by Greg Yevko
A lot of the African workers had watched wide-eyed as the cloud went eastward, since they knew that more typically the wind would be blowing in the opposite direction and this Westerly was extremely unusual for this time of the year. Being of a more superstitious nature than the majority of the other workers at the plant, they were convinced that this wind “… was being blown by amadlozi watching over us and protecting us.” There was more iJuba drunk that night than was usual for a typical Thursday in the downtrodden ubhiyas.
So, in spite of the Hot Oil Incident, the company had said to Robert that, once he had graduated and obtained the necessary degree back in the UK, he would always be welcomed back to the site to take up permanent employment if he wanted it.
“Oh, you’ll just love it,” he had said to his new bride as they waited for all the paperwork to be sorted which would enable their passage to South Africa to be secured. “The people are really friendly and the sun is always shining. The beach is fantastic, and the parties! No one parties as hard as the guys in Durban!” and he had told his wife of the good fun that he had on his year out, and the braais he had been to, and the friendly rugby clubs he had attended.
His former boss met them both off the plane and took them to the veranda bar of a beach hotel to discuss initial settling-in details. Within minutes, one of the waiters taking drinks orders had come over with a, “Hey, Robert, good to see you again. Haven’t seen you in a while,” then had disappeared inside to the bar after establishing what they wanted to drink.
“Bloody hell, Marley,” his boss said in mild disbelief and mock horror; “you’ve been back in the country for fifteen minutes after being away for eighteen months, we go into the first bar we come across on the beach front, and someone greets you like you’ve never been away!”
Robert smiled sheepishly; it had been a very good industrial year, after all.
Umhlabathi 5.2 1982/84; South Africa
It was not all smiles and warm welcomes everywhere.
Having built up a picture of good-natured people and bonhomie at the rugby club he had played at two seasons ago, Robert was keen to show his wife what a great bunch of people they could look forward to mixing with in the coming months.
“Yeah, they even hosted the Lions here one weekend,” he had enthused as they pulled up in their somewhat battered Beetle into the car park one sultry evening. He briefly cast his mind back to the thought of The British Lions, as they were then called, demonstrating a show-case example of power-rugby against an eager, if out-skilled, local team that had been put together for the occasion, comprising of ex-internationals, several Provincial Representatives and Springbok Juniors, alongside the best of the host club’s 1st XV. The other thing that came into his mind was the disco and celebrations that then followed, and he had been pleased to see that the adage quoted so often on his university rugby trips, apparently remained applicable even at the highest levels of the game – What Goes On Tour, Stays On Tour. He smiled to himself, then put the images out of his head.
If anything, it was a little too humid for Maria’s tastes; Durban was well known for its beautiful climate on the whole, but it could occasionally get very tropical and stifling, especially when there was very little wind at all, or even more a point in case, when the notorious “Berg Wind” blew its hot air directly from the sun-heated Drakensberg Mountain range at certain times of the year.
“Don’t worry,” said Robert, seeing his wife’s discomfort as they got out of the car, “the bar is nicely air-conditioned.”
When they got to the main bar, much to Robert’s surprise, it was closed. He had naturally often frequented the bar following the regular weekend games, but had not actually used that particular bar during the week as, usually after training on a Tuesday and Thursday evening, the guys at practice would take just a quick beer, or two, at the small bar adjacent to the pitch.
“Oh. Okay then, looks like the main bar is shut during the week.” It was a Wednesday evening. “Tell you what, let’s go to the other bar by the grounds,” and they had shuffled off to the sports bar more familiar to Robert. As they opened the door and stepped inside, there was an audible in-take of collective breaths, and one of the bar staff rushed up and addressed Robert.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t bring your lady friend in here, this is a men-only bar.” Robert could see his wife’s eyes widen and her lips narrow.
“Ah. But the other bar is closed tonight,” Robert protested.
“Yes indeed, sir. The Ladies Bar is only open on Friday and Saturday nights” explained the middle-aged Indian bar tender, his false smile never leaving his attentive features.
“Just to get this right, you’re telling me that a man can go into the Ladies Bar but a lady can’t go into the Men’s Bar,” exclaimed Robert, trying to make the reverse logic sound a good enough reason for them to allow his wife in. He already knew that the term “Lady Friend” would be striking at a very raw nerve in his wife.
“Yes, I am afraid that that is correct, sir,” replied the barman, standing directly in front of Robert, preventing him from coming any further into the room. “You would be perfectly welcome to sit on the porch front with your lady friend, sir.”
“I am his wife,” seethed Maria through gritted teeth.
The barman just proffered a watery smile in her direction, then turned back to Robert.
“So, would you like a drink on the veranda, sir?” he queried.
Robert looked at his wife, then looked back at the barman. “Just bring us two Castles please. And make it sharp,” he snapped in an annoyed tone, and he reluctantly led his wife outside onto the porch area where they pulled up two chairs and sat down in the sweltering humidity.
“Huh, so much for friendly,” she muttered. “It’s like living in the dark ages. Whoever heard of men-only pubs these days?”
