Part III (Final) - A Foot Solider in the Revolution

In the months following Dante’s arrest, Mandela was finally freed from prison, marking the beginning of apartheid’s end, and the start of a new chapter for South Africa.

Everyone knows the story of what happened next.  Mandela became South Africa’s first black President and called for the country to heal and embrace a future based on equal rights and freedom for all.  And after only one term, he stepped aside in an act of incredibly conciliatory leadership and with a genuine desire to bring together a nation that had been so bitterly divided for so long.

But there are the other stories that are never (and will never be) told – too numerous to count.  Stories of small acts of uncommon heroism at the hands of those who will remain anonymous in the shadow of the Old Man, but whose individual contributions were no less important to the ultimate success of the revolution.

As part of the Truth and Reconciliation process established by President Mandela and brilliantly led by Archbishop Desmund Tutu, many of the combatants on both sides were granted immunity.  Dante was one of those whose acts against the apartheid government were wiped clean.  It was also through this process that it finally became known what had been feared; that Dante’s two closest compatriots had been secretly detained and executed by the government.  A fate he could have just as easily suffered.  As part of the nation’s healing process, the perpetrators received immunity because they came forward to freely admit their actions.

Following Mandela’s election and years as President, many of the other well but lesser known leaders of the Struggle went on to high profile roles in the country, either in government or business.  Dante served as a senior official in the Mandela Administration, often taking on – with great relish – some of the more difficult issues facing the country in its period of transition.  After his public service, Dante became a successful corporate executive and, per his usual level of tenacity, moved up quickly.  Despite his success in public affairs and business, Dante eventually chose a quieter path and faded from public life.

The Great Struggle ended, but there is much more work to be done.  Dante served the cause and his fellow citizens with distinction, and in relative anonymity.  Whether he feels a sense of honor for his role in bringing down a regime built on a repulsive injustice and inequality, I can’t say.  But I suspect that Dante, like most true heroes, does not see himself as such.  What I do know is that Dante is unabashedly patriotic and proud of his country.  He beams when he talks of its natural beauty, the strength of its citizens, and its potential to be among the league of the world’s most admired nations. 

Despite his pride in the South Africa of today and the promise of its tomorrow, I believe that for Dante, growing up in a society predicated on inequality and injustice has left scars that may never fully heal.  At times, it is clear that Dante is still trying to find his own peace, even though the war for which he fought so hard is now long over, and I imagine that he is not alone.

The story of Dante or the countless other foot soldiers of the revolution may never be made into a Hollywood blockbuster, but their contributions are no less worthy of our admiration and praise.  I for one am honored and proud to call him my friend.

Part II - Foot Soldier of the Revolution

Dante, through his fearless courage and willingness to do whatever necessary to tear down the mechanisms of oppression, rose up through the ranks quickly to become a leader of other guerrilla warrior cells.  He planned and led many operations, often putting his own life and the lives of the men and women under his command on the line against a more well trained, financed, and armed foe.

After years of living a double life – “respectable” citizen publicly and cunning revolutionary in the shadows – Dante found himself in the spotlight and in grave danger.  The Great Struggle had developed momentum.  International pressure grew, protests increased in size and frequency, and the revolutionaries’ physical attacks on the regime’s infrastructure were taking a collective toll.  And as the white ruled government became increasingly concerned over their control of the country, they became more brazenly ruthless. 

Suppression of protests became bloodier, and the police more frequently rounded up suspected militants without proof, often detaining them for months on end in solitary confinement and barring any access to the outside world including family members or legal counsel which, by the way, was legal at the time according to South African law.  Most alarmingly, however, was the frequency with which people were simply disappearing without a trace, leaving loved ones to fear the worst.

As the Struggle intensified, there was a sense among revolutionaries and the government that they were reaching a tipping point.  It was a critical time when the revolutionaries’ need to keep up and even intensify the pressure was never more important.  For the government, a sense that in the absence of bold action, their reign could falter and eventually fall.

Dante was now in frequent contact with the highest echelons of the Struggle’s leadership, often meeting with senior members to strategize and plan militant operations against the government.  One day, two of his closest compatriots disappeared without a trace.  Dante and his brethren feared they had suffered a terrible fate, and it became clear that Dante was now known to the authorities and no longer safe out in the open so he went underground.

Eventually, Dante and several others were arrested.  Unable to contact anyone to let them know he was in prison, Dante’s family suffered for months not knowing if he was alive or dead. 

Up next:  Part III – End of the Great Struggle?

