CHAPTERS ELEVEN TO THIRTEEN

(Note: At this stage of the novel, Rohan’s attempt to track down his stolen possessions has backfired. He is beaten and dumped in the Karoo, where a local family, the Van Stadens, look after him. He befriends Anna-Maria Van Staden, a headstrong, intelligent young woman about to leave for Cape Town to start her university studies, and they arrange to drive down together.) ELEVEN They didn’t speak much during the first hour of driving. The mellow tones of songs from the Travis album The Invisible Band, slightly warped by the combined effect of a stretched tape and an old cassette player, nevertheless made excellent driving music. Much more road-trippy than a CD. Listening to one of the tracks, “Side”, Rohan noticed for the first time that the distinct cry of seagulls and surf could be heard in the background. He thought of wildlife documentaries; the seagull cries were gentle and calm but somehow not free, not swooping and shrieking and climbing to fall into the freedom of flight and noise and sea below as seagulls should. Somehow artificial. But still beautiful. It made his head swirl with the confusion of their conversation from the previous day. Then the tape reached the end of its reel, turned automatically from Side A to Side B, and a very different kind of song started playing, much more upbeat, lots of guitar strumming. The Bear Naked Ladies, “Never is enough”. Rohan knew it well from his university days, and loved it. But he heard the lyrics now as if for the first time.       I could go to Europe and travel with my friends I could blow a thousand Deutschmarks to get drunk in a pub with some Australians         Buy a giant backpack         Sew a flag on the back         I think never is enough, yeah never is enough         You never have to do that stuff … They made fun of all the traditional rites of passage. Why hadn’t he understood that before?         Undoubtedly, his interest had been sparked by their discussion about books and overseas travel, and he wanted to hear more from this fascinating young lady, but Anna-Maria wasn’t very talkative. An attentive frown wrinkled her forehead. Trying not to stare, Rohan studied her face, her eyes. Her expression suggested intense concentration on the driving. Perhaps not. Rohan soon became aware that she was surveying the landscape closely, contemplating what she saw around her. She was absorbed in the red earth of this hot, dry land: her eyes glanced from the bushes and desert scrub to the road, back to the open plains, and back again to the road. The Karoo horizon, no doubt so familiar to her, still seemed a source of fascination. Rohan could not understand (for he saw only sand and patches of grass, a dessicated sea-bed under a bone-dry sky) that Anna-Maria was observing the intricate workings of a world she knew to be as profound and rich as it was harsh and arid. She had a lot to teach people like him.         They stopped at Beaufort West to get a bite to eat. Rohan tried to start a conversation. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy your time at UCT. It’s a beautifully situated campus, isn’t it?’         ‘So I’ve heard.’         ‘You mean you haven’t seen it before?’         ‘No. How could I have visited it? I’ve never been to Cape Town.’         Rohan was flabbergasted. Never been to Cape Town! It was one thing not to have had the chance to travel overseas, but here was one of the top tourist destinations in the world, hardly a few hours from her home in the tiny little great big Karoo. It was a joke, surely.           ‘I don’t believe you!’ he scoffed. ‘Never been to Cape Town? It’s the best place in this country, everyone knows that! I mean, come on, it’s only 450 kilometres from here. Surely you could have gone before now?’         Anna-Maria was about to say something, but paused, turned, and walked back to the car. Rohan thought that he must have offended her and, suddenly feeling that he had been very condescending to this small-town girl and was ruining what must have been an exciting new journey for her, trotted after her.         ‘Anna-Maria, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean - ’         She opened the car and leaned inside to get something from the cubby-hole. Then, facing Rohan, she said impatiently, ‘You know what else is 450 kilometres from here? Cape St Francis. In a different direction of course. South-east, not south-west. And if you go north for 450 kilometres, you can get to Philippolis if you really want to. Have you ever been to Philippolis, Rohan? It’s in the Free State. A lovely little town. Laurens van der Post used to live there, for what it’s worth. Or do you prefer the coast? I, too, have been on many holidays to the coast. The quickest way to get there is, in fact, not to go west on the N1 to Cape Town, but south on the N12 via Oudtshoorn. Look.’         