I could tell you what I felt when I stepped into the road than ran right through the small, scenic town of McGregor, a canvas of every Hollywood feel-good movie you’ve ever seen lying on the R5 budget pile, that little petri dish of “come on in, I just baked a nice, hot pie.”
Maybe I could describe the panoramic view of the rolling hills cementing the landscape, the little shops that dotted the main street, the people that walked by and said good morning, or their wandering pet dogs that sniffed at your leg before wandering off after their masters.
I could also mention the wonderful wines we got to taste, the wooden floorboards of the picturesque accommodation we stayed in all snug and hugging for warmth, the former Johannesburg residents that showered us with attention as we ate scones and spoke of “how idyllic this little town is” and “we loved it so much we stayed”.
I could, but I won’t. This is not a travel blog.
Imagine you were uppity at your partner after a good shagging; “We need to go somewhere beautiful after that picturesque sex you had all over my face!” Yes, go to McGregor. It’s bloody gorgeous, but I can say that, because I stayed in the nice bits.
But, if you were a researcher looking into how South African culture hasn’t changed since 1994 (we’re talking 21 years, the average age of a single mom), don’t look to the major cities to peer at the metropolitan views over the townships you drive past on the way to the airport; instead, visit McGregor, a town so embedded in its own history the divide might as well be a rickety fence.
I’ve been back in South Africa 3 years, and I haven’t fully appreciated how protected I was of racism growing up in this country until after I returned from over a decade in the United Kingdom, a country with its own brand of anti-immigrant rhetoric confined to the tabloids that feature topless girls on the third page. How South Africans define each other as coconuts, bergies, or “jou ma se poes”, slowly seeped into my brain as the months wore on and the more comments and posts I read on News24, but I was still being shielded by the reality, living with comfort either in my little flat in Kenilworth or sharing one in Seapoint.
And then I stepped into McGregor; yes, we passed the normal superettes where coloured people hung out, those lazy, good-for-nothing South Africans that weren’t born into privilege and couldn’t be better than simple folk working for rich farmers, yes those. Best drive a little faster, dear, I’d hate for us to have to defend ourselves from zombie-like poor people clawing at the windscreen for a 20cent.
Where at first you scour the main street with marmalade shops, bath salts displayed openly like whores brandishing their wares, and a lady with a huge fascination for using olives as everything, you’d think this is an idea of paradise, and how couldn’t it be? The streets are spotless, the sound of birds chirping and the breeze shaking the leaves with a melodic wonder. Even the waiter, offering me my cappuccino, is white (not pasty white, but tax-paying white), saving me from guilt I usually feel when purchasing a service or goods from an employee who obviously lives 3 hours away via taxi in a shack with a man waiting for beer money, compared to later on…
Unless it gets pointed out to you, McGregor sports a number of activities, but you don’t see them as obvious as the luxury; from an outsider point of view, the town would seem just “to exist”, unless you take into account the Saturday morning market which sports 6-7 stalls and a large lady playing doggie day care. There’s even a cultural centre, a house taken over by a couple wanting to bring civilisation to the population by showing obscure avant-garde movies, hosting pianists and other forms of entertainment, beyond a front door worth more than the whole house combined, and the living room resplendent with Egyptian marble and pig skin lanterns.
Apparently, the previous owner was a little…fucked up.
Plopped into a rickety wooden car by our generous organiser, we got to see McGregor on a tour not many would be willing to take; yes, the beautiful, lush houses with gorgeous lawns tottered around one half of the town, until the wagon took us to the poor portion we didn’t know was there, and it’s here where you begin to realise that nothing has really changed. Oh wait, you’re not a researcher, you’re just getting disgusted at my description.
Oh sure, in life there will always be poverty; not everyone gets to be financial solvent growing up. But McGregor demonstrates that being white means you live in the nice house AND ONLY the nice house, and being coloured you can just afford a big house, with a huge driveway, with bullet-holes for a doorbell. Yes, this tiny ancient town, steeped in character and quaintness, holds a cheery light up to the values and rewards of imperial colonialism with quiet pomp and fair, while barely a kilometre away, their servants and garden boys live in dilapidated homes and run-down shacks, children running around in rags and torn shorts, women standing around smoking cigarettes and many men (I mean MANY) sit on their haunches in the sunshine wondering what the hell is going on.
The well-off accommodation we stayed at were nothing short of dream-like; wooden frames, wooden floor-boards and solid panel beams with antique furniture strewn everywhere. It’s like I stepped into my grandfather’s house…in Europe. I half expected a stereotypical Aunt Bessie to be in the kitchen waking the entire household up in the morning with some savoury rusks freshly baked and yodels of “cooeey!”, before hacking a chicken’s head off in the pantry. We couldn’t ask for more in the farm-style living conditions we were treated to, and you’ll wake up refreshed…so long as you’re not downstairs and anybody’s upstairs stomping around like five bears taking a shower.
From the eccentrics to the crazies, from the shattered glass artists to the olive-butter aficionados, McGregor has them all under one tiny little roof.
And that’s just the whites.
We visited the Donkey sanctuary, comforting animals that come from abused backgrounds like, “I’ve been treated like an ass all my life.” and “Everyone just takes me for a ride.” Its owner did throw the outreach programme tidbit, reminding us of how they teach impoverished communities how to treat their animals better.
Sometimes I wonder if those people just think, “Fuck you, whitey, just give me a job.”
The surrounding wine estates gave credence to the splendour of the region, with a varied palette of tastes and experiences to be enjoyed as hosted by large scale, “old family” farms through to estates recently bought by those compelled to dream of the luxury to create wine that dazzle and entice. And each time, I kept wondering if someone was playing a prank on me. What was I doing here, sipping wine and being dined, all for free, by people that don’t really require platitudes?
The one place I have to point through is Lords’, an extreme getaway in the foothills of Robertson. This little 5-6 building retreat is accessible only via dirt road, kudu jump around nibbling at the flowers before scattering away, and all the luxuries you can find all under one roof. Your kids are safe, your wife is safe, your credit card isn’t but you’re good for it anyway. Everything is safe, nice, tidy and ace.
And all of it was ruined for me, when one fat slob of a white South African asshole had to bump into us and go, “It’s tough in Africa, hey okes?”
I’ve written this article over a period of a few weeks, and I have to at least make it clear that I’m in no way endorsing a full-on riot for the poorer plebs to rise up and overthrow their capitalistic masters; I’m still one of those capitalists that enjoys fine wine and good food, especially as I’ve been lucky to be born into a family that worked till 2am to provide for room and board, sheltered me from the storms and instilled in me a solid work ethic, to which I then never borrowed money and am always working so I can pay rent for a roof over my head. So, for all my criticisms about social ills, I’d still recommend this is the perfect romantic getaway for any couple looking for something decent and quiet.
Still, I guess I’m just championing a cause I’m ultimately a cause of.