by M A Moore
She couldn’t tell his exact age, but he was at least in his mid- to late-thirties. He was wearing a blue polo shirt, grey chino trousers and hiking boots. She noticed he didn’t have a wedding band on his finger. He had tucked a baseball cap in a rear pocket. His skin and eyebrows were fair so she surmised his closely shaven head held blond hair when he let it grow. It might have some grey. It was hard to tell. His body intrigued her -not too lean, not too muscular. He didn’t spend hours each day at the gym. She found him sexually attractive, and this both amused and unsettled her. It had been a long time since she let herself respond to a man in that manner, and this one was a lot younger than she was. She watched as he talked to the other members of their tour group in an animated fashion. No harm in looking, she told herself.
He scanned the room as if searching for someone. His eyes settled when he spotted Amy in the corner. She felt her face grow a bit warm as she realized she was the object of his search. She raised her arm to acknowledge his presence, grateful that the sun still interfered with his vision. He smiled and crooked his thumb towards the door.
“Bus. Ten minutes,” he announced in her direction.
Amy nodded to let him know she understood and finished the last couple sips of her coffee.
The bus could have held twenty people, and with only nine of them including Mike Stone and their bus driver there was plenty of room for everyone to have a window seat. Mike stood in front with a microphone and swayed as the vehicle wound his way through the streets crowded with rush hour traffic.
“Good morning, Ladies and Gents,” Mike began. “I am your program manager, Mike Stone, for those of you who slept through that introduction last night.”
He winked and commiserating soft laughter followed. This seemed to relax him a bit.
“This morning we are off to the Vortrekker Memorial overlooking the city of Pretoria. This monument celebrates the original Dutch settlers that came to South Africa in the nineteenth century looking for religious freedom. Pretoria houses the executive branch of our government and both the president and his cabinet reside there. The trip takes a half hour or more, so I have prepared a little reading material for you.”
He passed out brochures from the museum.
Their drive began in the affluent suburbs of Johannesburg. Now that it was daylight, Amy saw more detail in the residences that had been a shadowy blur the night before. The houses were large and had diverse architectural styles. Brick or stone walls with wrought iron gates topped with barbed wire were the common feature. Amy thought that Johannesburg’s reputation as a dangerous city might be well-founded.
The bus wound its way onto the expressway towards Pretoria. Only business and industrial buildings flanked the highway, so Amy opened the notes that Mike had given them and read about South Africa. Government isn’t centralized here. Three cities each perform a different function. Pretoria, in the northeast of the country holds the executive branch. The president and his cabinet reside here. Parliament, the legislative body that enacts laws meets in Cape Town in the extreme southwest on the Atlantic coast. The courts convene in Bloemfontein located in the geographic center of South Africa. Hundreds of kilometers separate the three capitals. Johannesburg is an economic center, and the largest city in the country, but is not part of South Africa’s government structure. Other than having to go through its airport, the tour would not be spending any time in it. Perhaps for good reason, Amy thought as she remembered the barbed wire.
Pretoria lies about thirty miles northwest of Johannesburg. As the bus climbed the ridge that separated Johannesburg from Pretoria, an impressive stone structure stood out high above the city. An enormous cube over a hundred feet on a side topped the highest point in the surrounding landscape. Constructed out of reddish brown blocks of granite and crowned by a square dome with a walkway around its base, the Vortrekker Monument stood as reminder of the hardships endured by the early Dutch settlers. A massive stairway led up to its entrance. Amy realized that the staircase alone was enough to keep the casual foreign tourist away, and Amy wondered why they were here. Mike announced that he would talk about the history of the monument once they got up those stairs. Amy counted one hundred and thirty steps from the parking lot to the main entry way. After considerable huffing and puffing from a few of their small entourage they entered the Hall of Heroes.
The place was empty.
According to the docent, the monument only filled up on December sixteenth, the day commemorating the army of Andries Praetorius’ defeat of the Zulus. ‘At noon on this day, and this day only, a beam of light from the sun shines into the top of the dome.’ Amy had already read the brochure passed out to each of them. The memorial told the story of the Dutch pioneers who had settled the land in the 1830s and 40s.
A larger than life copper statue of a resigned Afrikanner woman sat in a niche near the door to the Hall of Heroes. A bonnet shaded her eyes and two children, a boy and a girl, each pulled on her skirts. She stared out to a distant horizon both weary and fearful. Amy was sure daily survival was not a trivial task for the early settlers. The responsibilities of a pioneer woman with young ones must have been overwhelming at times. Amy remembered her own struggles in physics, a non-traditional profession for women. The science was not the problem, but the politics of university power battles was. Some women responded to the challenges by taking on the worst aggressive behaviors of their male colleagues. After further consideration Amy reminded herself that no pioneer had an easy time, and it didn’t matter the place or the age or the endeavor. The major difference Amy saw between herself and the woman depicted in the statue was simple. The Trekkboer men needed their women if their culture was to survive. The physics community didn't share that feeling. Women were merely additional competition for limited resources.
Amy did know much about the white migration into Africa. A cultural connection could be a positive learning experience, and maybe this was the place to get it.
