Month: January 2014

Categories
Travel

Communication breakdown

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Before coming to South Africa I imagined that my ability to communicate with the locals would be a matter of speaking the language. As it happens, the country has 11 official languages, including English, Zulu and Afrikaans, the three one hears most often here in Kwa-Zulu Natal. But that’s not suggest I’ve been able to communicate with ease.

Communication, of course, encompasses more than language. We humans employ body language, humor and much more. “Cultural competency” is how Berlitz, the language education company, describes the so-called soft skills that one needs to be attuned to local norms. Or as Rachel, a fellow American who’s been in South Africa for nearly two years, told me over coffee recently, “You may both be speaking English but there’s still this other part to understanding.”

Most days  here I stop by the Kauai smoothie bar at the Virgin Active health club where I swim. Kauai is a Hawaiian-themed chain that sells healthy snacks. Here’s an approximation my ordering a smoothie from one of the women who work behind the counter:

Server: Aloha!

Me (smiling): “Aloha, how are you?”

Server: (smiling): “I’m fine thank you, and how are you?”

Me: “Fine, thank you.”

Me: [Pause. Proceed.] “May I please have a yoga-berry smoothie, small size?”

Server: “Small yoga-berry smoothie, that will be 23 rand 90.”

Me: “Thank you very much.”

Note the pause, which can present a challenge for Americans, or at least for this New Yorker. We tend to get to business, while South Africans, in general, tend to let the greeting run its course or make small talk before transacting.

Phone calls here in South Africa unfold in a similar way. “Howz it?” you might ask someone, assuming you have license to be  conversational, when he or she answers. “Good, thank you,” the caller might answer. “Howz it?” “Fine, thanks,” you might say. Then you wait. Sometimes I hear myself repeating “Fine, thanks,” which makes me sound like Rain Man but at least forces me to slow down.

Because English’s quirks can present a challenge for non-native speakers, some Americans adapt the language to compensate. My partner, an American who has lived and worked in the province for nearly 14 years, has a patter that helps her communicate with people who grew up in the Zulu or Xhosa languages.

In January my partner and I stood at South African Airways counter at Johannesburg’s O.R. Tambo Airport. We hoped to check a bag that contained the horns of an oryx that my partner brought back from the Namibian desert.

The ticket agent, a Zulu woman who spoke English fluently, inquired about the contents of the bag, which by its appearance could have contained a rifle.

Agent: “What do you have in the bag?”

My partner: “We were in Namibia and we only could bring small, small baggage.”

[My partner pinched together her thumb and forefinger and held them up to emphasize how tiny our bags had to be.]

My partner: “The bags had to be small, small, without wheels. We had to pack everything into them! Can you believe it? So small.”

Small, small?

I waited for the agent to repeat her question, which my partner had yet to answer. But the agent smiled and checked our bags through to Durban

 

 

 

 

 

Categories
Asides

Car Talk: Part II

landyI feared this might happen. The inspector pulled the key from the ignition while the motor was running. I showed up with my partner’s Land Rover at Class Auto Testing and, just before finishing his once-over, the mechanic flagged the key, which roughly two months earlier nearly had caused the vehicle to fail a roadworthy assessment.

In November, Steve, our off-road specialist, had persuaded the inspector to overlook that blemish. Now came my attempt. “The same thing happened last time and your colleague certified the vehicle as roadworthy,” I implored. “Plus, even when you remove the key the engine continues to run.”

“It’s not a big deal,” the inspector replied. “Just cut a new key.” That may be his view but it seems we might need to replace the ignition switch, according to Steve, who sighed audibly when I told him the inspector had identified nine items for repair.

But let’s turn back the clock slightly.

Earlier that morning I had visited Outdoor Marine in Pietermaritzburg. Steve had instructed me to see Philip, the owner, who would direct me to a testing center that we hoped might extend the roadworthy certification  I had allowed to expire.

