Are We There Yet?

by David Smiedt

  There are certain phrases guaranteed to deliver a dose of fleeting arrhythmia to any man. Right up there with “as long as we remain monogamous and on medication, the burning should eventually die down” is “Get in the van! Now!” So naturally when I heard this being hissed in my ear I did what anyone would do and panicked. Much to my embarrassment it was only Conrad, the guide I’d chatted to at the Voortrekker Monument; he had spotted me from across the square and, having safely locked away a vanload of Belgian tourists, had decided to save me from a visit to one of the city’s casualty wards.

  “This is a very dangerous place,” he said, ushering me in the direction of the tour bus. “I don’t even allow my tours to get out here – they just take pictures through the windows. This used to be the safest place in the city, now it’s the worst. A lady had her finger cut off for the ring on it last month.”

  I hitched a ride with Conrad to the home of Paul Kruger, the first president of the independent Boer Republic. This was a remarkable man on many counts. Not least of which was the fact that he instructed Johannesburg’s city planners to shrink the size of the blocks to accommodate an increased number of corner sites, which attracted higher rent.

  Born in the Cape Province to strict followers of the Dutch Reform faith, his family joined Voortrekker leader Andries Potgieter in fleeing British rule. Kruger’s empire enmity would last a lifetime and flared in response to Britain’s annexation of the Boer Republic north of the Vaal River in 1880. After his initial attempts at diplomacy fell on deaf Westminster ears, he proved an adept resistance leader who frequently defeated the disciplined British troops through a combination of guerrilla tactics and the fact that the former’s bright red tunics made them stand out like a vegetarian at a spit roast. Elected president no less than four times, Kruger was a negotiator of note who secured the republic’s independence from Britain and constructed a railway line between Pretoria and Maputo in what was the Portuguese territory of Mozambique. This was a masterstroke as his independent republic was now no longer dependent on British ports to the south; he even appeased his more resistant constituents with free trips to the sea on the shiny black choo-choo. A man of the people before the term equated to donning the jumper of a local football team in a marginal electorate, he would frequently take up a position on his verandah, a signal to passers-by that the president was available to hear any concerns they might have.

  His accomplishments become all the more remarkable when you consider that he rooted like a rabbit. In the entrance hall of the single-storey tin-roofed house in which he lived for the last sixteen years of the nineteenth century hangs a photograph of his second wife, Gezina du Plessis, who bore him no less than sixteen children and wears the understandable grimace of a woman with a birth canal that was more of shipping lane.

  In a shed out the back is Kruger’s trophy room. Feted by the leadership of every nation or territory who had a bone to pick with Britain and her “shift over, old chap, you’re about to become a colony” proclivities, he was viewed as hero by more than just Afrikaners. The shed walls are adorned with sumptuous messages of congratulation from the nascent American government and a cover of the French magazine Le Petit Journal showing a wild-eyed Boer bull impaling the startled Lion of Empire date-first on a jagged horn.

  A shower and change of clothes later, I found myself seated before a frosty long-neck and a steak that didn’t quite touch the sides – something which was more than made up for by the puerile thrill of being able to order “a lady’s rump” slightly louder than was strictly necessary.

  The bedside radio jolted me awake with a mouthful of vowels the next morning. It seemed that the previous occupant had not only settled on one of those “nonstop block chock full of rock” stations, but wanted to sing along to Limp Bizkit in the shower and had adjusted the volume accordingly. As I scanned the dial, a current affairs station emerged from the static in crisp stereo, atwitter with a story that would grip the nation for the better part of the week.

  By all accounts it had been your standard bashers, smashers and slashers Monday morning at the Bronkhorstspruit police station until a blond-haired, blue-eyed teen fronted up to the constable on duty and addressed him in the Ndebele language. According to the eighteen-year-old he had been kidnapped twelve years previously by his family’s black maid and kept as a slave in a remote village. Beaten, threatened with poisoning and forbidden from watching television after he saw his picture “sometime between 1994 and 1999”, he went by the name his new family had given him: Happy. Turns out that Happy Sindane was most likely Jannie Botha, whose 1992 disappearance sparked a heartbreakingly fruitless search.

