Writing about South Africa is difficult; there are no easy anecdotes because of the complexity of daily relationships here. These are influenced by the many histories in this country and the multiple cultures, languages and experiences. There are, I think, distinct histories instead of a shared history. The experiences of black South Africans and white South Africans have little common ground. Hopefully there is the perception of at least 13 years of shared history now. My perspective is skewed by living in Pretoria which is still a very segregated city, particularly socially. Regardless, every relation starts with loaded assumptions based on the color of your skin. Identity is a tricky thing. Even in trying to write about this, I'm trying to figure out the terms. A "South African" isn't a particularly useful term here; it generally connotes a white person but then there are divisions between Afrikaners and English descendants. An "African" is a black South African. The prism of apartheid's divisions of black, colored and white is still attached in many minds as the default place to begin a relationship. With a category. A coherent national identity is a long way off and that's understandable. There are 11 official languages of South Africa: Afrikaans, English, Zulu, Xhosa, Ndebele, Venda, Swati, Sesotho, Sepedi, Tsonga and Tswana. I've heard Afrikaners say several times something like "if you go out into Africa" - meaning that this, here, Pretoria, is not Africa. Africa is out there where black Africans live. To them, here, this city, is something else but I think Afrikaners are very unsure of their place and scared of "here" as it exists today. For one thing, it is changing quickly, it seems daily, and the primary force of that change is the black South African cultures that are largely unknown to them - maybe even unknowable given the economic, political and historical gulfs separating them. At the grocery store, Afrikaners seem to be a mostly miserable group; it sometimes feels like the floor might cave in from a very real heaviness emanating from them. I am often addressed in Afrikaans by Afrikaners; I'm called "baas" ("boss" in Afrikaans) by black South Africans; and when I try to distinguish myself as something else, a foreigner, it seems to be received as a refutation, as a refusal by me to fit into the categories. Afrikaners generally turn away; black South Africans are bemused but unsure of what to talk about. I'm talking about Pretoria here. Johannesburg is infinitely more mixed, cosmopolitan, aware, intellectual. I go out of my way to greet people here and it seems to make a difference. Most black South Africans seem pleasantly surprised and respond kindly; a few are angry at my skin no matter who I am. Afrikaners are generally not open or friendly. I think they are understandably leery of outsiders.
In my rich neighborhood, the garbage collectors inspect the trash cans before emptying them to make sure nothing useful is tossed. I was outside one morning and one of them asked me if I had any old shoes. I told him I have really, really big feet and he laughed and said that was okay. I gave him a pair of old running shoes.
In the comment forums attached to online newspaper articles here, there is a poison. I know that the civility of online "discussions" is usually appalling so I take it with a grain of salt. When I worked at the newspaper in Denver, it was obvious that many people used the relative online anonymity as a shield for bitter attacks and false bravery. But here, I sometimes read people writing and throwing stones from across the color lines which is unfortunate but not all that surprising. The troubling angle is that some are veterans of this country's battles and they have what are obviously long-standing feuds going and they bring up vicious references to previous wars and what was inflicted and people hunting each other and how they could still do it. This is from both sides. It has only been 13 years since apartheid officially ended and that's not enough time for committed racists to, well, die off. Generally these discussions occur attached to articles about crime. It's impossible to exaggerate how omnipresent the fear of crime is here and how it undercuts the trust that this society badly needs. I despise that, while I am out for daily errands, I have to monitor everyone I see at intersections, in parking lots, in cars, in the mall. You look, you judge motives and you keep moving. It's a terrible way to interact with people and it usually evaporates the chance of a bond. And then there's race: you're not worrying much about people with white skin. This country is 80% black so it is maddening and appalling to be sizing up black South Africans like that yet you pick up a newspaper and read horror stories. There are houses in nearby neighborhoods being robbed weekly so it's not paranoia; it is happening and it is close. As an outsider, it's more difficult because you miss the subtleties of behaviour that identify friend from foe. The criminals themselves may be the only colorblind actors in this society. They rob priests, maids, black executives, white suburbanites, a famous reggae musician, whoever has what they want. And black people are suffering more from the crime than people in their fortresses with gates, walls, wires, barred windows and alarms. But the fear becomes a racial infection that is difficult to balance, enormously sad, alienating and very frustrating because it isolates people from each other. If people were just getting mugged, I would be out all of the time. In a country where there are mansions a few miles away from shantytowns, crime is to be expected. If I might occasionally get relieved of cash and a phone, that's not the end of the world. But it is the extreme violence of crime here that makes me hesitate to risk much at all because I could suddenly be risking everything. It's a tough place and highly pressurized.
All of that said, a lot of the country is much safer than the urban areas and we have not had the time yet to explore much of it. There are bright spots: artists building bridges through novels and theater; sports bringing people together in ways they never were before; interracial couples erasing the categories.
I brought the VW into a shop here that specialized in old Bugs. It needed a new carburetor which was expensive. The shop is run by two Afrikaner guys; the mechanic and other shop workers are all black. When I returned two days later, I was annoyed because there was still a problem with the fuel delivery. One of the shop managers spoke harshly in Afrikaans to the chief mechanic, who seems like a kind man, and then returned to the front of the shop. The mechanic went for a ride with me to diagnose the problem and we returned to the garage and he replaced the points and adjusted the timing belt. We went for a ride again and he said that normally the garage would charge me but that he was doing it for free. Meaning, he was installing a part and performing a service and not telling the manager who had just yelled at him. I gave him some money and he said thanks and put it in his chest pocket.
The prevalence of bougainvillea here is not only because of the insistently rich purple and red blooms but also because the plant is an impenetrable fence of thorns.