All I had to win was two weeks, sufficiently long that my partner and I could register the vehicle after she returns to the country. Steve and I hoped the testing center might extend the certification without actually inspecting the vehicle anew.

When I arrived at Outdoor Marine I found Philip in his office, talking on the phone. I waited in the showroom, which brims with boats, rafts and other craft, all wedged at acute angles to one another. I fancied one of the rigid inflatable rafts that had twin outboard engines affixed. It looked like a Zodiac on steroids.

Just then Piet, a friendly guy with a shaved head who wore a red shirt emblazoned with patches from Mercury Marine and other suppliers, greeted me and offered to show me the way to the testing center. Piet comes from Mpumalanga, a province in eastern South Africa, but he has lived in Kwa-Zulu Natal for 12 years. “Mpumalanga is beautiful but it’s hard to find work there,” he told me.

During the five minutes it took us to drive to the testing center, we talked about places to visit nearby. Piet suggested Sani Pass, a road through the Drakensberg Mountains that connects Kwa-Zulu Natal with Lesotho and requires the use of a four-wheel drive vehicle. “I like to drive up there, drink a few Maluti Lagers, then head back,” Piet said. “You need to go, you have the perfect vehicle for it.”

We  would  have the perfect vehicle if we were able to register it. When we arrived at Class Auto, Piet and I headed to the office, where he explained to a nice Indian woman behind the counter that I had brought the Land Rover for roadworthy testing. She smiled and slid a form across the counter that Piet filled out on my behalf. After I paid the fee we headed back outside, where Piet instructed me to pull the Land Rover into a row of about four vehicles that had queued for testing.

While we waited for the Land Rover to move forward in the line, Piet and I chatted about South Africa, the U.S., the economy, labor unions (there’s been some  unrest lately at South Africa’s platinum mines), and boats. Sales have slowed in the last few years, according to Piet, who attributed the fall-off to a sluggish economy. That’s when Piet decided to call a co-worker for a ride back to Outdoor Marine. “You don’t mind if I call someone to fetch me,” he asked. “Not at all,” I answered, happy to survey the testing center.

Class Auto tests vehicles in a hangar wide enough for a single lane of vehicles. Light pours through mustard-colored plastic panels that line the tops of the walls. Cars, trucks and other vehicles to be tested enter the shed, where they proceed  along a pit into which the mechanics file so they can stare up at the undersides.

Vehicles to be tested  first roll across spindles, which detect the vehicle’s weight and measure braking force. The results appear on two gauges – one for the left wheel and one for the right – that extends from a wall.

The pit runs the length of roughly two automobiles and two trucks. Behind the Land Rover stood a Tata Motors flatbed with six wheels, a Volkswagen van from the Panorama Recovery Centre, a silver Honda Jazz and a flatbed from Norman’s Driving School.

An inspector walked the length of the pit, tapping the carriages of the trucks with a crowbar. (That’s one way to know if the pieces actually attach to one another.) When the inspector passed me I asked him if a vehicle had ever fallen into the pit. “Not since I’ve been here,” he answered. “But I’m just a trainee.”

After about 10 minutes the Land Rover straddled the front of the pit, where two inspectors probed its underbelly. They tugged on parts, stared up the guts of the thing and conferred with each other at least twice. Finally, one of them motioned for me to climb down into the pit, which one reaches via a ladder at the far end.

As eager as I was to stand beneath the Land Rover, I sensed the inspector had not invited me into the pit so he could tell me the vehicle had earned a roadworthy certification.

“You have to replace these bushings,” the inspector told me, as he used chalk to mark an “X” at each end of the front and rear stabilizers. “See this,” the inspector said, jiggling a part with his hands. “You have to secure the air filter.”

I listened with a look that I hoped the inspector would construe as my appreciating the seriousness of the situation. “There’s also oil, leaking,” he added, pointing at black droplets that had collected on a steel surface.

A few more pokes and the inspector ushered me out to garage level while he drove the Land Rover around to the front of the hangar and parked near the office. He remained in the driver’s seat, motioning to me to come over while he marked his findings on a form attached in duplicate to a clipboard.

