White Fear in Black Africa

So today was a very interesting expose of what Apartheid actually means for South Africa. Yeah, we can talk about how it was awful and how it’s incredible that Arch and Tata Madiba brought peace and reconciliation – but while there is no lasting violence against the Afrikaaners here, there is something else almost more interesting. Incredible, gripping, effervescent white fear. Whites in the outer suburbs of Cape Town are sequestered, isolated, insulated. They are locked up behind big gates and security bars, terrified of getting their cars stolen or being accosted on the street. But how real is that danger?

The day started as it normally does on Kloof Street, with Mandy and I waking up and making breakfast, sharing omelets and muesli with my South African, laughing and joking about nothing and everything. In return for us feeding him, he graciously called up everyone and their mother offering a Jeep on gumtree (think African craigslist), knowing that I was hell-bent on getting a car here, and kind enough to lend a hand negotiating. African style.

I found my Jeep. A silver Liberty (here they are called Cherokees, though they are exactly the same as the Liberties in the US), middle ground mileage, acceptable price. The shitbox returns?

My South African arranged everything. He spoke to a mechanic, as well as his close friend who is a taxi driver, who agreed to take us all the way out to past Durbanville for beyond cheap. The taxi driver was a very laid back guy from Zim, and we piled in to his ancient (seriously, ancient) Nissan somethingorother that was barely able to make it up the rolling hills around Cape Town, the engine straining just to continue moving along. It puttered on down into the CBD and onto the N1, blaring Rasta tunes with obnoxious DJ voiceovers as the rain poured down, the clouds completely obscuring Devil’s Peak and the mountain behind us. Our driver smoked a joint on the way, but it was only fitting. We were too happy to be with good company, laughing and talking easily about the suburbs and sights along the way, we didn’t mind. The joint was less of an issue than the fact that the little neon blue Nissan only had one mirror left.

We stopped in at the Jeep at Century City, a gigantic mall complex with several car dealerships and many other shops and businesses. The dealership seemed irritated that we walked in, though I strode up to the desk and made my intentions to speak to someone clear. My South African was visibly uncomfortable, knowing that they didn’t think we were serious car-buying customers. We weren’t adorned with money, though I never am, and I never let that stand between me and my getting appropriate customer service. 

While a receptionist went to get a service technician for me so I could ask several questions, I made sure to climb inside a brand new Sahara and touch everything. Making comments about what I did and didn’t like about the car I knew inside and out. I already owned one, after all. No one makes me feel out of place in a Jeep dealership. 

We drove a little ways to a gas station and waited for over an hour and a half for the Jeep owner to meet us. The whole time was a very interesting commentary on the paranoia of post-Apartheid Boers. 

My South African is dark, but not definitively so. In the States, you might have guessed he was mixed. He, Mandy and I all walked into a Woolworths (think Whole Foods) to grab some snacks while we were waiting, and within seconds of entering the door, a middle aged white woman made him so uncomfortable he had to leave. 

She had stared at him, with us, as though he were out to rob us, or harass us. I had missed the whole transaction, as I was busy looking for sandwiches that I could possibly want to eat. He quickly made an excuse to leave, and it was only after several minutes of browsing and standing in line that I turned to Mandy to say "Hey I think this might be the whitest super market I've ever been in. What the hell is going on?"

By the time we made it back to the car, it had dawned on me that every single person coming to the gas station to get their cars refueled by the all black attendants was white. White white. As though they had stepped out of a 1995 Talbots catalog. My South African explained to me what had happened in the store, how the woman had looked at him with such horror and revulsion for being with us. How he had felt too embarrassed by her accusatory and completely unwarranted nose flare and goose necked stare. 

We talked about it at length with him and the taxi driver, how the whites who stayed in Africa felt the guilt of their overwhelming hatred and race based violence. How they were forever gripped by an incessant paranoia that their past deeds, karma, would find them. They went on to explain to us how even the gas station employees were getting nervous, as we had parked directly in front of the cash dispensary of an ATM. Though, with two white girls in a car with black men, it would be assumed that we were getting drugs.  

It sounds ridiculous to say that this is what everyone must think. But you could see it on their faces. Each time a new BMW or Mercedes parked next to us and an elderly white man or woman got out, we got stares. Judgement. Then fear. You could see how uncomfortable our presence made them. In our half broken down neon blue Nissan - we were so threatening. 

We stood outside the car for a moment and I kissed my South African. I didn't want him to feel like I was worried about what people thought of us in public. I was happy to be with him, and equally as happy to show it. Forget holding hands, kiss me, let's give the Boers a heart attack or two. He was happy, but if dark men could blush he would've turned bright red. 

Apparently these neighborhoods are the strongholds of Afrikaaner racism. Our first clue was the street signs. Roads were still named after big Apartheid politicians. Murderers. Racists. How would you feel sending your child to a school named after a man who segregated a nation? Who fought for white supremacy? Living on a street named for a celebrated killer of blacks? 

It was nauseating that South Africans still have to live among this. Be patient we told them, thinking of our own American history. They are in the struggle after Jim Crow, it will get better as the old Boers die out. But, how much better? South Africa has a long way to go. Though I suggest they start with changing the names of the damn streets.

The last straw was when we finally met up with the guy offering the Jeep. He was terrified of us. Upon meeting me, he asked me first if I had hired my South African to help me buy a car. No, I said, laughing and shaking my head. He's a good friend of mine, I countered. But I was unnerved by his nervousness, in turn. When I went to check the interior of the car, he asked again who he was (apparently when I stepped away from the group to look at the car he gave him a serious battering of 21 questions including where he worked, what he did, what restaurant, where he was originally from, etc. all with the tone of fear), and who the taxi driver was, and who we were. We're Americans, we laughed when I returned. They're friends. Does it have to be something more complicated than that since we are not the same race? 

We laughed again at his fear after we left, settling to meet up again tomorrow after getting the car checked by a mechanic and doing a test drive. The drive home was easy, my South African making jokes and us still in shock at how uncomfortable being in the white suburbs had made us feel. We weren't like them. And I was happy to be not like them. 

But no matter how strange it was for us, it's hard to imagine how painful it is for them. 

I'm grateful I come home to Kloof Street, where it's a little less black and white and a little more colorful.  

- Rh