LONG ENOUGH IN JO'BURG

Zenga Longmore on the

way South Africans entertain black tourists

WHENEVER a white person deigned to speak to me in Harare, I knew he or she must be South African and not Zimbab- wean. The Zimbabwe whites treated me with utter disgust, and refused to speak, even when I patted one of their numerous pomeranians. They felt very bitter that `they' (the blacks) had taken over, and I was one of 'them'.

The white South Africans, however, on hearing my English accent, forced drinks down my throat at an alarming rate, begging me to see the light concerning the glories of apartheid. When they found out I'd actually been to Johannesburg, they preened themselves in ecstasy.

`How did you like it? Isn't it a wonderful town!'

`Well, apart from not being allowed in the buses, restaurants, hotels, shops and practically everywhere else, yes, it's wonderful.'

`Oh, but it's got to be like that, don't you see! Before we came there, the blecks had nothing, just huts, then we came and gave them houses to live in — OK, slightly far out from where they work, but still they have free electricity. We've done every- thing for them. Everything, and what have they done in return? Thrown it all back in our faces. Don't laugh! The average bleck is at its happiest when leading a simple life, leaving the politics to us!'

`Personally speaking, I'm at my happiest when leading a complicated life, full of steamy intrigue.'

`You! You're different. You're from a superior culture to them. You're nothing like the blecks back home. You should come over to my father's farm and see what they've done to the toilets there! If these people can't even use a loo without making a hash of the whole thing, imagine the mess they'd make of running a country!'

`You racialist, you!'

`No I'm not! I'm talking to you, aren't I! And what's so funny?'

The more they talked, the more I drank, so the more I laughed. At the end of the conversation I would be rocking in my seat, cackling and wiping my eyes, as I was told how the `blecks' are the lowest form of animal life.

The white Zimbabweans would sniff disdainfully. They must have thought I was being amused by witty repartee, and humorous one-liners.

All this took place in Zimbabwe, where I could talk to the whites with ease, and laugh at them safely without fear of being bashed over the head with a truncheon. Actually being in Johannesburg was another story altogether.

May this year saw my white step- brother, Fabian, and I step off the plane in a blaze of sunshine at Johannesburg air- port. My heart was in my mouth. I felt that anything could happen in this, the world's most controversial country. Would people mistake Fabian and me for man and wife and arrest us? Fabian, who had been there before, assured me that we would be safe.

Queueing for immigration was lengthy and slow; I suppose we were all being checked to see if we were subversives in any way. I smiled toothily at the officer, and used my best English accent on him, but he eyed me suspiciously, and only after a five minute gaze into a computer did he reluctantly let me through.

The airbus is the only form of mixed public transport in Johannesburg, so luck- ily Fabian and I could sit together as we whizzed through the Jo'burg suburbs. Large bungalows line the streets, inter- spersed with dinky little shops. Worn- looking African women, laden with shop- ping, plodded slowly in ones and twos, sulky white babies slumped on their backs. Men crowded around the shops, smoking and drinking beer out of cans. Few whites walked the streets, no Africans drove the cars.

As soon as we approached the town centre, diamonds seemed to fall from the sky. Jo'burg glittered. Buildings shone in a haze of concrete and glass. Exquisite parks were dotted here and there, shops were filled with designer clothes, gold and pre- cious gems, opulence radiated.

We alighted from the bus and picked up the heavy luggage. 'The hotel's a ten minute walk away,' said Fabian. 'I usually walk through the station, but I'm afraid we can't today.' Why not?' The station was an enormous stretch of polished wood and glass, but completely devoid of passengers. Then I looked up at a huge sign above the station, and almost dropped the luggage in shock. 'WHITE ONLY.' The letters were huge and belligerent. I have read and read about such things, but actually seeing them there in front of me, and knowing they actually meant business, shook me to the hilt. To think there is a law which say Fabian can walk in that station, but his sister can't . . I was lost for words, and could only nod my head and pick up bags.

A little way up I saw the sign: 'BLACKS, ASIANS, COLOUREDS.' A small, dark room crammed with people, arms and legs flail- ing, yet no one seemed to be talking. No noise, just an ominous silence.

`The white station's ten times the size of the black, yet it's always empty because all the whites have cars,' Fabian pointed out, rather unnecessarily.

So at last we reached the President Hotel, a towering skyscraper gleaming with power and strength. I began to feel a deep pang of guilt. A black man and white woman stood at the reception. I wondered if they got paid the same wage. They were both friendly and chatty, and soon a porter was showing us up to our rooms.

`Give my sister the nicest room.'

`Your sister!' The porter began to laugh. When Fabian knocked on my door, half an hour later, we ordered a pot of tea from room service. 'Either you or I will have to disappear into the bathroom when the waiter arrives.' Why?"Because there'll be trouble if we're caught in the same room.' `But we're brother and sister.' But still, one of us ought to stay out of the way, just in case.' Shame on you! How can you deny your own sister just because of some ridiculous law they've cooked up here.'

