Inside South Africa
FR

Translated into English.

SI Simc4 Veteran ·
Hi Voyajou,

This isn’t prose anymore—it’s painting... Pointillism... These pictures you paint with tiny strokes, slowly revealing themselves to us. Thanks for taking us on a journey... in a whole new way🙂
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Hey, the Famous Five in Africa (but who the heck is Dagobert?).

Jean-François and Régis, I never get tired of compliments either. 🙂

Muriel, if you're hesitating between a small and big pleasure, is it a medium pleasure or a nod to the short, great San people?

Jakatite, I can’t thank you. My ankles swelled up so much that we had to resort to amputation. Now I’m a legless deity in search of the Venus de Milo.

Simc'4, when I grab a brush, the mongoose regrows its fur and runs away. I had to settle for the quill—and to ensure its loyalty, I ate the goose. 😉
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
People from here

The old obese doctor wheezes as loudly as the ancient, decrepit air conditioner that sweeps his long, straggly hair. He inquires with a chin tilt, undresses you with a glance, examines without a word, pokes, prods, and returns to his seat. Writes a prescription and hands it over his desk. * With hair like a savanna at the end of the dry season and a tiny, pursed mouth where two squirrel-like incisors peek out, the pharmacist returns with two one-liter jars—one filled with cortisone tablets, the other with antibiotic capsules. I give her a wide-eyed look, she laughs and reassures me: none of this is for me. She counts out the meds until she reaches the prescribed amount and puts the rest back in reserve. The computer system makes me the oldest human alive: I was born on December 30, 1899. In no hurry for facial recognition to arrive here—it’s already causing Jeanne so much trouble. * A stubborn chemical engineer, he cooks up essential oils from dagga in his kitchen. His young wife, anorexic and vegan (which came first, the egg or the chicken? I don’t know), barely weighs 40 kilos but still nurses her 14-month-old baby, who’s as chubby as the vials his father sells. * 1.5m, 45 kg, all knotted muscle, versus 2.80m, 35 kg, and a few knots: today’s all-category fight. The San man wins against the tree. I saw him this morning on the trail, armed with a saw (but no referee in this wild ring). Now he’s carrying his victim to the township but has to set his load down every twenty meters to catch his breath. He lets us load the trunk onto the car roof. We don’t share a single word but likely share many struggles. He gestures to explain he’ll chop it up and sell the logs to eat. * A scrawny guy loads big rocks into a trailer while his hulking boss lounges around. * Tall, thin to the point of frailty, and delicate in build, he’s a veterinarian. Based on a farm a short distance from town, he’s also a market gardener. Once a week, Brett offers his biodynamic veggies to a select few, glances quickly at the baskets, and names his price on the spot. The stall’s empty before the harvest is even done. On the arid heights stand upright stones, simply placed in a slight rocky hollow, like in the palm of a hand. A rocky acropolis. One was knocked over by the storm. Focused, finding the right footing, this anti-Samson puts it back with disconcerting ease. * She’d been radiant and sporty in her fifties, solidly middle-class. She could afford health insurance—not the full Social Security kind, but still. Though she lives over a week’s walk from the ocean, a crab got its claws into her. It won’t let go, unlike her insurance. * On top of his job, the man with the gentle Dracula smile works here one day a week. He asks me not to pay him for the next six months—instead, to be his savings account (a nice break from credit). The lump sum at the end of September will cover his wife’s needed surgery. * In the middle of the bush, this packed bus is stuck waiting for the road to clear. Foreign tourists roll down the windows and offer leftovers to the road workers. I take my place in line, but when it’s my turn, all I get are jeers. Next time, to play the clown, I’ll sacrifice to blackface. * Just before seven, four hundred high schoolers flood the town. They’ve walked between thirty minutes and an hour. All wear uniforms: gray pants or skirts, white shirts, and navy-blue sweaters. The girls have swapped short skirts for longer ones to cover their legs—better protected from the early chill and constant leering. * You won’t believe it: Penelope is a man! (Yes, I know, Homer, all those stories we’ve been told.) Freshly freed from professional constraints, he set out to create Hanging Gardens in the desert and promised his wife a long trip to Europe once his work was done. A true-false improviser, he undoes in a week what he built the previous one. *

