Honorary White

by E. R. Braithwaite

  But there seemed little chance that the visa would actually be granted. Surely it would suffer the same fate as those earlier Council appeals. So security-conscious a state as South Africa would certainly investigate my background, especially my anti-South Africa position at the United Nations. Their conclusions would certainly be negative. In any case, I could tell myself that I had tried to visit South Africa. I’d be able to put the “Go see for yourself” thing to rest once and for all.

  Five months passed with no word from Pretoria and I had convinced myself that my application had been ignored, when there was a telephone call from the Consul General. My visa had been granted. My immediate reaction was one of acute distress. Now that my way was clear, the thought of actually going to South Africa was abhorrent. For his part, the Consul General believed I sincerely wished to visit his country and invited me to come to the Consulate again and meet other members of his staff who would provide me with a useful overview. I accepted.

  They seemed to be calling my bluff. For years now I had been so safe in my posture of justified condemnation of South Africa’s racial policies, isolated from whatever the grim realities might be. Everyone knew that South Africa was closed to critical inspection, especially by Blacks, so I was safe in my hawk’s nest. Until now. What would I say to the Consul General? What excuse could I fabricate to explain my rejection of the visa?

  But, on the other hand, why reject it? So far, I had given full credence to South Africa’s critics and had readily allied myself with them. Well, why not see for myself, as so many of them had advised? No matter how trying the circumstances, I had the right, as a visitor, to leave whenever I chose. Yet, at my age, and accustomed to freedom of movement, speech and association, could I tolerate even for a short time the contempt, restriction, and discourtesy which were inescapable if I entered South Africa?

  Would I be willing to obey the “Whites Only” signs, ignore the “kaffir” epithet, and give way to Whites? I doubted that I could. Yet how could I ever meet and talk with South African Blacks on their own earth except by going there? Out of the blue was handed me the opportunity to “see for myself.” Didn’t I have a duty to seize it? Should I reject it on the flimsy excuse of safety or sensitivity to anti-Black attitudes? My doubts and dread nagged me like a toothache, but I knew I was going to go.

  The stewardess announced that we were making our descent to Johannesburg and I began mentally preparing myself for what I felt sure would be my first test. What would I do when confronted with the “Whites Only” signs? Would I have to undergo a separate passport and customs check? Would the humiliations I had heard about begin then or later?

  Preoccupied with these speculations, I hardly noticed that the huge plane had landed, was taxiing to its gate. There followed the gathering up of personal belongings and the long line through the narrow exit to the shock of warm sunshine on the short walk to the cavernous customs hall.

  Try as I might, the only signs I could locate were those over the narrow gateways to the passport control desks distinguishing between South African nationals and others. In my turn I was shown the same courteous treatment as anyone else and moved into the baggage claim area where I grabbed a metal pushcart just ahead of someone else. With nothing to declare I pushed my bags through customs and outside into whatever the next several weeks would disclose.

  Chapter

  Two

  MY HOTEL WAS A new one on the edge of the business district, pompously dominating a busy crossroads and overlooking a block-square park, a green oasis amid the steel, glass, and concrete. My car had barely stopped when the door was yanked open by a Black, the doorman—tall, muscular, and resplendent in gray top hat, matching pearl gray tail suit, black tie, and gleaming black shoes. He helped me out of the car, smiled broadly, and greeted me in what sounded like Afrikaans but changed quickly to English when he noticed my failure to respond. He seemed surprised that only I, and not my white driver as well, would be staying at the hotel.

  Inside, the hotel was even more imposing. The lobby was spacious, with leather divans spotted like islands on a placid sea. Artfully carved and paneled woodwork on the walls highlighted a wide wooden staircase leading upward to the mezzanine floor. The doorman led me to the reception desk and presented me with something of a flourish. The white reception staff were all aplomb and courtesy as if well prepared for my coming. Gray-suited porters everywhere. “Good morning, sir.” One of them introduced himself to me as the manager. “I trust you had a comfortable flight.” I thanked him and said I had. “We are very happy to have you staying with us,” he went on, motioning me to a table to which he brought a pen and registration cards and showed me where he needed my signature. My name and flight particulars had already been entered on the card, which surprised me until I remembered that in New York I had been advised to make my travel plans through the Grosvenor Tours Company and they had chosen this hotel for me.

  The formalities completed, I was shown to my suite, large and comfortably cool. Two porters followed with my luggage. They were black, gray suited, and, I noticed, were scrutinizing me carefully. When the manager left, one of the porters addressed me in what I presumed was an African dialect.

  “I don’t understand,” I told him.

  “You’re not African?” he asked, in English.

  “No.”

  “Where are you from?” meanwhile busying themselves with my luggage.

  “Guyana.” The look on their faces told me the name meant nothing to them.

  “Where’s that?”

  “South America.”

  “America. That where Mr. Bob Foster is from. Do you know Mr. Bob Foster, sir.”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “A boxing champion.” Proudly. “He stayed here in this hotel.” Looking at me as if that bit of information was important and should be received respectfully. I nodded, accepting.

