(I'm still having trouble uploading photos.)
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The Rotarians we met at Queenstown so far are our kind of people. Reg and Helen Morgan are progressive, amiable people. He’s an Anglican minister who is interested in helping all; she’s a former radical youngster who was routinely watched by the security police during the “struggle” against Apartheid.
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My host PJ Colete, an attorney, resigned from the first Rotary club and founded the second club when the membership refused to admit women and blacks, coloreds and Indians as members. Way to go, PJ!
.
PJ, born of an English speaking family of Dutch heritage and Renise from an Afrikaner family have five children (including a set of triplets). They live in a large rambling home, which has seen ongoing reconstruction and expansion since 2001. As far as I could determine each child has his or her own bedroom (complete with wireless internet). The two full-time nannies share a room with private bath. There is the extra large kitchen with adjoining family room – with mounted flat screen SONY. A very large formal dining room with an immense table set for ten could easily accommodate sixteen (OK, fourteen, PJ tells me) comfortably. When we joined hands to say Grace before dinner we last two were so far away from each other at this regal setting that we had to do so “wirelessly.”
.
I have not been around to see the house, but one particularly interesting entry way has three sets of double doors all 18 paned glass opening on three of its walls and the fourth a water feature along the stairway going up to the new two story wing. This houses the master suite and office with a commanding view of the front yard. The sitting room is now full of office furniture from PJ’s law office – he’s in the process of moving again.
.
The kitchen has a scullery. This is the second home I’ve been in that has such. These are becoming more common as we move from Afrikaner homes, which typically had braai areas with wet bars. The scullery is a bright area for food prep (not cooking) and cleaning up. This area is the usual workplace of the domestic while the kitchen is reserved for the owners cooking. .
I’m housed in a guest room attached to the garage just next to the pool. This as opposed to the coy pond in the front of the house. (OK, it's nice, but you should see the places where some of the others are staying!) PJ and Renise’s place is surrounded by a six foot high wall; this in contrast to all other homes in which we’ve stayed that have a metal spiked-top metal fence. The gate is electric, operated by remotes attached to their key rings. the gates are also operated from the intercom telephone in the kitchen. The sets of keys are overwhelming. They are what we referred to a skeleton keys in my childhood, at least a dozen including the high tech car keys of the current generation. And the Colete family has at least a dozen sets of these hanging on the wall. They have keys for every room in the house as well as their home by the sea (read, Indian Ocean) and the eight-bedroom guesthouse they operate as well as PJ’s law office. They travel with one or two sets as well as the ever-present cell phones. With five kids, a law practice and guesthouse and ongoing reconstruction of all of this as well as coordinating Rotary functions and arranging tours and meetings for GSE team members, the phones ring about every ten minutes. .
PJ served for six years on the local [city] council. He is a member of the ruling party in the country the ANC. He’s a lone white face in the overwhelmingly black party of Nelson Mandela. He has sat through six years meetings with 47 other council members, some tedious beyond common sense, working to secure electricity and water to the black and Indian communities, which adjoin the old white Queenstown.
.
As we drove through this town of 8,000 white, 5,000 coloreds and Indians and an estimated 87,000 blacks, the old racial housing boundaries are falling away. Non-white middle class families are moving into the fringes of the formerly white section; as the blacks move up into better homes and out of the squatter camps, more arrive to take their place. An apparently unending tide of people moving into corrugated metal shacks with dirt floor, open to the wind. The fortunate have electric power by illegal extension cords carrying 220 volts buried a few centimeters below the surface.
.
A particularly peculiar magazine cover caught my eye today. A South African mag called Country Life, similar to our Sunset magazine, was lying on the end table at my hosts B&B. The cover showed a squatter's metal hut painted bright lime green with a quite white woman dressed very trendy, planting flowers. The article was entitled "Squatter Shack Chic." It suggested that even you can make that squatter's shack look upscale with a bit of paint and some antiques. How ironic that the very basic of shelter for hundreds of thousands of dirt poor has moved into style. Well, maybe except for the cold, unbearable heat, dirt floor, lack of plumbing, smells, garbage and crime.
.
.
.
There a number of government built brick homes. They all look alike and are neatly rowed. These were given away to qualifying families. The tragedy is that many have been sold for the few thousand Rand they are worth with the families returning to the squatter camps. These people are now prohibited from ever again qualifying for this free housing.
