Christmas in Africa 7 Port Elizabeth
Humewood, PE
Our minibus takes us into Port Elizabeth through one of the outlying townships. This is one of the most shocking and disturbing experiences of our journey so far. It is if a gigantic bonfire had been dismantled to form a massive rabbit warren of shacks and lean-tos for people to live in. Scrap timber and branches have been assembled to provide shelter for a desperate population. To live in such a sprawling mass of degradation must be like hell on earth. The well-spaced, traditional homesteads of northern Namibia made of mud and branches are attractive residences in comparison. Next time you throw out that unwanted off-cut of MDF or rotting piece of pine, remember that it could form an essential part of someone’s kitchen or toilet in a South African township.
We are heading for Humewood, a former white, and therefore, comfortable, part of PE. Our black driver won’t take us there. He says he didn’t know the way. I don’t believe him. He drops us off in the centre of the city and we walk. We climb the hill to our preferred backpackers and arrive hot and sweaty. We are on the verge of collapse. The receptionist gleefully tells us that the hostel is full. We use her restroom to freshen up and phone the backpackers down the hill. It has space for a tent and provides free tea and coffee. We love it. We walk along the promenade and wonder where in Port Elizabeth my brother lived when he first came emigrated to South Africa. We arrive at a new shopping mall with an ATM to get money. A young black couple sidles up closely behind us. “You have to press that button and put in your PIN,” the man says. He reaches out to press the button for me. “Now put in your PIN”. There was no way I want to push that button with them breathing down my neck so I press the terminate button. “No,” shouts the young woman in my ear as though I was about to cost her a lot of money. “You can’t do that,” she cries, seeing her scam evaporating. “Just watch me,” I reply, taking my card and beating a hasty retreat. Credit card scams are very popular in Africa and we have been warned against them. We are not sorry to have spoilt their fun. No doubt we have cost them a lot of (our) money.
There are Christmas lights along the promenade. We decide to return after dark in spite of the guide book warning us not to. The lights are all the prettier for the hint of danger and we are practically alone on the prom apart from a few figures waiting in the shadows. We experience no problem but are relieved to return to the hostel intact.
Port Elizabeth is a historically interesting city. It has one of the most beautiful libraries I have ever seen. Built in the reign of Queen Victoria, shelves of books reach up to the sky on different levels all visible from the ground floor. It is truly inspiring. “All libraries should look like this,” I whisper to Georgina. The female librarian overhears and smiles. To cap it all, a resolute, unamused statue of Queen Victoria stands guard at the entrance. I feel a frisson of pleasure tingling down my back. It may be that, at this very moment I feel proud to be British. It symbolises the best we have given Africa and I try not to enjoy it too much. The politically correct would not approve.
We climb the hill past the Opera House (the only remaining in South Africa) to the pyramid built by the first Governor to his wife, the eponymous Elizabeth, who died prematurely at the age of 28 years.
We enjoy the views over the city and look far out to sea. No whales visible. Port Elizabeth has a lot of history attached to it. An ancient fort guarded the harbour and houses the grave of its beloved first commander, Captain Everett. Everyone seemed to have liked him, even his wife.
Further up the hill is the renowned equestrian statue and rider to those horses which fell in the two world wars. The nearby Checkers Supermarket makes a very good “Cornish (ha,ha) pasty” which more closely resembles a very good steak pie. The heroic deeds of military horses are best remembered standing beneath this statue eating one of these pies (hopefully not made of horse meat). Ahh, who cares?
We have booked a minibus ride from Port Elizabeth to Plettenburg Bay but have to wait until midday for more passengers to arrive. As we leave the sprawling industrial area of Port Elizabeth behind us the driver puts on a tape of a tramp wailing, “Give me the power to go.” Looking out at the sprawling township I am entirely with him in spirit.