What I had forgotten wasthe smell of money. Not the scent of the meaning of money, but the smell of actual money. Paper money. That strange, passed through many pockets, hands, registers, wallets, under the table smell of money. The dirty aroma of cash. It hit me in the nostrils as soon as the note was passed down the table to me. Forgetting the unhygienic aspects for a moment, there is some nostalgia in a paper bank note, not obtainable from the new sterile plastic bank notes of today. 10 Rand. What the hell would that even buy me? How many grubby fingers have held that note before me? How many bribes, meals, deals and surprises had been bought with it? How many drinks? How many promises of a better future? I promise to pay the bearer on demand it says… what does that even mean?
It looked remarkably new for a paper note, perhaps it’s been sitting in a forgotten section of the drawer of a travel exchange office in Melbourne. Never actually used in South Africa, but sent in an airmail envelope by a relative to a child in Australia, a birthday gift. Instigating a forced return thank you letter for the useless funny looking smelly piece of paper. Incongruously, there is an illustration of a long haired medieval looking gentleman on the front and then a sheep and a bull on the back. Hardly an indication of the lushness, diversity and heritage of South Africa.
The Japanese have a saying ‘money is made for changing hands, but fortunes favour the brave’, whose fortune was this? Was it ever worth a fortune?
My time in South Africa was long ago but moments of it are ingrained in my brain. The richness of the landscape, the beautiful cities, the palpable feeling of fear in the Jo’berg of 20yrs ago, the stunning ocean and scenery of Cape Town.
What I remember most about that part of our trip was the opportunities to visit the black Town ships hidden on the outskirts of the towns and have a small glimpse of the life of the people who lived in them. As far as the eye could see, hundreds of thousands of shacks, shipping containers, walk-ways and burnt out cars. Kids running along next to our vehicle, banging on the window and shouting greetings in native tongues, wearing filthy rags and grubby feet, snot stuck where it has slithered down to their top lip. The overwhelming smell when we got out of the car of putrid potent un-sanitary life. But also the happiness, laughter, songs and joy that were present too.
People looking at me, shyly waving and obviously intrigued by my pale, round body, my blonde hair, my clothing and my camera. Our guide explained that some of the residents never ventured away from the Township and if they did, their interactions with white people were few and far between. Apartheid had demolished any sense of equality, it was safer for them to stay amongst their own.
I flipped the video camera screen around for the children to see themselves, they jostled and pushed to see themselves angled in the frame. Amazed and laughing at seeing their faces in real time for the first time. We visited a school held in a shipping container. The kids sitting on the floor, the heat, the stench of sweat, poverty and genuine anticipation, flies buzzing around their faces as they listened intently. A teacher at the front and these beautiful little sponges, all eager to practice their English with us.
We visited a home, had a meal and a look around. A welcoming lady who lived in a shack, we had to duck down to get inside, the walls papered in old glossy magazines, the floor made of coffee sacks. No furniture at all. Not even a chair. An open fire pit in the middle of the room to cook and boil water, the only feature. What a fire trap, no wonder vast areas of these districts regularly disappeared, instantly ravaged by fire. We chat, she asks about my place and my family. My parents and siblings. Do I have children? She is amazed that I am 27 and have no kids. She says she is sorry for me and she blesses my womb. The idea that a woman would choose education, employment, travel and adventure before family is incomprehensible to her. We eat a simple stew on rice, I don’t want to ask what the meat is for fear my face will give away my horror if we are eating horse or dog.
Originally we had intended to drive along the coast from CapeTown and then head up inland to Johannesberg, but we stayed a few more days around Cape Town before heading East to Port Elizabeth. The drive is exhilarating. Everyone has told us not to stop unless at designated tourist or petrol spots. Too many bandits on the road. Don’t stop if you see a body on the road, even a child. Keep driving. Keep doors locked. Don’t stop at traffic lights. There was no internet or mobile phone, just us and a lonely planet to guide us. The car we hired was a budget rental. We hadn’t worked for 6 months and still had more travel to do, so the vehicle we opted for was very old. The back doors didn’t open and the boot didn’t shut. We taped it with gaffa tape and they gave us a roll for the journey. We could leave it in JBerg after we had finished.
Next minute I knew we were on our way, driving out of the safety of Cape Town and on the open road. The trepidation, excitement and adrenaline was palpable. How would we switch drivers? The air con wasn’t working, but it was so hot, was it safe to drive with the windows open slighty? In reality the drive was uneventful. Travel stories in those days passed from backpacker to backpacker inflated in intensity and severity. The fear of driving 1000km and seeing the road littered with bodies who would leap up and rob or rape us never eventuated. Everywhere we stopped people were friendly and warm. In Port Elizabeth we visited another Township. We were so enthralled in this experience of being able to be immersed in such a local and poverty stricken area. Voyeurism for the socially aware, left leaning middle class. It was brilliant.
PE is a much smaller city and get a lot less tourists, so the experience was much more authentic. In the Township we visited a graveyard/mortuary, a hospital, a community kitchen; and the highlight was the chance to have dinner with a family and then go to the equivalent of the pub. The pub was basically an open shipping container, with a makeshift bar on one side. Two types of homemade liquor was available. I can’t adequately describe the drink – a cross between rocket fuel, petrol and bourbon. A strong, potent blend of whatever they could find I suspect. Served in empty tins, with a bowl of fried something starchy to make it more palatable.
I loved the music the best though. In the corner of the container was a makeshift band. A few old guys with dilapidated instruments, a washboard, a guitar, drums and some brass. Some hokum bluegrass jazz. A cross between New Orleans and Memphis. Jazz that stuck in the soul so quick you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet or sit still. They pumped out those tunes and I couldn’t keen track. The bodies moving, the smell, the potent booze – a heady mix of thrill and enjoyment. Those musicians had nothing, no shoes, no payment for their work, no proper instruments – but they sang and played like they were in the best jazz venue in the world. The audience whooped and cheered, sang along, danced. I was one of very few women there and my initial hesitation and personal safety for being in such a place melted away. We passed our tins of booze around and swigged down the drinks. Smoked weed and cigars, rollups and pipes. We laughed, sweated and sang. Those people had nothing. But they had everything. In that moment I felt more alive than ever before. I knew I could never help them all but it didn’t matter. They made the best of what they had and were grateful for it.
