On my third day, we drive to the Johannesburg airport to see off Amb. Reyes who was due for a Manila visit. Oh, I kid him, so I get to be acting ambassador for a day. He assures me that his house staff and chancery people would see to my continued well-being. True enough, they take me on a quick tour of the commercial capital. "Joburg" sprawls as a city, much like Davao, except that the highway and road network is evidently a remarkable legacy left over by Afrikaners, all accomplished in the time of apartheid.
Unfortunately, as it seems now, redemption for South Africans wasn’t instantly achieved with Nelson Mandela’s much-hailed assumption of leadership. He has since been succeeded by his hand-picked next generation of leaders, who have yet to prove that the native community they represent is indeed up to the task of self-rule.
Horror stories abound of rampant criminality in Pretoria and Johannesburg. Visitors are warned against venturing out at night, or even in daytime in certain city areas. Woe to the motorist who suffers a vehicle breakdown on a highway close to a township, the countryside version of ramshackle ghettoes occupied by informal settlers. In the cities, break-ins are common, so that security measures in the "white/elite enclaves" are a disturbing sight: barbed wire or electric fences topping walls, electronic surveillance systems in place, multiple locks on every door and window.
Conversation with old-timers produces myriad tales of shock: how children of expatriates are so traumatized by armed robberies and burglaries that families – Chinese, Filipino, European, Afrikaaner – are constantly flying out and swearing never to return. Car windows are locked as we drive around. I hear of how our embassy driver had made the mistake of opening a window to smoke, and suddenly found himself in a struggle with a desperate hand grabbing at his gold necklace. The crimes are petty, and may be understandable given the abject poverty in townships and even the urban areas taken over by the natives. What remains a wonder is why the South African authorities seem helpless in curbing such crimes against person and property, let alone alleged bureaucratic corruption and inertia.
On a drive-by through an erstwhile thriving business center in Joburg, it’s pointed out how all the buildings’ upper floors have been abandoned, with only the ground-floor spaces turned over into thrift shops for clothes and merchandise. What look like ukay-ukay stalls spill out all over the sidewalks, making the area look like an expanded version of our Baclaran.
It has been so since the poverty-stricken blacks took over the district, I’m told. The whites have been on constant retreat to safer enclaves, where security is ensured through individual enterprise. In effect, the apartheid policy that was supposed to have ended is still in effect. In ritzy malls and commercial centers, mostly it’s whites one sees, living in pocket states of assurance that here they’re safe, until the "new" South Africans start to encroach upon an area, and a retreat has to be made to yet another elitist enclave.
One wonders about the come-on image South Africa waves as a mythic, glamorized flag to beckon tourists and investors. How can this be reconciled with rampant criminality, and more importantly, the lack of political will on the part of the current leadership to rally all blacks to rise proudly and take on the responsibilities and discipline of a civilized state?
An informant who has lived in Pretoria for more than a decade is pessimistic over the long term. He says that since no reform appears in sight, especially one targeting the police force and judicial courts, utter chaos could descend upon the capitals within another decade. Golf courses, beach resorts, wildlife reserves that attract visitors could soon lose their luster, he predicts, since tour groups quickly realize that they’re confined to these enclaves, and can’t even walk a block or two outside their hotels to sample street life.
A newfound friend of Indian extraction, a successful businessman who’s helping organize an upcoming Asean trade fair, snorts down the pessimism. He is still very bullish on his adopted country. But when he takes us home to have high tea with his family, we see how his mini-villa is studded with surveillance cameras at every corner and monitors in every room. When we ask him if it wouldn’t be more economical if he hired an armed watchman, he says he’d rather not risk the possibility of an inside job. Paranoia appears to be the rule in Pretoria.
This same gentleman, who tools around in the latest Benz, allowed for a special treat by taking me to a posh strip club where young, svelte European ladies make a mint dancing on tabletops to the tune of 150 Rand (nearly 1,500 pesos) per three songs or roughly 10 minutes. They work in two five-hour batches in the evening. Simple math says that if a girl manages to entertain a particular table of men half the time she works in the club, she stands (and gyrates, and bends and splays herself all over and beyond the table, stark naked for the most part) to rake in 1,500 Rand a night, or roughly close to half a million pesos a month.
No wonder these Misses Bulgaria, Ukraine, Poland et al. sign short-term contracts and flit out for home-country vacations, then fly back in for the next nest-egg provision. Hurrah for Joburg!
"Tease without the sleaze!" proclaims the slogan for the exclusive club that approximates the ritzy ones in Los Angeles, inclusive of blonde-brunette-redhead starlet material. Exclusive nearly to a fault, too – as not a single black may be seen in the premises, apart from the doormen and parking attendants.
The other highlight (yeah!) of my brief sojourn in the official capital was meeting up with the four-member Philippine powerlifting team that had just grabbed nearly all the golds in the 2005 World Masters Powerlifting Championships held in Pretoria.
