Thursday, 17 July 1986: Beautiful Beaches and Killer Weed

Friday morning, July 18 on the train from East London to Grahamstown

The best thing about staying with Jon and Ethne was the good shower.  The rare times when I do get a shower (as opposed to a tub bath) in South Africa, the spray nozzle doesn’t work worth a damn.  Oh, and also the bagels with cream cheese for breakfast this morning. 

After breakfast, Ethne drops me off at the railroad station downtown so I can make reservations for the train to Grahamstown tomorrow.  It looks like she’s wearing about five coats of make-up this morning.  I also notice that she has no sense of humor.  Gawd, what a painted princess.

After making my reservations to Grahamstown, I ask the clerk about the train to Umtata.  On the drive there yesterday with Francois, I saw that the route was very interesting.  The reservations clerk gives me the information but warns me that the Umtata train has no special cars for whites.  I smile and reply, “That’s okay.  I’m an American.”  She then explains that, “Our blacks are different from your Negroes.”  I tell her that we don’t call American blacks “Negroes” anymore.  Afterword, I realize a better comeback might have been, “You’re right.  I find black people here in South Africa to be friendlier than blacks in America.”

Buffalo River and East London port facilities.  Taking this photo got me in a little trouble with the South African Naval Fuzz.

 

I’m in bull “battle dress” this morning wearing my camera vest that holds all my lenses and paraphernalia and carrying my two Pentaxes over my shoulders.  I want to get some good shots of the city and beautiful Indian Ocean beaches.  My first destination is the old bridge over the Buffalo River where I want to get a couple shots of South Africa’s only river port.  After shooting three or four good ones, a couple of South African Navy dicks drive up and tell me I can’t take pictures there.  I talk my way out of trouble by politely explaining I’m an American tourist.  Once I decide that they aren’t going to arrest me or confiscate my film, I gently push them to find out exactly what I can’t take pictures of.  They say taking photos of harbor facilities is not allowed without a permit from the railroad police. I promise not to take any photos (I’ve already gotten what I need anyway), and they drive off.  I decide that next time I shouldn’t try to talk my way out of one of these encounters.  Let the fascist bastards arrest me.  I won’t be held for any length of time once they find out I’m a guest of the S.A. tourist bureau.  Then I can write about how I was arrested for taking photos of an attraction that, in this case, was even noted in the tourist brochure.  That night I learn that there was a film of the harbor facilities on TV recently, so why were they so worried about me?

Cliffs near Eastern Beach.  East London, South Africa.  17 July 1986.

I walk back through the city and out along Eastern Beach.  I continue east to the cliffs separating Eastern and Nahoon beaches.  There are some spectacular photo opportunities for shots of waves crashing onto the cliffs.  This cliffed and rocky beach area is apparently for non-whites as I notice Indians and coloureds fishing from some of the rocks at the water’s edge but no whites.  I climb up a large sand dune to get a shot of the city, then make my way along a path through the cliffs.  Before I reach Nahoon Beach, I notice a black guy out on a rock apparently practicing public speaking by competing with the noise of the surf.  Reminded me of the story of Demosthenes, the great orator in ancient Greece, who overcame his stutter by shouting at the sea with all his strength.  Unfortunately, the fellow is knocked over (but not hurt) by a big wave during his oration.

Waves at Bats Cave, East London, South Africa

 

At Nahoon, I use my 200mm lens to shoot young surfers and paddle surfers riding big waves.  Shit – wish I’d have learned to surf 20 years ago.  What was the California beach culture was really like?  What did I miss out on?  Was it really “two girls for every boy” like in the Beach Boys song?

It’s been a great day getting away from politics for a while and out to a beautiful stretch of beach with my cameras.  I love shooting this kind of stuff.  And just think – South Africa has hundreds of miles of coastline like this.

View of Eastern Beach and East London.  Gorgeous country – ugly politics!

By mistake, I take a long way back into downtown.  When I’ve still got more than a mile to go, a friendly, young, white, off-duty fireman stops to offer me a lift.  I should have asked him about fire protection for non-white neighborhoods, but forgot to.  Guess I had the apartheid-side of my brain turned off for the afternoon.

At around 4:30PM, my coloured friend, Lester, and two of his coloured chums from work pick me up near the railroad station.  Lester has an old beater with a couple 100,000 kms on it.  The passenger door only opens from the outside and the crank falls off when I try to roll down the window.  Despite his having a good job, Lester doesn’t give a shit about the condition of his car.  He says it’s a good ol’ car and he’s going to drive the fucker till it breaks down.  They he’ll just leave it on the side of the road with the keys in it and go buy another one. 

