Apartheid Museum - Another Look

This week, I made my third visit to the Apartheid Museum at Johannesburg. Someday, I could earn a few Rands here as a guide!

This time I accompanied Siddharth. I was keen that he (and Abhishek whom I took on a similar tour last month) developed an understanding – even if an incipient one – of the several things that this experience must teach us human beings. I wanted him to get an idea of how walls built in human minds can shut out rationality and compassion. How we are capable of the cruelest of indignities and worse and have no trouble in justifying the indefensible. How human spirit cannot be broken by incarceration and lashes and bullets. But above all, I was very keen that both the children grasp the marvelous courage that goes into forgiveness and reconciliation. A miracle that was born less than two decades ago, a miracle of Nelson Mandela’s leadership and the bigheartedness of millions of South Africans.

(Siddharth next to one of the images in the museum - the coal miners during apartheid)

For me, this was the best visit of the three. I have just finished reading John Carlin’s Playing the Enemy. The book is a fine snapshot of the history of the years that followed the end of apartheid. It uses the events leading up to the finals of World Cup Rugby as the core around which the fascinating tale of Mandela’s contribution is built. On this visit to the museum I could identify many of the dramatis personae of the story among the documentaries and artifacts. It made my connection with the tale so much more vivid and real.

“I am a Yankee”, he tells the crowd at New York’s Yankee Stadium, much to their obvious delight.

He spars with George Foreman in lighthearted shadow play.

27 years after being locked up in solitariness, breaking stones and other menial labour, he retains his dignity and poise; I watch him on film, travelling in London in an open buggy with the Queen - he looks like the real royalty!

He tells a deeply moved Cameron Diaz “I love you too” in reply to her kiss on his cheek.

He puts President Klerk in his place in a speech in his presence, that feels and sounds like the steel of his resolve.

And, he appears at the World Cup final in the Springbok jersey, sporting on the back (the number of South Africa’s captain Pienar) and electrifies the entire nation; in the eyes of the blacks, the Springbok was, after all, a hated symbol of the apartheid.

Watching those documentaries of Mandela is an experience! His humanity is moving. The experience chokes me up and unless I am worried about others watching me, I do not bother fighting the tears. That is also the reason why I read the book on Mandela in solitariness!

The Happy Mosotho!

I am picking apples in the local Fruit and Veg. Next to me is a Mosotho male,making his selection. I look up and our gaze meets. he breaks into an open happy smile and calls out, "N'tate!". (In-da-day) "How are you N'tate?" he goes on to ask. "Kea phella hantle, kealeboa (I am well, thank you)", I reply in my basic Sesotho. He breaks into a wider grin, clasps my hand in a Basotho hand-shake (hand shaken thrice in succession in different grips) and shows unadeltrated pleasure. We talk a bit and then he leaves, his N'tate ringing in that part of the store.

I see Basotho people as a happy lot. The above example is repeated endlessly everywhere. Don't get me wrong - the happiness is not merely at looking at a 'foreigner' or even at a foreigner who chooses to respond in a bit of Sesotho. It is the same when they greet each other in streets, shops and everywhere else. The word N'tate (a respectful salutation for men) is easily the most used word in Sesotho. Every man is a N'tate. It has nothing to do with his perceived status or station.

Politeness is endemic. Everyone smiles at you before speaking. Blowing a horn is considered a mark of discourtesy. People give each other way on street, allowing another car to pass before driving on. Pedestrians are treated with care.

They dance easily. As I mentioned in another post, one of my colleagues is sure that God chose to fit an iPod in the mind of each inhabitant of Lesotho. There is a tune on all the time and you can see that in the sway in their bodies. Add some external music and you have a party. Sometimes a party of one!

What makes them a happy people? Remember that we are talking about the people of one of the poorest countries on land and a nation that is battling with 23 percent (official figures) of HIV/AIDS prevalence.

And what makes us grumpy? Why are we perpetually impatient? Here, I am yet to hear a horn blow in a traffic jam. Back home, the INSTANT lights turn green, the entire cavalcade bursts into frantic horn-pushing, exhorting the man ahead to smash through the man ahead of him, if possible! We never acknowledge the presence of another stranger in a lift or street. We wear a scowl on our faces as if we are paid for it. Has life become too unbearable for us? Is it the pressures exerted on resources of all kinds by a population whose growth should worry us but doesn't? Are we in too much of a hurry? To get where?

