Day One
Margaret Kenyon was university librarian at Rhodes between 2001 and 2005. She ignited the fire that led to the refurbishment of an old, and the building of a new, library in the heart of the campus. In the bloody campaign (mostly against the science faculty) that followed, I played a bit part. On my final January morning in Grahamstown, I visited the R75-million building that was opened by Blade Nzimande in November last.
My purpose was to spend a few minutes in the “Margaret Kenyon Room” — a section named for this gentle, loving woman whose life tragically ended before her dream was realised. The security guard hadn’t heard of the room; neither had the first desk clerk I encountered.
As I mounted the stairs, a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed young man in a tie rushed after me asking, “Are you’re looking for the ‘Margaret THATCHER Room?'” Thatcherism lives in South African higher education in many forms, doesn’t it?
Day Two
Is moving home a metaphor for growing old?
For three days a crew of movers have been in what used to be our family home. Like army ants, they devour each room they enter. But, as they carry packed boxes out, I wonder what all the stuff — books excluded, of course — really means and whether it is all necessary for one’s health and happiness. I know the answer, of course, but refuse to face it.
The 120-odd boxes of books, by the way, are not insured for the trip. It seems my “stealable possessions” — have “used up” the insurance “value” decided upon by the storm troopers of university Thatcherism: their human resources departments.
Day Three
We leave on the Cradock Road towards Bedford in the early morning light: this is one of the most beautiful drives in the Eastern Cape, if not the whole country. Changes to the funding of agricultural production have a greater impact on the rural economy of the Eastern Cape than South Africa’s political transition.
En route we pass Carlisle Bridge where there was once a thriving (albeit subsidised) farming community that even fielded a team in the local cricket league. Legend has it that a newly arrived Rhodes academic wanted to join one of these rural clubs. He was interviewed in the pub — where else — and the first question was this: “Are you a reel doctor or are you wun of thoz Rhoadz things?”
The back roads of the Eastern Cape are wonderful — well maintained and traffic-free. We stop for breakfast in a spit of a place called Hofmeyr. Not a shopping mall or a “One-Stop” in sight. We both choose “Breakfast Coussaint” — scrambled eggs and bacon. Delicious.
In the passages of the café hang pictures of the principals of the local high school. Smiles (and a frown) from men — what else — who wouldn’t recognise the place (or, indeed, the country) nowadays.
The view of the Gariep Dam is magnificent. As a young reporter, I had covered its opening — a dour occasion at the height of apartheid’s modernist moment presided over by the boorish John Vorster, who was born in the Eastern Cape we’ve just left.
We stop for lunch in Bloemfontein at a ubiquitous “One Stop” — it’s chockers! The maître d’ tells us it has been like this for weeks. The young, well-spoken waitress is just wonderful. Leave a big tip.
The N1 is packed and our average speed slows down — the quality of the trip deteriorates sharply. I think I should explain — we’re driving in a two-car convey and communication is by cellphone. On a busy road this is increasingly difficult.
Then a torrent of rain starts: this lasts pretty much all the way to Gauteng. At one point Louise hares into a “One-Stop”. I rush past. Alas, there’s no going back. I crawl along hugging the shoulder much to the anger of passing cars — most seem to be pulling boats. “One Vaalie, One Boat,” I recall a wag saying once during the summer rush to the coast. Then, I realise I’m about to join them!
Before falling exhausted into bed, we stop under the Joe Slovo Underpass to pick up a set of keys. They’ve been looked after by a man called David Selowa who works for a company called Rent-a-Wreck about which, in my experience, one could write a post-modern play. I’ve hired a few cars from them and, before the holidays, inadvertently left keys in one. David, who is in Polokwane today, has been their custodian. He has given us a few contacts to follow. Following his telephone leads we have arrived at this noisy corner.
In the gathering gloom of the decaying inner city, the keys are safely delivered by two middle-aged smiling men each carrying a shopping bag.
Day Four
In a small flat on the University of Johannesburg’s Bunting Road campus, we awake to the babble of voices. The place is besieged, I initially think. On the street outside, I spy fancy car upon fancy car. If this is a siege, the rich are besieging the poor.
As we pull ourselves together, I slowly understand that this is the first day of registration. But it is far too early in the year for UJ to be pulling on “its academic working clothes”. The phrase is from Dag Hammarskjöld, one-time United Nations secretary general, who was killed in Zambia in a plane crash 50 years ago this year. I recently read his beautiful essay, “Castle Hill”, which recalls a year in the life of Uppsala, the city where he lived and studied.
We struggled to escape the crush on Bunting; visit our rented house in Melville. It seems a nice street.
But I look nervously around for any evidence of the notorious Johannesburg burglars. Then I pull myself short and remind myself of what I’ve told the incredulous disbelievers who have pulled up their noses as to why anyone would want to move to Johannesburg: “Look, there are over seven million people in the Greater Johannesburg area,” I’ve said. “They can’t all be unhappy. I intend to join the happy ones.
As Louise enters the new house, I’m nervous. I rented it without showing her. I ask her for an Apgar score. She scores it eight. Oh, happy day!
We meet our daughter for lunch. She’s off to Amsterdam tonight for a fortnight but, alas, is full of flu. She seems to like the house, too, but I don’t ask her for an Apgar score.
Always quit while ahead!
Day Five
The busy Johannesburg dailies are full of the siege of UJ — and, so it seems, elsewhere. Their point seems to be about chaos and seems to be linked to the release of matric results. Both these themes, I fear, are far too easily converted into those old South African chestnuts, race and falling standards.
Isn’t something deeper going on here?
As Britain pursues the Thatcher project in higher education to the nth degree something else seems to be happening in South Africa. Are not the young hordes advancing on our campuses the very antithesis of the young who demonstrated against drastic cuts in higher education in London (and other British cities) a month ago?
The movers arrive to unpack our possessions. Happily our books have survived. But we’re going to have to make some very hard choices, space-wise. We sup among the many cardboard boxes that hide my own academic clothes.
This is the first of a monthly diary by Peter Vale, professor of humanities, University of Johannesburg, and Nelson Mandela Chair of Politics Emeritus, Rhodes University. His second ‘Black Arts” diary entry will appear in the next edition of Getting Ahead (February 25)