  “You a boxer?” he asked.

  “No. I write books.”

  He left me with the feeling that as a non-boxer, I held no further interest for him. Later I learned that Bob Foster, the boxer, had not only stayed here but had been the guest of honor, cutting the ribbon which officially opened the hotel for public business. I also learned that it was no accident which brought me here.

  According to South African law, a hotel can accept non-white guests only if it obtains a special permit or license to do so, and very few such permits are issued. Non-Whites are Blacks, Asians, and those of mixed blood (Coloreds). Ironically, only the best, the five-star hotels, are licensed to accommodate Non-Whites. Native Non-Whites, of course, rarely have either the means or the temerity to use these hotels. To complicate the situation further, visiting Non-Whites are designated “Honorary White” to insure, it is claimed, their insulation and exemption from the many embarrassments which would otherwise attend them. I discovered that this title was first conceived to meet the special circumstances of Japanese businessmen who came to establish footholds for their companies in the South African market. They could not, like indigenous Non-Whites, be contemptuously restricted and segregated, so it was decided to “whiten” them for as long as they lived and worked in South Africa. Eventually, all non-white visitors were called “Honorary White.”

  Outside, it was sunny and uncomfortably hot; inside it was refreshingly cool from air conditioning and the fine mesh curtains drawn across the large windows which overlooked the street. I prowled around to familiarize myself with what would be my point of departure for the next six weeks. The vestibule was equipped with a washroom and cloak room for visitors and led into the spacious, attractive dining area. This contained a large wooden table, polished to a dazzling shine, and six matching chairs. The nearby wall was really a cupboard artfully contrived to hide a small refrigerator and shelves for pots and pans, cutlery and glassware. A room divider of simulated bamboo partly separated this from the lounge, large and luxurious and painfully overdone
in green—olive green carpet, paler green walls, a glass-topped center table which held a large basket of fruit, lime green upholstered furniture, pictures in contrasting shades of green, and, scattered about the room, an abundance of artificial plants.

  Luckily, the bedroom door could be closed to shut out the green menace from the more somber but equally lush comfort of the large, canopied bed in polished dark wood, matching side tables, highboy, and chest of drawers. Near the window was a wide writing table and two chairs with elephant hide seats. One entire wall seemed to glide away at a touch to reveal ample closet space for clothing and luggage.

  The bathroom was nearly as large as the bedroom and completely lined in glistening brown tile. Twin washbowls and mirrors, a large deep bath, bidet, separate shower stall, a telephone, and piped music. Many towels were piled beside the washbowls and hung from racks near the bath and shower stall. The radio and piped music could be controlled from several points throughout the suite.

  So this was the five-star treatment. It was not what I would have chosen if the choice had been mine. Whites could choose according to the dictates of their pocketbooks; visiting Blacks must pay the top price.

  I dialed room service for a cold drink. The young, black attendant seemed very surprised yet pleased to discover that I was black, and said something to me in a language I could not understand.

  “I’m afraid I don’t speak your language,” I replied.

  “You’re not Zulu?” he asked.

  “No.” I was secretly flattered at his mistake.

  “Where you from?” he wanted to know.

  “South America,” I said.

  “You know Mr. Bob Foster, sir?”

  “No.”

  “He’s from your country.”

  “No. He’s from the United States.” Realizing, from his expression, that the small geographical difference did not impress him.

  “He lived in this hotel,” he said. Then, smiling, “He’s a great boxer. A big champion. He beat the white man. He beat the South African.” The smile was wide. I paid and he left. Evidently, Mr. Bob Foster had made a deep impression here.

  Sipping my drink, I opened the curtains and looked out onto the small park which occupied the block directly opposite. It contained neatly trimmed lawns, flowering shrubs, a central fountain of concrete slabs arranged to simulate a miniature waterfall, and shade trees casually spaced around its perimeter. A tiled walkway neatly bisected this handsome park, and an iron fence enclosed it on all sides, broken only by the wide gates at each end of the walkway. Benches were scattered under the trees, and these were all occupied by young black men and women chatting together or merely dozing in the sun. Sprawled on the grass near one flowering bush were three men, two of them white and all of them unkempt, who lazily passed a bottle from one to another. Here and there were forms face down on the lawn, seemingly asleep. White men and women hurried through the park, intent on whatever their business might be; the unemployed sat in the sun, in their idleness and, perhaps, in their dreams.

  I took the lift downstairs and crossed the street into the park. This was as good a place to begin as any; I might as well plunge in. I walked across the lawn to a group sitting under a tree. Two men and a woman, all black, watched my approach in silence.

  “Good afternoon,” I greeted them. No sign of welcome on any face. Then one of the men responded with a slight nod and a barely audible growl. Not to be put off, I persisted.

  “I’m a stranger visiting your country.” This seemed to stir some small interest. Press on, I told myself.

  “If I wasn’t sure that I’d made a long trip to be here, I could easily imagine this was England. Same lawns, same trees, and same green benches.” I waited to see some faint hint of interest.