  My final destination in Pretoria was the National Botanic Garden. Truth be told, I’ve never been the type to detour for flora and on the occasions I have found myself wandering such establishments have routinely passed the time by swapping the names of plant species with diseases or body parts in a mildly amusing manner. “Can’t come in today, boss, I’ve got an inflamed gypsophila.” “Next thing I know he’s standing on the doorstep with a contrite expression on his face and a bunch of chlamydia in his hands.”

  What had in fact drawn me to the garden was a single statistic: 75 per cent of all the plant species in Southern Africa occur only in this area.

  It was a crisp, clear Monday morning in late summer and it felt as though I had the place to myself. Divided into a formal garden and nature trail separated by a squat rocky ridge, the garden was not merely manicured but had undergone a cosmetic surgery overhaul. The result was beguilingly contrived and undeniably fetching. Thick shafts of opalescent sunlight lasered through the trees, throwing stone pathways into chequered relief. A few of the thoughtfully placed benches were occupied by retired couples who wore the soft smiles of those who have realised that life doesn’t get much better than an unhurried cuppa with the love of your life by a sea of perfumed roses.

  It was like stepping into a Hallmark card. Flanked by stands of trees drizzled with the first blushings of autumnal scarlet, a gentle slope of lawn tumbled away from a thatched bandstand from which the sounds of Porter, Gershwin and Basie drifted every Sunday.

  A section of the park is given over to traditional healing herbs of the Ndebele tribe and with a tuneless whistle of contentment on my lips, I wandered through the most fragrant pharmacy I have ever visited. In one bed lay pelargoniums whose crushed leaves release scents from rose and peppermint to pine and spice and are used as a remedy for diarrhoea, dysentery, fever and colds. In another were rangy helichrysum stems which support the universal curative powers of a good lie-down by being used as both bedding and a fever remedy.

  From syphilis (pineapple flower) to sinus (wild garlic), one’s every ailment could be cured; but for sheer flexibility, you can’t go past the marula tree.

  This botanic equivalent of a Swiss Army knife boasts a coarse outer bark which is used for haemorrhoids (although whether the remedy is applied externally or internally remains unspecified); the inner bark is an effective antihistamine for insect bites; the oil from its nuts – oh grow up – makes a fine preservative; its fruit produces a potent moonshine and the peel of the fruit can be burned and ground into a coffee. But what about the gum? I hear you cry. Mix it with soot and you have pretty decent ink for cave art. Finally, if you’re into cruising, why not take your lead from Namibian tribes who have been making boats from marula wood for centuries.

  The gradient had sharpened by now and soon I found myself atop the ridge, face to face with an animal whose nearest living relative is the elephant. Cross a rabbit with a guinea pig then yank it by the arms and legs until it sinks a tooth clear through your thumb and you’ve got one remarkable little creature called a dassie. Aside from the fact that they do not drink water, instead preferring to source it through grass, roots and bulbs, they have the endearing habit of standing on their hind legs to view oncoming predators or wheezing, sweat-stained authors, whichever manifest first. And so it was that I was greeted by a dozen curious he
ads that popped up simultaneously from behind a boulder in much the same manner as the inhabitants of an open-plan office when voices are raised by the water cooler.

  As enchanted as I had been by the immaculate garden section, I much preferred the nature trail which was marked out with rough-hewn stone slabs from which sprung petite purple and white buds. Ducking and weaving the velvet bushwillows that overhung the pathway, I felt as though I was inspecting the estate of a reclusive tycoon who’d let the grounds dwindle to a vegetative state as he did the same. Descending through knotty trees covered by chocolate bark speckled with mint-green moss, I made my way into a small valley where the trunks grew thicker, the leaves became more expansive and the sound of running water burbled in a glade unseen.

  It was like walking through Disney’s Jungle Book and as the path brought a ten-metre high waterfall into view, I half expected to see Baloo gambolling about beneath it singing “The Bare Necessities”. Ensconced in a blanket of banana trees with leaves you could wrap a child in and ferns whose tendrils spoke of chameleon tongues, the falls emptied into a shallow pool rendered amber by stray dollops of sunlight. Lusher than Robert Downey Jr the day before checking into Betty Ford, it instantly leapt to the top of my list of places I’d like to buried.