A Foot Solider of the Revolution: My conversations with a bomb-maker in the Great Struggle against apartheid

(Photos of giant elephants, breathtaking waterfalls, and pristine vistas are popular, of course, and tales of chaos and woe from the road are always fun, but I am reminded that the most interesting stories are those about the people I meet along the way.  So, this next post is the first of what I am sure will be several to come about the characters with whom I cross paths.  But not too worry; for those preferring the former, there’s plenty more in the works that is bound to purely entertain.)


No icon of the 20th Century is so universally recognized and revered more than Nelson Mandela, and rightfully so.  After decades of indefatigable advocacy for the end of apartheid, including 27 years in prison, President Mandela changed the fate of a nation and inspired countless others to fight for freedom and equality around the world.   In honor of his leadership, July 18, 2012 marked “Mandela Day”, which was observed in South Africa and internationally.


At 94, “The Old Man”, as he is affectionately known in South Africa, is the soul of the country.  A living legend and god-like figure that will forever be the face of the nation’s long, and eventually successful, struggle against institutional racism and legalized inequality.  During his long years behind bars, thousands of innocent civilians lost their lives protesting in the streets of townships like Sharpeville, Soweto, and Langa.  Without frequent popular uprisings and work-stoppages of miners, laborers, taxi drivers, farmers, mothers and young people, apartheid would never have reached the eyes and ears of the international community, which put intense economic pressure on the white South African regime with sanctions, and applied political pressure through isolation.  U2’s Bono singing “I ain’t gonna play Sun City” didn’t hurt either.


Mandela was the flag-bearer of the revolution to end apartheid, and the citizen masses were the brute force behind his power.  It is his and the story of his throngs of loyal protesters that we most frequently associate with the end of the racist regime.  However, there were others who played equally important, but much less visible or heralded roles whose stories of heroism may never been known.   I was fortunate enough to spend time with one of the foot soldiers of the revolution and hear some of his story.


The Great Struggle relied upon cadres of revolutionary soldiers who took up arms to carry-out surgical strikes on the white regime’s infrastructure of oppression in order to amplify the broader economic and political pressures.  They worked in the shadows, far from view and often without their family and friends’ awareness of their activities.  Taking up the cause was not an easy choice for these soldiers, especially for those who, although they were non-white, were able to get an education and even a decent job and achieve an adequate, although much lower, standard of living.  They had so much more to lose than those who had nothing.


The soldier I met, we’ll call him Dante, is particularly unique because he is not black, but of Indian decent.  Durban, South Africa, where he was born, is home to the largest concentration of people of Indian decent outside of India.  Many of whom can trace their families back to when indentured servitude took the place of slavery, and thousands of Indians were brought to South Africa to work on sugar plantations.  They were not shackled and forced at gun point, but were coerced with promises of riches and land beyond their wildest dreams only to fall victim to a more subtle kind of “master.”


Dante is third generation South African, and he proudly refers to himself as “African” as opposed to “Indian” or anything else.  And despite his education and access to opportunities most other non-whites lacked, from a young and tender age he committed himself to the Great Struggle.  True to Dante’s personality, he chose the most dangerous way to employ his formidable skills and talents in chemical engineering as a bomb maker for the revolution.

Part II – Dante the Soldier…coming tomorrow

“Many Rivers to Cross…”

“But I still can’t seem to find my piece of mind.” – Jimmy Cliff

The most common mode of travel throughout Africa is the minibus.  These buses are regional and shuttle passengers between towns.  They are manufactured to seat a driver, passenger up front and 4 rows of people behind for a total of 14 actual seats (this becomes relevant later). 

I was told not to take this mode of transport because drivers typically drive way too fast, which is compounded by the fact they overload them.  The “roads”, especially outside of urban areas, are typically in disrepair.  All of this is exaggerated at night since there are no streetlights, reflectors or any thing resembling a guardrail.

Given this description, perhaps it wouldn’t be surprising to know that the leading cause of death in Africa is not war, illness, or being eaten by lions, but road accidents at a whopping 40% of all deaths every year.

Since I seem to find some kind of sick pleasure in chaos, I decided to take a minibus from Mbabane, Swaziland to Maputo, Mozambique.

In each town, you can always find at its center a swarming beehive of minibuses in a large open lot.  To an outsider, there is no rhyme or reason because there’s no ticket window, no sign, and if you don’t keep your head up, you’ll easily get run over as these white vans zip in and out.  Lucky for me, the people I’ve come across are incredibly friendly and helpful.  A lone face in a dark sea carrying a small house on my shoulders must invoke as much pity as it does curiosity.

Buses don’t leave at a particular time.  They leave when they are full and I don’t mean full in the sense that every seat is taken.  I mean a kind of full that you can’t really imagine.  Earlier in the day I had inquired about the next bus to Maputo and was told to come back at 3pm.  Perfect.  I needed to wait until 2 to get my visa from the Mozambique embassy any way.