With that she pulled from behind her back a thick book, The AA New Southern African Book of the Road, thumbed through it, slammed it open on the roof of the car, and began pointing to places on the map as she spoke. Her voice was animated, her tone informative, but it was clear that she was reproaching him: ‘You want to be a tourist? George. Wilderness. Sedgefield. Knysna. Plett. Or maybe be a bit more adventurous? Go inland; climb Spitskop, Witberg; go further, to the Kammanassieberge; follow the Olifants River; go west into the Klein Karoo, visit Calitzdorp for the hell of it, plunge into the Cango Caves, admire the Swartberg Pass. Do you see what I’m saying, Rohan? It would take you hours just to read all the names on this page. Days to find every town, koppie, river, and dirt road on the rest of the pages in this book. There are some places that aren’t even on the map. You could spend your entire life going to see everything represented on this map. I haven’t forgotten yesterday’s conversation. They say you should know your own country before you leave it to travel elsewhere. I say, show your country some respect - don’t rush it, or rush through it. I haven’t seen far or wide, but I have seen close by, and closely.’     She was about to shut the book, then paged a little further on instead. She spoke very quietly, deliberately: ‘One other thing, Rohan. There are a few other interesting place names here. You might recognise some of them - they’re in your old part of the world. Tembisa. Soweto. Famous names. What about the nameless squatter camps near Ficksburg and Wadeville? Or Mohlakeng? Or Ga-Motlaila? Lebohang. Empilisweni. No, you don’t recognise those last couple, do you? Well you know what, Rohan? There are people living in those places who will never, ever get to Cape Town. They may even die before they have the chance to swim in the sea. Some people can’t even afford to travel in a taxi; some people can, and then get killed in a road accident on the way. They only know a few places in their small world, and they aren’t very beautiful places either. So if you think about it, it’s not such a bad thing after all that I’m twenty years old and this is the first time I’m going to Cape Town. I’m very privileged, in fact.’          She dropped the book on the front seat. Rohan wanted to pick it up, follow the blue and red lines that ran like veins over the pages, study the names she had mentioned - but she shut the door firmly and began walking away from the car again. He was terribly embarrassed; but when she was about ten metres away, Anna-Maria turned to him with wide, friendly eyes and an open smile. ‘Come on,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Let’s get something to eat. We’ve still got 450 kilometres to go!’ TWELVE When they reached Laingsburg, Rohan offered to drive. In the short time he had known Anna-Maria, he had developed a great respect for her open heart and open mind, for the equanimity that allowed her to reprimand and reassure in the same breath; and yet her self-possession made him feel uncomfortable. He was older than her and (it still seemed to him, despite his earlier humiliation) wiser; certainly, he had a broader range of real-world experience. He wanted to put her composure to the test, and wanted to be - literally - in the driver’s seat when, in a hundred kilometres or so, the scenery changed. The dry vastness of the Karoo, with which she was so intimately acquainted, would give way to the lush valleys and dramatic mountain peaks of the Western Cape; and he was sure she would be awe-struck by their unimaginable beauty, as so many had been before her.         ‘So if you’ve never been to Cape Town, presumably you’ve never driven through the Hex River Valley,’ he suggested.         ‘No … and I haven’t driven through the Hexriviervallei either,’ she answered in an exaggerated Afrikaans accent, looking sideways at Rohan with a glimmer of sarcasm in her eyes.         The light-hearted exchange gave Rohan a chance to hint at his conclusion:  ‘Well, prepare yourself for a sight you won’t ever see on a map. In fact, you won’t find it in a book either - words or pictures!’         They descended into the pass as the sun was setting behind the Hex River Mountains. The beautiful valley opened itself to them. The colour, tone, shape and shade of the farmland was broken only by quiet lime-washed farmhouses; the majesty of the jagged peaks stood guard over the neat symmetry of the planted fields. Rohan drove slowly, in an exultant mood, almost feeling like a tour guide.         ‘What more could Mother Nature provide?’ he enthused in resonant tones. ‘Mountains, rivers, golden skies, lush green grass, vineyards …’         He was desperate to hear Anna-Maria’s response. Perhaps she was struck dumb by the grandeur. The road continued to wind left and right, each turn offering a new view.         ‘All this - and townships,’ she observed.         