CHAPTER 5 AFRICA GROWING UP

 

CHAPTER 5

 

AFRICA

 

GROWING UP

some sad reminders of growing up in South Africa

After a blissful bare-foot and care-free childhood the age of boarding school came around all too soon and soon after my 12^th birthday, I joined many other reluctant pre-teens as we went to the 'big' city of Bloemfontein in South Africa to shop for our new uniforms. The all-girls school of choice was Eunice Girls’ School, recommended and approved by several other families in our little town.   The store where we bought our uniforms was called John Orr’s and was one of the biggest I’d ever seen. 

There were many departments such as women’s wear, gloves and hats, menswear, shoes, haberdashery and luggage in the basement. The floors were all polished wood and each department had a counter behind which stood an expectant assistant.  Here she served customers, assisting with enquiries and upon receiving payment she placed the money in a little bag above her, attached to a maze of wires and pulleys.  This system lifted the bag up to the ceiling where it slowly moved the bag along the wires until it reached a cage-like office perched high above the customers where a little grey, bespectacled man sat who counted the money and issued a receipt.  He then returned our change along the same pulley system.  This I found fascinating and decided there and then that when I left school I would like to work in just such a shop.  

“Gouie More Mevrou, Kan ek u help?” (Good morning Madam, can I help you?) She asked in a high pitched voice.

My French mother couldn’t (and wouldn’t) speak a word of Afrikaans but she understood enough to answer in perfect English “My daughter is going to Eunice Girls School and needs to be kitted out with their uniform” 

“Thet will be the thirrrd floor Medem”  the saleslady replied, directing us to a row of lifts at the back of the shop.

I was very excited to be taken in a lift and on arriving at the third floor I was immediately whisked away by a tight lipped, efficient lady with a pastel coloured Crimpolene dress and hair sprayed into a 'do-not-disturb' style.  I was measured all over and dull green and black clothing was produced together with matching bloomers, thick tights, sensible black lace-up shoes and two hats, one for every day and another for Sundays.  I don't think I had ever owned so many clothes and my feet protested achingly when I tried on the closed in lace-up leather shoes after so many years of bare-footed freedom.

When all the correct clothes had been purchased and the name tapes ordered it was time to look at material for my casual dresses.  My mother never bought me a dress when she could sew it on her old Singer sewing machine.  Three pieces of sensible cotton material were chosen each with a summery pattern of flowers on a coloured background.

Back home I was measured and my mother began to make my new dresses which were simple straight sleeveless shifts with a large hem for letting down at a later stage.

Once the name tapes had been printed and delivered, Mum and Agnes our maid then spent many hours sewing them on to every single item that I would be taking away to school.  Hems were taken up ensuring that they were no more and no less than three fingers above the knee, until I arrived at school whereupon I took out my own sewing kit and shortened all my dresses to at least six fingers above the knee, the mini skirt being in fashion at that time.  The list for casual clothes was much shorter than for the school uniform and I was only allowed three summer dresses, one pair of black sandals, underwear in white only, two nightgowns, one robe and a pair of slippers.  Never, never were we to walk bare-foot again.

I do remember that we had some problems finding the black casual sandals and my father eventually bought some white ones and ordered them to be dyed black.  However, this meant that on my first day at school, I had no shoes to wear in the hostel.  Since this didn't pose a problem to me I promptly arrived at the dining hall in my bare feet.  The shocked matron sent me packing.

 “Rebekah Beales!  How dare you walk around with no shoes on.  Go and put some on immediately!”

The extent of her outrage was akin to my having walked downstairs naked with a feather in my bum.

This being my first day away from home I was feeling a little unhappy not to mention very homesick.  With a quivering lip I tried to explain.

“Matron, my casual shoes haven’t arrived yet, they are still being dyed black”

I was made to wear my new black lace-up leather shoes, much to the delight of the other girls who all had wardrobes bulging with casual clothes and shoes of every colour, their mothers not paying any attention to the lists at all.

On this first big day the whole family crammed into the car and my father drove us to Bloemfontein with my suitcases carefully packed with neatly folded and labelled new clothes.  I had a shiny new metal tuck box stocked with home-made biscuits and sensible healthy snacks and locked with a large padlock, the keys safely stored in my purse.  I was filled with a sense of dread which completely over-shadowed any excitement or anticipation at making new friends or living away from home. I suspected I was losing my freedom and my childhood. 

As a very special treat my father took us out to lunch at the Cecil Hotel where we were served a feast of baby chicken in the basket.  Faced with this most sought after meal I found my chest had suddenly filled with what felt like a large and heavy block of wood that closed my throat completely and forbade the swallowing of even the tiniest morsel of food. I looked around the table to see if anyone had noticed my uncharacteristic lack of appetite only to find my mother sitting at the opposite end of the table staring at her food and very obviously feeling exactly the same as me.

Arriving at the hostel I was shown to my dormitory which was extremely Spartan and in no way resembled a homely bedroom.  Long rows of narrow beds greeted us with cupboards for our clothes.  No carpets, no pictures, no lamps.  We were given instructions about putting our clothes away and warned that no pictures could be stuck on walls nor any personal effects left on the bedside table or bed.  These dormitories were not designed for comfort and in no way could be described as a home-away-from-home, resembling an austere nun’s cell in a convent more than a young girl’s bedroom.