Racial mixer

It spins like a windmill in the doldrums. Only a handful of Coloured couples live in the historic town, as if returning home after exile. Outside school, their kids are bored in the empty streets. In the township, a few dozen White people see themselves as downwardly mobile. They’re on first-name terms with the Black African folks in their same situation, but the newly rich snub them. This mixer needs to be plugged in. *

The Japanese women

Without prejudice to nationality laws—many were born here—they’re the most numerous foreigners. Their silhouettes are as tortured as a geisha’s bound feet, their eyes almond-shaped, their charm like a tank’s. That’s how those conceived in Japan are. When it works, it’s often copied. But Japanese cars have the self-sacrifice of a samurai and the resilience of a tractor. *

Circles in the desert

There she is again, full and round. A rabbit’s gestation, almost thirteen times a year: the moon sets the pace. Near the herb garden, thirty resting cyclists form a silent circle, sipping beers—quite the change from the single-file straw. In front of the brick oven where the fire roars, the callipygian pizzaiola deftly wields a long rake to gather the embers, blows through a blowpipe taller than she is to clear the ash, and aims an electronic thermometer like others would a speed gun. A final pinch of bush herbs, and she slides the pizzas in. I chose the chef’s specialty, who thought it wise to replace prosciutto with kudu carpaccio. Not being Parmesan, I flinch. As for my tablemate’s pizza, it’d make a Neapolitan mount their scooter in protest. The fairy circles feel far away now. *

Barbie and the tin soldiers

We tolerate a few squatters in the eaves. These geckos go hunting as soon as night falls, patrolling the walls. The best hideout is in the shadow of the terrace light deflectors. There, they’re invisible snipers for the dazzled insects fluttering in the light like mindless internet users. When one pauses mid-flight, tries to land, it rarely escapes. For us, it’s a tiny, budget-friendly, comfortable safari. Once the surprise wears off, our evening guests adopt gendered behaviors: she covers her eyes at every attack, he cheers at the success of the assault. *

Mirror, mirror on the wall

In this trendy, responsible, sustainable, and solidarity-driven restaurant (phew!), the base of the reception counter is lined with mirrors. From my assigned spot, I see clients arrive. I only glimpse their legs—up to the groin or belly button, depending on height and distance. A little game starts: what’s above the girls’ skirts, what hat goes with those shoes, and what face matches that walk? The mirror doesn’t lie: the bottom often gives away the top. *

Bittersweet

Day breaks effortlessly as the two trucks leave town. In the beds, packed tight to hold on and keep warm, those on the outside clinging to the bars, two hundred seasonal workers have taken their places. A half-hour of dusty, bumpy track brings them to the farm, which the vehicles suddenly cross at a crawl—the fruit trees don’t like dust. This morning, I’m along for the ride. While a ladder is unfolded for the women, the men jump from the trucks and immediately load them with crates of packaged fruit that will be in exporters’ warehouses within hours. The trucks will return empty: triangular trade is a thing of the past—fair trade is in. The men handle the picking, the women the processing. Washing buckets and crates, snipping stems, peeling, arranging on drying racks, turning the figs one by one, every morning. The farm sits in a valley forming a natural amphitheater—a solar oven. In five days, the fruit is dry. The most damaged ones become beauty products, chutney, or jam. All processed on-site. The star of the production is a remarkable panforte. Rarely seen beauty here, between Black Venus and golden Eve, my guide teases me with my questions. The boss drives through the rows in an ancient pickup that was once a Land Rover, growling in Afrikaans. The workers laugh.







*

The Russians

For three years, they’ve been flirting with me, half-reclined in a shop window’s chaise longue. I’ve tried the Strasbourg ones, dabbled with the Toulouse ones, but had never tasted a Russian. Well, now I have, and the verdict is in: pink, stiff, flavorless, no matter how you prepare them. Russians, go home! Even as a joke, I know it’s no longer acceptable to say such things. If some guardian, some defender—or worse, some virago whose orientation this compass-less era can’t define—if any of them make it here and feel the rightful urge to handcuff me with guts and make me swallow a rosary of them, let my apologies be accepted—and don’t turn them into blood sausage.
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
Thanks for sharing these life moments. Just curious—no harm meant, it’s often the point anyway!

When you say you need to save up for sweet Dracula, why not pay him 6 months in advance? Is there a chance he might not come back?

Those figs look delicious ;)
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
When you say you need to do the savings account for sweet Dracula, why not pay him 6 months in advance? Is there a chance he might not come back?

