Month: June 2014

At the Hairdressers in Cape Town: ‘They Want to Look Super Slick’

CAPE TOWN – It is busy at the hairdressers across from the hotel, a narrow shop in Parliament Street. When one of the hairdressers tells me it is my turn, the guy sitting next to me loses it. He is pressed for time, he signals. Is the only white guy getting preferential treatment? I don’t think he actually says it (I cannot understand him), but I have a feeling that my skin colour plays a part in his rant, even if unarticulated.


I arrived after him. What he does not know is that I had been in the shop earlier, and had stepped out to get something. I let him go first.

As a tourist you are never in a hurry, so it is easy for me to play the noble paleface. Besides, I cannot imagine that the hairdresser will have to spend much time on the angry man. In my eyes the little hair that can be seen on his shiny light brown head is pretty much styled to perfection.


It is my last day here, an excursion to South-Africa with my DOGtime class mates and teachers. On the worn-out leather sofa for the waiting, I look through the mementos in my wallet. The evidence of a week in Cape Town. Only a few more bank notes depicting the animals that a safari-goer has to collect like football cards (the Big Five), and on the other side the most portrayed South African of all time: Nelson Mandela. Then a colourful business card from Kolekile Mhlana, who showed us around the prison on Robben Island, where he was incarcerated as a political prisoner with young and old activists, amongst whom the Great Nelson. When the guide finished after an hour, a chubby tourist with a sunburned neck commented: ‘It was a long talk to freedom.’


It really started to go wrong before then, when Mhlana told us that after the tour we could start on our long walk to freedom, back from the prison to the ferry. A joke that is part of the standard repertoire of the tour guides, it had also been used by the guy who had driven us around the island. It fits the atmosphere of unsightly Mandela mouse pads, mugs and T-shirts. But still: even people who are sceptical of the Mandela worship become quiet in this place. And when eye to eye with his cell, will want to touch the bars.


I browse through the photos on my phone and have another look at the gigantic fort that formed the foundation of Cape Town in the 17^th
century. On each gable stone the logo of the Dutch East India Company, the first multinational in the world. Inside the building, depicted on paintings and blue and white plates from Asia, the bustling bay with the Table Mountain – recognisable from the sea for any sailor.


Near the stronghold is the Slave Lodge. The Dutch Reformed Church is right next door. The place where slaves were traded has only quite recently been made into a museum. There is a bill on display, the balance sheet of one shipment: ‘List of dead slaves. How many blacks died on which day, how many were thrown overboard – either dead or alive. Everything is neatly chronicled in beautiful fancy script.


Slaves were given Dutch names to replace their own names that were to be forgotten. Mamakousje van de Rio, Sander de Groot, Jonas van de Cust.


It is my turn. The hairdresser, a guy of not yet 30, thinks it is a shame I am having it all cut. ‘I could do all sorts with this hair,’ he says, ‘most people here have such coarse hair.’


He is from another part of South Africa. The name of his tribe includes a click sound. I try to imitate him, but concede quickly. He has lived in Cape Town for seven years. He is doing well he says. He has a job. Hair always grows. And a campaign like ‘Check out yourself in the hairdresser’s mirror’ is not necessary here. ‘Black men sometimes return after three days’ he says, ‘They would prefer to come every day. They want to look super slick’.


He doesn’t know Amsterdam. Well, he has heard of it. He would love to make far journeys, but he lacks the funds. And if he travels within the country, it does not usually take long for him to find trouble. Recently he was taking a walk with two friends in Wellington, a nice old town near Cape Town. When they took a rest on a bench, they got a dirty look from a white man that lived there. A little later the police arrived. The friends were arrested and taken to the station. ‘Why? We were just sitting there. I was talking to my mother the other day and said: apartheid is still here. Nothing has changed.’


‘The younger generation is doing much better amongst themselves,’ he says, ‘but the older generation? Sometimes I wish they were all dead.’


Four centuries of racism, and now two decennia of ‘Rainbow Nation’. A word pitched by Desmond Tutu. A lot still has to happen before that term sounds just as light and cheerful as the smile of Tutu himself. Like when we unexpectedly saw him in the foyer of a theatre – triggering smiles and conversations all around him.


There is still need for time. A lot of time. I ask the hairdresser if he feels it will ever really be different. ‘It’s all gonna be fine,’ he says, and he seems to be genuine.


I pay for the haircut: 30 rand. About 2 euros. We shake hands. He tries to teach me a cool hand shake, but I fail miserably.


‘My name is Kia. Pleased to meet you, Marc.’


_{This report was previously published in DOGTIME CAPE TIME, a publication about our trip.
19-03-2014 © text: Marc van Dijk, translation: Mags Westra, photo: Steffen Vogelezang}