There are things to be learnt from this happy people!

Writer's Block

If I stretch the description of my secret ambition, I would say that I aspire to be a writer! I have always wanted to be one, though, clearly, that 'want' has fallen well short of the point where serious effort can begin. When I visit the blogosphere, I see that there are many people who write with apparent ease and felicity! Some have interesting stuff to peddle but others are happily strewing the scene with the mundane and yet coming up with readable pieces. The amount of work that appears each day fills me up with amazement and considerable envy. Why can't I roll off words to describe my daily life and attract readers? Is that so because my routine is, well, very routine? So is it for the others! Am I then the chosen one who has a congenital and persistent case of Writer's Block? Or could it be that I am intending and thinking about writing rather than doing the actual writing? I suspect that even my vote will go for the latter. Two of my friends have ascribed their writing to a motivation from within or above. They don't struggle when the urge comes calling. Clearly, I am not in that orbit. A few months ago I read parts of a series of interviews on the Guardian online. Accomplished writers were presented with questions on their approach to the art and craft of writing. On the question of how to get inspiration to write, there was unanimity; there is seldom a flash from above. One simply has to sit down - preferably at the same time each day - and dig the elbows into the desk and force the words onto the page. Or the screen. That is the mantra, they said. The only one.

We Watched A Game!

When Brazil met Egypt in a Confederation Cup fixture, we were in the Bloemfontein stadium to watch them play.

By all accounts, Confederation Cup is a test for South Africa. FIFA World Cup is less than twelve months away. One question has repeatedly been asked inside and outside the country – is South Africa ready?

There is the spectre of daily violence, particularly in Johannesburg and Pretoria. Hijacking of cars, armed robberies, murders and even shootouts on streets are commonplace. Most houses hide behind tall walls and spiked gates and protected by security companies with alarms and round the clock guards. Streets in these two towns empty out by last light. Travel advisories bluntly caution visitors against seeking out strangers on the street with queries. The situation is not showing any promise.

An international tournament of this – indeed any – stature has logistical requirements that are rigorous. Slip-ups are likely to be quickly grabbed by media and held up. National prestige may be made or marred.

We were met at the stadium by an army of volunteers eager to read our ticket and show us directions. There was an air of happy urgency that only detailed briefings and rehearsals produce. Security was all pervasive. Everything appeared efficient and in place – barring a sign-post that pointed us to the wrong entrance.

The stadium was full up to the brim on all the lower tiers. The crowd was joyous, festive and very intent on being audible! Minus the generous flow of beer that I saw in the IPL T20 match last month, it was party time!

I love the rhythm that people here have in their bodies. I love the complete spontaneity with which they break into a dance. They validate one of my cherished beliefs i.e. to lead you life fully the principle is the same as for dancing in public – you must pretend that no one is looking! The crowd sang and danced, supporting Brazil and Egypt both, almost in equal measure. My colleague Manish has got it right, “God has fitted them with internal iPods”.

There were not two set of fans – everyone was taking turns to support either team. And Brazil and Egypt gave seven reasons for cheer and happiness. Brazil won 4-3 in the dying moments, two of the victors’ goals coming from world’s most expensive player, Kaka.

Though, with a name like this, in my country he would not have made it beyond his mother’s lap!

Autumn

The landscape is ochre-brown. Vast open spaces yield to no other hue. Only at a few places do we see trees that have turned lime-yellow. They will rather shed leaves than to make any further concession to autumn.

It is cold now. There is a dryness in the air that carries no intimation of rain, much less snow. But we are expecting to see whiteness on the mountains around us. I believe, a couple of years ago, it even snowed in Maseru. We await that with expectation that has hardly dimmed since childhood.

Yesterday we drove to the North, past TY and Leribe (and the dinosaur foot-prints) and to Liphophung (DI-pho-fung) caves where King Moshoeshoe I had taken shelter. In the coming few days we will travel to Bloemfontein, Pretoria and Durban. Siddharth is here with us and we want him to see these places.