Would that be a deposit, or even a loan? In West Africa, I did a lot of that with my own funds. I’ve moved on from it, even if I still do it on a small scale now and then: how do you say no when what they’re asking is marginal for you but vital for them? Especially since it’s not the norm here. But I think it’s essential to respect local customs. For the record, the start of the savings keeps getting pushed back week after week: he always needs money by the end of his day.

The figs look delicious

I can confirm. Fresh, they’re to die for. My guide offered to let me pick mine straight from the tree, but we know how that goes. Long may this paradise last! PS: We’ve got guests tonight. On the menu: fresh figs, herbed goat cheese, smoked kudu fillet, sundried tomatoes. Saving you a seat?
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
Above all, that’s not done here. However, I think it’s essential to respect local customs.

I figured it was something like that, and you’re absolutely right.

Tonight we have guests. On the menu: fresh figs, herbed goat cheese, smoked kudu fillet, sundried tomatoes. Saving you a spot?

I’d have loved to, I’m already drooling, but I’ve got my freediving training tonight—my heart’s torn! 😇
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
The AC

In summer, daytime temperatures often exceed 40°C, and at night, you’re swimming on the countertop. Those who can afford it have air con and run it full blast—unless the power’s cut, the fridge is full, the freezer half-empty, and they’re sweating bullets. The smartest, best-equipped one around is the other French guy here, married to a Norwegian (1) who gets hot under the collar over nothing. He’s installed enough solar panels to keep the place running 24/7, despite the incompetence of the monopoly supplier. Some days, it’s the most comfortable spot around—and the only place you can still find ice for your gin. At home, the AC was already installed. Now it’s on hiatus. Neither particularly frugal nor eco-conditioned, we prefer to rely on our own coping mechanisms.

Someone hinted that I don’t look like an idiot.

(1) Scandinavians seem destined to enlighten the world. We owe them the new teenage climate icon—torched the IPCC, made Hulot look outdated! I wonder if it’s some kind of quasi-genetic defense reflex: those folks fear global warming like hell (then again, the Vikings never ventured much south of the 40th parallel. In Normandy, they were already sweating!). Add to that, in Finland, a xenophobic party—also denouncing “climate hysteria”—nearly won the elections. Things are heating up up there! *

The bulldozer and the oxen

The Caterpillar truck can’t go any farther, so it unloads the bulldozer at the edge of the tarred road. To avoid damaging the asphalt with its steel tracks, it moves on worn-out truck tires that six workers lay down in front of it, pick up from behind, and repeat. Even a tortoise would outpace them. Once they reach the private track leading to the site, they remove the “slippers.” The bulldozer leaves faint tracks—but still too visible for the meticulous contractor. So, four workers team up in pairs to drag the tires on chains, erasing the marks. *

The phasmid’s spasm

Remember her? The American’s back! Full of plans and energy, a jittery grasshopper, more wired than ever. Her first orders: erase every trace of vegetation. There’s so little that the bulldozer turns the bush into a pétanque court in a day, while a truck hauls away the unappetizing mix of dirt, bushes, and tiny corpses. She buzzes around the roaring machines, almost like she’s directing traffic. The plaza syndrome. In the desert. By evening, she seems to exhale in relief—though the neighbors were hoping for one last spasm. *

The wild plum trees

When you’re tired of the usual local supplies, a two-hour drive away lies one of the country’s most famous farmers' markets. Heirloom vegetables in abundance, well-raised meats prepared by skilled artisans—including the best coppa in the hemisphere—garden fruits, and those plums with “the taste of the tree.” The excitement is like kids in a toy store.

It fades a few days later—not just because the stash runs out, but after receiving four letters, each containing a plum for speeding. The coastal road was littered with wild plum trees. Those plums cost more than all the delicacies we brought back, and they’re far less tasty. The only silver lining? No points system here. *

Without her (menagerie)

Two wingless bipeds, hundreds with wings. A giant tortoise that I’ll soon use as a jack (lift her so she retracts, slide her under the car, step back. Once she extends: jump in with chocks—the rest of the procedure is known). Geckos, now familiar faces. Opportunistic mongooses. Burrowers, rodents, elusive reptiles. And this one-of-a-kind creature: a bird that every evening, between dusk and dark, arrives like a rocket, hovers, then perches on the edge of one of the stoep’s support posts. Always the same one, always in the same near-fetal position. It stays there for two hours, seemingly listening to conversations or music, then suddenly—like clockwork—it helicopters back up and vanishes like a stealth plane.

