Until they had to move.
Not long after Vivien got there, her grandmother was told that Parow had been proclaimed a white area and she and her family had to move to a coloured township. There, they were given a small, cramped house under the government-subsidized or ‘sub-economic’ housing scheme.
‘That was my first township experience,’ says Vivien.
The next time her father visited his daughters and saw where they were living, he promptly brought them back to Knysna. Vivien was eleven years old.
By then, her parents were living in Salt River.
Vivien remembers having only the most basic facilities in Salt River. Water for washing and cooking came from springs or tanks that collected rainwater in the winter months. Toilets were ‘long drops’ dug in the ground. Light came from lamps and candles, and food was cooked on wood-fired ovens and paraffin stoves. But the house was big and there was ample space to play.
Not that Vivien settled there for very long. Ever concerned about their daughters’ education, her parents sent her and her sister to stay with family friends in town so they could be closer to their school.
I stop her there. Until I read the Land Claims report the other day, I never knew that there were ever coloured people living in Knysna itself. Who were they? Where did they live?
Vivien starts listing the names of the families, ten surnames in total. She can still remember exactly where they lived, too, identifying the houses by the white people who live there now, or the shops they’ve become.
Vivien lived in one of those houses herself, but not for long. After two years her parents sent her away again, this time because there was no proper secondary school for coloured children in Knysna. So once again she found herself in Cape Town, this time living with an aunt who’d been able to afford to build her own house in a coloured township, giving her family more space than in the boxy, pre-built houses provided by the government.
At the time, Vivien’s parents still lived in Salt River and she spent every school holiday there.
She was in her second year of university when Hornlee first became ‘home’.
Vivien’s father had died by the time her mother was told she had to move to the coloured area because her house was now on white land. Like Vivien’s aunt in Cape Town, her mother was able to afford her own piece of land in the township and have a house built on it. But it was still a difficult transition.
‘You choose who you want to associate with,’ says Vivien, speaking generally. ‘So you know you get along with these people, but you don’t fancy those people for whatever reason. They’re the natural choices you make. But the thing about living in the townships then was that you had to live next to people who just didn’t understand you, and you didn’t understand them. You didn’t have the same outlook on life, you shared nothing.’
Schools were another issue, she says. When people all over South Africa were moved to places like Hornlee, there often weren’t schools for their children yet, or there’d be a primary school but no secondary school. As a result, many coloured children stopped going to school altogether.
‘And so you broke down a whole lot of people, not by making it intentionally difficult, but by not caring that it was difficult,’ says Vivien.
I ask her what the worst things were about living in the new township.
‘You were kind of… uprooted,’ she says. ‘But I don’t want to make an effort to say how bad it was. Because I didn’t really experience it as bad. Come to think of it, many things were better. We had water in the house; we didn’t have to pray for rain any more. We had flushing toilets, we had electricity. There were practical things that were better.’
Vivien still lives in Hornlee.
‘On the whole, now that I can live elsewhere – even if I had the money – I don’t think I would,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to have to go and get used to new things. It’s my home.’
I want to hear more about the removal in 1970. Was she there when her mother got the eviction notice in Salt River? Did she help her mother move? Did the local authorities help at all?
No, she wasn’t there, says Vivien. All she knew was that one holiday she was going home to Salt River, and the next she was going home to Hornlee.
‘If you want to know about the removals, you should speak to Ronnie,’ she says. ‘He’s got lots of stories.’
I find Ronnie Davidson in the workshop round the back of the Epilepsy South Africa home.
An ex-principal at a local farm school, Ronnie now supervises the residents where they do woodwork, needlework and gardening. Today they’re hammering together trellises and vegetable crates that they’ll sell for funding for the home.
Ronnie and I go into the workshop manager’s office where we’re relatively undisturbed except for the occasional face peering round the door to ask for toilet paper.
Like Vivien, Ronnie is coloured – although he feels no need to make that distinction any more. His identity is no longer attached to the colour of his skin.
Whereas Vivien’s family moved to Hornlee from Salt River in the west, Ronnie’s moved from Concordia, a forested area high in the hills north of Knysna town.
A keen storyteller, Ronnie is happy to talk about his childhood in Concordia in the 1960s, when his family lived on a piece of land ten, twenty hectares big.
‘Let’s be conservative and say it was ten hectares,’ he says. ‘That’s still twenty rugby fields.’
He tells me his family wasn’t wealthy by any means, but nor were they deprived. His father had a car, and they had electric lights in the house that were powered by a stack of car batteries charged by a wind-powered generator.
‘When those batteries were charged, you had light for two, three days,’ he says.
Water and sanitation were less sophisticated. Like Vivien, Ronnie spent many childhood hours cleaning roofs and gutters whenever it looked like it was going to rain. Another chore that fell to the Davidson children was cleaning the bucket toilet. A common sanitation system where running water wasn’t available, bucket toilets were housed in outbuildings with two doors: a front entrance and a small door at the back through which the bucket was removed to be emptied.
Ronnie laughs at the memory. To ward off the smells, they scattered ash from their wood-fired oven over the buckets. ‘It didn’t stink,’ he says. But when it came to emptying the buckets, it still wasn’t a pleasant chore.
‘On the yard, away from the house, we had to dig holes to empty the contents of the bucket into,’ says Ronnie. ‘Often. And we were a family of eight children.’
But overall, Ronnie says, they had a good life. He and his brothers and sisters grew up playing in forests and ravines where they set traps for birds, climbed trees and ate wild berries.
As idyllic as life was for a young coloured boy in Concordia, there was another reality awaiting Ronnie whenever he went into Knysna town.
Every time he and his brothers and sisters wanted to go to the cinema, or ‘bioscope’ as Ronnie calls it, they had to go to a matinée as there was a nine o’clock curfew. Any black or coloured people on the streets of Knysna after nine were chased out by the police.
They ran out of town, he says, to make it home in time.
When they did go to the bioscope, they had to sit on hard benches on a gallery, while the white people sat downstairs in soft seats.
The