I entered the hive of angry vans with plenty of time to spare and after asking a few drivers I was informed that the Maputo bus wasn’t running today.  I was shuffled over to a hulking bus the size of a Greyhound and told I needed to go to Manzini in order to catch a bus there to Maputo. 

Sometimes when traveling you need to make quick decisions and just cross your fingers that it’s the right one.  This was one of those times.

The huge bus was rolling out of the hive and I had to hop on while it was still moving.  There’s something…awkward about getting onto a bus carrying 80 people and having 160 eyes staring back at you in total befuddlement.  You had to be there.

I left my pack at the front near the driver and stood in the aisle as every seat and most of the aisle was occupied.   A young boy sitting near the front offered me his seat.  The awkwardness kicked in again as I guiltily sat while the little fellow stood.  Then I remembered the lollipops in my bag I was carrying for just such an occasion and gave him one as a sign of my thanks.

As the bus lumbered along eastward, making occasional stops to cram more people onto the bus, I noticed that everyone was glued to the front watching a small television screen that was playing – in black and white – “Delta Force 3: The Killing Game” is blaring in Swati.  Machine guns, bombs, and clichés explode from this great American classic and everyone is riveted.  Slightly embarrassed, I decided to read my book.

After a few minutes, I hear shouting at the back of the bus.  I glance over at my seatmate, a kindly looking older man who is intently watching the movie.  He notices me and instantly knows the look on my face.  “He’s giving a speech,” the man says, referring to the gentleman in the back.  “Mostly about how God has forsaken us.  He is on this bus every day giving speeches.”  I nod in understanding, thinking about how the New York subways have their own versions of this orator.

After a long moment, I ask the man “do you think that’s true, that God has forsaken you?”  Without turning away from the movie – there was a particularly intense sequence of bombs and gunfire going on – he replied:  “God does not forsake his creations.  It is we who have forsaken ourselves and each other.”  Boom!  A grenade thrown by US commandos goes off sending a group of Arab stereotypes catapulting into the air.

A few stops later, the man gets up to exit the bus and as he reaches the aisle he stops, looks back at me and says, “never be forsaken.  Goodbye, my friend.”

-----

Manzini’s bus hive is smaller than Mbabane’s but has somehow managed to cram the same number of minibuses into it.  I knew we had arrived despite the lack of signs because everyone else got off.  I waited to exit because of the disruptions I would have caused with my large bag.  Not knowing how much the 45 minute ride cost, I hold out a handful of money to the driver, and he carefully selected the right amount – 10 Swazi (about $1.25).  “Buses to Maputo are up there,” he says, pointing to the north end of the lot.

I find the right van and climb in.  There are already a couple of people waiting on board.  After a few minutes, I say hello and we start talking.  Alice and her son (I can’t even begin to pronounce or spell his name) are from Zimbabwe and are going to Maputo to visit a relative.  Fatima is from Maputo and only speaks Portuguese.

Alice

Alice, whose English is excellent and her smile broad and warm, informs me the bus leaves when ever its gets full, which should be in about an hour.  We talk for a while about the benefits of Shoprite over Pick n’ Pay (local grocery store chains) and then I offer to get her a drink at the local store as I am going to get one for myself.  “100 percent fruit juice,” she says.  I offer to get one for her son and for Fatima as well.  In addition to just wanting to be friendly, I figure that if some sh*t goes down it wouldn’t hurt to have a few friends.

Over the next hour, the van slowly fills up.  I’ve scored the exit row version of a seat – right next to the sliding door.  Single seat next to the aisle with lots of legroom in front of me.

One of the passengers is a young boy of about 3 with his father.  Before long, we’re trading high-fives and laughing as he hides and then pokes his head out every few seconds.  I take his picture with my camera phone and show him.  This goes on for several minutes until he wrestles the phone from my hands, reminding me of my nephew Charlie when he used to do the same thing.  But this little fellow refuses to give it back.  His father intervenes and says in Swati (I am guessing) “give back the phone.”  The boy responds in a dismissive tone without looking up from the screen.  Alice informs me that the boy told his father that the phone is his.  I fish another lollipop from my bag and we make a fair trade.  Everyone is happy.

Phone thief

The scene in and around the van grows more chaotic as additional people arrive including a woman with a large cache of packages of food, materials, and other goods.  The van is pulling a large trailer that is being filled with luggage and the items she is bought.  Before long it is overflowing with items.  I take comfort in knowing that my pack is at the bottom where it won’t “disappear.”

