"It's a beautiful place, the north of South Africa. white free somehow," Andy said.
"What do you mean?" I asked him suspiciously.
"There were no Afrikaners walking around with big bellies in tight beige shorts and lording it over everybody.
I felt good. It felt good."
I had phoned my brother up. He was on his way to take stills of a bare knuckle fighting competition to tell him about the break in at Matumi. This wasn't one of Andy's typical comissions.
* * *
In 1975 we had been commended to the care of my grandparents. They lived in converted toilets next to their fresh water swimming pool. The loos polished up 1930s bijou. John and Nola fed us, entertained us and conversed sensibly enough with us. They took us to Soweto to see the puppet parliament. We weren't too impressed, but John took a personal pride in all the achievements of white South Africans and he wanted us to see how well the "blacks" were coming along.
"It was very hard to establish an advanced western society here in this part of Africa, and we did it" Summarises his attitude in those days.
And his attitude was typical of that of most white people in South Africa. John saw every skyscraper and electric pylon, stretch of smooth tarmac and efficient public service, every working machine and polite shop assistant as proof of civilisation - he regarded the layered complexity of modern South Africa with personal pride and, like most British South Africans, with a touch of shame. The progress, the swimming pools and highways and shopping centres were really only for the whites.
"But we can't let all this be destroyed," he said. "It is in the interests of everyone that change is gradual and that the contribution of the whites in South Africa is recognised and protected."
Of course this was the antithesis of my parents' views. Where John saw development my parents only saw wergeld. Nevertheless, some of my grandfather's philosophy stuck with my father - the philosophy of a good hotelier. One of my father's favourite mantras became: Maintenance is next to Godliness.
But, for a long time, John's fearful logic lead him, and many other basically good hearted and responsible white South Africans - moral in the majority of their dealing, to fear the consequences of universal suffrage. He changed his mind, surprisingly, after I conversed with him in a pub near Heathrow Airport.
"John," I asked him.
"Who are these ANC people who will ruin your country? They are your son and daughter in law. They are people of substance and gravitas whose last thought would be to lower people's standards of living. These are builders, not destroyers. These are serious and moral people."
And after that he had a complete change of heart - much to the annoyance of his wife. Andy, of course, was cynical about this change of heart. He said that by then the more intelligent whites saw that there was little alternative but to negotiate: This was 1987. But I think we should give grandpa John credit. He was far ahead of a lot of people of his of class and age.
And now, as corruption increases and the lights occasionally flicker on and off, and government services grind into low gear, many of the whites, and in particular those who have left South Africa, feel vindicated. They are mistaken.
The easy opportunities for these fair skinned darlings of Apartheid started closing down after the ANC came to power. Someone born in 1990 would now be 18, they would have come of age this year and the playing field is still being levelled.
Secondly, most well-off white South Africans are extremely provincial. This is a self inflicted wound. Though they may have travelled they are not really cosmopolitan. They have so few points of reference. How could white South Africans understand that they were and still are preening themselves in the wrong mirror? They should take their cues from messier, more dynamic, countries like Mexico, Brazil and India and understand what the implications of a more redistributive development are. Instead the racial elite in the past compared its oppressive fiefdom to the UK, Australia and the United States. And the post apartheid white elite still mistakenly compares the new South Africa to metropolitan countries. Some of them have never understood what living in a developing country means because they kept all the development for themselves.
But don't we need to make a clear distinction between British, other kinds of white South Africans and the Afrikaners. The British were mercenary and murderous land grabbing colonialists, yes. But they did not institutionalise Apartheid and stave of democratic government for 30 more years. Most of the British colonies got independence in the early 60s. My father recalls how the National Party dislodged the British from government after the war. He describes how he and the other British South African boys at school felt the Nationalist victory as a painful physical blow. The Boers were cock-a-hoop. The British South Africans were to blame for many things, but they were not directly to blame for Apartheid; that poisonous philosophy was a reflection of the Afrikaners institutionalised and embarrassing obsession with race. They thought (think?) they were God's chosen race.