“We discussed the bushings and the air filter,” he said, pointing to the boxes on the form that corresponded with those findings. “Let’s go through the other things.”

So much for an extension, I thought. Besides the items marked in the pit, he also instructed me to:

  • Replace the blade on the rear windshield wiper
  • Fix the spotlights on the wench
  • Tighten the parking brake, and
  • Harden the steering wheel, which is pliable in spots

“You can just replace the grip,” the inspector said, tapping the wheel. Steve told me later that we might have to replace the steering wheel unless he can stiffen it with an injection of silicone. I told you that Steve is a specialist.

Then came the key and my pleading with the inspector to disregard it. He told me that if I returned by February 14, I would not have to pay the testing fee again. “If you come back on February 13, no fee,” he said, handing me a pink carbon copy of the inspection report. “If you come back on February 14, there will be a fee.”

“OK,” I said.

Though my spirits sank, I thanked the inspector for his time. “Where are you from,” he asked me. “The states,” I answered. “I’m getting an education.”

Categories
Asides

Car Talk

yellow_discIt was a Friday evening in January and I was on the phone with Steve, our nice guy Land Rover mechanic, asking for advice.

Earlier that day I had visited One-Stop Licensing, a business in Pietermaritzburg that will, for a fee, process the paperwork one needs to register a vehicle here in South Africa.

The manager at One-Stop informed me that the roadworthy designation for my partner’s Land Rover Defender – a certification by the government that marks the vehicle’s fitness for use on the road – had expired and that the vehicle would have to be tested again before I could register it.

The prospect of taking the Land Rover through roadworthy testing summoned the spirit of Sisyphus. The vehicle passed in November because Steve had persuaded the inspector that the ease with which the key pulls free of the ignition while the engine runs has nothing to do with the vehicle’s worthiness for the road.

Steve had relayed the incident while giving me a ride home in the Land Rover. “You see,” he said, yanking the key from the ignition while we headed down the road at about 50 mph. The engine continued to run as if nothing had happened “Still, we were lucky the inspector didn’t fail us for it,” Steve added. “Replacing the ignition switch costs a few hundred dollars.”

Now I had to submit anew to the  ordeal but this time Steve would not be there when the inspector tugged on the key. I would be there, trying to explain the key, the door that hangs a few degrees off alignment or whatever else the inspector might flag.

I didn’t  dare ask Steve to handle the roadworthy again. He had obtained the certification. My partner and I allowed it to expire. The next attempt would be mine. “Tell them you’re an American and you didn’t realize the roadworthy certificate lasts for just 60 days,” Steve counseled. “Plead ignorance and offer to pay the fee again.”

Though Steve’s advice might be my only hope, the certification’s lapsing left me feeling deflated. Every vehicle sold in South Africa needs to pass a roadworthy examination before it can be registered. My partner and I had been readying the Land Rover for two months in anticipation of registration, which confers a little round disc that you display in your windshield, similar to the decal many U.S. states issue to vehicles that pass inspection.

The preparation included a series of repairs. Three of the Land Rover’s tires lacked the millimeter of tread the government requires. The brakes gripped lightly, the engine smelled of oil and white smoke poured from the tailpipe when you accelerated.

That did not presage roadworthy even if it might be expected on a vehicle that has logged about 160,000 miles. Thankfully a friend had connected us with Steve, who specializes in modifying, repairing and building up vehicles that operate in the bush.

Steve lives in a sprawling house with a thatched roof and a garage that contains contain an assortment of off-road vehicles and an agglomeration of auto parts. A black German shepherd and a brown Siberian husky preside over the premises, barking at visitors until the gate rolls open and the dogs determine that you’ve come in peace.

When I first brought the Land Rover to Steve’s place, he and his assistant examined the engine, wheels, brakes and suspension. They flipped up the driver’s seat to reveal a computer underneath and a bundle of wires that connect the computer to the goings-on beneath the hood.

