It is a truth that the proliferation of cooking shows and celebrity chefs has made dining almost anywhere in the world a more gratifying experience. The bar has been raised. 30 years ago the food in Botswana was limited to onions, cabbage, canned pilchards, samp, Bogobe jwa lerotse, and the occasional piece of meat. Even dining in South Africa, a far more developed country, was a culinary desert. If it weren’t for the Indian food available in the capital, we would have had a hard time lasting two years.
Arriving at our hotel in South Africa last night, we were delighted to find lattes on the menu and a workout gym in the basement. Springbok and monkey gland sauce were on the menu but we opted for beef and pasta dishes. All of them, delicious. Clearly, our very chic hotel with its aviator theme was a stopping-off place for travelers from all over the world. At dinner, most everyone was clad in khaki pants and shirts with lots of pockets and were either going on a safari or just returning. We fit right in.
Black South African Baristas! Who’d have imagined that in the days of Apartheid? At the airport, today, waiting for our flight to Cape Town, we had time for coffees. The cafe featured loud samba music, a menu in Portuguese and English, t-shirts with “Mucho, Meia, To Ham Ba” on the back, and young black men running the show. An inconceivable contrast to the bakery where Scott and I bought pastries years ago. The white patron upon hearing that we were teaching in Botswana, matter-of-factly asked us if we really thought those “Kaffirs” were capable of learning anything. More astounding than her question was that she asked it in front of her black assistant as if the young woman had no hearing.
To this day I don’t know what was more shocking, her beliefs about black Africans, the assumption that we shared her worldview, or that she was seemingly oblivious that the creature working for her was actually a human being and could understand everything she was saying? I remember briefly catching the young assistant’s eye. I so wanted to say something to her but couldn’t find words to speak. I hope that young woman is running that very bakery now with a staff of her own, the white patron having fled to some other country upon the election of Mandela.
I couldn’t pretend to understand the complex race relations of South Africa then. For every horrible person we met, we also met deeply troubled people wanting to change the system. South Africa back then was a repressive, scary place. Today, I find myself watching every interaction looking for some hint of what the racial landscape is like now. So far, to a person, everyone has been warm and welcoming, and even joyful. The custom man upon hearing where we were from threw up his arms and with a belly laugh said, “Welcome to South Africa!” It is as if Apartheid never happened.
