Everyone pitched in to make the Klein Karoo’s outreach project a success. But was it? BAFANA KHUMALO was there
MIDDELPLAAS looks like the kind of place where the arrival of a train makes the front page of the local newspaper (if there is a local rag). Desolate, it lies in a valley 20km from Oudtshoorn. It is the kind of village which occupies romantic accounts of rural locales; the kind where dust-covered scales compete for space with pens, shoes and other bric–brac in the general dealer’s store. The latter also serves as a post office, except on Saturdays, when the sign on the door states: “Die poskantoor is gesluit op Saterdag.”
Last Friday the train made its appearance, and, with a media contingent and about 200 children in tow, Transnet presented the outreach component of the Klein Karoo National Arts Festival.
This exercise, according to Transnet, was designed to “make the festival a success, not only for the performers and visitors, but also for the outlying communities”.
And, in this small stationside venue, Transnet was not the only one to pitch in to “make it a success”: farmers from the surrounding area let their workers take time off to attend.
Workers arrived by tractor, by bakkie, by any means possible. Even a group of local miniature-plane-flyers, The Kango Club, did their bit, entertaining the children and the workers with their tiny aircraft as they arrived.
The most important element of this exercise was a huge truck converted into a stage; it was here that culture was to be brought to this outlying, marginalised community.
This midday, the fare was varied, ranging from a boeremusiek orkes to a duo of Michael Jackson lookalikes dancing to “Don’t stop till you get enough”, a once-popular song by this marginalised American pop singer.
If the concept of an outreach project were ever to be given the acid test, this locale provided it. For miles around there is no evidence of any form of entertainment, apart, perhaps, from the notorious dop some farmers are probably still giving their workers before starting work in the mornings.
If I, brought in as a tourist, were to judge, I would say that the project succeeded brilliantly, and failed miserably. The audience didn’t seem to be particularly impressed by the first presentation, a trio playing three different types of harmonica.
To me, an outsider to Afrikaner culture, this seemed to be a singalong-type performance. But none of the audience recognised it as such, for there was no singing along — not even when the leader implored them to join in on an instrumental version of Paul McCartney’s We All Stand Together.
But this was nonetheless a success, for that is how the trade goes: you get up on stage and you show what you have. If you don’t tickle the fancy of the audience, the best you can get is polite silence and the worst is getting booed off stage. Polite silence the Van Rooyen Trio got.
The undertaking really succeeded because the audience, particularly the children, loved Al Debbo — the Leon Schuster of past generations, I was told by a young, lefty Afrikaner playwright. Debbo sang songs which I recognised from the days of Radio Bantu, songs like Hasie and host of others which, at other venues, would have encouraged a tumultuous singalong and a long walk down memory lane. Here, most of the people were too young to remember the songs, and the older ones might have had too many reasons not to want to walk down that road of memories.
Debbo mimed to sounds taped at a restaurant – — with perfect timing, the sounds of somebody chewing, then lighting a cigarette, were matched by the movement of his elastic face. He presented a glimpse of a lost opportunity for Afrikaner culture — an opportunity to be seen as regular culture without any baggage, which seems to be the idea behind the Karoo festival.
But the outreach undertaking failed miserably too, for it rained, drizzling down strong enough to make one want to search for shelter. The audience sat and endured. One could have remarked, then, that “these people” were so starved of culture that they were willing to sit in the rain and take it all in while it lasted. For when the festival was over, the trucks would go back whence they came. But most of the people had no choice in the matter. We all had been brought in. Whoever had brought us, the baas at the farm or the Transnet PR department — they had the key to the car.
Maybe it is time for the corporations who want to be seen contributing to culture to start contributing more than a converted truck. Maybe it is time they did more than temporarily bringing skills to communities. Maybe that truck should be replaced by a permanent theatre.
Back in Oudtshoorn, it seemed the entire community was gearing up for the expected hordes of visitors. Every restaurant seemed to have taken on special staff — most of whom seemed to be young familiy members — to smile and wait on the starved outsiders. The streets were seething with youngsters, most of them black, in green festival T-shirts and blue jeans, selling festival programmes. It looked like a small American town, where everyone pitches in to make the local barn- raising festival fun.