After an hour of probing parts, sniffing smoke, measuring the brakes and running their fingers across a layer of oil that coated much of the engine, Steve delivered his diagnosis. “The vehicle’s going to need some work if it is to have any chance of passing roadworthy,” he said.

The repairs took place over the six weeks that followed. Whenever my partner and I could spare the Land Rover for a few days we delivered it to Steve, who worked on it off and on through the end of October. By then he had:

Steve changed the air, oil, fuel and rotor filters, and drained and replaced the engine oil. He also checked the differential fluid, the oil in the gearbox, the water in the radiator, the fluid in the power steering and the belts.

In early November, Steve took the Land Rover to the testing center. Twice. The first time an inspector failed the vehicle because the stalk that activates the bright lights failed to trigger them. Steve called in an electrician to get the lights working. The test involving the key that falls from the ignition followed.

Finally we had a certificate of roadworthiness and, I thought, three months to register the vehicle. That felt like forever. We celebrated Thanksgiving. We worked, went to Cape Town, busied ourselves over the holidays and later headed to Namibia.

Then suddenly it seemed like time to register the vehicle. Off I went to One-Stop, with a few forms in hand, a day left on roadworthy and my partner, whose signature and passport the place needed, out of the country.

We had run out of time.

The provincial government publishes a spreadsheet that lists the locations of testing stations. I consulted the list, resolved to show up at the PMB Roadworthy Centre with my $30 (U.S.) fee and steeled myself for the scrutiny I imagined would follow.

Then Steve called. “Come by early on Monday,” he said. “We’ll pressure clean the engine and the underside of the vehicle. I have a plan.”

Categories
Travel

A foot of snow in NYC?

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Categories
Life

In summertime, an old treat feels new again

king cone copySouth Africa may be the land of biltong, but my snack of choice lately is the King Cone. The frozen treat, commonly known as a drumstick, consists of ice cream in a waffle cone topped with a chocolate shell. It seems drumsticks are for sale in every grocery and convenience store here in the Kwa-Zulu Natal province.

Maybe it’s the summertime or that there seem to be fewer ice cream shops per capita here compared with the U.S., but it’s all I can do to avoid consuming a King Cone daily. The treat delivers about 360 calories and half a day’s ration of saturated fat, according to Nestle, the conglomerate that sells these things. My current tactic: buy one King Cone every fourth day. I devoured one on Wednesday and now look forward to Sunday.

The drumstick elicits memories of visiting the convenience store in the neighborhood where we lived as kids. That was years before frozen yogurt and Ben & Jerry’s. Back then if you wanted something frozen you sprang for a drumstick, a Popsicle, a Creamsicle, a Cap’n Crunch bar, a Heath bar or one of those ice bars that come in long plastic sleeves. (My favorite flavors: grape, lime or blue.)

Nestle cultivates the nostalgia. Even if you’re an adult it’s okay to like Saturday morning cartoons, grilled cheese for dinner and, of course, drumsticks, the company assured consumers last April in a sponsored post on BuzzFeed. Like many products nowadays, the drumstick has its own Facebook page. Nestle commissioned a musical tribute when the page notched its millionth fan.

Despite the hype – or maybe because of it – the drumstick has become my summer delight here in the Southern Hemisphere. The nostalgia has me on the lookout for other treats that brightened, or benighted, my childhood. Would anyone like a Tic Tac?

Categories
Travel

An oryx waits in vain but sees all

oryx_psychadelicHello. I’m an oryx, which, if you don’t know, is a kind of African antelope. I’m your guest blogger. The oryx also happens to be the national symbol of Namibia.

That last part matters because Beesquared, the publisher of this blog, visited Namibia for a week over New Year’s. I saw him on his second day here, when he and six other humans were riding in a Land Rover through Etosha National Park. They had been driving through the park and the adjacent bush while staying in a tented cabin at one of those camps that border the park.