Powerlifting icon Lily Pecante garnered nine gold, a silver and two bronze medals. She lifted 451 pounds for the gold in the squat event, shattering the 10-year-old world record in the 82.5 kg. class held by Vicki Steenrod of the USA. Col. Tony Taguibao won his fifth world title by gaining four golds in the 52 kg. class, while Eddie Torres, 2005 Strong Man of Asia awardee, won a gold medal in the deadlift, and Nina Oca won the bench press bronze medal in the 52 kg. class.
A fine week it was for the RP flag in Pretoria, where our muscle power and hustle poetry combined to set great good notice.
Proceeding to Durban for the ninth Poetry Africa Festival, I found occasion to release Marley’s anthem as the constant humming in my head, since everyone was treated nightly to various kinds of music – onstage for five nights at the University of Kwazulu-Natal’s Elizabeth Sneddon Theater, and at the harborside BAT Center where our final reading was capped by the Durban SlamJam championship won by the spoken word performer Mphutlane Wa Bofelo.
This young man, as well as another competitor, Leo Janssen – both of whom I had traded backslapping raves with over our respective verse configurations – had earlier agreed to provide me a hardcopy of their spoken word pieces, but the party mood that prevailed on closing night preempted the transaction. When I get them by e-mail eventually, I intend to share these fiery if elegant locutions in this space, for the benefit of our own kids who are into rap, spoken word and poetry slams
Pedro Espi-Sanchis, a transplant from Spain who hosts a popular music education TV program, showed his wizardry with the guitar and all kinds of traditional instruments as he played nightly to spice up the readings. The folk legend Madosini, 82 years old and still crafting her own indigenous instruments, did the same.
I’ve since realized that this was one of the main reasons why the Durban poetry fest stood out among all those I’ve participated in worldwide. There was that constant infusion of music, which after all is what poetry aspires to become.
Masello Motana, a lovely, clear—skinned South African in her 20s, began her reading act by gliding down in lissome form from the upper theater seats while chanting a Zulu love song a capella. Her voice, I swear, sounded even more mellifluous than Whitney Houston’s. When she segued to her poetry onstage, the lyric iridescence had us all on the edge of our seats.
Other poets found themselves in instant collaboration with the musicians, enhancing the spirit of joyful camaraderie that became the hallmark of the week-long festival.
Particularly memorable was an hour during that penultimate day we spent together at the Tala Game Reserve, where we had close encounters with hippos, rhinos, wildebeests, impalas, kudus, zebras and giraffes. After a hefty lunch, I took my cup of coffee out on the front lawn of the wildlife reserve lodge, there to enjoy the cool breeze while surveying the African landscape. Soon there was faint guitar music drifting into my satiated ken. It was the initial strains of Malaika, the "Angel" song popularized decades ago by Harry Belafonte and Miriam Makeeba.
Pedro had convinced the affable Njoki Muhoho of Kenya, who claimed to be the tone-deaf one in her otherwise musical family, to include an improvisational rendering of Malaika in her reading. In turn did she conscript Lukas Mkuti of Mozambique to provide vocal support. As the trio practiced the song in the garden behind me, soon their efforts started drawing all our other confreres into the picture, providing collective encouragement.
That night, Njoki and Lukas bravely took to the stage with an occasionally off-key rendition, Pedro on his guitar alongside them, propping them up musically, i.e., getting them back into the groove. No one laughed in derision; everyone in the theater applauded them throughout the intrepid endeavor. Their music became poetry.
Just as the equally memorable pantomime act by Tibetan exile Tenzin Tsundue, for all its eloquent silence, became poetry.
Just as the exotic meal treats – char-grilled ostrich fillet rubbed with charmouia spices and served with chakalaka jus, funky Eritrean popcorn, Mozambique roast vegetable salad, Tanzanian marinated chicken and green banana curry flavored with coconut juice, grilled lamb cutlets served with stiff pap (cornmeal), Ethiopian flat bread, Line-fish on soft yellow maize with a coconut-coriander juice, etc. – became poetry.
Such was my experience of South Africa for 10 days and nights. The friendships made were authentic and enjoyable. The poetry and music were exemplary. And the side events all proved equally heartening. These included a couple of visits to primary schools to talk about and read my poetry to appreciative kids, and listen to them in turn when they essayed their spoken word acts. At an educators’ forum, a group of us enjoyed quality interaction with literature teachers.
And in Durban, albeit warned against going out into the streets alone, I finally managed to break free one bright morning to scour the city-center blocks around The Royal Hotel for blitz shopping, inclusive of the Rasta stuff and a couple of bottles of fine Pinotage.
My only regret was missing out on the beaches. Time and again I had made a date with some Durbanite to accompany me to the South Beach nearby, not for any diet but for sunrise photo ops and possible toe-dipping into the Indian Ocean. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.
I hope for another opportunity. Next time perhaps, I wouldn’t be only humming Malaika in my head, but voicing out its proper lyrics, and conceivably gliding along the sandy beach with a mythic angel of light beside me. In and out of Africa, a continent of dreams awaits the poet who aspires to ineffable music.