Rohan couldn’t deny it. There, some distance from the quaint houses and rolling fields, but still very much a part of the valley, was a motley collection of tin shacks and tumble-down houses, spreading quite far into the hills on the near side, and built on a stretch of dry and dusty ground that was more appropriate to the Karoo than to this otherwise fertile area. Whereas the distant farmland seemed idyllic, as if no-one actually lived there, the township was decidedly populous: people ran across the streets, or cycled along them, as wisps of smoke rose from evening fires; a group of larger buildings turned out, on closer inspection, to be a school, and in the last hour of light some boys were playing soccer on a huge slab of concrete with goals at either end.         ‘There is no document of civilisation that is not at the same time a document of barbarism,’ murmured Anna-Maria.         ‘What?’ Rohan was confused. He was still trying to get over the intrusion on his pastoral reverie.         ‘Walter Benjamin.’         ‘Ben-ya-who?’         ‘Benjamin. He was a German writer and philosopher, a socio-political theorist. In one of his essays he argues that there is no document of civilisation that is not at the same time a document of barbarism. Look at the ridiculous contrast here. Mother Nature is one thing; she provided the mountains and the river. But the farmland - that is cultivated. It’s a document of civilisation. To sustain the farmland, you need workers. To make as much money as possible, you have to pay your workers badly. Cheap labour. It’s been the foundation stone of mines, factories, even people’s homes, for years now - since the Bantustans and migrant labour policies were established - and it seems we’re stuck with it, democracy or no democracy. Low income equals poverty, poverty equals townships.’         ‘You’ve got to be careful, it’s very non-PC to call a township a document of barbarism!’         ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying the farms themselves, the mines, the factories, the fact that we have “domestic workers” … all these are documents of barbarism. Think about it: for every South African town or city that used to be a white town or city, there is a complementary township. For every rich person, there is a poor person; well, the ratio is actually probably twenty to one. The poor people aren’t the barbarians. Their poverty is a direct manifestation of the barbarity of the rich people, the “cultivated” people, the so-called “civilised” people.’          ‘You mean, the white people?’         ‘To sum it up, yes.’         That upset Rohan. It was infuriating enough that she cast such a cold, clear eye on everything she encountered, that she was so impossibly sensible, but if the bottom line was the same old “whites are still to blame for everything”, then he could not abide it.         ‘Let me ask you something, Anna-Maria. Have you ever been a victim of crime? No? Well you’re lucky. There aren’t so many people who can say that nowadays. I can’t. I’ve had my personal possessions stolen, I’ve been beaten up by thugs and I’ve still got the bruises to prove it. Let me tell you, it’s not as easy for people like me to see the world through such politically correct eyes. The cold hard fact is, the aggressors aren’t the rich white racists anymore; it’s the criminals, the corrupt politicians, the idiots raping children because they think it will cure them of AIDS - and for better or worse, in present-day South Africa, those people are black. It sounds bigoted to be blunt, but if the whites were to blame before, the blacks are to blame now.’         He knew that wasn’t true. He knew it wasn’t that simple. But he was tired of always having to think how terrible it was for so many people while he was so well off, and when it was made to sound like he was at fault … a kind of instinctive defence mechanism kicked in. Still, he began to regret his diatribe, all the more so because Anna-Maria didn’t take up the bait. Her silence shamed him. She wasn’t in a confrontational mood; she had won the argument already, and Rohan was only waiting for her to deliver the final blow. He knew what she would say, because he was thinking exactly the same thing himself, and if he conceded it he would be spared - but the fight-or-flight instinct pumping through his blood made him stubborn. No mercy. So it almost came as a comfort when, warmly, kindly, like a mother humouring her petulant son, Anna-Maria smiled him a question:          ‘So what colour was the guy who hit you over the head?’          THIRTEEN Rohan sat in the dark discomfort of the overcrowded minibus taxi, asking himself, How did I end up here again? Just a few hours ago, he had been so close to finally arriving in Cape Town … and now he was moving further and further away. Destination: unknown.         