The tents are formed by canvas stretched over a wooden floor. The whole thing sits on stilts. The walls consist of bricks formed by pouring rocks into steel nets. The structure is what you humans might term “eco-friendly” because you could take the whole thing away tomorrow without leaving a trace.

You may wonder how an oryx knows about eco-friendly construction. There’s a watering hole by the camp that my friends and I like to visit. There’s not much to look at when you’re standing there drinking from a synthetic hole in the ground. So I contemplate the cabins.

But I digress. I first saw Beesquared after I left my herd to stand in a field at the side of the road where I anticipated the Land Rover might pass. I hoped one of the passengers might call out, “Hey, there’s an oryx,” while pointing at me. Then the other passengers might photograph me. That’s what my giraffe friends tell me happens to them.

giraffes

It may seem simple to stand by a road looking wild but I’m here to tell you it takes effort. I walked nearly five kilometers through the bush on an 85-degree morning. That may not seem like a big deal, but it took me away from the watering hole, which is the place to be on summer days. There’s also my safety. Nothing excites lions like the sight of an oryx preening. Some of my best friends have been eaten while smoothing themselves up for photos.

Anyway, while I stood by the side of the road a lion and his lady lounged less than a kilometer away. I know this because earlier I saw the Land Rover parked by the lions while the tourists photographed them. The lion couple had just had sex for the third time that day, according to the guide. I overheard one tourist say he hoped the lions would awaken and go at it again. But I knew the lions weren’t going to relent for a couple of New Yorkers and two German couples, even if one of them had a decent zoom lens.

While the tourists waited for the lions, I also heard them thank their guide for taking them on a bush drive the prior evening. Apparently they saw two male lions lounging beneath a tree. Big surprise if you know anything about lions. The tourists said they later say the entire pride – 11 lions in all.

lion

The tourists, like tourists tend to do, yammered on about the lions, but they also saw giraffes and black rhinos. “They either charge you or they run away,” said Omo, their guide, referring to the rhinos. As if on cue, three rhinos appeared, snorted and then ran off into the bush, while the tourists cowered in the Land Rover, taking photos. Beesquared struggled to capture the action on his iPhone. But the Germans with the decent lens seemed pretty satisfied with themselves, passing their camera around the Land Rover while the other tourists oohed and aahed over the images. “Great shot,” I heard one say.

Speaking of shots, Omo had a rifle with him, so it’s a good thing the rhinos ran away. Though I doubt Omo had any intention of shooting the rhino, even an oryx knows better than to charge a guy who’s packing.

The tourists also talked about seeing wildebeests and springboks, as well as black-faced impalas. They also saw oryxes. I heard about it from my ex, who happened to be ruminating with a few friends nearby when the tourists arrived. What, you think only humans stalk their ex’s on Facebook?

The next day Beesquared and his companion headed to Hartmann’s Valley, in the northwest corner of Namibia. Some of my Facebook friends reported seeing them in a Land Cruiser riding through the desert there. Besides oryxes, that area has baboons, snakes and scorpions, as well as Nile crocodiles, which inhabit the Kunene River that flows between Namibia and Angola.

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The northern Namibian desert also is home to the Himbas, a semi-nomadic people who subsist as herders. The Himbas live in huts made of sticks and cow dung. They usually arrange the huts in a circle around an animal enclosure and fire. The author visited the Himbas on three occasions while he was in the desert.

My oryx pals in the area also saw the author with his companion and their guide late in the afternoon, when the three went driving to the tops of nearby peaks for so-called sundowner’s, which is how South Africans, Namibians and others in the shadow of Britain’s erstwhile empire refer to happy hour. My friends saw the trio drinking Windhoek lager, pink wine and Coke while munching on dried worst and banana chips.

Apparently Beesquared remarked how much he liked his accommodations, which included a cabin that faced the dunes and an outdoor shower. What is it with humans and outdoor showers? I’ve been showering outdoors all my life. I’d kill for a bathroom, even one of those tiny New York apartment bathrooms with bad plumbing that my cousin, who lived at the Bronx Zoo, complained about.

