November saw the return of what has now become a regular feature on the Cape calendar — the Kirstenbosch summer concert series. Having missed out on a ticket at Newlands and the chance to see Kemp and Co wreak havoc, I headed on down to lap up the lekker Cape vibe in the South African National Botanical Gardens. While sipping my way through the finest bottle of R20 chardonnay available, I couldn’t help but notice that the preferred flavour of the party was most decidedly a very pure white.
No blends evident here; the rosés and full-bodied reds were conspicuous, at least to me, by their absence. This was no rainbow vineyard one might expect to find on display, but a rather anaemically pale version of that brightly coloured spectrum (yes, I’m pretty sure the metaphors are well and truly mixed).
Don’t get me wrong; there are certainly far worse ways to spend a Sunday evening than packing the picnic hamper, forgetting that tomorrow’s Monday and heading to Kirstenbosch for some dulcet tones under the trees, a drop or two of your poison of choice and a bietjie geselligheid met jou maatjies. But this is the Cape, my bru; was it me who wondered why, in the midst of an audience of perhaps 5 000-plus, I could count on one hand the number of revellers that were not white?
Now I know there are plenty of brothers and sisters from the European Union migrating south on their annual philanthropic trips to bolster Third World economies, but they are quite easily identifiable by their glowing foreheads, sock-and-sandal combinations and football shirts.
Perhaps it is the price, you clamour; you know, ag shame. Most people don’t have the rands to squander on triflings such as music and such obvious self-gratification. Balony, I yell. While I am aware of the multitudes for whom 40 bucks is truly unaffordable, one need only walk the corridors of that temple to capitalist success, Cavendish Square, to witness our rainbow nation in all its wonderful diversity and full array of colour.
Let me assure you, dear friends, before this becomes an ugly tête-à-tête and you become mutinous at the thought that I might be cynically deriding your Sunday afternoon pursuits — thus banning me from the pure joy of joining you for a chilled glass ever again — that I have nothing against these jam sessions. In fact I take great joy in the knowledge that certain Kirstenbosch sticklebacks have their noses rather more out of joint every time some booming base note rocks the foundations of their imperial mansions. I too love the wide-open cultivated lawns, the crowds, the buzz, the mountain.
But I miss that the company lacks something uniquely Capetonian, uniquely South African. I wonder what it is that still results in such a lopsided representation of our population at such an event, where surely all should be attracted by its allures. I’m not recommending quotas on concert-going audiences, even though it would be great to get further up Kev Pietersen’s diamond-encrusted nose; I’m not suggesting we boycott the events until precisely 68,27% of the lawn is covered by darker bottoms rather than lighter ones — can you imagine policing that one at the gates! Nor am I suggesting that those whiteys that were there were card-carrying members of Oranje or hewn from the same ilk as those racist wags who continue to wave the old flag at Twickers (which team have they come to support anyway?).
I’m merely wondering out loud and hoping someone might hear and possibly agree. I’m well aware that all the people I sat with were as pale as a Pom on the Spanish south coast in May and, as much as I enjoy the company of my pale-skinned mates, I am disheartened by the lack of diversity in my own company of friends. So folks, how about a few more bottles of cabernet sauvignon, and less of the chardonnay?
Angus Duffett is a teacher who has recently completed his MA in education and development at the University of London