Two people were talking at the back of the kombi. Their voices were animated but hushed, and they spoke in a language that Rohan did not understand. He thought it might be Zulu. Some people were sleeping, others were lost in thought miles away, and their stillness settled the mood of the taxi into a calm, resolved patience. There was a long journey ahead. Rohan was anything but calm, and found it torture. His heart was rattling in his chest, he felt short of breath, his legs and arms were twitching with a kind of fidgety nervous energy, and he desperately wanted to say something - no, to shout, to tell the driver to stop so that he could get out and run, run, run, through the long night, all the way back to Three Sisters if necessary. But he felt too self-conscious already, and he was too obviously out of place: the confused young white boy who wasn’t quite sure what he was doing in a black taxi. So he kept still, and convinced himself it was okay, he was here because of an inevitable sequence of events. I have done the right thing, he told himself, I am doing the only thing I could have done. But what had happened? Just before arriving in Cape Town, they had stopped at the Winelands Ultra-City to fill up. Rohan had gone to buy a couple of Cokes at the snack shop. Road trip, dim light outside, bright lights inside the convenience store, padkos, yawning … somehow the chain of sensory associations took him back to the morning that his car was stolen, and that sick dizzy feeling came over him again. Then he saw it: his t-shirt, unmistakably yellow, his race number, 2704, clear as it could be, punching him right in the gut. Unbelievable. Again! Only a second later did Rohan see him - the man wearing the shirt. A black man. Was it the same guy as in Jo’burg? It was impossible to tell. The last time, the flow of human traffic through the dirty downtown streets had flooded the scene, and he was gone in an instant. This time, he simply stood there, alone, quietly browsing the shelves for a snack, utterly oblivious to the history of the t-shirt he was wearing.         Or was he? What if he didn’t actually buy that shirt from Suzy’s discount store? What if it was sheer coincidence that he was leaving the shop at that time on that day? What if, Rohan wondered with a growing antagonistic enthusiasm matched by a sudden disliking of the nameless character in front of him, he was staring at one of the car-thieves? Maybe the episode with Smallboy wasn’t the last hope after all. Rohan had to find out. Some remarkable cosmic force was at work - fate, chance, providence, he didn’t care. He had no control. Whatever the cause, the result had to be the same: there was nothing he could do but follow that t-shirt.         Rohan squirmed as he remembered the rushed goodbye to Anna-Maria and his awkward apology. Leaving her there and running off into the night, he must have seemed the most ungrateful sod alive. The clothes he was wearing belonged to her father, for crying out loud! But how could he explain the situation to her in a way that she would understand? Not surprisingly, she had no idea what he was doing. It was probably the only time she had ever been left speechless, he thought with a smile. It was awful, but it was also invigorating. He was still too high on the buzz of spontaneity to think of long-term consequences. She would deal with it fine, and would forget about him in a few weeks anyway.         So he had dashed back towards the snack shop just in time to see the guy in his t-shirt leaving with a bag of food in his hand. It didn’t occur to Rohan that a car-thief was likely to be a shoplifter too, and so this proof of purchase didn’t change his opinion of the stranger. He was more concerned about how and where he should confront him. It would have to be soon; what if he had a group of his cronies waiting for him in the car? That would be trouble. Rohan quickened his steps. The man continued walking, however, without so much as a glance in the direction of the rows of cars, and went over to join a small cluster of dark figures standing in a pool of light on the far side of the parking lot. As Rohan drew nearer he could make out their bodies and faces. A gang of thieves? They couldn’t be. There under the dim orange glow of a single light bulb stood old men with battered suitcases, mothers with children strapped to their backs, a young couple holding hands and giggling; and now, along with them, the guy in his t-shirt.         A few moments later, a white minibus with rust marks on the doors and above the wheels pulled up, hooting its horn twice as it came to a halt. Three people got out, a few words were exchanged, and then some of the waiting group started climbing inside. So it was a taxi-rank. Rohan panicked as his target stepped up to the taxi - would he lose him? No, he was simply greeting someone inside, waving a cheerful farewell as the door slid closed and the taxi pulled off. Relief, for the moment, but Rohan’s heart sank. He had no idea what to do. How could he find out where the guy was going? He would have to try and bluff it; but surely he would look too obvious, the only white person waiting to catch a taxi to who knew where?         Stuff it.         