being ‘discovered’ yet, as well as a laid-back lifestyle enjoyed by residents distrustful of change in any form. But, surprisingly, Zululand’s most idyllic coastal hideaway is off the grid. Residents voted to exclude it from tourist listings, block all advertising on the internet and to discourage large-scale tourist activities. There are no hotels or bed and breakfasts, and residents do not encourage visitors.
The road to eSikamanga1 is lined kilometre after kilometre with good intentions—Zulu goods for sale: beads, carvings, grass mats, hats, bangles. Vendors crowd every dusty intersection. You would stop, but of course you don’t. It’s also lined with carjackers.
As the car crests the hill, your heart lifts to see the sparkling Indian Ocean, the sweep of enormous sand dunes, the gold beaches.
You have dreamed of this moment.
Careful not to slow down at intersections or give anyone rides, doors locked, windows down, you cruise along vacant streets and parks until you reach the eSikamanga Mall, a stretch of low buildings with large verandas, boasting a SPAR Supermarket, Chemist, Zulu Souvenirs and Curio Shop, Estate Agent, and Mrs K’s Take-Aways. You are also pleased to see a police station in the prominent centre of the square, a hunched building bristling with aerials, completely enmeshed in barbed wire fencing. Amazing how theoretical one’s anarchism can be.
You pull back a strongly sprung front door and plunge into the ice-cold air of the dimly lit estate agency. A woman with red bifocals pushes back tired grey-blonde hair from her eyes.
‘And what can I do for you?’ Her eyes are narrow, her lips pursed.
‘Timothy Turner, from the University of eSikamanga.’
‘Oh! Professor Zimmerlie called me with the good news. Said to expect you. Thank god. They’ve found someone to replace that dreadful man. I hope for your sake you never have to meet him.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Mrs Steyn.’ She thrusts out a hand. ‘So, Dr Turner—it’s Dr is it, or Professor?—I have exactly what you’re looking for.’ She taps a long red fingernail on the glass counter top. Under the glass is a map of eSikamanga, a grid of streets sandwiched between two snaking rivers and a large blue estuary. ‘We have a nice town house for you here—going for four thousand a month: three bedroom, two bathroom, one ensuite … very clean, modern. … Electronic security. … Neighbourhood Watch.’
‘I … I was looking for something more … modest. I … don’t know how long I’ll be staying, you see.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ She crouches over the counter in a confidential invasion of personal space.
Some people occupy more space than others, see their bodies as missiles or blockades, and colonise your space, extend themselves in an aura that radiates far beyond their body space. They squash you into a little corner and thrust their physicality at you to make you acquiesce. Mrs Steyn, intentionally or not, thrusts out her breasts at you in some territorial display of aggression. You could be wrong—this would be a ghastly error of cultural judgement—but you feel she is challenging you to a battle with the world, one she has to win at all costs.
‘Those are only rumours about his reinstatement. You’ll be here a long time … a year’s lease to start? Professor Zimmerlie told me you have a twelve-month contract.’
It is all to do with bodies. We pretend we are rational beings, consciousnesses, and drag these bodies apologetically (as a white man, you speak for yourself here) but there is another language we speak all the time, the language of the body. And women, you are told, have sex organs just about everywhere. Mrs Steyn’s relation to you is … in a broad sense … physical, sexual, through the body, not through the mind.
You loosen your tie, that ghastly British invention designed to choke and pinch your neck. In fact, you now realise, the suit is a way of denying the body altogether, bracketing it off from everyday discourse. ‘I just need a one-bedroom. I don’t mind an older place. Nearer the sea, perhaps? And a shorter lease to start.’
‘Do you have family here?’
‘No …’
‘And you’re from Australia?’
‘This is a smaller town than I thought.’
‘Everyone knows everyone’s business here, Dr Turner. And that’s a good thing: we look after each other. Australia, hey? Why come here?’
‘Call me Tim.’
‘My sister moved to Perth a few years back. Refuses to come back here to visit. Lovely place. You know Perth?’
‘I’m from the other side, actually. Never been to Western Australia.’
‘Hmm.’
You browse the photos of houses for sale on the adjacent wall. ‘Haven’t you got anything cheaper … smaller?’
‘Most single professors live in the block of flats called Strandloper. They pay from six to ten thousand Rand a month. They’re large apartments, safe, secure …’
‘This for instance.’ Your finger hovers over a picture of a thatched cottage standing on its own in the midst of a wild garden. In the background, a misty blue ocean fogs the sky.
‘Oh, you wouldn’t like that. It’s …’
Acid rises in your throat.
‘ … too small and run down. Hasn’t been let for years. Running water a little temperamental; gas heating; you have to buy the canisters from the general store. Garden uncared for. And for security reasons, most of us live in gated communities.’
‘So, just how bad is the crime here?’
‘Oh, nowhere’s safe these days, but I did mention our Neighbourhood Watch at Strandloper?’
You tap the glass. ‘How much?’
‘The cottage? I could let you have it for … six thousand at a squeeze. But you’d be sorry. You’ll regret not paying the little extra to have comfort and security.’
‘Could I have a look?’
She looks at you over her bifocals as if she has only just noticed you are in the room. ‘Fine.’ She bangs open a drawer, scrapes her chair, snatches a key chain off the hook on the wall behind her, and then motions you to follow her outside to a white Mercedes, where she fusses with jangling keys, unlocks the car, disarms some complicated alarm system and lets you slide into the white leather front seat. Then you are swishing down the roads towards the residential area on the west side of town.
The Post-Apocalyptic Guide to Parochial South African Towns Buried in the Past
eSikamanga is a squat, hunchback town which, because of some curious disposition of the land, turns its back on the sea. The high sand dunes and the swampy area between the Manga and the Mswaswe rivers squeeze the town into an unhealthy, uncongenial spot in the mangrove swamps. The town is a vestige from the Apartheid era, very white, a neighbourhood-watch-starts-here type of town.
Crowded-Planet (2013): pp. 122-123
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