Chaos

More and more people are boarding the van.  I am thankful for my well-chosen seat…until the van is preparing to depart.  There are 17 people in the 14-person van, which is not too bad until three more guys hop on.  One fellow, who is, shall we say far from slim, decides to sit next to me on a large bucket of spackle while the other two sit in the only space left – on the floor directly in front of me.  I have been crammed into a seat on an airplane before, but this was a whole new level of squished.  It is scheduled to be a 4 to 5 hour ride.

One of the guys is reeking of booze while the other two crack beers and start drinking.  They are engaged in a very loud and rapid-fire conversation about something.

The van speeds off as the sun is rapidly descending behind Swaziland’s mountains.  Our driver seems capable and in a very big hurry.  The roads are busy as the end of the day nears.  The ride is bumpy.  The boys continue to drink hard.  I put on my seat belt, despite the fact I am so squeezed into my seat because of the gentleman to my right the jaws of life couldn’t extricate me, and pull out my kindle as regret quickly sets in.  I sip my water but am eyeing the boys’ sack of beers.

----

90 minutes into the trip it is now fully dark outside. I am glued to my book.  The small light attached to the kindle the only light inside the vehicle. The van would have been quiet except for the boisterous and now fully drunk threesome sitting around me.  Suddenly a collective gasp erupts from my fellow passengers along with troubled tones and utterances in Swati.  I look up and see a phalanx of flashing lights in front of us as the van slows.  We ease through a horrific accident scene.  Smashed cars on either side of the road.  Hundreds of people are crowed around as emergency workers run about.

The van pulls over and our three dunk ambassadors and the driver jump out to survey the scene.  One of the vehicles is an exact replica of our van and over-filled trailer.  It is in a heap in the ditch.  Roof smashed in and scattered broken glass.  Everyone is whispering words of concern and shaking heads.  A few minutes later, the trio and driver re-board and we start off again into the dark on the bumpy road.

To take my mind of it, I reopen my book to continue reading my Lonely Planet guide to Mozambique when the portly drunk fellow asked me “are you a Christen, my friend?”  I assumed he thought I had been reading a Bible this whole time.  I look up and before I can answer he says, “you should pray every time you get in one of these vans.”

----

On long trips through the night in a far away place, thoughts perhaps inevitably drift to the more existential.  For me, a common one is regret.  Too much time tends to lead one back to past mistakes, bad decisions and pain.  

I also think about the people in my life I have lost before their time should have been up.  Julius.  Dave.  Otto.  Wally.  I haven often thought about this trip through their eyes.  As something I am doing for myself but in the spirit of those who cannot.  To follow a dream in honor of the people who gave up on their own or whose lives and responsibilities simply got in the way.

In addition to the dead, my mind finds the living who are so often too far away.  Blue Brothers.  Cellblock 13.  MC-MPA class of 2001.  La Familia. The Chamonix Crew.  The friends of Vermont, Geneva, Boston, California, New York and many others.

In the lonely moments or the difficult ones, I stay present, am thankful, and filled with hope that regrets will fade in time and that old friends will become new again.

----

We are at the border.  I had drifted off.  Everyone is disembarking to get our passports stamped by the Swazi border post.  Afterwards, we walk the quarter mile across no man’s land to the Mozambique border for another stamp.

There is a long wait as customs officials inspect our cargo and make sure all the items one of our fellow passengers is importing are properly accounted for.  Most of us munch on boiled corn on the cob being sold by two brothers on the stoop of the Mozambique checkpoint.  I wish I could say it was edible.  It was not but I ate it any way.

After about an hour of poking and prodding of sacks and packages in the trailer, we all climbed back on the van and started off for the last hour of the drive.  The boys have now moved on from beer to boxed wine.

About a mile down the road from the border, the van was pulled over by two guys in customs uniforms who had emerged from a private car on the side of the road.  They asked the driver and the woman with all of the goods in the trailer to get out and come to the back of the van.  A shake down for cash by off-duty customs officers that was probably shared with their on duty colleagues back at the border.

We drive on and are stopped two more times for bribes. One by a traffic cop and another by a regular police officer.  Each time they brought the woman to the back of the van where no one could see what was happening although everyone did.

After a few more minutes, the van comes to an abrupt stop as we nearly ran over some large pieces of broken concrete in the middle of road.  Another accident.  This time it was a large truck that had been hauling pieces of concrete that had overturned in the road.  We continue on.

200 kilometers, 2 borders, 3 bribes, 2 accidents, a dozen beers and box of wine, and 7 hours after leaving Manzini, we finally arrive in Maputo.   People say goodbye to one another as if we’d just been though a mutual ordeal.  For me, we had.  For them, this was just another van ride.