.
PJ pointed out that children are the heads of many as parents are dead from AIDS related causes. We see trash everywhere in the squatter camps and along many of the streets in the RDP housing area. PJ tells me that time and again, litter control and clean up efforts are good for a few days then the rubbish is redeposited. There is no sense of community pride or environmental concern. This is coupled with the total vandalism of municipal efforts at fencing and recreational buildings and equipment. What ever can be dismantled and hauled away is sold for scrap or used for building shacks.
.
Security and building techniques are ever-changing. This in response to the persistence and ingenuity of the masses of humans here. These forces operate as waves on the shore, constantly wearing away at the man’s efforts at safety and civilization.
.
Queenstown is laid out as a hexagon. The city center, has a small six-sided park called, “Freedom Square.” This misnomer, lost on most here, aptly represents the ill logic that is contemporary South African politics. Further out from the city center the streets are laid out in typical grids.
.
The older section of Queenstown houses Queens College, a boy’s high school. This large campus is replete with numerous well-maintained athletic fields and early 20th century two-story building on beautiful tree-lined streets. The girl’s version is traditionally called the girls "high school." A distinction rooted in the English tradition of education being primarily for males. This is still reflected in male alumni being referred to as “Old Bys”; as in “the Old Boys Association.” A-hah! The legendary term Good Old Boys has an origin. (By the way, we learned that the phrase "Hair of the dog that bit you" may have originated in parts of the world where a dog bite was treated by taking some opf the offending dog's fur, burning it, and rubbing the ashes in the wound. This was used by the Xhosa people to pmomote healing.)
.
Whew! Every time we go for a spin or sit for a chat our heads are filled with facts, history and stories. My Goodness! Where to start now.
.
Blacks are now called the “Previously disadvantaged.” Women of all races are “Historically disadvantaged.” Colored and Indian may be considered, hmmm, my hosts were not sure what. And of course white men don’t count.
.
Politics here are zoological. Welcome the Monkey House. Nonsense along with corruption and petty jealousies and greed surface daily in the news. Let’s see if I can get this straight. The newspaper headlines today have something to do with the Director of Public Prosecutions (read Attorney General) was fired earlier this week by the President (read Archibald Cox and Richard Nixon) because he had issued an Arrest Warrant for the Chief of the National Police (read Director of the FBI). Thus he was removed from any investigation into one of the President’s cronies.
.
The papers also carried a story regarding allegations that the local Chief Constable of Queenstown was found driving an allegedly stolen car.
.
Yesterday afternoon and evening was especially rewarding for us. Bongile Mngambi, a previously disadvantaged Rotarian (this may mean he was once a member of the Fraternal Order of the Elks) took us to the Macibini location where he is the principal of the school. Bongile’s Xhosa name translates “To be thankful.” We’ve discovered many names have meanings. We’ve learned that “Michael” translates “White-haired Rotarian.”
.
The settlement is as quiet as one can imagine. I mean really quiet. One hears some birds, the occasional lowing of a cow. The valley is broad and the setting sun casts a golden glow on all. There are no paved roads; no water or sewer lines, no electricity in most of the rondovals. Cooking is done out-of-doors in three-legged pots over fires made of dried cow and sheep dung. We saw this.
.
He showed us the newer school with no plumbing! Water drains form the rooftops into cisterns - large plastic tanks at each end of the buildings. These are now dry because of the draught. The bathroom, well, there are no bathrooms, just privies. There school needs to buy water by the truckload to fill the tanks. But they have no money.
.
The kindergarten has 75 kids in one room with one teacher. The kids sit four to a desk. But Bongile is as proud as he can be! There is a school, the kids attend school rather than stay in the rondovals all day and watch the goats and sheep graze. They are learning to read and write. And he is the principal – a very prestigious position here in Macibini.
.
Bongile took us to a set of rondovals where the sangoma or “healer” lived. After about 20 minutes on pleasantries and conversation, he summoned us out of the car. The sangoma, a heavy set smiling woman of about 35 invited us into her hut. She had herbs and roots drying on the floor. There were pelts of various sorts hanging from the walls. There she played drum and sang. Then invited her initiate to play the drum while she danced clapped and sang! We were awestruck that she would do this for us. The sun was setting, the darkness of the hut and the rhythms of the drum, singing and clapping set the tone – this was the Africa we had hoped to witness!
.