My Co wonders if it’s not her pre-incarnation—she who loves swimming, sailing, and flying more than anything. Though she should’ve had her wings clipped: the light aircraft she was piloting suddenly lost power, and she managed to steer it toward a power line, double or nothing. The electricity fairy kindly tripped the circuit, slowing the plane. On the ground, two miracles. So now, I listen to her tell stories to the bird. *

Dracula’s fangs... but no molars left. Seeing me head to the market, he asks me to buy him some sliced bread. White or whole wheat? Brown—even though he hasn’t eaten his white bread yet. *

Pop star

It’s a Saturday night. I arrive just before 10 p.m., right before the local rock band’s gig at a township community hall. The pre-show playlist, blasted from a phone, is deafening—dozens of people are already dancing. The manager comes over, then the musicians introduce themselves. The only pale face under the sun—do I look like an impresario?

My car’s parked in front of a nearby shebeen. They ask me to move it in front of the hall for safety. Am I about to become a star’s chauffeur?

A bass, rhythm guitar, keyboards, and drums. It’s generic. Afrikaans rock? That’s hard. I slip out when they’re all eyes-closed, riffing. Outside, the night’s warm. Those who can’t afford the entry fee (an hour’s work at minimum wage) cluster by the speakers. The shebeens are overflowing, glasses too—kids are playing. It’s nice to linger a bit before heading back to the dead city. *

At night, all men are gray.

Every April 27th, the anniversary of the first elections open to all South Africans, Freedom Day is celebrated. This year, the festivities are especially big: it’s the 25th anniversary of Mandela’s election as president, and on May 8th, a new assembly will be elected—its president their choice. A hundred tables set up in a township municipal field. About a hundred white people (including Afrikaners) and a thousand Black Africans have come—roughly the city’s and country’s proportions. Over the coals, local chefs simmer their specialties in 100-liter potjies. Everyone lines up in a single queue to get their meal in a biodegradable tray (nice—we can toss it guilt-free). At the tables, people don’t mix, but jokes fly back and forth. Kids sneak around collecting empty bottles and cans to resell. The evening’s under the patronage of a Cape Town white billionaire—her Jaguar parked behind the stage. Her, unfortunately, up front. In one of the skits, young Black performers wear whiteface—no uproar. *
MI Michel85200 Globetrotter ·
Uh... The Vikings conquered Sicily, tickled Byzantium, and meandered around Cyprus.

It was less hot but still hot— way hotter than in Normandy.

After that, where’s the 40th parallel north?!🤔
michel85200
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
By Thor! I’d forgotten about that tall blond guy South Africans sometimes mistake for a local. 😉 Turns out the 40th parallel north runs just south of Byzantium but a bit north of Sicily and Cyprus. Luckily, I wrote “hadn’t ventured much farther south than the 40th parallel north.” 😇
MI Michel85200 Globetrotter ·
Right on time in the time zone!
michel85200
VO Voyajou Globetrotter ·
Updates from Denver

Until recently, he and his partner were living in a makeshift shelter in his uncle’s backyard. The municipality has now granted him a small sandy plot in the new housing development reclaimed from the desert, north of the township, with the condition that he build a structure within two months. Here too, densification is the norm: the plot is less than a hundred square meters, and there’s no floor-area ratio regulation. His savings are as meager as he is. He retrieves the money he’d asked his employers to hold for his wife’s surgery, but it’s barely enough. Still, it’s enough to buy back the wooden and corrugated-iron shelter from his uncle, which he’ll rebuild exactly as it was—and expand later. Shelter or healthcare: he has to choose.
RJ Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·
To have a roof over your head or to get medical care—you have to choose.

Some good news: owning a little land, but it’s offset by the fact that his partner won’t be able to get surgery 🤪

The choices aren’t always easy to make
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr
MA Malijp Regular ·
Hello Voyajou! In the "A Certain Perspective" category, the winner is Voyajou! I started this travel journal not really knowing where you’d take me... and I read it in bits and pieces over a week, during my free time, with such delight, so eager to get back to those little sparkling glimpses of life—sometimes abrupt, often poetic! What a style!

When can we expect more writing? In the meantime, I’ll go read the other journals! Malijp

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