  It turned out that the locals viewed it more as a location for beginnings than endings. Declarations of undying love accompanied by princess-cut diamonds were apparently almost a daily event on these sylvan banks and many couples chose to take their vows at a nearby thatched pavilion. A fact attested to by a noticeboard from which taffeta brides and mulleted grooms beamed.

  Beyond the pond was a whitewashed tearoom and a series of paved terraces sporting wooden chairs and tables. At least half-a-dozen were occupied by near Mrs feverishly consulting bloated lever arch files as they planned their weddings. The others were taken up by women of a certain age who it seemed gathered here regularly for Devonshire teas and the character assassination of anyone who couldn’t attend.

  Amid eavesdropped gems such as “Well, if Merle won’t wear an off-the-shoulder dress, she can’t be a bridesmaid” and “Poor Vera, she honestly thinks hormone replacement therapy will stop her husband sleeping with the maid”, I gorged on gossip, Earl Grey and buttery scones.

  With insistences to the waitress such as, “Don’t you take her money, dear; you know it’s Tuesday, Gladys, and I always pay on Tuesday” wafting over the marigolds, I reluctantly left the gardens to drive a couple of hours west to the high court of the Sun King.

  Sun City was the brainchild of Sol Kerzner, the fiercely ambitious and freakishly shrewd son of Russian migrants, who grew up in a tough Johannesburg suburb where he worked in his parents’ milk bar. Already a hospitality magnate with a string of luxe properties and a Miss South Africa trophy wife, he exploited the policies of the apartheid government to launch an empire which at last count spanned thirty casinos across the Caribbean, southern Africa and the Indian Ocean islands.

  The idea was ingeniously simple: legally provide moneyed South Africans with all the illicit pleasures banned by the straitlaced Calvinist regime. These irresistible temples of sin would only succeed if they were located reasonably close to white population centres. Enter Bophutotswana, the nominally independent homeland established by the South African government, which functioned under its own malleable constitution and was less than three hours drive from Johannesburg.

  Sun City wasn’t the first of Kerzner’s casinos to blossom under this strategy, it merely expanded the cornucopia of forbidden delights. Aside from gambling, there were Vegas-style revues called Extravaganzas where showgirls shimmied in extravagant headdresses and not much else. For those who preferred their titillation bluer and lived in a society where Playboy was banned, there were strip shows and soft-core porn films. So novel was the concept that I recall groups of my parents’ contemporaries lined up outside the Sun City cinemas to catch a late-night flesh flick.

  Second to gaming, Sun City’s prime attraction was musical entertainment. Offering enough cash to anaesthetise many an artistic conscience, Kerzner secured a string of international talent to play his venue. Which wasn’t technically in South Africa and therefore dubiously rationalised as in no way condoning apartheid. Thus it came to pass that audiences – which comprised 99.9 per cent white South Africans – starved of internationally recognised live acts would stampede out of Johannesburg to the resort. Between 1979 and 1986 I saw Frank Sinatra, Liza Minnelli, Jack Jones, Ben Vereen, Elton John, Queen, Rod Stewart and The Village People (the last with my mother as a birthday gift – for me).

  I had fond memories of the four separate hotels, two golf courses, acres of swimming pools and composite paradise gardens that made up the Sun City sprawl. In our first genuine taste of independence, my mates and I, aged sixteen or thereabouts, would pile into buses at the central Johannesburg railway station for the three-hour journey through the serene Magaliesberg mountain range and the town of Rustenburg to the rock concert venue.

  Aside from the fact that I wasn’t trying to look down the top of the girl seated in front of me, the current journey was much as I remembered it. Sun City, however, was not.

  The monorail that took excited punters from the mammoth car park to the hotel was no longer in operation, leaving a suspended superfluous iron ribbon above proceedings. The lobby which was once an octagon of futuristic hedonism had been papered over in an Indiana Jones theme in which cardboard macaws held spotlights in their beaks, lurid artificial three-metre leaves were affixed to the walls and a rope bridge dangled above a waterfall which gushed over a precipice of gold coins and oversize gambling chips. The once exclusive black and chrome salon privé had dated no better and the gold fabric and chandeliers that had been added in a half-hearted attempt to drag the space into this millennium only resulted in a look that Imelda Marcos might have favoured for a guest toilet.

