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The apprenticeship years - Athol Fugard Issue
Twentieth Century Literature, Winter, 1993 by Sheila Fugard
We arrived in Johannesburg early in 1958. The brisk air of the high-altitude city, and the energy it possessed, was a challenge. We rented a studio apartment in Berea, for we still had a little money from our savings. Our apartment had a view of the Johannesburg skyline. We strolled into Hillbrow and ate hamburgers at a restaurant, chairs out on the street. Hillbrow, then, was very different from the third-world high-rise crime center that it became in the eighties. In the fifties Hillbrow was safe and easy-going. The book stores, record stores, and restaurants had a European atmosphere. Hillbrow was also a hub for the Jewish intellectual life of South Africa. It was a good time to be in Johannesburg.
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Athol was anxious to visit Sophiatown and explore township life, but it was not an easy world to penetrate, even though Sophiatown was an "open" township, with no restrictions for whites. Unlike the other townships, which were situated some distance from Johannesburg, Sophiatown was close to suburbs of lower-income whites. It already had a fervid intellectual life. Black journalists were finding their voice. Tom Hopkinson, a brilliant English journalist, had just become editor of Jim Bailey's Drum Magazine, and township life was featured in its pages. There were writers like Can Themba, Casey Moketsi, and Bloke Modisane. Still, it was an intense male life that was lived out in the shebeens, the illicit drinking houses of the fifties. (At that time blacks were not permitted to buy liquor.) A whole other culture of authentic black life, with a kind of fast American influence, was spawned in Sophiatown in the fifties, and we were eager to experience it.
We contacted Benjy Pogrund, a fellow student at Cape Town University, who had been the best man at our wedding. Benjy had married, and now lived and worked in Johannesburg. He was a staunch member of the Liberal Party, with connections in the townships. He, together with David Paton--Alan Paton's son--took us into Sophiatown. I remember my anxiety when the last of the white suburbs were behind us. The tarmac abruptly ended, and suddenly we were in strange territory. We traveled along a dusty dirt road with shacks made of corrugated iron on either side. The streets had a tremendous sense of life, with men and women out in full force. I was struck by the vibrancy that was totally lacking in the sterile white suburbs, and even in Johannesburg. Wood-burning fires smoked (there was no electricity in Sophiatown), and beat-up taxis and old cars rattled and bumped through the narrow, congested streets. Faces turned toward our car, for whites were not often seen in the townships. There was, however, no animosity. We were not stoned, or verbally threatened. The police presence was low-key. No guards stood at the entrance. It was a free zone, with its own laws of survival. Yet Sophiatown was a black ghetto. It held the life that white Johannesburg refused to let in but kept at its back door.
Benjy led the way. I remember we bounced in the vehicle as we drove down the narrow streets, avoiding dogs, and women who yelled at us for almost knocking them over. He took us to the shack of a politician, a man named Joe Matlou. We were warmly welcomed, and were soon seated on chairs in the kitchen. Over the weeks in Sophiatown, I began to understand that the kitchen was the place for both entertainment and talk. There were no living rooms. Sometimes the kitchen was just an alcove off the room where a whole family slept. Benjy had brought a bottle of brandy, a gift that was expected. Soon glasses were on the table and the brandy was shared. Joe Matlou, urbane and in his early forties, explained that a "stay-at-home strike" would take place in the township for the next few days. He advised us not to visit the area during the strike, as he feared there would be trouble. He was militant, and certain that white Johannesburg would feel the power of the ANC and the South African Communist Party. The talk that afternoon was not about making theatre, but rather about "the struggle," and we as whites, by our very presence in the township, and in the company of Joe Matlou, were pushed into the harsh world of black politics. I now believe our single meeting with Joe Matlou had ramifications that echoed in my life during the harsh sixties, seventies, and early eighties--the grimmest years of apartheid. That meeting marked the moment when Athol and I were drawn into the struggle against apartheid.