Even so, nowadays, despite, the extraordinarily high price paid in blood and oppression by the non-whites, all South Africans can take great pride in how advanced their country is. And the development is slowly spreading to all parts of the community. South Africans can now all take pride in each new mall, school, football stadium, highway built. They take pride in the fact that South Africa has a nuclear power programme and advanced telecommunications, a quality higher education system, wonderful wine and fruit and that it generates earnings from its sophisticated tourist infrastructure.
The contribution of the whites hasn't been forgotten, it's appreciated, but it goes without saying that the price paid for this advancement was very, very high. It will take at least 50 years until it can be more honestly evaluated and washed clean of its colonialist and then racist taint.
Most of the white exiles living in Wimbledon, sneer at the ANC government and their litany is familiar: Look at the black ANC government. They are incapable. They can't run the country. They are ruining South Africa. You can hear them repeat this to British friends in pubs and offices and sports grounds and schools and hospitals and in all the places they have come to rest in in the UK. And many of the British nod and nod and either the South African or the British friend will say: "Look at Zimbabwe."
They echo the racist chanting of their forebears sotto voce.
The Power of Dylan Hall
And the guy was out. But it didn't end there. One by one the whole gym came into the ring to fight Dylan and he beat them one by one until there was no one left and Dylan was half dead on his feet - at which point he overheard one of the gangsters say.
"This guy has proved himself. He's got heart and if anyone wants to kill him, then they are going to have to kill me first."
"What do you mean?" I asked him suspiciously.
"There were no Afrikaners walking around with big bellies in tight beige shorts and lording it over everybody.
I felt good. It felt good."
I had phoned my brother up. He was on his way to take stills of a bare knuckle fighting competition to tell him about the break in at Matumi. This wasn't one of Andy's typical comissions.
* * *
In 1975 we had been commended to the care of my grandparents. They lived in converted toilets next to their fresh water swimming pool. The loos polished up 1930s bijou. John and Nola fed us, entertained us and conversed sensibly enough with us. They took us to Soweto to see the puppet parliament. We weren't too impressed, but John took a personal pride in all the achievements of white South Africans and he wanted us to see how well the "blacks" were coming along.
"It was very hard to establish an advanced western society here in this part of Africa, and we did it" Summarises his attitude in those days.
And his attitude was typical of that of most white people in South Africa. John saw every skyscraper and electric pylon, stretch of smooth tarmac and efficient public service, every working machine and polite shop assistant as proof of civilisation - he regarded the layered complexity of modern South Africa with personal pride and, like most British South Africans, with a touch of shame. The progress, the swimming pools and highways and shopping centres were really only for the whites.
"But we can't let all this be destroyed," he said. "It is in the interests of everyone that change is gradual and that the contribution of the whites in South Africa is recognised and protected."
Of course this was the antithesis of my parents' views. Where John saw development my parents only saw wergeld. Nevertheless, some of my grandfather's philosophy stuck with my father - the philosophy of a good hotelier. One of my father's favourite mantras became: Maintenance is next to Godliness.
But, for a long time, John's fearful logic lead him, and many other basically good hearted and responsible white South Africans - moral in the majority of their dealing, to fear the consequences of universal suffrage. He changed his mind, surprisingly, after I conversed with him in a pub near Heathrow Airport.
"John," I asked him.
"Who are these ANC people who will ruin your country? They are your son and daughter in law. They are people of substance and gravitas whose last thought would be to lower people's standards of living. These are builders, not destroyers. These are serious and moral people."
And after that he had a complete change of heart - much to the annoyance of his wife. Andy, of course, was cynical about this change of heart. He said that by then the more intelligent whites saw that there was little alternative but to negotiate: This was 1987. But I think we should give grandpa John credit. He was far ahead of a lot of people of his of class and age.
And now, as corruption increases and the lights occasionally flicker on and off, and government services grind into low gear, many of the whites, and in particular those who have left South Africa, feel vindicated. They are mistaken.
The easy opportunities for these fair skinned darlings of Apartheid started closing down after the ANC came to power. Someone born in 1990 would now be 18, they would have come of age this year and the playing field is still being levelled.