A knock on the door, and a black waiter stepped into the room, balancing a tea tray. The shock of seeing me sprawled on the bed, and Fabian lounged on a chair, almost caused him to lose his balance. He stared from me to Fabian in utter disbelief, then, with trembling hands, clattered the tray on the side table, and darted out. `Wait,' I cried. 'Your tip!' But he was gone, some dreadful crime was being committed almost before his very eyes. `Tea, Fabian?'

That evening we ventured out into town. The streets were wide and sumptuous. Fabian told me there was only one res- taurant where we could safely eat together, •and that was an Indian restaurant in the back streets of town. Walking through the streets, began to feel numb. The whites all seemed to have stepped off a Dallas film set. Women strolled in de- signer dresses, crowned with Dynasty hair styles, arm in arm with men in immacu- late suits and some- what loud ties. Black vagrants were every- where: lying asleep in parks, disused cars, and pavements, sitting in classic poses of de- spair on benches and the sides of streets. Often, a Joan Collins look-alike would step daintily over a sprawling figure without a glance, and continue to chatter to her beau. As we walked along, we received such outraged stares from one and all as to make my heart's blood freeze. People stopped in their tracks to stare, and mum- ble loudly. A group of African men, standing around a takeaway café, spat at us in one accord, as we walked quickly past. Two white men, well into middle age, pushed into me, causing me to trip over, and ran on without an apology. The Indian restaurant was small and dark, with excellent food and service, but somehow I found that my appetite had gone. There were many mixed couples, hidden away in the darkness, chatting and laughing. On the way back we passed a long cinema queue of whites dressed up to the nines, creamy faces heavy with disdain. At the end of the queue was an African man, a young man, maybe in his late teens, picking his way through a rubbish bin. The cinema was showing Beverly Hills Cop. That night I had terrible nightmares, inter- rupted by two massive explosions at two in the morning.

Next day we met Tandie Klaason, South Africa's number one jazz singer, a small lively woman, full of laughter and fighting spirit. 'That's where my brother was tried to be hung.' She pointed to an imposing High Court building. 'Then the man who had actually committed the offence confes- sed a year later, and my mother died of the shock. I also lost my sister around that time when she was beaten to death by thugs coming out of Soweto. It may have been the same thugs who threw petrol on me and set me alight — I don't know.' Her face was tragically scarred. 'Let's go and see my friend. He's Indian, so he's not really allowed to live in Jo'burg, but he does. He's a very brave man!'

Walking to his flat with Tandie was like walking with Michael Jackson. Every black person we passed stopped and gaped in awe. 'Hi sis Tandie! How wonderful to see you!' People shouted and waved from every direction. `Hi sis Tandie! Hi sis Tandie."Wow! You're a film star,' I gasped. Tandie laughed and squeezed my hand.

The Indian's flat was gaudy to say the least. An orange carpet with purple blotch- es, green vinyl sofa and gilt cocktail cabinets that played music when opened. `Come in, come in!' He was a small wiry man, with a constantly amused expression. Tandie looked at him proudly, and seated herself. 'Oh, so you're from London, I see. What's it like? Is it true you have West Indians there? It must be dreadful. They're frightfully violent, aren't they.' Fabian was too shocked to reply, leaving me to mur- mur a raspy 'No.'

`I'm not allowed to live here, but what I say to the police is: "I'm coloured, and we have coloureds in Parliament now, so I have a right to live where I please — it's not as if I'm black." ' And an amused chuckle rippled forth.

`Er — who's that baby in the photo?' I asked quickly to change the subject. 'Oh, that's my son. Would you like to see him? Sarah!' he bellowed, in so savage a roar that I laughed, thinking he was joking. `Bring in my boy!'

Next minute: 'Here, master.' A bowed black woman of middle years padded in, head bent, eyes averted, holding in her arms a fat, grey slug of a child.

`Ah! You see, my son! OK Sarah, a pot of tea for four."Yes, master.' And take my son back!"Yes, master.' And she padded out again. I looked at Tandie, who beamed back.

As soon as we left his flat, Tandie, who had kept up a respectful silence, burst into talk. 'Oh, isn't he nice! Although he's a coloured, and I'm black, he lets me come into his flat to chat, and sometimes gives me a meal. Colour doesn't make any difference to him.' Oh,' I said, thinking of Sarah.

`There's a club where we can all go to tonight. Can you im- agine! A black, a col- oured, and a white but it won't matter,' she chortled.

Fabian and Tandie went out to a night- club, while I lay in bed. I ordered a cup of tea. The waiter arrived, looking nervously right and left, and plonked the tray down. `He's not even allowed to buy property here,' I thought. 'He's probably got a wife working in one place as a maid, and kids living in another with not enough to eat.' `How can you stand it here?' I asked, ludicrously overtipping him with Fabian's money. He hurried silently from the room.

Next day we boarded the plane, Lesotho bound. Freedom! 'Bye Jo'burg!' I said, and stuck my two fingers up at the plane window.

Two weeks later, when I had arrived in Zimbabwe, a blonde bespectacled South African said: 'But you were only there for two days! How can you say you didn't like it? You weren't there for long enough!'

Not there long enough! I spluttered into my double G and T.