  Although casinos are now legal in South Africa, 25,000 visitors a day still come to Sun City, whose most recent addition is the Lost City, a mythical African utopia that has supposedly been rediscovered. One of the world’s few six-star hotel, it is a cornucopia of domed towers, vaulted archways and bronze big-cat fountains. All of which overlook a mosaic of swimming pools, cascades, lakes, streams and a man-made beach complete with waves and waterslides that require the surgical retrieval of one’s Speedos. According to the PR blurb, it’s the kind of place that doesn’t have an entrance, but a “grand porte chochere”. As opposed to those modest porte chocheres you’re always running into.

  The Lost City is approached via the Bridge of Time which is flanked by tusked sculptured elephants, presided over by a huge carved leopard resting on a pillared pergola, and which shakes every hour on the hour as a reminder of the volcanic eruption that reduced the Lost City to ruins so many centuries ago.

  The interior confirmed my suspicions that the Lost City was not my cup of twee. Beneath a twenty-five-metre frescoed dome in the Baroque style, zebra-print furniture sat atop a floor made of 300,000 fragments of polished marble and granite in thirty-eight shades. Animal motifs abounded with jade monkeys adorning a pillar, lions rendered in semiprecious stones featuring in wall mosaics and a life-size bronze elephant dominating the courtyard. His name was Shawu, which I believe is an ancient Sotho term for “horribly ostentatious”.

  The odd thing was that everywhere my eye wandered it was greeted by elegant craftsmanship – an intricately carved balustrade, a delicate mosaic border on a marble floor, a blurred detail in a woven rug depicting a cheetah in full flight – but instead of these touches complementing one another, it was rather a case of gauche almighty.

  I made my way back across the Bridge of Time, pausing to look out over the golf course where thirty-five Nile crocodiles are the water hazard at hole thirteen. Then it was on through the gaming hall where row upon row of blinking, whirring machines were being fed by row upon row of equally automated but rather less animated punters, some of whom had children curled up at their feet. It was a
timely reality check on just how the Sun King’s palace came to be, and, like they say, casinos aren’t built on winners. The high-octane glamour with which Sun City once beckoned me had faded to a tawdry facsimile of its former self. I was glad I’d come but felt the same way about leaving. Besides, my next destination was to prove equally surreal. As you would expect from a mineral springs resort where the majority of clientele can soak for hours yet appear no more wrinkled than when they were dry.

  Chapter 5

  Soak Opera

  The road to Warmbaths is bounded by a parched landscape that can only aspire to undulation. Were it not for the odd clump of lugubrious acacia trees bearing thorns like drag-queen nails, I could have been driving across a nutmeg-dusted pancake. Beneath a gargantuan liquid sky across which flat-bottomed clouds lumbered, the fringes of the tarmac liquefied in the heat and yellow lines were rendered serpentine by the wheels of semitrailers.

  It was at this point that I first encountered the curse of rural travel in South Africa: Jacaranda FM, which billed itself as “the soothing alternative”. This turned out to be a blatant lie on both counts as a Bryan Adams lunch hour was as serene as vigorous sandpapering of the scrotum and no other station seemed to broadcast on either the AM or FM frequencies in the area.

  Throughout the 60s and 70s, Warmbaths had been a resort where couples could spend what would later become known as quality time. Unfortunately, as was the case with my own parents, the tensions leading to the need for such an interlude were not often left at home. As a result, the chalets frequently resounded to the airing of grievances rather than the rhythmic beat of headboard against gyprock.

  The Warmbaths resort is spread around a series of shallow free-form pools fed by thermal springs which ejaculate a staggering 22,000 litres per hour from hideous chrome and perspex fountains mounted on granite blocks. Having clearly seen better days, the main accommodation block was being half-heartedly refurbished. The process was being carried out in the manner of a middle-aged divorcee who buys a wardrobe of low-cut tops so prospective paramours won’t immediately notice her crow’s legs. But try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the carpet layer who had decided to take a break from his duties and curl up for a nap by the lift doors.