Robert had to admit, he hadn’t noticed that side of things quite so much when he was there on his own during his industrial year placement.
There were undoubtedly some very memorable parties. Sometimes these would spring from virtually nowhere on a Sunday afternoon, often in total surprise. There was something a bit different about Sundays; that was the typical day off for the maid who invariably cooked, washed and cleaned six days a week at the communal houses that a lot of young professionals in Durban occupied. This led to a dilemma for most 20- to 30-year olds who were used to having meals prepared for them – what to eat on Sunday? The answer was obvious, and no doubt has contributed to the South African nationals being some of the best barbecuers in the world; Let’s Have a Braai!
It was almost impossible to have a braai for one, so inevitably a call would go out to friends to come round “Agh, man; just for a quick braai,” and of course it is impossible to have a braai without a beer to wash it down, and one beer would lead to another, and before you knew it you would be in the open back of someone’s Bakkie cruising towards the beach front with a jug of Sangria swirling wildly as it was passed from hand to hand and gleefully gulped down, everyone trying to avoid getting too much spilt down onto their tee-shirt and shorts as the vehicle swung precariously down the road.
Maria took a job in a small family-run bookshop which she thoroughly loved. There were large coffee-table books with beautiful photographs of the beaches, the Karoo, The Garden Route, Cape Town, the Drakensberg Mountains; in fact, an airline advertising slogan at the time to promote South Africa to potential visitors ran the tag-line “South Africa – a world in one country”, and that certainly was the case from a physical aspect. Unfortunately, from the political aspect the perspective was not so healthy and welcoming. As an example, it always struck Maria as ironic that the ones who could least afford to pay for school exercise books had to buy theirs from the Schools Section of the store, whilst the children of the wealthier whites received theirs as part of their normal, state-supplied school attendance pack.
Maria’s mother and step father decided it would be good to go and visit. “Are you sure
you’re all right, dear?” she had asked worriedly when Maria phoned her to wish her Happy Birthday not long after she and Robert had arrived in South Africa, “Is there anything we need to bring you when we come in a few weeks’ time?”
Maria had assured her that things were fine, and that Durban was just like any other big city, and a lot of what got reported in the British press was either greatly exaggerated or just made up. Her mother had felt less assured when, by the end of the first weekend of their six weeks visit to Durban, there had been one bomb scare in Durban High Street resulting in a well-practised evacuation from the shopping centre; a stabbing in one of the less salubrious Indian areas of the city; and the refinery where Robert worked had been under rocket attack from the ANC.
“Oh My God!” she had exclaimed when Robert outlined what had happened at the refinery. “Oh don’t worry,” he said in an as-matter-of-fact way as he could manage, “The shell that landed in the Cat Feed Tank didn’t actually go off, thank God for Russian manufacturing, so it just made a hole; and they caught and killed all the terrorists in a bit of a shootout as they tried to get away, so all is well that ends well.” His half-hearted smile was not all that convincing. Fortunately, that was the first and last bit of unwelcome action that Maria’s mother experienced in her stay, although Robert was sure that he heard her mutter under her breath, “What on earth have I let my daughter be dragged into…”
The family visit culminated with a memorable trip to the Hluhluwe Game Reserve, where Maria’s mother narrowly missed a midnight encounter with a wandering rhinoceros, which was meandering amongst the unfenced Rondavel Huts which made up the bulk of the camp-site dwellings. The following morning, when Maria had disinterestedly enquired as to whether she had had a good night’s sleep, her mother replied nonchalantly that, yes thank you, she had slept remarkably well, and only once did she have to get up during the night to go to spend a penny, as she politely used to say. Maria’s eyes had widened considerably. “Weren’t you put off by the signs?” she asked incredulously.
“What signs, dear?” asked her mother innocently, not having really noticed the one on the back of the door before hanging her dressing gown over it during unpacking the previous evening.
“The signs on the back of the door, saying that if you really have to leave the Rondavel during the hours of darkness, please ensure that you take a bright torch with you to shine in the eyes of any wild animals that might be scavenging around the camp-site as, quote, ‘They are as scared of you as you are of them’, unquote!”
“But surely, they wouldn’t get through the fence, would they, dear?” she had started, before looking around and slowly recalling that in fact they hadn’t themselves come through any gate or fence the evening before as they had driven up to sign in at the camp-site reception. “Ah,” she finished with, suddenly feeling the need to sit down and have a sweet cup of tea.
“Mum, you need to be careful,” scolded Maria, though secretly admiring her mother for having ventured out under the dark of an African night sky armed with nothing more than a flowered dressing gown. She herself had developed the art of not having too many liquids late in the evening if she knew that there was no ready access to a convenient convenience overnight; Robert on the other hand, had long since realised the practicalities of having a sink available in an emergency, based on his university days in the first year when the room he had was not actually en-suite, but did indeed have a very useful small wash basin in one corner.