  “You from England?” the woman asked, making it sound like an accusation, not believing it.

  “I took the plane in London,” I replied. “Actually, I now live in the United States, but I once lived in London for many years.”

  “Yes, but where are you from?” the woman persisted.

  “South America. Guyana. That’s where I was born.”

  “Bob Foster is from America,” one man said, smiling not at me, but to the happy memory of whatever images the name Foster conjured up for him. “You know him?”

  “No,” I said. “How are things with you?” I felt somewhat intrusive but needed to establish some basis for conversation. They exchanged glances and one of the men, bald and sparsely bearded, said something in what I guessed was an African language or dialect. Not knowing what he’d said, I said nothing.

  “You from Lesotho?” the bald one asked. That surprised me because I’d already told him where I came from and I was sure he’d heard enough to know that I was not indigenous African. Maybe they were playing a little game with me.

  “No. I’m from America.” North or south was not really important at this point. The woman said something quite unintelligible, and the bald one said, “No work,” spreading his long-fingered hands in a wide gesture to include his companions. They were all neatly dressed, the men in dark suits, white open-necked shirts, and shoes thinly filmed with red dust as if they had done much walking. The woman, young, round-faced, and sturdily built, wore a simple cotton frock in a bright print, her stockingless feet brown and shapely in white sandals.

  “You working?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But now? Here?”

  “Here I’m on holiday. Just visiting,” I replied. “Do you live nearby?” They looked at each other and laughed in that sharp humorless way which is both bitter and contemptuous, as if I had committed some small stupidity.

  “Live nearby?” they mimicked. “No, we live in Soweto.” Then, waving an arm to include the whole park, the bald man added, “We all live in Soweto. We come in each morning looking for work and we go back each night. We don’t live here.”

  Abruptly he turned away and talked rapidly with his companions, their unfamiliar language shutting me out completely.

  They seemed to have no further interest in me, offering no response when I said goodbye and left them to wander around the park and out into the bustling streets amid the noise of traffic and construction.

  Along the narrow pavements, Whites hurrying to and fro, purposefully. Blacks moving with the stream, many of them in the uniforms of servitude—messengers, maids, porters; on their faces the patient dignity etched deeply by centuries of survival. I wondered what went on behind these smooth black masks of people forced by law into the most menial of work and always under the watchful eye of police who were everywhere in view: large powerful men red-faced from the heat, projecting a certain surly contempt for everyone in general and Blacks in particular. Jackbooted, helmeted, and sometimes armed, they seemed hand-picked for the role of controlling others through fear.

  I returned to my hotel to make some telephone calls, contacts with friends of friends, people who might be able to tell me about various aspects of life in South Africa, and was deeply encouraged by their friendliness.

  I switched on the radio in my bedroom. After a few moments of music, a program was announced entitled “Annie, Get Your Gun.” I was about to change the station, thinking it was the old musical production, when the announcer explained that it was that week’s installment of a program on guns for housewives. Fascinated, I listened to the advice on the purchase, handling, and maintenance of firearms and ammunition of various types.

  The implication was inescapable. The enemy against whom the radio audience was warned, the “they” against whom Annie was being taught to point her gun, aim, and slowly squeeze the trigger was the Blacks, the same who cooked Annie’s meals, cared for her children, cleaned her house, washed and ironed her clothes, trimmed her lawns, ran errands for her husband and provided the basic foundation from which she enjoyed a comfortable living with enough left over for guns and bullets
.

  That evening I made my first social call in South Africa on Helen Suzman, to whom I had been introduced through letters by a mutual friend in New York. A Progressive Party member of the South African Parliament, Helen Suzman was internationally known as an outspoken critic of apartheid. She had invited me to dine with her family and a small group of personal friends. At her suggestion, I arrived early to give us an opportunity to talk before the other guests arrived.

  She met me at the door and led me through the house to a rear patio which overlooked a spacious tree-shaded lawn.

  “I’m baby-sitting, so I hope you don’t mind if we sit out here. I can keep an eye on my grandchildren,” she said, pointing to two small, chubby children playing in a corner of the lawn. Tall and suntanned, she moved with an easy grace, as if completely confident of herself.

  “My son and his wife are visiting from England, and one of my daughters is home from the United States. Those two are my son’s children. Wonderful to have them around. Keeps me young,” she said, smiling. “I’m Helen. What do I call you?”

  “Ted.”

  “Well, Ted, welcome to South Africa, and I hope you see and hear enough to make the trip worthwhile.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know a little about you. When Lillian Poses wrote me that you were coming I checked you out. Your books, I mean. From the library. The film of To Sir, with Love was very popular here. Especially the private showings, you know, the uncut version.”

  “Can’t think what anyone could find necessary to cut in that film,” I said.

  “This is South Africa, my friend,” she said. “Can’t publicize the idea of a black and a white teacher getting too chummy. Especially if one of them is a woman. Worse yet, teenage, white, girl students having a crush on a black teacher! Tut, tut.” The smile breaking through to undermine the mock severity of her tone.