On the inside wall of the Hall of Heroes hung a stone mural depicting common events in the lives of the pioneer settlers. Amy did not find the scenes of people plowing fields and fighting the native populations very illuminating and she wondered again why the tour group visited here. She wandered around to see if she could find anything to hold her attention.
Several of the group sat on benches still recovering from the climb. The design of the structure reminded Amy of Napoleon’s Tomb in Paris. Instead of going downstairs to see the museum, Amy decided to ascend to the area outside the dome to get a view of the city itself. The staircases located in the corners of the empty Hall of Heroes led above. They were narrow, circular and allowed travel either up or down, but not both. None of her fellow tour members joined her as she climbed the one hundred and sixty-nine steps up to the parapet.
Amy imagined that the view would have been spectacular on a clear day. The air smelled of smoke and Amy could see smoky flames burning along the grassy roadsides. Amy surmised this reduced the wildfire potential in the approaching dry season. The haze blurred the outline of Pretoria in the valley.
“Not much of a view today,” spoke a voice behind her.
Her stomach muscles contracted and she took a sharp breath in and held it. Amy thought she was alone up here. She exhaled slowly and placed her palms on the waist high wall. She turned her head towards the man in a gray suit as he moved beside her.
“We are marching to Pretoria,” the man said staring straight ahead without a trace of expression on his face.
Amy took a breath, but kept her body poised for possible action as she replied, “Maybe we should take the bus.”
He reached into an inside pocket and handed her a burner phone. “They will make contact after you arrive in Botswana.”
“What about my cousin?” Amy whispered using her training to control her breath and calm her face and voice.
“I just deliver cell phones.” The man smoothed down his already flat collar. “As I understand it, a meeting is being arranged wit
h Robert Widdon. The call will inform you as to when and where.”
“So he is alive at least.”
He didn’t look at her, but instead focused his gaze on the surrounding landscape. “I assume so. But that could change.” He turned his face to look at her. “Your group heads to Chobe Park tomorrow morning.”
This was a statement rather than a question.
“We take a plane to Kasane at 11:30 a.m.. You know our itinerary?”
He smirked and nodded once. “Follow the instructions and the meeting should go as planned. I hope I need not remind you to keep this information to yourself.”
“Understood,” Amy replied in a tone more calm than she felt.
Amy pocketed the phone, and watched as the man in the gray suit walked around the corner of the parapet, out of her sight.
“Not much of a view today,” a voice said behind her. Her breath caught again. She chastised herself for not being more aware of her surroundings.
She turned to see Mike’s smiling face. “Sorry to startle you.” His expression said he was not repentant in the least. “The rest of the group has seen all they want to see. We are going to head to Soweto and lunch once we get everyone down the stairs and into the bus.”
“What happened to the tour of Pretoria?” Amy asked relieved. Government buildings were not of particular interest to her.
“There’s a bit of unrest in the city today -a protest march. Soweto has more historical value to tourists like yourself.” Mike seemed unwilling to elaborate so Amy dropped the subject.
Mike peered over Amy’s head, in the direction opposite the city, wondering what had gotten her attention that way. Amy headed down the stairs to the Hall of Heroes and out the door followed by Mike. The man in the gray suit had disappeared.
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The streets in Soweto were narrow, so they disembarked the bus a few blocks from their destination and walked. Their group ambled their way down the road nicknamed the Street of Peace after the two Nobel Peace Prize winners who once lived on it -Nelson Mandela and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Mike was in the lead. Soweto was a spirited place when compared to where they had just been. Steel drum music filled the air, people sat in outdoor cafes engaged in animated conversation, and small groups clustered along the sidewalks. People of all colors crowded around the kiosks blocking the walkways and forcing pedestrian traffic into the street. The Caucasians were a definite minority here. Maxine and Linda were the most dedicated shoppers in their group. They visited each small shop to check out the goods. The merchandise was heavy on souvenir tee shirts, miniature animals carved out of wood or soapstone, and beaded jewelry.
The Hector Pietersen Museum was the first stop on the Soweto tour. Amy entered the austere brick structure and an inexplicable sense of gloom settled over her. She climbed a ramp that brought her through exhibits filled with photographs and recordings of the rioting and killing in Soweto as apartheid became increasingly unpopular and less tolerated. One particular display riveted her attention. It was a black and white television monitor showing elegantly dressed white couples ballroom dancing. The stark contrast with the bloody scenes of black protesters intensified Amy’s feelings of despair.
The white population held the power, but only represented a small fraction of those living here. The remainder was split into three categories based on skin color alone. The Coloreds were a mixed race people who had lighter skin tones. Asians were mostly of Indian descent. The blacks were native Africans and in the lowest class, but they were the majority of the population. Before 1994, all three of the non-white classifications of people needed papers that told them where they could live and when they had to be back in their allowed territories. The system was oppressive and it was a wonder that it lasted as long as it did.
Hector was a young man, a boy really, that got shot when the rioting began. Amy recognized the picture of him carried by a twenty-something black man to safety with his sister running alongside. This world famous photo represented the violence of the race riots that led to the downfall of apartheid. His sister, now a women maybe ten years younger than Amy, talked to people on the grounds of the museum. Hector had died before he reached medical help.
