the world beneath the surface

In every rich enclave of this wondrous planet there is an “underbelly”, a hidden, shadowy existence known only to those who peel away the thin veneer on the surface. Plettenberg Bay on the Garden Route is one such place. Few know that it is a Mecca for those seeking rehab attracting recovering addicts from all over the world. Fewer still know about the “trustafarians”, a little known group so called because they live off the trust funds set up long ago by their wealthy parents. They look the part, wearing that worn, dishevelled look, shabby chic apparel, long hair and sandals. You see them selling vegetables at the Harkerville market on Saturday morning or wandering around in the Plett Market eateries on Friday and Saturday night leaving a sweet trail of patchouli in their wake.

Anthea and her partner Bridget had breakfast with us at Milkwood Manor on our last morning there. An African/American and a coloured/African with a pinkish/Irish man and a tanned woman from Birstall. A somewhat hilarious racial cocktail. Anthea reminded us of a conversation she had with a white person who asked her how she felt about the changes in South Africa since 1994 and if she didn’t feel a little pessimistic about the future. Anthea’s response, deadly as a well aimed arrow, surprised the questioner: “you are talking to a woman of colour, everything is better for me than it was 20 years ago”. Bridget’s humour was no less caustic: her problem was less to do with her colour and more to do with being an American abroad, a burden of mostly myth and little substance. She wanted to be seen for who she really is. Just like Africans, who are offended by their portrayal in outdated mythic images by visitors who often want to see them in “traditional” dress. What they actually wear everyday is jeans and t-shirts, hoodies when it’s cold, sensible shoes, suits to work. We had a good time hunting down the stereotypes with loud laughter and fiendish fun.

Meanwhile, back here in Milnerton by the sea we were hunting down a dead rat in the guttering above the atrium which was threatening to drive us out with its nauseous pong. I nearly put on my patchouli!