Love in the Time of Apartheid

As Jack’s plane touched down on the unfathomable continent of Africa, he thought of Grace, who he had left behind.

He’d only met her the month before, in a London sharehouse she’d moved in to with mutual friends: all Aussies on working holidays.  She was a lovely, straightforward, intelligent girl – a teacher. He remembered her blue eyes and hair like glowing embers across the restaurant table the night before he left. Her eyebrows had arched when he’d begun to wax lyrical about his upcoming South African adventure.

“You do realise what’s going on there? The native population are treated awfully. A hundred or more peaceful protestors were massacred just last year.”

Jack acknowledged that horror but could not imagine that his own South African friends would be involved in anything untoward.

“You can’t judge the whole place by its politics,” he said.

“Well, I wish you a pleasant journey,” said Grace with pursed lips, “Do look me up when you get back.”

“Of course!” said Jack, “Although I’m not sure how long I’ll be. I might get some pharmacy work there, if I like the place enough.”

He had promised her a Christmas card at the very least.

Now, watching the dozens of black natives unloading cargo outside his portal window, he felt further than a postcard away from Grace. He was entering a completely different world. The hairs on his freckled arms stood erect, shivering with excitement.

Jack was met with squealing waves at Durban airport on the 17^th December, 1961. He bent his skinny frame to peck the cheeks of Liz and Sandy, girlfriends from previous travels.

“We are going to show you such a good time!” said Sandy. “Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll stay at my house for a bit of fun first.”

“Then I will commandeer you for Christmas,” said Liz, “You’re coming to my family farm until New Year’s at the very least.”

“She has a fabulous pool and tennis court, so I think you’ll survive,” Sandy teased.

“I am in your hands,” Jack grinned with sparkling eyes, “Lead the way.”

As the girls led him out of the terminal, Jack picked up a copy of the Natal Mercury to break his first crisp South African rand.

In the back seat of Sandy’s car, Liz looked over Jack’s shoulder as he read the front page. It showed a pylon in flames and the headline blamed a violent new organisation – MK – for the attack. She said they could drive by the site in Morningside if he was interested. Jack’s head jerked up, his eyes questioning whether she were mad.

“Oh, no need to worry. They have no resources to trouble the government really. Just a public nuisance, trying to upset the order of things.”

Jack glanced at the silent black man driving the car – did he tilt his head ever so slightly, listening to this talk? Jack changed the subject quickly, feeling it was probably rather indelicate.

He tried to engage the driver in conversation, as he would with the taxi drivers back home or in London. The man didn’t seem keen and Jack let the chat fade when he noticed Liz slowly shaking her head at him, an amused tilt rising on one side of her mouth.

Sandy’s place was a sub-tropical storm of pleasure-seeking. They had parties every night – cocktails and assorted meats – then often went dancing at a club in town. Jack drank more than he was accustomed to and found it absolutely thrilling, despite the mornings-after. He danced with Sandy and other girls, but always found Liz for the slow dances.

One early morning, they shook off hangovers and drove themselves out to Hluhluwe-Imfolozi game reserve. Jack was behind the wheel, belting along and whooping with the windows rolled down. At the reserve, he was awed to see lions, rhinos, zebras and elephants grazing in their natural state, in wild virgin country as far as the eye could see. They watched a performance of natives dancing in beaded costumes of blues, yellows and reds. He admired their graceful exuberance.

Jack wrote in a letter to Grace that night that somebody near him had muttered “primitives” at the sight. He supposed they were, but he thought they looked marvellous.

The next day, Sandy suggested a swim at the beach. As they drove the Golden Mile, they passed a sandy stretch on their right.

“That looks the part! Just like our beaches back home,” said Jack.

The girls told him they would not be swimming at Laguna Beach.

“It’s designated African Bathing. You see, they have their areas too. It’s fair, just separate,” said Sandy.

They continued along the sparkling coast road and had their pick of several beaches, but finally selected Umhlanga Rocks. It flaunted a spectacular red and white lighthouse, and miles of golden sand. A sign duly marked it as a “White Area”.

They couldn’t be serious, Jack thought. It seemed simply ludicrous – what did they think would happen? Did blackness spread in water? He dived under a crashing wave to cool his burning face – surely just hot from the sun.

Over Christmas, Jack stayed with Liz and her family, as promised. On arrival, Liz showed him to his room and explained how to manage his personal effects.

“Just leave your shoes at the door, like this. The girl will see to them before you wake.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jack protested, “I can wipe them myself if there’s a scuff.”

“And why would you need to do that? I’m telling you, the girl will polish them every night. It’s no trouble.”

Liz taught him to ride a horse. He felt gangly and awkward at first and was quite sore after the first ordeal. Soon, though, he began riding after breakfast each morning, played tennis in the afternoons and often swam in the evening. There was always a dry towel beside the pool when he emerged.

He began to put out his shoes for polishing each night.  

One melting sundown, Jack and Liz strolled around the farm, hand in hand, pointing out gazelles shimmering softly in the distance. She spoke about her dream to marry, build her own house on this farm and raise a family here. Jack felt it would certainly be a very comfortable life.

