Today was a day of travel: a morning coach to Heathrow; a two hour wait before a flight to Frankfurt; a three hour wait before an overnight flight to Cape Town. Long, drawn out and tiring but the price I guess for the more far flung of adventures.
I dozed restlessly on the flight; it is difficult to sleep well when crammed into small airline seats. At one stage I stood up to stretch my legs and looked back down the cabin: scores of people squeezed in tight lines - row upon row of them - staring at screens in front of them or looking eagerly at the hostess bringing food, a brief distraction from the cramped surroundings. And shortly after, having quickly disposed of their food, the same people looking eagerly at the next hostess eager to be rid of the food packaging that now confined them even further.
Thirteen hours later I was in South Africa. A taxi ride took me to the hotel. It also took me past the occasional area of tiny corrugated iron dwellings, densely packed and close to the road, a picture of distilled poverty yet all sporting satellite television dishes. This was something I had seen on television many years ago, images of black townships in the days of apartheid. I had no idea that such things still existed, and in areas close to main roads in the built up outskirts of Cape Town.
My hotel was on a busy square, small with an old adjoining church and a thriving, colourful African market. It was still mid morning and my room was not ready so I left my bags and went off exploring, but not before being advised by the receptionist to keep my phone in my pocket and to be in by 9pm should I decide to go out later.
I wandered around the immediate area trying to get my bearings. I was trying to find a nearby museum on the apartheid era, which proved challenging as I was also trying not to check my map and look lost given the advice I had been given. Although the area was typical of many modern towns - wide streets with a mix of old stone and modern square, anonymous concrete buildings - my initial sense was one of an underlying poverty among the people: many sported sandwich-boards advertising gold buyers while street vendors filled the narrow streets off the main road selling everything from fruit to cheap trinkets. Some had stalls - temporary and flimsy - while some sat in clothes made from sacking, their goods spread before them on the pavement. And there was hardly a white face to be seen.
I found my museum, an old church commemorating the forced relocation of 60,000 blacks from 'District 6' of Cape Town in the 60s and 70s because they stood on the edge of white expansion of the city at the time. It was apparently one of the few areas where all communities lived in harmony, a vibrant working class area alive with art and music yet it was simply razed to the ground to become a grassy, open expanse within the growing city.
The museum done I headed for the recently refurbished waterfront area some forty minutes walk away. High-end shopping centres, smart waterside restaurants and stylish apartments made a stark contrast to the area I had just come from. And now there were far more white faces and far fewer black ones. I couldn’t help but think the white population may have handed over the power but still had most of the money.
It is now early evening and I have settled in my hotel room to relax with a book, think about my plans for tomorrow and catch up on my sleep from yesterday.
No comments:
Post a Comment