What an amazing adventure!
.
The Rotarians we met at Queenstown so far are our kind of people. Reg and Helen Morgan are progressive, amiable people. He’s an Anglican minister who is interested in helping all; she’s a former radical youngster who was routinely watched by the security police during the “struggle” against Apartheid.
.
My host PJ Colete, an attorney, resigned from the first Rotary club and founded the second club when the membership refused to admit women and blacks, coloreds and Indians as members. Way to go, PJ!
.
PJ, born of an English speaking family of Dutch heritage and Renise from an Afrikaner family have five children (including a set of triplets). They live in a large rambling home, which has seen ongoing reconstruction and expansion since 2001. As far as I could determine each child has his or her own bedroom (complete with wireless internet). The two full-time nannies share a room with private bath. There is the extra large kitchen with adjoining family room – with mounted flat screen SONY. A very large formal dining room with an immense table set for ten could easily accommodate sixteen (OK, fourteen, PJ tells me) comfortably. When we joined hands to say Grace before dinner we last two were so far away from each other at this regal setting that we had to do so “wirelessly.”
.
I have not been around to see the house, but one particularly interesting entry way has three sets of double doors all 18 paned glass opening on three of its walls and the fourth a water feature along the stairway going up to the new two story wing. This houses the master suite and office with a commanding view of the front yard. The sitting room is now full of office furniture from PJ’s law office – he’s in the process of moving again.
.
The kitchen has a scullery. This is the second home I’ve been in that has such. These are becoming more common as we move from Afrikaner homes, which typically had braai areas with wet bars. The scullery is a bright area for food prep (not cooking) and cleaning up. This area is the usual workplace of the domestic while the kitchen is reserved for the owners cooking. .
I’m housed in a guest room attached to the garage just next to the pool. This as opposed to the coy pond in the front of the house. (OK, it's nice, but you should see the places where some of the others are staying!) PJ and Renise’s place is surrounded by a six foot high wall; this in contrast to all other homes in which we’ve stayed that have a metal spiked-top metal fence. The gate is electric, operated by remotes attached to their key rings. the gates are also operated from the intercom telephone in the kitchen. The sets of keys are overwhelming. They are what we referred to a skeleton keys in my childhood, at least a dozen including the high tech car keys of the current generation. And the Colete family has at least a dozen sets of these hanging on the wall. They have keys for every room in the house as well as their home by the sea (read, Indian Ocean) and the eight-bedroom guesthouse they operate as well as PJ’s law office. They travel with one or two sets as well as the ever-present cell phones. With five kids, a law practice and guesthouse and ongoing reconstruction of all of this as well as coordinating Rotary functions and arranging tours and meetings for GSE team members, the phones ring about every ten minutes. .
PJ served for six years on the local [city] council. He is a member of the ruling party in the country the ANC. He’s a lone white face in the overwhelmingly black party of Nelson Mandela. He has sat through six years meetings with 47 other council members, some tedious beyond common sense, working to secure electricity and water to the black and Indian communities, which adjoin the old white Queenstown.
.
As we drove through this town of 8,000 white, 5,000 coloreds and Indians and an estimated 87,000 blacks, the old racial housing boundaries are falling away. Non-white middle class families are moving into the fringes of the formerly white section; as the blacks move up into better homes and out of the squatter camps, more arrive to take their place. An apparently unending tide of people moving into corrugated metal shacks with dirt floor, open to the wind. The fortunate have electric power by illegal extension cords carrying 220 volts buried a few centimeters below the surface.
.
A particularly peculiar magazine cover caught my eye today. A South African mag called Country Life, similar to our Sunset magazine, was lying on the end table at my hosts B&B. The cover showed a squatter's metal hut painted bright lime green with a quite white woman dressed very trendy, planting flowers. The article was entitled "Squatter Shack Chic." It suggested that even you can make that squatter's shack look upscale with a bit of paint and some antiques. How ironic that the very basic of shelter for hundreds of thousands of dirt poor has moved into style. Well, maybe except for the cold, unbearable heat, dirt floor, lack of plumbing, smells, garbage and crime.
.
.
.
There a number of government built brick homes. They all look alike and are neatly rowed. These were given away to qualifying families. The tragedy is that many have been sold for the few thousand Rand they are worth with the families returning to the squatter camps. These people are now prohibited from ever again qualifying for this free housing.
.