We pop over to Jon and Ethne’s mansion to pick up my stuff as I’ll be staying with Lester tonight.  As we pull into the long driveway, Lester says maybe he should apologize for cluttering up their property with his old car.  Lester’s two friends are dressed in scruffy work clothes.  In order to see Ethne’s response to this trio, I tell the guys to come in and help me carry my stuff. Ethne maintains her cool, but I’m nervous and stutter a bit while making intros.  As we drive away, Lester comments that he can’t believe people live like this.

We drive up to Buffalo Flats, the coloured area, while yukking it up and slurping some cool brews.  I miss part of the conversation when they slip into Afrikaans, but feel so much more comfortable with these crazy shits than with the rich people.  Suppose I’ve never been all that impressed with wealth because rich people don’t seem to have as much fun as ordinary folks.  Lester stops by a small store to pick up a copy of the Weekly Mail, which he says is the best paper in the country. 

Lester takes me to meet another colored friend who will turn me on to some South African weed.  Lester takes off to do some errands.  I walk with his friend to his back yard where I am offered the top of a broken beer bottle with some sort of muslin over the broken end  We draw hits of dagga out of this makeshift contraption. Lester’s friend apologizes that good stuff isn’t currently available.  Bull shit! – I get stoned on my ass on this lekker [Afrikaans for “awesome”] dope.  He comments that after three tokes, he hadn’t seen me exhale anything.  My comeback:  “Yeah, mon, I absorb the shit.  What’s this herb cost?” I inquire.  Now get this:  R2.00 for a business letter-size envelope full of this stuff.  Two lousy rand!  That’s the funniest and best news I’ve heard yet in South Africa.

Getting high in South Africa  Source:  https://www.bbc.com/pidgin/tori-45563775

 

Lester’s friend is a bit scruffy-looking and is missing a front tooth.  He looks sort of like a Mexican – a lot of the coloureds do.  There is also a very pleasant Indian guy toking with us.  I feel as if I have at last arrived among the South African “baddies.”  Unfortunately, one of my frequent pot-induced paranoia trips takes hold for a while.  Paranoid about what?  A little about being by myself in a coloured neighborhood.  The guys are nice, but the neighborhood is somewhat rundown.  There are two junk cars in the backyard.   Is the paranoia also a vague uneasy feeling about being in a new place or does being high in South Africa for the first time create some funny drug-induced feelings about the reality of the place?  Mostly, I start feeling paranoid about getting busted by the South African government.  And I start worrying about the letter I’d sent from Zimbabwe the previous month mentioning some of the illegal activities and plans of my white businessman friend, George.  Jesus, if the Zim postal service happened to read that letter, I’m sure the security guys could figure out who “George” really is.  Yeah, but I’d already spoken on an international call with the recipient of the letter in Colorado who said the envelope didn’t appear to have been tampered with.  I need to calm down, forget all this nonsense, and enjoy the high!  

Lester picks me up after running a couple of errands, and we go over to his house for dinner.  His pretty Indian wife, Belinda, fixes a delicious curried crayfish and shrimp dinner.  We’re pouring down brandy and Lester explains that hot curry neutralizes the effects of the booze.  You may get the shits, but at least you’re not hung over the next day.  Greg, the coloured businessman, and his wife, Desiree, join us for dinner.  So does Dev, the Indian teacher.

We get into some good raps.  Lester says all the material things he owns like his stereo, color TV, VCR, and video camera are just so much shit.  What he really wants is equality and freedom.  He tells me that I’m the first white man he’s ever invited to spend the night in his home.  Dev comments that the South African Tourist Bureau is probably using me in one way or another.  He warns me that mail does get opened – especially letters going out of the country.

This evening I’m seeing a totally different side of South Africa.  It’s more fun, but it’s also a more frightening reality.  The average white tourist would never meet people like this and would, therefore, never start to FEEL the harsh realities of this country.  And these people aren’t even poor or black!

I am reminded of a conversation with Greg two evenings earlier. We were looking across the valley from his middle class coloured home in Buffalo Flats to the shacks of black Duncan Village.  Greg said that the black worker who is a typical “Yes, baas – ass kisser” man to his white employer during the day may be over there in Duncan Village right now giving an eloquent political speech to other blacks gathered around a fire.  Yes, there are many realities in South Africa.