Secondly, most well-off white South Africans are extremely provincial. This is a self inflicted wound. Though they may have travelled they are not really cosmopolitan. They have so few points of reference. How could white South Africans understand that they were and still are preening themselves in the wrong mirror? They should take their cues from messier, more dynamic, countries like Mexico, Brazil and India and understand what the implications of a more redistributive development are. Instead the racial elite in the past compared its oppressive fiefdom to the UK, Australia and the United States. And the post apartheid white elite still mistakenly compares the new South Africa to metropolitan countries. Some of them have never understood what living in a developing country means because they kept all the development for themselves.
But don't we need to make a clear distinction between British, other kinds of white South Africans and the Afrikaners. The British were mercenary and murderous land grabbing colonialists, yes. But they did not institutionalise Apartheid and stave of democratic government for 30 more years. Most of the British colonies got independence in the early 60s. My father recalls how the National Party dislodged the British from government after the war. He describes how he and the other British South African boys at school felt the Nationalist victory as a painful physical blow. The Boers were cock-a-hoop. The British South Africans were to blame for many things, but they were not directly to blame for Apartheid; that poisonous philosophy was a reflection of the Afrikaners institutionalised and embarrassing obsession with race. They thought (think?) they were God's chosen race.
Even so, nowadays, despite, the extraordinarily high price paid in blood and oppression by the non-whites, all South Africans can take great pride in how advanced their country is. And the development is slowly spreading to all parts of the community. South Africans can now all take pride in each new mall, school, football stadium, highway built. They take pride in the fact that South Africa has a nuclear power programme and advanced telecommunications, a quality higher education system, wonderful wine and fruit and that it generates earnings from its sophisticated tourist infrastructure.
The contribution of the whites hasn't been forgotten, it's appreciated, but it goes without saying that the price paid for this advancement was very, very high. It will take at least 50 years until it can be more honestly evaluated and washed clean of its colonialist and then racist taint.
Most of the white exiles living in Wimbledon, sneer at the ANC government and their litany is familiar: Look at the black ANC government. They are incapable. They can't run the country. They are ruining South Africa. You can hear them repeat this to British friends in pubs and offices and sports grounds and schools and hospitals and in all the places they have come to rest in in the UK. And many of the British nod and nod and either the South African or the British friend will say: "Look at Zimbabwe."
They echo the racist chanting of their forebears sotto voce.
The Power of Dylan Hall
Unlike other South Africans, Mike, Dallis and their children pinned their colours firmly to the South African mast. They are some of the big hearted multicultural people who form the foundations of the future South Africa.
Most of that Christmas in 1975 time we hung out with uncle Mike and Dallis. Dallis was charming. I was 15, but she treated me like an adult, and I loved that. And she was very pretty and energetic and she spoke so highly of my parents, who she had not met. Later on she went on to become a political activist and a top trade union organiser.
The first time I saw Dylan he was a little baby, a hyperactive little thing who crawled at speed around the out house where his parents, my uncle and aunt lived and my two other cousins Chris and Little Mike. A puppy used to follow Dylan around the carpets, hoovering up his droppings. We didn't let that puppy lick us too often.
Most of that Christmas in 1975 time we hung out with uncle Mike and Dallis. Dallis was charming. I was 15, but she treated me like an adult, and I loved that. And she was very pretty and energetic and she spoke so highly of my parents, who she had not met. Later on she went on to become a political activist and a top trade union organiser.
The first time I saw Dylan he was a little baby, a hyperactive little thing who crawled at speed around the out house where his parents, my uncle and aunt lived and my two other cousins Chris and Little Mike. A puppy used to follow Dylan around the carpets, hoovering up his droppings. We didn't let that puppy lick us too often.
I didn't see Dylan or Little Mike or Chris, our cousins, for many years after that, but we heard reports of them. Dylan and Mike were boxers. We heard that Dylan had become an amateur champion and Mike, his runner up and that they had fought each other in the final.
When I did meet up with Dylan I saw him as a musician; he had a big tattoo of Stevie Ray on his upper shoulder and he was playing great blues guitar, occasionally accompanied by his dad on saxophone in a Yeoville cafe. Later I spent some time with him and Dallis and his girlfriend. It was 20 years after seeing him crawl at speed around the carpet, he told me how he got into boxing.
