Behind the counter at the curiosity shop on Bokkam Laan at the mouth of the Berg River, Dawie has already had several drinks by the time we arrive. I buy a jar of honey (labelled, ‘This jar took about 6 months to make since we only have 2 bees in town’), my friend J. buys some vintage cake tins, and we admire Dawie’s direct lines to President Zuma and Julius Malema. In the spirit of the moment, I ask Dawie if I can also have some Klippies (cheap brandy) and coke – and there on the shop counter he readily pours me a glass that has almost more alcohol than mixer.
Afterwards we drive to the local hotel, where one walks down a long orange corridor of bedrooms in order to reach the bar and restaurant. The grass in front rolls down to the harbour’s edge and a few dilapidated piers, as the evening draws in. We have another Klippies-and-coke and a plate of oily chips to keep the feeling going, and within a few minutes Dawie and colleagues have arrived too. After all, it’s a small town.
Not long afterwards, we witness an extraordinary conversation between the drunken Dawie and a black waiter at a neighbouring table. Or, rather, more of a monologue. Dawie grasps the waiter’s hand firmly, for no short period of time, and tells him loudly in Afrikaans: “Don’t let anyone call you a k****ir! You black bastard…I love you. Call me white boy. Don’t let anyone call you a k****ir!” And all the while the black man shocked into a frozen fake smile and a nervous laugh, to try and show that he too finds this frightening interaction to be one of camaraderie. Welcome to post-apartheid South Africa. Parked in front of the bar inside, meanwhile, sits a row of about six Afrikaaners, one or two tattoos peeking out, and above them in the corner, a modest TV screen airs the SABC, the public broadcaster. As they sit there drinking and talking, irony crystallizes in slow motion. Historical footage scrolls across the screen, showing the faces of banned black activists during the struggle. The ticker on the screen says ‘BANNED’. The volume has been turned down to quiet, maybe silent, and the whole scenario is a parallel mimicry of what is happening outside with Dawie and the waiter. The un-banning of apartheid, the coming of democracy, is in many ways a silenced backdrop to those whites living in the backwaters of this country.
Two nights later, we eat at Die Vishuis on Bokkom Laan by the Berg River. Having been under the impression that booking was imperative, it turns out that we are the only customers and, during the course of the evening, at least 4 other people in addition the waitress ask us if we're alright. One of the new partners who comes over to check on our table is a former SADF colonel - he says he should have been a two-star general but wasn't promoted thanks to black empowerment policies. He has moved to Velddrif from the government’s seat of power in Pretoria, to start a new life after his son nearly died in a motorbike accident.
Over generous portions of fish and calamari, which was followed by dessert on the house, we talk about the coloured community in the Western Cape: the minstrels at New Year, the atmosphere of family inclusion, the men pushing prams and carrying babies along with the parade. And yet this apparently joyous ritual and family festivity is juxtaposed by the harsh reality that the Western Cape is marked by systemic and structural violence, the most peculiarly extreme individual acts of violence, and the highest rates of child sexual abuse on the whole continent.
For the next few days we drive from place to place. The turquoise warm-watered Langebaan. Jacobsbaai with all its rock pools perfect for curious children. Trendy Paternoster and its properties in the 3 -7 million rand range. And Darling, bohemian gay village which is home to "grandma and grandpa Wendies", retired academics and artists (local lingo from J.). It's also home to the superb museum of political satirist and cross-dressing comedian Pieter Dirk Uys.
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