Honorary White (11 page)

M
Y NEXT PLAN WAS
to visit the Transkei, one of the Government-designated “Homeland” areas. It was an hour's plane ride from Johannesburg to Durban, the nearest airport to the Transkei. A car with a driver awaited me at the airport and we immediately took off on the three-hundred-fifty-mile road journey to Umtata, the capital town of the Transkei. I had expected that here, in a predominantly black enclave which was supposedly preparing itself for independence, I would find Blacks in control in all departments and at all levels of political, social, and economic life. My eyes were soon opened. At the Information Office, my first stop, the staff were all Afrikaners, officials of the central Government. The Information Officer welcomed me and promised to arrange for me to tour the Transkei. He would be in touch with me later that morning. I decided to use the time to look around Umtata.

The Transkei capital looked thriving and prosperous. Every kind of business enterprise was represented, including automobile and farm machinery showrooms, supermarkets, banks, filling stations, and several hotels. All of them White-owned. No signs that Blacks had any kind of economic foothold in this, their own community. I passed the neat new police station, the white policeman leaning lazily against the door, looking toward the new multi­storied Government buildings. Truly a thriving town, showing off its potential for growth and development. Blacks everywhere, but not in command, not in authority. About half a mile from the hotel I saw a charming single-storied building, evidently a school, attractive in its simplicity of design, the large windows promising excellent natural lighting for the rooms. A well-kept grassy playground occupied the adjoining lot. On inquiring about it from a passerby I learned that it was the white school—a school for the children of white administrators and businessmen. Here in the heart of a black enclave, the White-only restrictions still applied. The charming bungalows, offices, shops, everything carried the invisible but unmistakable label, “White.”

After lunch I set out, with the Information Officer, for a tour of some parts of the Transkei. It could not be accidental that this so-called black Homeland was, for the most part, rocky, infertile land which can barely support the local herdsmen's scrawny cattle and goats. Adjacent to the township were many neat, small bungalows, silent evidence of the social changes which have overtaken the region, as the men are lured away from the small farm holdings to the unskilled jobs in the township. The horse is less in evidence than the car. Beyond the township the bungalows gradually gave way to the traditional circular Zulu huts of thatch and clay, each with its small patch of maize; women working among the long rows of green stalks, men tending their cows on sparsely covered hillsides. Even here, in their supposed “Homeland,” Blacks were literally restricted to the outer limits of the township, out of sight of progress, needed only to grease its wheels.

The more I saw of the Transkei the more I sympathized with those urban blacks who were so determined to avoid being relocated to the Homelands. The Government's stated policy foresaw eventual independence for regions such as the Transkei. On what kind of economic base could such independence be founded? The businesses in Umtata were all White-owned, their profits surely siphoned out of the black community. I asked the Information Officer about this. He told me that the overall plan envisaged a gradual takeover of all businesses by Blacks. White businessmen were encouraged to employ Blacks and train them into the techniques of management. When a trainee showed himself capable of taking over, the Government could purchase the business from the owner at current market prices and resell it to the trainee-manager on extended terms. I remarked that I saw no sign of any Blacks being trained. The scheme was new, but was slowly getting under way, he claimed. I said that the places I'd visited all showed clear evidence of prosperity, and it seemed unlikely their owners would easily relinquish them. Umtata is the largest and busiest of the Transkei towns. I could not see the businessmen walking away from such a gold mine. He had no answer.

Everywhere we drove the situation was the same. Blacks following their “traditional lifestyle” on land which grudgingly and barely supported them. The more I saw the more absurd became the Government's claim that it was nurturing these Homelands toward independence. I reflected on the recent turbulent history of my own homeland, Guyana, and the years of preparation in the management of government and services. How could powerless people learn to exercise power wisely except through experience?

Back in Umtata, I took a stroll to a place which seemed to fulfill the joint purposes of bus stop, taxi stand, and open-air market. Only Blacks in sight. Overlooking this crossroads was an imposing new hotel. A fruit vendor told me that it was a new hotel for Blacks only, as they were not welcome at the other hotels. I didn't tell him where I was staying but, in reply to his question, admitted merely that I was an overseas visitor passing through the town. Inquisitively, two or three others strolled over to listen in on our conversation. I asked about the fruit on sale, tiny bananas, some hard peaches, and mangoes, and learned that they were grown on the patches of land tended by the vendors themselves. It was too early in the season for anything except bananas and peaches. They were surprised to discover that I knew about mangoes and could tell them about varieties familiar in the West Indies but which they'd never heard of.

Gradually, carefully, I steered the talk to independence, saying I'd heard in Johannesburg that the Transkei would become independent, and adding that perhaps some of them might be in the Government. This amused them.

“Who's been telling you those stories? Buthelezi?” one asked.

“I read it in the newspapers,” I replied.

“The newspapers are not for African people. They say what the white man wants to hear.”

“I read that this homeland will become independent as a separate state, like Botswana or Lesotho.”

“I'll tell that to my grandchildren,” one young man said, “and even then they will not believe it.” He was about twenty years old. I suddenly realized that we were conversing easily in English. These rural Blacks were not educated men but they were able to converse with me in my language, and, most likely, they were as comfortable with Afrikaans. Now and then, they would revert to their tribal languages as if to underscore their linguistic range.

“What about you?” I asked. “Any of you preparing to be leaders?” saying it with a smile, making my inquiry sound casual and unimportant. Immediately there was that exchange of glances I'd come to recognize, and with it the withdrawal. Two of the young men walked away.