For all the fun that took place in Durban, both Robert and Maria could see the great injustices too. Although Durban was relatively progressive for a South African major city, apartheid was still a presence that permeated into everyday life, from the old fashioned benches in the park that still bore the metallic signs stating “ BLANKES SLEGS,” forbidding anyone who was not classified as white from taking a rest on the seat, to the separate buses that ferried whites in one direction and non-whites in another at the end of the working day as people headed home to their different parts of the city. Robert often thought back to the conversation he had had with his father about technically being of mixed race, and he frequently felt uncomfortable when he recalled the stories of the signs in the windows that Stanley had recounted from his room-hunting days in London shortly after the war.
“Don’t worry,” Robert would say. “One day things will change round a bit. Hopefully it won’t go the same way as it did for the Wenwes. That would be disastrous.”
The Wenwes was the nickname for the large number of Rhodesians who had made a hasty exit from their country following the renaming to Zimbabwe and declaration of independence by Robert Mugabe in 1980; whenever you got them talking about politics, invariably every other sentence would start with the phrase, “Ah, but when we was in Rhodesia…” and the terminology stuck.
Although life in general was good for Robert and Maria, the overall injustices eventually started to take their toll on them both, and they both agreed that this was not the sort of place they would like to stay in for the foreseeable future, and most definitely not the sort of society into which they would ever consider bringing children.
“Robert, let’s go back to England,” his wife had intreated him one evening as they lay together, naked on top of the bed sheets trying to ignore the humidity; the relatively small flat they had found close to the golf course was not one that had any air-conditioning. The English-speaking television had finished as usual at 10 o’clock and neither he nor Maria had any interest in watching “Line Dancing My Way” in Afrikaans, so that had obliged them to retire to bed earlier than they would have really liked.
“I’m with you all the way,” said Robert, gently stroking the inside of Maria’s left thigh. “To be honest, I’ve already started making some informal approaches to the Operations Manager who’s over here on assignment from the UK. He’s a good guy, and reckons there would probably be opportunities back at the refinery in Essex.”
“Essex!?” exclaimed his wife, “Essex?” She tried to hide the horror in her voice and make it sound more like just a question the second time she said the name.
“Yeah, Essex,” confirmed Robert. “It shouldn’t be too bad; very handy for popping into London for shows and stuff. Also, a lot of our friends are in London; it’ll be fun.” He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to convince her or himself.
“Oh Robert, that sounds – brilliant,” Maria said, having recomposed herself. In truth, any route back to the UK would be welcomed; at least once back, wherever they ended up could be used as a springboard to move on if necessary.
So, having spent nearly three years away, they started to get things prepared for the trip back home. Both sets of parents were thrilled with the news that they were soon to be back in the UK, and Marlene in particular was convinced that this must herald impending news of more grand-children to add to the collection that her daughters had already bestowed upon her.
“Oh, Stanley,” she said to her husband one evening “I can hardly wait. We’ll have to organise something special for them when they get back. I know what they’d like, a nice surprise party on their way back from the airport. We can invite all my extended family, and friends they haven’t seen since they’ve been away. We can get Les to do the disco!” She was thrilled with her idea.
“Marlene, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Stanley could see the downside of being dragged unsuspectingly into a room full of people who they hadn’t seen for ages after having travelled for nearly twenty-four hours, consisting of two flights, a long bus journey, and a three-hour drive home. “Don’t forget that they’re coming home on a cheap flight via Luxembourg to save some money. They’re going to be knackered once they get back.”
“Nonsense,” said Marlene, “They’ll love it.”
Umhlabathi 5.3 1985/90; Essex
Robert and Maria eventually got over the surprise welcome home party.
After spending a few days with each respective set of parents to catch up on the events of the
past few years, they quickly realised that they needed to get settled into Essex life as soon as practically possible. The company had agreed that Robert should start as soon as possible on his return to the UK and so they had moved him and Maria to the area with all their belongings within two weeks of getting back; in practice, there weren’t an awful lot of belongings to move anyway. After a relatively brief spell in one of the company flats in a very unremarkable part of an even more unremarkable small town, Robert and Maria were able to apply for their first, 100%, no deposit mortgage, having seen a small, two bedroomed semi-detached in a noisy cul-de-sac just yards from the busy A127. Six weeks later, they were moving in.
“Yes!” exclaimed Robert, fist pumping the air in front of his chest, key clutched tightly in his clenched hand, “We’ve done it. Let me carry you over the threshold, Mrs Marley,” and with that he had scooped up his wife, balancing her precariously whilst he struggled to turn the Yale key in the lock, then pushed open the door with his left foot. He then launched them both into the open plan living area a little more robustly than he had intended, as he had forgotten about the slightly raised lip at the bottom of the front door, consequently catching his foot in an ungainly fashion as he charged through, and stumbled forward. Luckily for him, Maria cushioned his impact with the floor, and after letting out a small squeal which was a mixture of shock and indignation as they both lay sprawled on the floor, Maria realised that she wasn’t hurt and they both lay there giggling uncontrollably for several minutes. Robert suddenly experienced a strange Déja Vue sensation, but realised that this couldn’t have possibly happened before, so quickly put it out of his mind.