Читать книгу Bending the Rules - Rafique Gangat - Страница 12

Birds of a feather

Dave was from Dallas, Texas, and he was in South Africa on special assignment for National Geographic to study a colony of a particular type of ibis that was heading for extinction. He worked through the zoology department at Natal University and the isiZulu language department introduced him to me.

Interestingly, the colony was located in Weenen and Dave asked me to facilitate his stay and research by approaching the chief of the local tribe, whom I knew personally.

On a Friday afternoon, Dave and I left for Weenen. I drove my car and he followed on a motorcycle he had recently acquired, courtesy of his sponsor.

Dave was of medium build, blond with a full beard and he wore glasses. He looked like an adventurer-type, the “Camel man” who had come to Africa to rough it. Was he ready for the challenge?

When we got to Weenen we had a meal with my family, then Dave and I proceeded in my dad’s Datsun bakkie, with the motorcycle loaded on the back.

We drove down to the Tugela River valley on a gravel road, with Dave marvelling at the wonderful African scenery. This gave me a fresh perspective, as I’d always taken it for granted.

After about an hour of driving on rather perilous roads, we reached the place Dave had identified, with the assistance of the university’s zoology department, where he wanted to set up base. It was where the colony of ibis lived, a serene setting on the banks of the river with the cliffs overlooking the village.

Here, we were met by curious onlookers who recognised me, and my father’s bakkie, but were more interested in finding out who the white man was.

I told them in isiZulu, “The white man is from a faraway land, America. He has come to study the kankaan that lives here.”

They were fascinated by him, and hovered like moths around a flame. Soon the chief arrived and after the formalities and introductions we were invited to join him in his hut. There he presented his foreign guest with a calabash of Zulu beer, from which Dave took a long and appreciative draught.

I said to the chief, “My friend is here to seek your permission to build a tree house and live in it to study the colony of ibis that lives in the cliffs. He wants to observe, study and help save them.”

The chief found this very strange, “Hau! You telling me this white man is coming from America to live in a tree house, to study this stupid kankaan bird?”

Owing to the fact that the chief and I had a long-standing friendship, and that I was able to allay his suspicions, I obtained his consent for Dave to do his research.

We then did a reconnaissance of the area and the moment Dave spotted the ibis and their nests through his powerful binoculars, he started taking notes. That’s when the locals realised that the foreigner was serious and these birds that they took for granted must, somehow, be very important.

We spent the rest of the afternoon getting my new friend all set up and he soon had a group of youngsters helping him build his tree house. There were some who were simply fascinated by him, whereas others considered him mad.

Before I left, I wrote down some basic isiZulu words that would prove useful. We discovered that there was one person who spoke English, though he initially had some difficulty understanding Dave’s Texan drawl.

I was privately amused by the connection with South Africa’s first-ever television soapie Dallas, which had brought the country to a standstill on the nights the first few episodes were screened on the only channel we were privileged to have in 1975. The weekly cliff-hanger involving the villain JR had the country all abuzz until the next episode.

And here was Dave from Dallas, living below the hanging cliffs on the banks of the Tugela River to study the ibis, so far from home and so different from the people depicted in the soapie.

When Dave returned to Pietermaritzburg, he wanted to thank me by taking me out for a drink.

“Dave, if we go to a white pub, they will kick me out and if we go to an Indian pub they will kick you out, that is the law of the land.” Not one to be easily deterred, I said, “But no problem, let’s go to the Capital Towers Hotel.” It was the only designated international hotel in the city – a showpiece for foreign tourists that was legally permitted to cater for all races, provided that non-whites were living in the hotel as paying guests. I was not.

Non-whites were served drinks only if they had meals in the hotel’s expensive, luxurious restaurant. Nonetheless, as I led Dave up the stairs, I said, “Don’t worry, we will be served drinks. Just leave it to me.”

At the entrance, a waiter met us and I said, “May we see the maître d please?” When the maître d approached I asked, “May we have a table for four? Our girlfriends shall be joining us soon and while we are waiting for them, could we have the menus and order our drinks?”

“Sure, sir!” and he beckoned to the waiter who had initially met us.

We ordered our drinks and chatted about Dave’s experience on the banks of the Tugela River, and when we were about to leave, I called for the maître d and informed him, “I am so sorry. It seems that our girlfriends have stood us up. Will you please let us have the bill, so we can pay and come back another time?”

Our maître d obliged, we paid and left.

We walked away, quite impressed with our success at having had drinks in the fanciest restaurant in town by legally conning the apartheid system.

With a smile of satisfaction, I said to “the birdman” – as the Zulus called him – “Tonight I feel that JR and I are like birds of a feather.”