she continues. One of the teachers told her recently that a boy of seven came to tell her that his father told him him that school is not important because he could earn more and easier money from drug dealing. After a while, you become desperate, concludes Bridged.
It is distressing and unfortunately it is a reality for a large portion of the population in South Africa.
However, not all stories are so hopeless and sometimes you have to admire the creativity of these slum dwellers. While passing one of the slum areas Craig pointed out the many satellite disks on top of the sheds. The inhabitants buy a satellite disk and charge money for others to come and watch tv. They organize a kind shebeen, a home bar. If you don't possess anything, you have to find other ways to make ends meet.  Further on we drove by a neighborhood with the typical township 'matchbox houses'. They are being built to replace the slums. The houses are fully subsidized and people can live there for free. Coming from Belgium, it was not strange for me that sheds are being built behind the houses. Every railway user in Belgium knows the sheds behind the houses. In the townships of South Africa they know the phenomenon as well. The people are building these  'provisoire sheds in the back, go live there themselves and they rent out the main house. Capetonians call them the backyard dwellers. And yes, this is also a way to have an income. There must be thousands of fascinating stories on living in the townships. However, I came here looking for the 'Afrikaner' speaking population. They somehow intrigue me. It is a strange mix of good and evil. There is that terrible history of apartheid that they carry with them but they are part of South Africa as well. Afrikaner people have been living here for centuries and generations of ancestors are buried on South African grounds. What do they think about the past but even more so what do think about all the changes the country is experiencing, what is their hope and how they see themselves as a group in the future? Can they push their boundaries and look beyond the Christian conservative Afrikaner identity. Not only do you have the white Afrikaner peole, but there is also a large group of Afrikaner speaking coloured people, how do they profile themselves and what is the connection with the Afrikaner language and identity. With the view from my room on Cape Town, a literally divided city, even geographically, rich and poor, white, colored and black, I know there are certainly fascinating people out there who without any doubt want to tell me their experiences of their world they live in.

Airports, funky shoes, Thin Lizzy and Anthropology

Airports are a special place. People come and go but most of all people wait. The latter happened to me as well. No chance of flying into London. What can you do but hope it all will work out. I decided to read and get myself carried away by the humor of the author. But there is something about airports. It is hard for me to concentrate, no matter how funny these stories are.  Soon my eyes started wandering around and started inspecting  my fellow passengers. If something were to happen, you'd better make sure who you will be spending your last moments with. I noticed that if this were the case, at least I would have shared my last hours with a bunch of old rockers. They definitely looked like a rockband: half of them with long, a little too colored hair, a slightly weathered skin, colorful tattoos and the necessary bling on their fingers. The other half was a bit more sober wearing the famous English mullet, bald heads and beer bellies. But no matter how famous they are, they were condemned to the chairs in the lounge as well. At least, they made our group of waiting passengers a bit more colorful. It was even a bit exciting, especially when one of them suddenly started talking to me. "Love your funky shoes. Where did you buy them? " 'Paris' was the correct answer. How funky can a woman be: bright blue shoes from Paris. The conversation got started and we were sharing a piece of our lives. "What will I be doing in Cape Town? I will be writing on Cape Town for my master thesis in anthropology. It sounds f * 'exciting'. What will you be writing? "I remained speechless. What will I write? Telling stories about people in the city, I replied. "Which people?" I am really not that sure. Perhaps I could write stories about you, guys. This could be a great idea. If I would miss my connection to Cape Town I could still accompany them to Newcastle. Live on the road with fossils of the rock ... It would be a fun experience, and perhaps more exciting than the seniors of Cape Town I had in mind. But the dream was short lived. I catched my flight to Cape Town. The rocking seniors of Thin Lizzy did their show and I'm sitting in my room dreaming of stories about Capetonians. How 'f *' funky life could be.