Dignitaries were impressed, but ordinary people were puzzled or unaffected by the monarch’s visit last week. Katy Bauer went to gawk at the queen
To live, not as a human being, but as a symbol, is the terrible fate of the British monarch. Fortunately for Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, this state of affairs seems to suit.
Whether that is because she is marvellous or whether it is because she is monstrous is a debate guaranteed to elicit strident opinion from just about anyone, just about anywhere in the world.
What is certain is that she is extraordinary: up close she is so graceful that her shoes hardly leave a mark in the sand, at middle distance she appears to waddle. In person she is humorous. Through a television tube, grim. Her rank ensures the greatest stability for an outdated class system. Yet she enjoys the company of left-wing politicians more than right (She loathes Margaret Thatcher, loves Nelson Mandela.)
The queen is more like one of Maurice Escher’s impossible objects than a human being. The impossible object has an impossible job and an objectionable husband, and when South Africa hosted the threesome last week, it provided the local press with a precious opportunity to gawk directly at the phenomenon.
At the offical welcoming ceremony a glut of politicians, dignitaries and journalists fried beneath a cloudless sky outside the Union Buildings, in anticipation of a visit from the queen.
Things up on the hill became increasingly hushed as the moment drew nigh. A small band of distressed Anglo- Boer South African War protesters at the bottom of the gardens might as well have been having a jumble sale in Alaska for all the impression they made at the top.
Dozens of cabinet ministers, on their best behaviour, lined up to the left of a central stairway. About 10 royal aides and companions stood to the right. The president and first lady waited in the centre. Most assumed a common Elizabethan posture: arms relaxed, hands clasped together in front, no slouching please! (Ronnie Kasrils had least success. Kept grinning like he’d just won a iant camembert at a raffle.)
The South African press were quiet. The British press quizzed each other. A woman with bobbed grey hair and a sign around her neck which read “Judy Wade/OK Magazine” was especially curious about fashion and who was who to the right of the stairs: “Oose that one in the burgundy?” she went. And “Is ‘ee the doctor? ‘Ee looks like a doctor.”
The British media focused almost entirely on the British party. Mbeki and his wife aroused little curiosity. One English journalist, pointing at Zanele Mbeki did say: “Oose she?” – but that was about it.
Suddenly the National Ceremonial Guard started to twitch. Their commander barked and they marched down the mall then steadied themselves between the press and the dignitaries.
Minutes later, the royal cavalcade materialised eerily at the end of the road. Eight shiny white cars rolled towards us like some Mad Max mirage. Thabo Mbeki stiffened. His face assumed a strained expression. Kasrils beamed.
A Jaguar came to a halt on the scarlet carpet (which appeared to have been laid out in the shape of a giant Aids ribbon). The car doors opened, and out they popped: a neat elderly couple, one of whom happened to be the most famous person in the world.
The rest was anti-climactic. The queen was honoured with a horrible 21-gun salute, which had everyone trying not to reel in agony at the volume. (Prince Philip started to giggle around the ninth explosion.) She then had the tedious task of inspecting the troops: about 200 men who looked like they’d just walked off a school production of Oh What a Lovely War, in identical bellboy type outfits, clutching old-fashioned rifles – bayonets attached.
By the time Her Majesty had peered at the men, shaken hands with everyone, accepted a bunch of flowers from an adorable child in a bright yellow Xhosa skirt, and entered the cool stone building (roughly 20 minutes in all), the ritual was a bore.
The realisation that she has been doing the same for more than 40 years was beyond depressing. That she was able to resist propelling her gleaming floral self on to the sharp, shiny end of one of the smart soldier’s guns seemed miraculous.
But the following morning, after three more official events, the queen was at it again. Several hundred school children and best-dressed dignitaries awaited her presence in the courtyard of an adult education centre in Alexandra. The whitest cavalcade in Africa made its way through the dusty streets somehow, and arrived punctual as ever. The tiny majesty emerged. Same old demeanour, same old handbag, same old hair, never ruffled or surprised.
The children flicked South African flags and Union Jacks above their heads, and sang and cheered as instructed. The famously non- maternal monarch (did she actually have Charles’s ears pinned forward instead of back when he was a child?) seemed reasonably pleased, though hardly enchanted. The British press jostled for position.
The children appeared to be more excited about being out of lessons than they were to be glimpsing the queen of England whom they clearly had no clue about. One girl said that the lady in the pink hat was “Princess Alexandra”. Her eavesdropping teacher, Mrs Ramothokang (a jolly woman with a pretty peach hat), hastily produced a different child for questioning. This time, a bright, confident seven-year-old with several missing milk teeth, said he knew very well who the lady in pink was: “It is Princess Elizabeth.”
“I have told them,” said Ramothokang muscling in, “that Princess Elizabeth is coming, and that she is the grandmother of Lady Diana and the mother of Prince Charles.” (Diana remains the dominant, if muddled, point of reference.) “They all know Diana because of her clothes, the television, and death.”
The queen looked around at the children, smiled a little, accepted yet more flowers, then padded up some stairs and away into a classroom.
Outside the centre, beyond the great white cavalcade and several policemen in need of Prozac, a small crowd had gathered. Not fans, just curious passers- by who had chanced upon a visiting queen.
In the next street, an obese, miserable looking man sat behind a rickety table, selling newspapers. Did he know who was visiting across the road? Reluctant to engage in any cordial communication, he paused then grunted, “Yes … the queen.” And what did he think of her? (Another pause) “Ag …” Enough about her though, back to him: “I’m a poor man. She must give me something.” Next, a bright idea, “Why doesn’t she give me a loan?”
Yes, why doesn’t she give us all a loan? Or a wave? Or a speech? Or an endorsement? Or a photo call? Most of us want something from her, even if it’s just for her to vanish in a puff of smoke.
But once you’ve seen her up close, you realise, she’s just a well- preserved 73- year-old woman, from a long line of peculiar misfits, making a grand job of being ordinary. She can’t really save us, and she can’t really harm us. Oh, and she’s not handing out any cash just now.