The camp also had just one Internet-connected computer. The place is a Wi-Fi-free zone. That’s probably good because otherwise the guests would rarely look up from their iPads. Then they would abstain from activities, claiming they needed to rest when actually they wanted to be online. That would threaten the tips the guides earn by leading groups into the desert.

Plus, if anyone needs a rest it’s the camp’s staff, which I imagine must tire of always making sure the guests have a fresh drink or clean laundry. Hell, I need a rest. I’ve been perched on a hillside for days at a time while trying to find water and a few roots to eat, all while trying to avoid becoming eaten. “That’s Darwinian,” you’re thinking. Yeah, well you try being part of the food chain.

Beesquared and his companion visited the Himba tribe three times in four days. Himba women cover themselves with a paste made of ochre and butter fat. It protects them from the sun and makes them beautiful. The women tend to be tall. A few could be models, but then they might have to relocate to Paris or Milan or New York City, where they would have to endure bad plumbing. Of course, that might be an improvement over the Himba camp, where you burn cow dung for fire and have to walk four kilometers to the river to gather drinking water or to bathe. You might be washing up for dinner when you become dinner for a Nile crocodile.

himba_women

Speaking of crocodiles, a pal of mine saw Beesquared and others aboard a motorboat on the Kunene, where they saw a donkey drinking at the shore. The guide commented that the sure-footed animal risked being attacked by a croc. Just as they passed, as if on cue, a crocodile emerged, snout-first, from the water, practically at the donkey’s feet. The donkey stepped quickly back, a little two-step, and in doing so saved his life. “That must be the slowest crocodile ever,” my friend overheard the guide say. Good point. I hope that croc doesn’t become a carryall.

The next day after a visit to the Himba settlement, the Land Cruiser ferrying Beesquared and his companion stopped to collect the skull and horns of an oryx that had died maybe a month earlier. The oryx was known in those parts as “Pops.” I heard his heart gave out, which is too bad because the doctors told him he should get more exercise. Pops liked to ruminate on the hillside and watch the tourists pass. The old man always joked that inactivity, not one of the droughts that plague the desert, would be the end of him. By the time Beesquared and his companion encountered Pops his skull had been bleached white by the sand and wind, after the vultures picked clean his carcass. Truth be told, it’s the best Pops has looked in some time.

skull

While Beesquared’s companion retrieved the remains of Pops, Vincent, a fellow traveler from Provence, produced a site-specific sculpture. Vincent collected quartz that lies on the ground in that part of the desert and arranged the rocks in the shape of a being. I’m not sure what Vincent aimed for with his rock balancing, but he seemed to delight in process.

vincent

Another my friends saw Beesquared out in the desert on one of those all-terrain vehicles that humans like to ride off-road. We learned at the academy that those vehicles are unsafe if operated improperly. A few weeks ago, the friend watched from a hill as a lady from New York City accelerated when she intended to brake, sending the all-terrain vehicle into a canyon. Fortunately for the lady she managed to jump from the machine at the last second. Fortunately for we oryxes the lady survived because had she died her family might have sued the camp for negligence and that might have increased the liability insurance premium. That might have spurred the camp to discontinue the all-terrain vehicles, which would deprive we oryxes of the amusement we derive from watching city dwellers try to ride those things through the desert.

You see, oryxes think a lot about risks other than being eaten by lions. We depend on tourists to popularize our presence. Otherwise people might forget about us, or worse, confuse us with springboks.

Anyway, on the day I walked out to greet Beesquared, I was battling thirst, not to mention risking my life near that lion couple, all so I could welcome the tourists to Namibia, and maybe pose for a photo or two. There I stood as the Land Rover approached. I heard the engine before I saw the vehicle and then, sure enough, it came barreling down the road with Beesquared, his companion, and the four Germans and their guide.