Rohan walked up behind the guy with his t-shirt on and tried to look casual. He was surprised to find that nobody stared at him or said anything. Edging forward until he was standing right next to his man, Rohan glanced at him quickly, then again, then stole another look, and another. He was suddenly aware that this man, from whom he had distanced himself so strongly - who was more of a shadow to him than an actual person - was not simply a symbol, a representation of an idea or a problem or a feeling, but a living, breathing someone with a human face. A handsome face at that, a kind face with no hint of malice in it. A young face. The two of them were of a similar age, quite probably the same age. To the casual observer they might have been friends, or acquaintances at least, contemporaries with any number of common interests. A picture of the New South Africa, black and white side by side … this thought immediately brought out the cynic in Rohan. He must not let down his guard; he must keep in mind the distinct possibility that his “fellow” young man was a criminal.         The stranger turned, as if he sensed Rohan’s gaze, and their eyes met briefly. He smiled, and Rohan, not knowing what else to do, raised his eyebrows and puffed his cheeks out in what seemed to him a neutral gesture of acknowledgment. He waited for a while until some other people started talking and then asked, as indifferently as he could: ‘So where are you going?’         ‘Pietermaritzburg’ came the answer, in a tone of pleasant surprise. ‘How about you?’         In the split second that followed, Rohan was sure he had given himself away.         ‘Oh? Uh, me too’ he stammered.         ‘Great! You live there?’         ‘Who, me? Uh, no, just - uh - visiting. You?’         ‘Yebo yes. Back home. By the way, my name’s Lukanyo. Luke if you like.’     He offered his hand. A stranger no more.     ‘Rohan.’     There was an awkward moment when Rohan thought he should do the “African” handshake, but Luke kept his firm grip and, waiting until they had made eye contact again, smiled and let go. He seemed entirely unfazed by what, to Rohan, was a really tricky situation.     ‘So is this your first cross-country trip in a taxi?’     ‘Actually it is, ja.’     ‘Don’t worry. Much better than the Greyhound. Not quite SAA, though. But cheaper.’     ‘So, how much will we have to pay?’             ‘Eighty bucks, last time I did the trip. Here, this one should be for us. You got any bags?’         A second taxi had pulled up. Luke spoke to the driver for a minute or so, as if they were exchanging pleasantries rather than talking business. But he motioned Rohan into the kombi with a friendly ‘You ready?’ - and within another minute they were off.         Luke kept on chatting to the driver as they pulled onto the highway and sped off into the night. Most other people in the taxi were also talking. Time passed slowly - ten minutes, maybe half an hour, maybe more - and Rohan grew more and more agitated. Then the voices began to die down, and Luke’s tone became more hushed. Then he said the only words Rohan had understood since climbing into the taxi: ‘Okay baba, drive safely ne?’         And with that he pulled off the jersey he was wearing, tucked it under his neck as a pillow, and gave Rohan a wink. ‘Bed time. See you in the morning.’         Just like that. An enigma wrapped in a paradox, clothed in a mystery. Or something similar. Rohan didn’t know what to make of him. But there he was. A few hours had passed since then. The silent present asserted itself on his consciousness again. Luke lay sleeping next to him. Sinner or saint? He seemed genuine enough. That was half the problem. If he wasn’t one of the thieves after all - and it was looking more and more like he wasn’t - then what was Rohan doing following him to Pietermaritzburg? It was hardly as if he could spare the time or the money, even if it was only eighty bucks. Smallboy had left him with his wallet, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to catch a taxi back to Cape Town; and sooner or later he’d need some new clothes. I should call mom and dad. He should have phoned already. His poor parents were probably panicking. How long had it been since he left home to drive to the link? Too long. He could have phoned from Three Sisters, but thought it better to wait until he was in Cape Town. That would be some good news to balance the bad. And he dreaded asking them to go and pick up his car from a petrol station that was practically on the other side of Gauteng. If it was still there, of course.         The taxi lurched sideways. What was that? The driver falling asleep at the wheel? An obstacle on the road? The minibus falling apart? He wondered what route they were taking, and thought about all those places along the south-eastern Cape coast that Anna-Maria had mentioned. Would they pass them? It was bloody far to Maritzburg. He had heard horror stories about those roads through the old Transkei and Ciskei … but that would be tomorrow’s problem. There was still a long night ahead. Another long, uncomfortable, sleepless night.

 

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