ELECTIONS & ERECTIONS a memoir of fear and fun Pieter-Dirk Uys Also available by Pieter-Dirk Uys Trekking to Teema Published by Zebra Press an imprint of Struik Publishers (a division of New Holland Publishing (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd) PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000 New Holland Publishing is a member of the Johnnic Publishing Group First published 2002 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Publication © Zebra Press 2002 Text © Pieter-Dirk Uys 2002 Cover photographs © Pat Bromilow-Downing Cartoons © Zapiro All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners. PUBLISHING MANAGER : Marlene Fryer MANAGING EDITOR : Robert Plummer PROOF -READER : Ronel Richter-Herbert COVER AND TEXT DESIGNER : Natascha Adendorff TYPESETTER : Monique van den Berg Set in 11 pt on 15 pt Adobe Garamond Digitally imposed and imaged at Syreline Process Printed and bound by CTP Book Printers ISBN 1 86872 665 7 www.zebrapress.co.za Log on to our photographic website www.imagesofafrica.co.za for an African experience Contents ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS vii INTRODUCTION : FEAR AND FUN 1 PART I FOREPLAY 9 The First Coming 11 Like Tasting Chocolate? 18 Onslaughts Overseas 24 Finding the Space 28 Don’t Cry for Me 32 Born in the New SA 38 Semen, Blood and Urban Legends 41 Black and White in Drag 45 Auditioning for Amandla 49 Celebrating the Rainbow 56 PART II ELECTIONS 63 Second Time Around 65 Where Angels Fear to Tread 73 Practice makes Perfect 81 Barefoot over the Drakensberg 92 And into Ye Olde Kaffreria 107 Die Honde Blaf maar die Karavaan Gaan Aan! 119 The Bottom Line 125 PART III ERECTIONS 131 A Clean Slate 133 For Facts Sake 137 Trekking to Teaching 143 Ruffling Some Old Feathers 151 P.S. Don’t Forget Your Penis 156 From Bishop Lavis to Bishopscourt 165 Beyond the Playgrounds 171 Report Back from the Frontlines 177 Maybe Yes, Maybe No 183 A World in One Country 190 In Denaaial 198 Life at R50 a Month 203 Foreign Aids 208 180 Degree Turn? 214 Vuk’uzinzele! 218 ABBREVIATIONS 225 GLOSSARY 227 TRANSLATIONS OF AFRIKAANS QUOTES 229 Acknowledgements I have always been writing about other people’s lives, either focusing on the baroque fantasy of the Bezuidenhout family, or the surreal reality of the Bothas and Bothalezis. This time round I have taken time out to write a memoir of moments in my life that reflect both the fear and fun of being a South African. Starting with the first climax and building up to a holocaust, this journey retraces so many familiar areas: discovering sex, questioning authority both political and religious (in my case the same thing), discovering democracy late in life, and coming face to face with uncompromising decline and death through the threat of a virus that has no cure. But care is halfway towards a solution. And if anything must remain with the reader, it is the celebration of my hope and optimism for the future of South Africa and its remarkable people. I must thank my lucky stars for those emotions, because some of my generation don’t see the future with hope and optimism. Among my lucky stars are those whose wisdom and care guided me through the minefields of growing up. My parents are no longer visible, but are constantly felt as guardian spirits along the path. My sister and I are the only ones left of the Uyses from Homestead Way, Pinelands, Cape Town, South Africa, Africa, the World. And we’re happy to be here! Thanks also to Jonathan, the immortal Zapiro, who has enhanced this experience with his tongue so firmly in the cheeks of the nation. And let us not forget past and present South African politicians who, as unconscious scriptwriters, have written all my material. I could not have made up what I explore so eagerly. If hypocrisy is the Vaseline of political intercourse, let’s hope all politicians learn to wear condoms of humour. Warm and grateful acknowledgements also to Robert Plummer of Zebra who, as my editor, has made sense of the nonsense that seemed to vomit out on the pages with every thought. Introduction: Fear and Fun Once upon a time, not so long ago, we had an apartheid regime in South Africa that killed people. Now we have a democratic government that just lets them die. We are not sissies when it comes to viruses. We had one for over forty years, and it had no cure. Tens of thousands of South Africans died because of it. Millions had their lives violently changed forever. But eventually the virus of apartheid was neutralised. We found a cure called democracy. Why did it take so long? Was it because the propaganda was so believable? ‘Democracy is too good to share with just anyone!’ So simple. Our solution had been there all the time. And yet for so long we were not allowed to believe that it was effective. We had a president called PW Botha who repeatedly assured us that there would be no black multiracial rule. He would segregate voting so that whites stayed in charge. He was wrong. Today we have a president called Thabo Mbeki who denies the link between HIV and AIDS. He is also wrong. And the letters ‘Thabo’ can also spell the name ‘Botha’! Apartheid wasn’t funny. The hypocrisy behind the civilised Christian façade of those who benefited from it made us laugh, because the fear that it elicited was exposed as ridiculous. Laughing at fear has become my secret cure: laugh at fear and put it into perspective. It’s always going to be there, but once it has a name, it also has a place. At least the virus of apartheid was visible. It certainly had a colour. Although neither white nor black are colours of the rainbow, one was the master and the other was the servant. The culture with a capital K that was so protected by legalised racism at least stank to high heaven, in spite of the perfume of so-called civilised Christian demeanours. And the signs were everywhere: WHITES ONLY , NO DOGS OR NATIVES ALLOWED . The signs warned us: beware of the virus. If you don’t have the vaccine of a white skin, you will get it and your small dreams will die. Recently a black family from Soweto visited Clifton Beach in Cape Town. The son is fourteen. Energetic and full of fun. More comfortable speaking English to his Xhosa father than the language of his roots. He prefers Michael Jackson to the Soweto String Quartet. ‘Wow, Dad,’ he said, ‘this is a cool beach. You must’ve had such fun coming here for your holidays.’ His father smiled. ‘Yes, it’s cool. And no, I never came here when I was a boy.’ ‘Oh, but didn’t you visit Gogo in Langa?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And she never let you come to Clifton?’ ‘No, we weren’t allowed.’ ‘Oh? Why?’ ‘There was a law.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It said this beach was for whites only.’ ‘Oh? Why?’ ‘Because that was the law. You got into terrible trouble if you were black and came to this white beach.’ ‘Was there a minefield to keep you off it?’ His father smiled. ‘No. There was a sign.’ A sign ? Yes, for over forty years we did nothing because of the signs. Because of the fear. We believed the urban legends. We bowed down to the paraphernalia of Boer Power. We thought they knew what they were doing. We were wrong. They didn’t have a clue, because if they did, they would have killed their opposition early on. The Struggle for South Africa started 350 years ago. Maybe the greatest weakness of the Struggle and at the same time its unique strength was that both sides passionately loved the same thing. Their country. So, contrary to predictions, we did not become another Gaza, not another Vietnam, not another Rwanda, not another Belfast. Here, at the southern tip of nowhere, the world was cheated out of a major prime-time bloodbath and camera crews waddled off into the bloody Balkan sunrise with irritation and hopes of better angles. So the news is good. South Africa is reborn with the greatest Constitution in the world. We have a Bill of Rights. We had an unforgettable Truth and Reconciliation Commission. We have been blessed with both a Nelson Mandela and a Desmond Tutu. But we also have the greatest incidence of HIV/AIDS in the world. While the First World is burying the lambs, the Third World is burying its babies. So the minefield has moved: from politics to sex. Can one do the tango in front of a firing squad again? Laughing at the fear of death? You come and then you go? And what’s funny about HIV/AIDS? The whole scenario begs for laughter. Firstly, leave the virus out of it. Just look at sex. If politics is funny, sex can be a scream! I think it’s one of God’s last little jokes. To furnish men with small soft things that must get bigger and hard and stick out to fit into the dark warm places that women have? That’s sometimes like trying to get a limp piece of thread through the eye of a needle! Then we have to wobble up and down, pushing in and out, looking like small mammals trying to get rid of a flea biting us on the bum, then screaming a syllable or two – ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ – shuddering like a jellyfish, mumbling the name of someone else, and falling asleep! Go there with a smile and you end with a bellyache and a flopped experience.