Filling in the Rainbow

South Africa calls itself the Rainbow Nation. Lavinia Crawford-Browne, who recently retired as Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s personal assistant, spoke to us about her native country as a microcosm of the world, with all its hopes and challenges. On my previous trips here, the extremes of this society presented themselves to me: I have tried to understand the lives and culture of black South Africans living in poverty in the Cape Town townships and was also a guest in the barricaded and beautiful home of an extremely wealthy family in Johannesburg. This time, I had opportunities to glimpse the lives of middle class South Africans and also the Cape Malay people, who are still referred to as “colored.”
Our Semester at Sea ship, the MV Explorer, was docked at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, offering every Western convenience imaginable just steps from the gangway. On our second day in port, I ventured off the ship early, searching for a cup of coffee and a newspaper. At 7:45 am, the mall was deserted except for an attractive, thirty-something, black couple on a similar quest. They led me to a delightful café and invited me to join them.
Leanne and Zain live in Durban and were on holiday, the first of their four years of marriage, and the first time either had left home. Zain works for an import company while Leanne works for FNB bank. They explained that they had gotten these jobs out of high school, drawn not by an interest in the work but because the companies offered tuition for higher education as a benefit. Leanne wants to be a lawyer, but first, both of them want to go to university. They were bright, gracious, articulate and clearly in love. We had a delightful time chatting and then exchanged emails. I judged them to be reasonably affluent, up and coming young people and half expected them to offer to buy my breakfast. When that didn’t happen, I offered to buy theirs. The look on their faces was enormous relief, delight and gratitude. Even in that very upscale mall, our three coffees, my bran muffin and the breakfast platter they shared came to about $8.00. The rand is not doing too well against the dollar these days. They may not have college degrees now or much disposable income, but Leanne and Zain have bright futures ahead of them. I heard lots of talk of the brain drain out of South Africa but I think these young people are committed to staying. They gave me hope for this country I care about a lot.
The Cape Malay people are primarily Muslims, the descendents of slaves and other laborers brought to South Africa in colonial times from India, Indonesia and Malaysia. They and all people of mixed race origins are still called “colored”, apparently without the pejorative connotation Americans are used to. They were given slightly preferential treatment over blacks in the days of apartheid. These people live in Bo-Kaap, a prime piece of real estate near the center of Cape Town. Although they used to be mostly low income, many of them have done quite well with small businesses. I continued my culinary mini-tour of the globe with an SAS-organized trip focusing on the food of this community.
We began with a walking tour of the Bo-Kaap neighborhood, passing by the mosques and the brightly colored houses that are its signature structures. We visited a spice shop with an overwhelming number of curry mixtures and basic spices. While the local cooks might buy a particular curry combination like leaf curry or garam masala, they always have a special ingredient they add that makes their dish unique.
Our cooking class teacher/hostess was a gracious, cheerful and patient Muslim woman with whom I immediately identified. She was about my age and body type and had three teenaged boys. We could hear them and their friends upstairs watching a rugby match, occasionally bursting into loud cheers. Even with such a distraction, when the call to prayer rang out, they filed downstairs, paused to nod politely as their mother introduced them and then went off to the mosque. When we arrived, we saw that their home was lovely but somewhat in disarray. Our hostess explained, with more good nature than I could have managed, that she had arrived home to find the mess the day before. Her husband, who has an apparantly successful construction company, had chosen that day to begin her long-awaited kitchen remodel – the day before she had 12 guests arriving for a cooking class! Undaunted, she had a propane burner set up for the curry and plywood tables on sawhorses elegantly draped with cloths for our work stations. Floor space was tight as we maneuvered around displaced cabinets and new high-end, stainless steel appliances, still covered in plastic. We had so much fun that no one seemed to mind a bit.
We learned to make the Cape Malay version of samosas, harkening back to the ones I had made in Fez. These had a meat filling and a slightly different folding technique. I tried to memorize the motions as our teacher’s beautiful brown hands created a pocket with the first two folds to securely contain the filling. I found out that folding in the opposite direction produced a nice hole in one corner of the triangle from which my mixture quickly leaked. We watched as she made the chicken curry and were assured that we’d be receiving the recipe as we left. The most fun was making the roti, a type of bread that is one of my favorites in Indian restaurants. I discovered why it tastes so good: it’s slathered in a huge amount of butter in the preparation of the dough. After the final step, the disk of dough, looking a lot like a tortilla, was ready to cook. She put it in a dry skillet because there was so much butter already in it. After a few deft turns to brown it, she put it on a plate and scrunched it up with her fingertips, like the tissue paper topping for a gift bag. Instead of noodles or rice, this roti was to be the base for the curry. We then received the genuine gift of a delicious meal and fascinating conversation at her long, makeshift table. I think I could make a habit of these international cooking classes; I’ve got another scheduled at the Chinese Cuisine Training Institute in Hong Kong.
Two SAS trips to the townships, one with Operation Hunger and one to enjoy music, got my return business. I didn’t get to see Vicky in Khayelitsha, who, some of you may remember, runs a B&B and enriches the lives of many of the children in her neighborhood. She is a special friend of Dave and Katie’s and those kids are the recipients of their generous support. With the help of friends who did go there, I sent pictures of them with Savannah and Asher, and she was reportedly thrilled.
The music workshop was as wonderful as I had remembered. This time I actually got a little lesson in marimba which I loved, as well as drumming and dancing. The charismatic leader of that program must have been separated at birth from his twin brother, Ron Hardy, who runs an identical program for the young black men in Ledbetter Heights in Shreveport. Both are passionate teachers, devoted to the music and the kids, and the love between them. They both believe that each culture’s traditional music must be preserved, but also that learning can be a vehicle for character-building and possibly future employment. I predict that the success of both men and their students will continue for a long time to come. Ledbetter Heights and Khayelitsha are lucky to have them.
The rest of my time in Cape Town was mostly spent on guilty pleasures and one day of stomach troubles that kept me from venturing very far. I had several fabulous meals with friends, complete with delicious South African wine, and a welcome feast at the sushi-on-a-conveyor belt restaurant in the V&A mall. No, I don’t think that caused the aforementioned problem – it was the freshest fish I have ever tasted. I enjoyed shopping and getting errands done. I even took in a movie, Doubt, which happened to be starting as I was walking by. Best of all, I was able to Skype with four of my kids and their kids, luckily catching a few at home and on their computers on a Saturday morning. The highlight was seeing that adorable Asher asleep on his father’s lap. Then Dave called me back a few minutes after our lengthy chat was over because the baby had waked up and I could get a better look at him. I purely hate not being able to be in Seattle right now but, with the help of technology, I felt like I had a very special visit with my baker’s dozen grandbaby and his proud papa.