He told me that he had been bullied at school and that they lived in a rough area and every time he went home the bullies would push him round and take stuff from him, until he had had enough. He went and learned karate and when he felt he knew enough he walked home and instead of trying to run or hide from the bullies, he faced them down. He got hurt himself, he got beat up, but he did them some damage too. They left him alone after that and Dylan found that the pain of the beating was outweighed by the feeling of exhilaration and power he got. He felt transformed and started boxing.
But, according to Dylan, the boxing world in those days was run by white gangsters and so he ended up mixed with a rough crowd. Those were the days when Gerrie Coetzee was coming out of retirement to fight Frank Bruno, Dave Fiddler and Wes Turner.
One day Dylan was walking through the Carlton centre and saw a group of hard looking gangster types lounging about there. He witnessed how they robbed an elderly couple. The ringleader, a prizefighter, stuck out his leg as the couple went past and when the old man fell over they set about him and the old women and robbed them.
The old couple got up, hurt and scared and left. And the men laughed at them as they did so. Dylan was incensed he went right up to the gang and kicked the prizefighter with all his strength on the side of his leg.
"Try picking on me and not an old couple," said Dylan.
And the whole gang jumped him. But then, fancying themselves, one of them shouted that the fight should be one on one and so they squared off. Dylan and the prize fighter.The fight went on and on until both of them were bloodied and every time Dylan looked as if he would win he tried to call it quits. But this guy would not quit and Dylan saw that the fight would only end for this guy when Dylan himself was dead. So Dylan had to finish it. He got the guy down, held him by his neck and said.
"I am doing this so you will remember never to mess with me again."
And he gave him the coup de grace; head butted the prize fighter two three times, until he was out.The rest of the gang scattered, but the gangster's moll told Dylan which way to run, because they would be back to kill Dylan. She knew which way they would be coming from - she helped him escape.
And he gave him the coup de grace; head butted the prize fighter two three times, until he was out.The rest of the gang scattered, but the gangster's moll told Dylan which way to run, because they would be back to kill Dylan. She knew which way they would be coming from - she helped him escape.
But after that, whenever Dylan had a fight, the trainers and the fighters he was up against were being pressured into hurting him. They were being blackmailed and bribed and it dawned on Dylan that this was the case and it got so bad that Dylan decided to go to face the people who were gunning for him.
He went to their gym. He said.
"Look, put anyone against me and I'll fight them and we'll end it here."
So they put up their best fighter against Dylan. A champion of some sort. Again the bare knuckle fight went on for a long time. Again, until they were both covered in blood and hurting. And then Dylan had to finish it, again. So he head butted his opponent three times.And as he head butted this hard man, this "champion", into oblivion, with three head butts Dylan said.
"In the name of the father." Smack.
The son." Smack.
And the Holy ghost." Smack.
The son." Smack.
And the Holy ghost." Smack.
And the guy was out. But it didn't end there. One by one the whole gym came into the ring to fight Dylan and he beat them one by one until there was no one left and Dylan was half dead on his feet - at which point he overheard one of the gangsters say.
"Let's call someone in to finish him off. We'll have to mop up the blood, though. Let's get rid of this bastard."
And Dylan thought. "This is it. My time is up." But then he heard someone else speak up in the gym in Hollywood style.
"This guy has proved himself. He's got heart and if anyone wants to kill him, then they are going to have to kill me first."
So they let Dylan stagger out into the daylight and leave. They didn't kill him. But after that Dylan had to leave boxing to protect himself.
But what was my brother doing going with our cousin Chris and Dylan to the north to the bare knuckle fights? He was taking the stills for a documentary about Dylan that Chris, Dylan's brother and a filmmaker, was making about him.
Dylan has started boxing again and he chose to do so under the fighting name of "Reborn" in a bare knuckle fighting competition in the white Free State in the north of South Africa.
Dylan has started boxing again and he chose to do so under the fighting name of "Reborn" in a bare knuckle fighting competition in the white Free State in the north of South Africa.
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