The lump of wood in my chest grew bigger as my mother finished unpacking and the time came to say goodbye. But with my father being in a hurry to get on the road and reach home before nightfall all that was left was a quick hug goodbye with my mother and I hiding our tears and biting hard on our lips to keep control of our emotions.

“Wh-when will I see you again?”I asked tearfully.

“Well, you’ve only just got here Rebekah” said my father. 

And that was it.  Goodbye to my blissful and innocent childhood.

Most of the girls I attended school with, were from South African farms and all were fully bilingual in the compulsory two languages at that time, being English and Afrikaans.  Having lived in a small independent African country where I was educated in English with French as the second language taught at school, I didn’t speak a word of Afrikaans which meant I was immediately at a disadvantage.  Extra classes were arranged for all the 'foreigners' and twice a week I was joined by girls from Zambia, Rhodesia, Lesotho and Swaziland as we reluctantly surrendered our playtime to the miseries of getting our tongues around a new language, which we eventually discovered was quite manageable as we all easily attained our necessary 50% pass to move up the following year.

Holidays were excitedly anticipated and a week before the term ended all the suitcases were dragged down to the common room where we packed and repacked amongst excited shrieks and laughter as we eagerly shared our plans for the holidays.  Some girls would be discussing their forthcoming holidays in Lourenco Marques in Mozambique or a beach holiday in Durban, but I couldn't wait to get back to our quiet little town, to riding my bike through the bush, climbing trees and building little fires outdoors to 'cook' our lunch on. With the last night of midnight feasts over with, we eagerly awaited the arrival of our parents' cars to carry us home where we were quick to remove all school clothing and revert to our shorts-and-bare-foot-uniform for the blessed month of freedom.

As with all things in life, I did eventually get used to the months of incarceration and in fact began to enjoy my new friends, our escapades and adventures which only fellow boarders can share.  There were initiations, school dances, sports functions and midnight feasts.  And there were detentions, being ill in the sanatorium without Mum to nurse us, homework, exams and always the first night back and the dreaded homesickness.

I can’t honestly say that my school days were my best days but I survived with some good memories and lifetime friends.

After school I did my obligatory Secretarial college year in the big city of Johannesburg. I lived at the Y.W.C.A. in Braamfontein where most of my friends were newly arrived and attending various colleges themselves. Johannesburg in the early 70’s was exciting and still safe.  Hillbrow was the place to be and we spent our evenings and weekends cruising Pretoria Street.  The Bella Napoli was good for dancing and Fontana for late night roast chicken where we could stand and watch the Hells Angels who we greatly admired with their big motorbikes and long hair.

While the rest of the country slept, Hillbrow hummed with action and we felt we had finally arrived!  During those days we were very sheltered by the White Apartheid Government.  No pornography, no gambling, no sex before marriage, no homosexuality, no mixing of races, no TV.  And because of the sanctions put in place by other countries we were fairly cut off from the rest of the world.  Very few celebrities or famous music groups would dare to step foot in South Africa for fear of reprisal from their fans back home so our entertainment was all home-grown. And controlled.

Hillbrow was the closest we could get to the London and New York buzz.  Here there were foreigners living in the high rise blocks of flats who brought their worldly wise opinions and lifestyles with them.  The controlled white youth of South Africa were looking for more and here they were introduced to the world of drugs, pornography and inter-racial relationships; of not being scared to express one’s opinions even though they may be contrary to P.W.Botha’s Government. 

Many times I witnessed white police on the streets rounding up coloureds and blacks for some misdemeanour or other.  I seldom questioned, even silently, why these white policemen felt they were so superior to the supposed criminals they were herding into the backs of their vans.  Their crimes were often little more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or not possessing their passbooks, a document all non-white people had to carry on them at all times.

I realise now that I lived in a completely different South Africa to the one the non-whites were resident in.  We shared the same country, the same soil, the same sun and we breathed the same air.  But the Government brain-washed us white children into believing that we were the superior race and for that reason we were entitled to the best that the country had to offer.  The best beaches, best areas to live in, best shops, best buses, best compartments on the trains, best schools.  We were brought up to believe that white people were too good to do manual work and that we couldn’t live in a house without at least one servant to clean up after us.

How completely brain-washed we were! How conditioned we became to believing we deserved this entitled and indulgent life we led. As a child I never questioned that we lived in a big, clean, cool house while our maid should live in a little shack in the garden with no electricity or water.  Nor that she should work long hours in the heat while my mother sunned herself on the porch sipping cool drinks and chatting with her friends.  In later years I did the same…….

I do remember a time when it hit home.  I had been living in Botswana, a completely independent country bordering South Africa but so different in every way especially regarding race where even the President, Sir Seretse Khama had married a white English woman. In the late 70’s I decided to move to Cape Town to find work and taste some city life again.

I was sitting at an outdoor restaurant in the Botanical Gardens in Cape Town.  Two very well dressed, well spoken black men sat down at a table nearby.  By their accents and dress I realised they were from another country and were obviously completely ignorant of the apartheid laws with regard to blacks eating in a whites-only restaurant.  People stared and muttered and a waitress was sent to do the dirty deed. 

“Excuse me”, she almost shouted, “You are NOT allowed to sit here!” 

“Why not?” they asked her, looking confused.

“This restaurant is for WHITE people only” she proclaimed happily. “You must leave.”

They were obviously intelligent, educated businessmen and left without any fuss.  I had to get up from my table and slink away into the gardens to hide my shame as I became aware of how stupid our laws were and that I, due to my white skin and life-style was in agreement and acceptance of these laws.