He wrote in his Christmas card to Grace that he was making inquiries about registering locally as a pharmacist.

A week later, Jack and Liz ventured in to town, just the two of them, to see South Pacific at the pictures. The sign at the theatre said “Europeans Only”.

“I’m Australian,” Jack chuckled awkwardly, “do I qualify?”

He received a stern look from Liz and let it lie.

He’d just found out he couldn’t get work here. As an Australian pharmacist, the government wouldn’t register him because of his government’s opposition to Apartheid.

He knew he could still stay if he wanted; Liz’ father would happily train him up to manage the farm. But how did he feel about it all? As sweet and fun as Liz was, it was hard to reconcile the way things were here.

And then there was Grace. She’d just written him another letter, full of cheery news and witty observations. What would she say about this remarkable but complicated place?

The memory of her arched eyebrows told him he already knew.

Jack waited at the bus stop in the warm, early light. Liz had chores with her mother that day, so he was obeying a demand from Sandy to meet her in town for brunch.

There were a couple of African men waiting just away from him at the “Bus Stop for Non-Whites”, ready to climb aboard at the back door of the bus. It was really starting to stick like a bone in his throat – what difference could a damned door make? What had those people done to deserve this barrage of insults as they went about their lives?

He knew he was just a visitor here – for now – so he shouldn’t be too quick to criticise. His friends seemed to think it for the best.

Sandy met him at the Tea Room, within elegant Mitchell Park. It was in Morningside and Jack couldn’t help remembering the destroyed pylon they’d driven past on his first morning in Durban. He shook it off and focused on the menu and his friend.

“Now, let’s be serious Jack. What are you going to do?”

“About what?” Jack asked. He was trying very hard not to be too serious.

“Liz is hoping to keep you here, you know. When is your flight supposed to be?”

“Oh, I’ve blown that off. I was thinking I might hitch down the coast for a while, see more of the country.”

“And delay getting serious, I suppose?”

“Well, there’s no hurry, I’ve already missed my flight. I think it was due to leave yesterday in fact,” Jack glanced at the newspaper on the empty table beside them, to check the date.

His face froze.

“But you will have to make some decisions sooner or later! Jack?” Sandy watched Jack’s face drain to grey, then followed his gaze to the newspaper and grabbed it.

“No! Is this? Surely not…Jack, was this your flight?”

It took a glass of Pepsi-cola, brisk strokes to his cheek and quite a few minutes to get any sound out of Jack.

Caledonian Airways flight 153 had crashed in the Cameroon jungle the night before, killing all 111 souls on board. There were only five empty seats on the plane – Jack’s ticket had been for one of them.

That night, Jack sat on the sinking couch next to Liz and stared at the slide show of his South African adventure to date.

He and Liz were together in many of the grainy scenes: there was one of them pretending to be Dr Livingstone at the game reserve; another of them sunbathing together at the beach and several of them dressed in their glad rags for a party. They seemed to be always laughing and pulling faces, as though nothing at all mattered.

He felt anything but easy or light-hearted right now. He felt very much like everything mattered.

On the one hand, he was awash with gratitude and relief that he’d been having too good a time to want to leave. It had saved his life.

On the other hand, it was such a near miss. He could have been dead today. The thought shook him more than he could say. He felt as though he was still in danger – of what, he wasn’t sure. But it felt like a sign.

Another slide clicked up: Liz was seen pulling Jack by the hand into the sea. He remembered the day and felt bile in his throat. The backdrop was picturesque, but they had just passed a policeman interrogating a young mother.

She had a baby tied to her back and a scrawny young boy beside her. She wasn’t supposed to be there and didn’t have her pass. As she tried to explain herself, the policeman lost patience and belted her with his baton to move her along. He whacked the little boy across the back of his legs, which sent him sprawling. Busy pedestrians walked around and the sunseekers hurried to the sand. Jack started towards the boy to help him up, but Liz pulled him away.

“You can’t interfere,” she told him. “She should have been carrying her pass.”

Jack had locked eyes for less than an instant with the young black lady. Those eyes were frightened and searching and angry all at once. Then he’d followed Liz to please her and avoid causing a scene. The moment was forgotten and Sandy took the photo as Liz pulled him playfully towards the waves.

The slide showed none of the ugliness of that day, but Jack could see it clearly now. Their lives were built on selective blindness to cruelty. He didn’t blame Liz, she had grown up like this. But if he stayed, he would blame himself forever. Or worse, he too would go blind.

Jack went to the Overseas Visitors’ Club the next morning, to price up an air passage back to London. He wasn’t the least bit nervous of flying; he’d had his plane crash and survived. What was there to fear? Only Liz’ reaction, but she would get over him. He didn’t think so highly of himself as to doubt that.

As Jack’s plane took off from the still-inscrutable continent of Africa, he breathed deeply, in and out, like a man pulled safely from a precipice. How different things might have been, in more ways than one.

All he knew was that his choices mattered. His choice to stay, then his choice to leave. He had followed his heart – in a clumsy sort of way, but it had served him well. He planned to follow it to Grace’s door.