Amy began to flounder in a sea of despair. The place was too oppressive, and she wandered outside to wait for the others. Mike was standing near the exit with Paul and Linda.
“Had enough?” Mike asked Amy casually.
“About as much as I could take,” Amy replied. She had more to say. “I have an impertinent question to ask, and I want you to feel free to evade answering it if you so choose.”
Mike balanced on the balls of his feet shifting his weight from one foot to another, and nodded in anticipation.
“How old are you?” she asked.
He paused only a fraction of a second. “I’m fifty.”
“So you weren’t a child when all this was going on twenty years ago.” Amy looked him in the eye. “Did you have any clue what was happening in the black settlements?”
Mike stopped rocking and considered his answer carefully. “Every white male has compulsory military service when he reaches eighteen years of age. While growing up our parents sheltered us from what was going on in the nonwhite communities. The riots started in the seventies, but we didn’t hear much about them until the late eighties or early nineties.”
Mike paused and stared out past her as if lost in a troubling memory. “Nineteen-year-olds patrolling the streets with automatic weapons….” He looked back at her. Mike had said all he was going to say about it.
The rest of the group gathered soon afterwards and they headed down the road towards the Nelson Mandela House. Its small size surprised Amy. The whole place would have fit into her kitchen at home. Built in 1945, Mandela and his first wife and son moved there in 1946. She left when they divorced after eleven years. His political activism forced him into hiding and then imprisonment less than two years after that. Winnie, his more famous second spouse, maintained the household for twenty-six years until his release. Mandela made a brief visit to the house shortly after leaving prison. Mandela claimed he really knew he was free for the first time when he stepped across its threshold.
The museum swarmed with people. Visitors were respectful and listened politely to the docent’s short lecture on the history of Mandela and the house, but the noisy crowds on the streets outside the brick wall surrounding the compound made it difficult to hear him.
Amy found the press of people oppressive. The gloom that settled over her at the Pietersen Museum had not dissipated. As soon as decorum would allow she escaped the museum perimeter and stood in the shade next to the wall that separated the sidewalk from the house. The streets were at least as crowded as the courtyard and far noisier. The second cell phone in her pocket distracted her, but she needed privacy before examining it more closely. She forced herself to watch individuals in the throngs of people flowing around her instead of getting lost in personal thoughts.
Her skills of observation hadn’t completely atrophied over the last few months. Vendors lined the streets, and she watched as salesmen tried to lure customers to their kiosks with promises of unique African crafts. Amy reflected that they were in all likelihood made in China as were most tourist trinkets she had encountered across the world. A few feet down from her near the corner, a musician squatted on the ground pounding out an African rhythm on his drum. He ignored individuals passing by unless they dropped a coin or two in the hat that sat in front of him.
There were only a few white people on the streets, and one could tell they were tourists from their interest in the sidewalk shops and their sensible shoes. The black women walking the streets looked far more festive. Hair styles were elaborate or they wrapped their heads in patterned scarves. Some wore jeans and vibrant print blouses. Others were in multi-hued dresses. Bright colors ruled. Several layers of bracelets and dangling earrings completed their ensembles. This time the black man in dreadlocks did not take her by
surprise when he came up next to her. He was not much taller than she was, and he looked her in the eyes. She reciprocated without blinking.
“Namaste,” he said politely. Amy returned the respectful Hindu greeting. For a moment or two they stood, each assessing the other.
At last he spoke. “The kiosk across the street has particularly fine bead work. A small purchase would not disappoint you.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Amy replied. The man in dreadlocks gave a slight smile and strolled down the street, dropped a coin in the musician’s hat and continued around the corner. Amy walked to the curb and crossed the street to check out the recommended vendor.
Amy perused the collection of wire bracelets with multicolored beads. “Namaste,” Amy said as she smiled at the man with coffee brown skin and the red tee shirt with the black silhouette of an elephant.
“Good merchandise here, Lady.” Amy chose a three strand bracelet strung with small copper and turquoise colored beads and handed it to him.
“For ten rand more, I will put a charm on it that is guaranteed by my grandfather to keep you safe from evil influences.”
Amy nodded and smiled. The vendor reached under the shelf holding his wares and produced a pair of needle-nosed pliers and a small blue enameled rhino set in some silvery metal. He attached the charm to the beaded bracelet with care.
“Fifty rand.“ He held up the bracelet for her inspection. Amy reached into the zippered pocket of her pants and handed him a fifty rand note, the equivalent of only about $5 USD. The man wound the bracelet around her arm. Amy held up her wrist to admire the charm and noticed a string of four numbers engraved on the back.
Amy nodded to the salesman, looked up, and saw Mike Stone waving at her from across the street. She smiled at the man in the red tee shirt, “Namaste.” Amy went to the curb and waited to cross until the traffic cleared.
Mike watched the cars like a hawk as she made her way over to him. It was evident he didn’t trust her to get there safely on her own and it annoyed her.