The Ashes Of Apartheid

My fears about encountering at least some aftershocks of apartheid were entirely belied notwithstanding my very dark brown skin. No vestige of bias, only looks of embarrassment and murmured statements of apology at the happenings of the past from the varieties of whites that I encountered. And this even from the grizzled Afrikaner businessmen for whom dealing with people of my colouration must have been a strange, if not disconcerting, experience.

The blacks I came across had a standard question that they put to me. "Indian or South African Indian?" My answer that I was of the first-mentioned variety, invariably produced warm smiles and handshakes, going to show that locals of our origin weren't entirely popular with the majority colouration.

The Indians—businessmen, professionals, intellectuals—all reacted consistently on two planes. The first was to berate the Indian cricketers who failed them, had so let them down, had shot their pride to pieces in the series that had just ended. The second, a special litany of woe, for while apartheid had even classified those of Chinese origin as white, it was the Indian community that had been degraded, that had suffered greatly and, from what I could gather, most unjustly.

The tales told to me were legion. Of the ignominy of having to change into their cricketing whites sitting in their cars parked outside the club house if they hadn't changed at home and of having to sip post-play beer on the verandah beyond which point ingress was prohibited. Of waiting at bus stops, watching wearily as the same bus passed them the second, at times, the third time around, unable to board since the six seats allowed for Indians, coloureds and blacks at the rear were occupied even when the rest of the bus was empty. Of having to summarily vacate treasured houses occupied for generations because of new zoning laws, the compensation a pittance, the alternatives offered mostly ill-suited and far away. More ominous ones of midnight knocks and of friends, brothers, cousins being whisked away to unknown destinations.

As my sojourn progressed the inputs that would influence strategy whenever we started business there became amply clear. Big buying was white. Period. For trading of adequate volume, that was the segment to be penetrated. And making inroads wasn't going to be easy as I discovered, when, despite explaining to a large buyer of sporting goods that most of the wood-based stuff that he bought was of Jullundur and Meerut origin, branded and marked 300 per cent up in England, his reluctance to switch sources was palpable. India was a black box to most of them with natural uncertainty about levels of product quality and delivery.

Indian businessmen were mostly at the front end of trade, shopkeepers and in rarer cases, importer wholesalers. Their own product segment was limited to consumer non-durables that ranged from fabric and clothing, shoes and leather goods to grains and pulses. Some large buyers, yes, but with strong traditional links to Sindhi traders in South-east Asia and to cousins in Gujarat. And they struck very hard bargains.

No black businessmen, at least not a single one that I encountered. Only hotel employees, taxi drivers and others in similar semi-skilled jobs.

One more thing was certain. Not much progress would be possible unless we opened an office there. A pleasing thought, this idea of doing business with South Africa, for the country was beautiful and its citizens warm and friendly on the whole.

Apartheid had indeed been consigned to the flames. I wondered then, as I emerged from this South Africa in transition, why the terms White, Indian, Coloured, Black, that sounded so strange at first, rolled so easily off my tongue.

( Next week: South Africa in 1995. )