'Segregation? Not since 1994...'

My father and I gave a lift to two men who work at the house where we were staying. We took them to their home, a township 30 miles outside Bloemfontein called Botshabelo.
Sam and Willem, father and son, tend the vegetables in addition to working for a furniture restoration business. They are employed by my step-mother's father, an imposing man who on first impression bears out Nietzsche's claim that "anyone with a very loud voice is almost incapable of thinking subtleties." He is, on the contrary, however, a complex and interesting man who overflows with generosity, hypnotic power, and booming laughter.

On arrival at Sam's house, he introduced us to his wife, and showed us around. It was hot, since there was no ceiling - only an asbestos roof; but the house did have electricity and running water, which is something of an advancement.
Botshabelo, we discovered, is a town of its own, with a shopping centre and different districts. Two things distinguish it from any 'normal' town - there are not street and area names, but codes made up of numbers and letters (Sam's home is in K section). Secondly, in the hour and a half that we spent there, I saw only one white person, a farmer driving in his car.
The apartheid planners left quite a legacy. Botshabelo, which began as a settlement for those forcibly removed from more rural areas, is too far from Bloemfontein to attract anyone else to live there. In the 'new' South Africa, it is (slightly) more possible for black men and women to lift themselves out of township poverty, but there seems to be little likelihood that a town such as Botshabelo ever develops into a vibrant and diverse place to live. This is very unfortunate, since it has a certain good character. As is the way in this wretched country however, my father and I were warned not to get out of the car, lest the 'dark hordes' have their way with us. Foolish nonsense! (which, I am coming to realize, is not so harmless as all that.)
After unloading Sam's bags, we headed over to meet his brother, who runs a small liquor store from his house. He invited us into his living room for a beer (in fact, we initially invited ourselves, because of a mix up which involved my father mistakenly thinking we were in an illegal drinking establishment). Nonetheless, we all sat down and talked, about local football (Kaizer Chiefs is the name of a club as well as a band) and morogo, a food made from potato and spinach.