Everyone clutched either a camera or binoculars and the guide seemed to look over his shoulder occasionally, no doubt chatting about this or that feature of the park like guides do at the end of a four-hour drive when they have little left to say and everyone has asked their questions and had a drink and just wants to return to the camp for lunch, especially after they’ve seen lions and giraffes and, hell, even a sandgrouse.

land_rover copy

The Land Rover approached and I dipped my neck and thrust my antlers in the air and flicked my braided black tail as if to shoo away some flies. (For some reason, there weren’t any that day.) I stood at attention. “Oryx, at your service, folks,” I hoped my stance suggested. But the Land Rover didn’t slow. The guide didn’t so much as tap the brakes. In fact, I think he accelerated, and that Beesquared and the others aboard kept congratulating one another on seeing the lions for the second time in as many days. All while I’m risking my neck to stand there and be seen.

After the Land Rover disappeared around a curve, I turned and walked away silently. On my way back to the herd, I realized I’ve had enough of aiming to be an ambassador for Namibia. It’s a thankless task, at least for this oryx. I’m returning to the bush to ruminate under a blue sky. Next time you see me, prepare for me to regard you indifferently.

Categories
Favorite Places Life

At the Atlantic Ocean, imagining life on both sides

ocean3The Atlantic Ocean always beckons me. It’s the ocean we visited on summer vacations as kids when my father piled us into the Oldsmobile for a drive across Pennsylvania to the shore. Throughout my life, a trip to the beach has meant plunging into the waves that roll into New Jersey, Delaware, New England, New York City and elsewhere along the East Coast. Until recently, I worked in a newsroom that offered sweeping views of New York Bay, where the Hudson empties into the Atlantic.

Thus it thrills me to visit the Atlantic from Africa, where my girlfriend and I swam recently at the beaches off Cape Town and drove along the road that skirts Chapman’s Peak, a mountain that ascends from the ocean to the city’s southwest. The 5.5-mile drive twists and tucks into the rise, suspended above sheer drops that tumble into the sea while the mountains tower above you.

Every mile or so we stopped the car and stepped out to gaze out at the blue expanse, which glistened in the sun. I pictured New York, roughly 7,900 miles away, and imagined what might be happening there and what it might be like to see all the way to the other side. Next time I’m at the beach in New York, I will imagine what might be happening here.

Categories
Travel

In South Africa, a quarry that yielded democracy…

quarryIn 1964, two years after Nelson Mandela arrived at Robben Island, the prison’s commanding officer ordered Mandela and his fellow political prisoners to work in the island’s lime quarry.

The quarry, which I visited in December on a tour of the island, is, as Mandela wrote in his autobiography, “an enormous white crater cut into a rocky hillside.” Mining the lime required the prisoners to break through it with a pick, and then extract the lime with a shovel. Warders with automatic weapons watched from raised platforms as the men worked.

Though the work could be blinding – the lime reflected the sun’s rays into the prisoners eyes; the prisoners would not receive sunglasses for another three years – Mandela wrote that he preferred being outside in nature and the opportunity to use one’s muscles, as opposed to working in the prison compound.

Work in the quarry aided the prisoners in other ways. The men used a cave that measured about 22 feet by 9 feet as a latrine that doubled as a meeting place. (The cave appears as a rectangular hole on the left side of the wall in the above photo.) The guards did not use the latrine, which meant that Mandela and his colleagues could huddle in it. “It is said that 69% of our constitution was drafted there,” said the guide who led our tour. “It is known as the first democratic parliament of South Africa.”

Initially, the commanding officer told the prisoners they would labor in the quarry for six months and thereafter would be given light tasks. “His timing was considerably off,” wrote Mandela. “We remained at the quarry for the next thirteen years.”

In 1995, Mandela, who died in December, and about 1,300 former political prisoners returned to the island to mark the fifth anniversary of Mandela’s release from prison. There he visited the quarry, where he chipped at a rock that now forms the base of a memorial to the men who labored there. A photo from the reunion shows Mandela wearing a blue shirt, his hair mostly white like the excavation that surrounds him. Sunglasses shield his eyes.