Tuesday 14 April 2009 - Having spent a long exhausting night on the bus from Upington, I finally arrive in Cape Town around 9.00a.m. With my connecting Greyhound leaving for Swellendam around 7.00p.m. I thought I would brave the Mother City on my lonesome. Transferring all my valuables into my rucksack, I leave my other bag at a very dubious looking, tiny convenience shop for a R10 fee, my receipt being a small sticky tag. Surely that will be the last I see of my belongs?Quickly I immerse myself in the throng of Cape Town, politely refusing a beggars request for money, I catch the bus frequented by the locals to the Waterfront. I am determined to visit Robben Island today.
Heading to the Gateway of Robben Island, I soon find myself through security and sat on the boat ready to be off. I hear a 'No, no don't be pulling the lady's hair' - I turn to find a toothy grin of a cheeky bambino!
Gliding across the shimmering sea, we arrive passing cormorants stood with wings open drying themselves in the sun. After disembarking, we are herded onto the tour buses and given a quick tour of the Island, seeing the limestone quarry where Mandela and his comrades worked for many years. The brightness of the white stone reflecting in the sun causing permanent damage to their eyes.
Visiting the main prison, our Guide is Ntando Mbatha, comrade and fellow prisoner of Nelson Mandela. Mbatha, with gravel voice but gent manner, eloquently shows us around the sections of the prison where he spent seven years of his life, imprisoned under the terrorism act for being a member of ANC (African National Congress).We visit the communal section, where forty prisoners would sleep on bunk beds in somewhat cramped conditions, discussing the methods used by the guards and prison authorities to break the spirits of the inmates and comradeship.
Prisoners were once again separated by race, the colour of their skin determining the food they ate, the uniform they wore. The dietary requirements of each race being determined by the authorities, with somewhat peculiarity. Blacks apparently could not palate bread, and had reduced allowances of sugar to their coloured comrades. But rather than causing the friction hoped for, these discrepancies gave opportunity for additional camaraderie, the rations pooled and shared. Like school boys, short trousers were issued to black inmates, yet no shoes, an act orchestrated to cause humiliation.
Another act of humiliation was to strip inmates of their identity on arrival to Robben Island, each convict being given a prison number. A number to replace their name, a number used by the guards to identify individuals until their eventual release.
We then move onto the observation section and finally into notorious Section B where Prisoner 466/64 Nelson Mandela spent eighteen of twenty-seven years of imprisonment in a confined cell just 2m by 3m. Viewing the space accommodating little more than a single bed and a few personal possessions, can only be described as humbling. Here you see me in a cell not unlike Madibas', although can't image I would be still smiling after eighteen years. Section B and Mandelas' window can be seen on the top photograph, first right.
Returning to the mainland, I 'people watch' whilst satisfying my appetite with a plate of calamari, all under the shadow of Table Mountain. Back at the bus station, I surprisingly become reacquainted with my bag of belongings and sit in the waiting area, a little beauty of no more than three sat next to me, enjoying Maccy D french fries, her big brown eyes mesmerised by the strange white woman, namely me!
Adam Sandler in 'Reign over Me' fills my journey back to Swellendam, where I find the trusty Ruhan waiting to transport me back to Bontebok.