Reflections on South Africa

Joburg at night

IMPORTANT CAVEAT:  I am not an expert on South Africa or Africa, and I do not portend to have any great insight to share, especially after only a couple of weeks.  This post and subsequent ones about what I see are merely my very limited observations and not intended to be anything more.

Apartheid ended in 1994 but the issue of race continues to dominate the political, cultural and social landscape.  Given apartheid’s fundamental injustice and the atrocities that transpired during the uprising against it, perhaps race should continue to be a profound element of public discourse.  Or the past is prologue and the deep economic and social inequalities along racial lines will persist so long as the rhetoric among political leaders is purposefully divisive.

For the majority of residents in the capital of Johannesburg it is nearly a first-world city.  It has a modern airport, well-maintained interstates, potable tap water, and a reliable power grid.

In addition to the basics, you will find dozens of welcoming neighborhoods with their own character that includes quaint restaurants, boutique clothing stores, and plenty of art galleries and high-end furniture stores.

In other areas, you see towering “luxury apartment” complexes amidst car dealerships selling Aston Martin, McLaren and Mercedes next to giant malls with stores rivaling any in London, Paris, New York and Hong Kong.  Joburg is a global city and the most cosmopolitan in Africa.

As the continent’s most developed economy, South Africa is a magnet for those around Africa seeking work, many of which enter the country illegally.  On the city’s outskirts, there are sprawling shantytowns where tin huts are tightly packed along the sides of the interstate.  For the most part, the impoverished are far from view and, despite the country’s increasing prosperity and growing middle-class, many are desperately poor and with little hope of escape.

Persistent economic inequality fuels simmering racial tensions, creating a powerful political cocktail that spills over during election campaigns.  This inequality is also behind a long-running upsurge in violent crime in the city that is usually black on white and in the wealthiest neighborhoods.  The fear of crime is pervasive as evidenced by homes resembling bunkers with high walls and electrified fences and warning signs out front with “Armed Response” prominently displayed.

Despite the stubborn social challenges, Joburg has a vibrancy that rivals other cities around the world.  Economically, the city is the home of Standard Bank – the continent’s largest bank that is part owned by China’s CIBIC – and Africa’s largest and most active stock exchange.  Recently, Wal-Mart bought a controlling interest in South Africa-based Massmart; a retail chain with locations in 14 African countries, marking what is likely to be the first of other major landings in Africa by Western brands.  The city is globalization’s beachhead in Africa.  And Johannesburg’s burgeoning film industry, art scene, and highly regarded universities brings a critical flair and energy to the city’s economic prowess.

Some items on the lighter side include:

• A “robot” is a traffic light.
• “Howzit?” is the proper way to greet someone.
• And the top news from America on the local radio is “TomKat”.

Joburg’s lasting impression on me is of a city that will continue to lead the nation, and the continent, into the future.  However, the real story is in the people I was fortunate enough to meet, all of whom will be discussed in the next post.

Victoria Falls - A Wonder of the World

June 30th:  Landed in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe from Johannesburg.  Vic Falls is one of the 7 Wonders of the World rivaling the world's other major waterfalls in Niagara and Angel Falls in Venezuela.

The falls actually make a natural border between Zimbabwe and Zambia.  The famous Victoria Falls Bridge connects the two nations over the Zambezi River - the major contributor to the falls.

Named by Dr. Livingstone in 1860 for Queen Victoria, the architecture from the region's colonial past is still alive and well in the area.  No where is this more evident that at Victoria Falls Hotel, built in 1904, which has amazingly been maintained in pristine condition.

The back of the hotel's grounds afforded a perfect view of the bridge where one can bungie jump, swing or zip across the Zambezi River from 420 feet up.

Victoria Falls Bridge - Zimbabwe into Zambia

The waterfall itself is an incredible sight, spanning six different gorges.

Rainbow accented by an early moon.

Bridge has an active rail passage.

July 1st:   Leisurely morning enjoying the splendor of the Victoria Falls Hotel.  Relaxing before the afternoon's adventure:  microflight over the falls...

Similar to an ultralight - a hang glider with a motor on the back - it was the best way to see the falls, the Zambezi River and basin, and the hippos, elephants, and crocodiles browsing its shores.

Jana - ready to take flight.

Hanging on for dear life. 

The slideshow is primarily from pictures taken by a camera mounted on the wing, which clicked a photo about every 60 seconds.  By viewing photos in succession you get a sense of the flight and scenery below.



July 2nd: Lazy morning at the hotel before flying back to Joburg.

NEXT STOP... Swaziland - one of the last pure monarchy's in the world.