PJ pointed out that children are the heads of many as parents are dead from AIDS related causes. We see trash everywhere in the squatter camps and along many of the streets in the RDP housing area. PJ tells me that time and again, litter control and clean up efforts are good for a few days then the rubbish is redeposited. There is no sense of community pride or environmental concern. This is coupled with the total vandalism of municipal efforts at fencing and recreational buildings and equipment. What ever can be dismantled and hauled away is sold for scrap or used for building shacks.
.
Security and building techniques are ever-changing. This in response to the persistence and ingenuity of the masses of humans here. These forces operate as waves on the shore, constantly wearing away at the man’s efforts at safety and civilization.
.
Queenstown is laid out as a hexagon. The city center, has a small six-sided park called, “Freedom Square.” This misnomer, lost on most here, aptly represents the ill logic that is contemporary South African politics. Further out from the city center the streets are laid out in typical grids.
.
The older section of Queenstown houses Queens College, a boy’s high school. This large campus is replete with numerous well-maintained athletic fields and early 20th century two-story building on beautiful tree-lined streets. The girl’s version is traditionally called the girls "high school." A distinction rooted in the English tradition of education being primarily for males. This is still reflected in male alumni being referred to as “Old Bys”; as in “the Old Boys Association.” A-hah! The legendary term Good Old Boys has an origin. (By the way, we learned that the phrase "Hair of the dog that bit you" may have originated in parts of the world where a dog bite was treated by taking some opf the offending dog's fur, burning it, and rubbing the ashes in the wound. This was used by the Xhosa people to pmomote healing.)
.
Whew! Every time we go for a spin or sit for a chat our heads are filled with facts, history and stories. My Goodness! Where to start now.
.
Blacks are now called the “Previously disadvantaged.” Women of all races are “Historically disadvantaged.” Colored and Indian may be considered, hmmm, my hosts were not sure what. And of course white men don’t count.
.
Politics here are zoological. Welcome the Monkey House. Nonsense along with corruption and petty jealousies and greed surface daily in the news. Let’s see if I can get this straight. The newspaper headlines today have something to do with the Director of Public Prosecutions (read Attorney General) was fired earlier this week by the President (read Archibald Cox and Richard Nixon) because he had issued an Arrest Warrant for the Chief of the National Police (read Director of the FBI). Thus he was removed from any investigation into one of the President’s cronies.
.
The papers also carried a story regarding allegations that the local Chief Constable of Queenstown was found driving an allegedly stolen car.
.
Yesterday afternoon and evening was especially rewarding for us. Bongile Mngambi, a previously disadvantaged Rotarian (this may mean he was once a member of the Fraternal Order of the Elks) took us to the Macibini location where he is the principal of the school. Bongile’s Xhosa name translates “To be thankful.” We’ve discovered many names have meanings. We’ve learned that “Michael” translates “White-haired Rotarian.”
.
The settlement is as quiet as one can imagine. I mean really quiet. One hears some birds, the occasional lowing of a cow. The valley is broad and the setting sun casts a golden glow on all. There are no paved roads; no water or sewer lines, no electricity in most of the rondovals. Cooking is done out-of-doors in three-legged pots over fires made of dried cow and sheep dung. We saw this.
.
He showed us the newer school with no plumbing! Water drains form the rooftops into cisterns - large plastic tanks at each end of the buildings. These are now dry because of the draught. The bathroom, well, there are no bathrooms, just privies. There school needs to buy water by the truckload to fill the tanks. But they have no money.
.
The kindergarten has 75 kids in one room with one teacher. The kids sit four to a desk. But Bongile is as proud as he can be! There is a school, the kids attend school rather than stay in the rondovals all day and watch the goats and sheep graze. They are learning to read and write. And he is the principal – a very prestigious position here in Macibini.
.
Bongile took us to a set of rondovals where the sangoma or “healer” lived. After about 20 minutes on pleasantries and conversation, he summoned us out of the car. The sangoma, a heavy set smiling woman of about 35 invited us into her hut. She had herbs and roots drying on the floor. There were pelts of various sorts hanging from the walls. There she played drum and sang. Then invited her initiate to play the drum while she danced clapped and sang! We were awestruck that she would do this for us. The sun was setting, the darkness of the hut and the rhythms of the drum, singing and clapping set the tone – this was the Africa we had hoped to witness!
.
What an amazing adventure!
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