“Did you say you are from overseas?” the vendor asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Sometimes strangers come here asking questions.” Then turned to one of his companions and spoke in an African language which ignored and dismissed me. Even so tentative an inquiry about political activity had been enough to excite suspicion and distrust. People thinking of independence would be preparing for it, somehow, and there must be some evidence of that preparation. Perhaps, as the man said, it was all white newspaper talk.

Beyond the Transkei borders and into Natal, the countryside changed dramatically. The land was predominantly flat or rolling, perfect for farming on a vast scale. The road wound itself through lovely rural areas with attractive townships spaced between the wide expanses of farmland, mile upon mile of the lush green of wheat or maize, with here and there orchards heavy with oranges, peaches, or mangoes. The glow of prosperity lay over the neat, freshly painted bungalows with smooth, trimmed hedges and lawns. The modernistic spires of the calvinist kirks were a particularly dominant feature of each township. Wealth, comfort, and prosperity everywhere, the well-fed burghers chatting outside their houses, the ubiquitous black servants carefully sweeping, clipping, and tending.

Blacks everywhere in each town, manning the filling stations and delivery trucks, always in the servant roles, the local burghers slow-moving in their untroubled security, seeming hardly to see the Blacks who fetched and carried for them.

Outside Pietermaritzburg we needed directions for the shorter route to Durban and sought them at a police station. Two entrances to the same office, one for Blacks (all Non-Whites) and one for Whites. Three policemen standing outside, two Indians and one White. I approached the white one and asked directions to Durban. He merely stared past me, his pale eyes seeking some distant point beyond my shoulder. After a few moments I left him and returned to the car. My driver sought and received the information from the Indian policemen, the white one looking on. Perhaps the bastard thought himself too important even to speak to a black man. I wondered what kind of relationships obtained in that police station. We drove away.

My driver complained that I should not have spoken to the policeman, and said that, in his view, it would help me if I observed the “Black” and “White” signs where they appeared. He claimed that he did not support the Government's racial policies, arguing that he was of British stock. Yet he was obviously irritated with me for not falling in line. He predicted that, with my attitude, I'd have a rough time in Cape Town. I told him I'd be happy if he did the driving and left my behavior to me.

Returning to Durban, I telephoned several people, friends of Johannesburg friends, hoping to arrange meetings. They were all Indian, which was not surprising as most of the Indians in the country are located in Natal Province of which Durban is the capital. Indians were originally brought to South Africa as indentured laborers for the sugar plantations in much the same way as they were first taken to Guyana. In both countries they had prospered, emerging mainly as truck farmers, sugar cane planters, and small businessmen. Under the Nationalist Government their fortunes had altered dramatically and, though they still enjoyed a few privileges denied the black African, they were subject to many restrictions. Like other Non-Whites, they are consigned to enclaves and though unlike black Africans they are allowed to purchase land on which to build homes, they may at short notice be moved to some other location if the authorities decide that the one they occupy is more suitable or desirable for Whites. One of these Indian friends, a doctor, accepted my invitation to come and share some tea within the hour.

Punctually on the hour, my telephone rang. The doctor was calling from the lobby. She had arrived, but on entering the lobby, had been stopped and told that Non-Whites were not allowed in the hotel. She explained that she was calling on me and was eventually allowed to telephone my room. Angered, I went down to the lobby and without a word to anyone, escorted her up to my room. She seemed quite unperturbed by the experience, and wryly amused at my anger.

“I quite expected that they'd stop me,” she said.

“Even when you said you were here to see me?”

“Sure. They have to remind us that the presence of a black visitor in the hotel really makes no difference. We are still not welcome. Anyway, welcome to Durban.”

“Thank you. Shall we go down and have some tea?”

“I think it would be better if you had it sent up. I've had enough of white contempt for one day. Besides, we can talk more freely up here.”

While waiting for our tea she told me of her practice among her people, many of whom were able to make a good living, in spite of the increasing restrictions placed upon them. She, like so many of her friends and clients, had been born and raised in Durban where a thriving Indian community had developed. They had built a mosque and several good schools, cinemas, a community center. About seven years ago, the Government had rezoned that part of Durban where they lived and redesignated it a white area. Except for some businesses, the Indians were to be relocated some miles out of Durban. Their homes would have to be sold, either privately to Whites, or through compulsory purchase by the Government. In either event, the purchase price was frozen at the price obtaining when the order was first announced. The Indians protested the order but they had no political power base from which to make their protest effective. She said that as a result of the order, many families had become dislocated, and the community demoralized.

“If you'd like to come with me, I'll show you,” she offered. The tea arrived, we drank it and set off. We drove about the Indian section of Durban while she pointed out a house here, a bungalow or office there, all evacuated and desolate awaiting either new white occupancy or the bulldozer which would level the lot for a new park or shopping center. We visited an arcade where I was introduced to some Indian traders, nearly inarticulate in their bewilderment and frustration.

“Is there no way of protesting these orders?” I asked.

“It is dangerous for Blacks to protest,” I was told. “All it could bring you would be a cell in jail, or, at best, a cracked head.”

I was struck by this Indian doctor's inclusive use of the word “Blacks,” especially in a country where shades of color were so important in determining where one lived, or worked. Perhaps it was her way of responding to my sympathetic interest.

“Have you heard?” someone interposed, excitedly. “They're rioting out at New Germany.”

“Who's rioting?” I inquired.

“The Blacks at Frames.”

“What's Frames?” I asked the doctor.

“It's a textile factory complex, with plants scattered around Durban. Cheap black labor, Indian and African, at starvation wages. Seems the workers have gone on strike. Something must have happened out there to make the workers risk a confrontation with the police and their guns and their dogs.”

“Where's this New Germany?”

“In the suburbs. Not far away. Would you like to go out there?”

“Could we?”