Worldwide, day by day, many are killed by violent crime. South Africa is keeping records other states don’t. An official source reports that between 1994 and 2001 more than 1.100 whites were killed during 5.500 attacks on solitary farms. According to another statistic from that period, every second woman was more likely to get raped than to learn to read and write.
Even today, years on, high unemployment causes social imbalances. A report in the Financial Times, May 2010, makes me prick up my ears. It is about South Africa’s new capitalists, the Black Diamonds, as this small group of super-rich is called in the Cape. Within a short time they have managed to amass astonishing riches, while the fury of the impoverished masses is on the rise.
Once upon a time… this true story, frequently told in South Africa about Patrice Motsepe, still sounds like a fairy tale: Motsepe is walking through a glittering shopping mall in Cape Town and is recognised by some passers-by. Immediately, a knot of people forms. The assistants of a shop ask for his autograph; two teenagers hug him for a photograph; an old black lady takes his hand and makes it caress her furrowed face. Motsepe, mining tycoon and the richest black man in South Africa, is celebrated as a hero – someone who made it in the world of the whites.
This hero-worship has now ended, the mood has changed. The rich blacks are reproached for cronyism, exploitation and looting, in no way different from the whites during Apartheid. There is tremendous poverty in the country; the huge stadiums for the Soccer World Cup absorbed billions. Will the world be impressed and dare to look behind the curtain? Within the black population, the gap between rich and poor is getting wider and wider. The trigger for the undeniable crime is not greed for riches, but hunger. The daily struggle for survival is intertwined with violence, muggings and even murder. Jacob Zuma, the current president, tried to denounce it as a media-made myth. Ex-president Thabo Mbeki, however, strongly countered this and in public spoke of a distorted perception. In fact, statistically, the tide of violent crime is receding: The upward-moving middle class is helping to adjust part of the social imbalance. But, knowing that the number of murders has dipped to a certain percentage doesn’t really appease anyone, least of all myself. Why do the perimeter walls around the houses keep on growing higher and higher, why is there more and more security deployed in the gated areas, where people flock together?
Part 2
Namibia
This section is about pathless detours, leading us from the Orange River into the lonely heart of the Namib Desert and on to the Kunene River, the border with Angola.
Father of the Namib
At the border post for Namibia construction work is going on. From next year, traffic will be flowing past in orderly lanes. A young lad directs the cars into queues and we start talking. Laredo Mahlatsi comes from Bloemfontein, where his girlfriend as well as his family are now living. For four weeks in a row he works on the site, then he is off and goes home. The next trading post is 70km from the border. Since provisions are very expensive in the workers’ camp, Laredo carries essential basics from Bloemfontein for the four week-long working stint. His buddies join us as we sit on the roadside crash barrier.
Laredo and his Buddies at the Border Post
Jack comes from Zimbabwe. He belongs to the Tonga ethnic group. His face is covered with scars. He is homesick for his family at Lake Kariba. Jack only performs menial jobs here. He is not at ease, since he is not very popular with the others, who are keen on getting the jobs for themselves. Then the topic of kids is brought up. Laredo doesn’t want to know whether or not I have children, that’s a matter of fact to him, but asks how many I have! All of them have children, but not me; the men look at me, concerned. It puzzles them when I try to explain what their cherished large number of children would mean in Germany. From all sides they reassure me that how they handle it is the much better way. As at many border posts in Southern Africa, in the restrooms you find a cardboard box with free condoms that is almost full. In the first instance, this provision is meant to prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS.
We still need to sort out some things. In front of a shop, shaded by a big tree, a family is waiting for a lift. It won’t be too easy for them to hitch a ride, with so many pieces of luggage. Four boys linger about until a Toyota drives by. The boys become alert and attentively watch the scene. Two obese white females get out, each step making their breasts sway from side to side. They load the car with six boxes of bread. Then, with a clank, a huge garbage bag is hurled into the rusty bin and the car disappears in a big cloud of dust on the horizon. The boys may have been waiting for this. Quickly, they sift through the garbage and sort out all the coke and beer cans. Accompanied by loud laughter, they drink the last remaining drops. Not even three metres away there is a working water tap. I say to the boys: “It’s not safe; you never know how old the stuff is and who has been drinking from these cans.” With big eyes they look at me gravely and then roar with laughter. “That can’t do us any harm, we are tough men and, besides, the leftovers in the can taste better than water.” When I ask their ages, I only get naughty answers. They pretend to be 25. Laughing, the lads move off, skilfully kicking an empty beer can between them, which is carelessly left behind when they jump on to the back of a pick-up truck.
It is hot. The air doesn’t move, there is not the slightest breeze. In the heat haze an oncoming truck seems to hover above the road. For minutes, we are swallowed up by the clouds of dust raised by the vehicle. Then the table-like mountains rise again, like a fata morgana, above the ground. We branch off towards Rosh Pinah. Like a green ribbon, the Orange River cuts through the barren landscape. Where no river water moistens the scraggy soil there is an abrupt end to the green and the earth is bone-dry. The Orange River has its source in the mountains of Lesotho and flows into the Atlantic Ocean near Oranjemund. Measuring 2.160 kilometres it is the longest river in Southern Africa. The mouth of the Orange River is still, to this day, a restricted diamond mining area. By providing power and drinking water, the river provides a living for many people. Sophisticated irrigation systems for vineyards, fish ponds and agriculture line our path. For millions of years, the Orange River has been washing enormous quantities of sand from the interior into the Atlantic Ocean. In around 1780, the Orange River was discovered by the Europeans. They called it Oranje to honour the Dutch royal house. A less royal version, however, claims the name is derived from the intensive orange colour of the water due to the Kalahari sands, which in turn get it from the high concentration of iron oxides. The Benguela Current and the prevailing south-westerly keep pushing the sands northwards. This has enabled the formation of the dunes in the Namib Desert and is why the Orange River earned its title “Father of the Namib”.
At the Orange River, we meet siblings Josef, Francis, Joan and little Mel. The children are aged between 8 and 14 years. The girl is carrying the backpack: role allocations are obviously fixed since childhood. Today, school’s out, so they have been fishing. It’s been a good day, since the 8 small fish, averaging between 15 to 20 centimetres, will upgrade their supper. Guided by Josef I cast the line, quite well, but Mel is much better at it. The frail girl quickly winds up the line and again shows me how to do it. The children attend school at Aussenkehr. This grass hut village has been developing during recent years. A large shop opened near the health station a year ago. The farm Aussenkehr is producing grapes on a large scale. During the season, up to one thousand people live in these simple grass huts. Day by day, they are exposed to dust, heat and cold. We chat on a bit about this and that, about school and the parents. Then we diligently wind up the fishing lines on to the sticks and box up everything. Now Josef is carrying the backpack, maybe because of me and probably only as long as I am in sight.
Josef, Francis, Joan and Little Mel return from fishing
The Orange River carries a lot of water and the currents are remarkable. Its water has a nice temperature and there are neither crocodiles nor hippos which