The Lyndi Tree. JA Ginn Fourie
country, and it is tough; so I am glad to see the daffodils and tulips heralding Spring. Norwegian is more natural to hear and to pronounce the more guttural words; many words sound similar to Afrikaans, which is fortunate because the local people speak little English.
One weekend Kirsten and I set out for the west coast of Norway, a town called Stavanger. Kirsten has a little Fiat-mobile, which opens from the front, has three wheels and seats only two. A man in a Ford Cortina passes us and then slows down to allow us to pass him. This happens a few times before Kirsten pulls into a restaurant parking lot to have coffee. Soon after we settle at a table, the Cortina man arrives and asks if he may join us. His name is Erik, a student of dentistry in Germany and is home for the holidays. He is also driving to Stavanger to visit a girl-friend. An animated conversation ensues, and I tell about a colleague of mine from University days, Ros, whose father was an architect and took us to Rhodesia when we were still students in Cape Town. En route Mon Pere stops the Landrover abruptly – there is a chameleon in the road!
“Was it on red?” asks Erik with a cheeky grin. I am charmed by his sense of humour, and we become friends for the rest of the time that I am in Norway. We invite Kirsten to accompany us, which she resists strongly. I enjoy visiting Oslo through Erik’s eyes; he knows all the details about the touristy places of interest, but also the drug haunts and the sleezy parts of town, which we visit late at night without any fear.
We enjoy a weekend visit to their mountain cottage and the charm of the ornately carved cabin and Stabbur - the winter storehouse for food, means a romp into Norwegian classical art and carving, handed down for generations. Erik and his father have carved the Stabbur with love and dedication, and I stand in awe. I wonder why he hasn’t introduced me to his parents. Erik later tells me that he realises our relationship won’t be permanent enough to merit introductions. They may have been disapproving, and I suspect he may still have the girlfriend in Stavanger!
Conversations are explorations of our differences. Around the fire one evening Erik is strumming his guitar and asks,
“How do you think that South Africa can continue to be so racist in your dealing with the Africans under Apartheid?”
I am reticent to have this conversation - it sounds like I am part of apartheid. I want to defend myself as an English-speaking South African, but as he holds my eyes with expectation … the unexpected comes out of my mouth,
“Well, I’ve seen notices here in Norway which say, ‘Right of Admission Reserved’ who are they intended for?”
He responds promptly and without hesitation,
“For the Laplanders, who come to sell their furs and to get supplies. They are crude and uneducated people who don’t fit into the culture and sophistication of our towns and villages”
My farm girl complex comes right up; like choking me, I feel very uncomfortable, do I fit into their culture?
“But you have very educated and articulate Africans in South Africa” he continues.
I am baffled,
“So where can the Laplanders overnight when they are here? Maybe the difference is that the apartheid masters have brought in legislation to emphasise the differences between White, African and Coloured people, but is there an essential difference in the discrimination which both of our countries are exercising?”
I know I am grasping at straws, but it seems worth a try!
Erik, putting his guitar aside retorts indignantly,
“There’s a huge difference because if a Laplander or any old drunk in this country insist on entering a building, with that sign posted outside, there is very little that the proprietor can do about it. Other than getting neighbours or friends to help throw him out. In South Africa, I understand, the law takes over, the police arrive and take the victims off to jail! Besides, what about detention without trial and the act prohibiting mixed marriages?”
“Yes, those are unfair laws, but what can I do about it? The Afrikaners, who are descendants of the Dutch and French settlers, are a strong and influential group of people in power, and as whites, we are encouraged to stand together against the threat of communism and the dangerous Black masses. Africans, through the African National Congress (ANC) and other underground organisations, are being used to support and bring about communism in South Africa. Their strategies and arms and ammunition are being used to commit acts of terror, and then a communist take-over is next in line. So there is danger from communism through African guerrillas.”
His frown deepens,
“Well, I don’t know how much longer you can stuff intelligent lawyers like Nelson Mandela into prison and think that the country will not suffer serious consequences. Surely it would be better to work together!”
I wonder if he is appealing to me to do something and I feel powerless. I haven’t shown much interest in politics, and I realise again that the bit of anti-apartheid marching that I had done as a student, had been as much for fun, as to bring about change. I feel the warmth of shame spreading up to my forehead, Oh damn! ‘Que Sera Sera’,
“Let’s talk about something else; we are not going to solve this one tonight.” Or perhaps ever.
Trollet som grunner po vor gammelt det er
We continue to correspond after I leave Norway. I still treasure a framed poster which he sent to me with a Troll sitting on a rock and the caption reads; Trollet som grunner po vor gammelt det er - Troll thinking how old it is, by Theodore Kittlesen. On a shelf below the picture is an 18 cm troll doll holding a stick and looking as ancient as the one in the picture. The distance becomes overwhelming, and we lose contact for over forty years.
We reconnect around 2011 - the time of the tragedy when at least 85 young people die by the hand of a right-wing fundamentalist gunman opening fire at an island youth camp in Norway. Erik is part of the dental forensic team who identify the slain; a horrific and mind-boggling experience for him. I empathise and think about his comments so long ago about racism; the cause behind this shameful attack.
I have promised Mum and Dad that I will be home for Christmas, and I am starting to feel like it’s time to go back. However, I have planned a further three months in Switzerland. On the western shore of Lake Geneva near Nyon is an Adventist Sanitarium called La Lignier; caters for the health needs of wealthy Europeans. The treatments we offer are very similar to those at Skodsborg.
Madame Vivarel is one of the beautiful clients that I meet there; she is in her seventies and comes from the South of France, she had owned three cinemas in the heyday of bioscopes. She married several times, and the most recent husband had been a card-carrying communist, which seems very daring to me. She encourages me to do whatever I want to do; the only barriers are in my mind,
“Nothing can stop you; you are a beautiful, intelligent young woman, the world is literally at your feet. Do whatever you would like to do.”
I want to learn to speak French more fluently, the six months of attending the Alliance Francais in Cape Town before I left prove hopelessly inadequate. Madame Vivarel gives me lessons every afternoon for the three weeks that she is at La Ligniere. One afternoon I mention that ‘La Traviata’ is currently being performed in Lausanne, but it finishes after the last train scheduled to stop in Gland, our nearest train station (between Lausanne and Geneva), so I will not be able to go to the opera.
“Nonsense,” she remonstrates. “If you want to go badly enough you will find a way home. Here is the money for the train, taxi and the opera.”
I set off on my friend Madeleine’s Velo-Solex, a 50cc motorised bike, to the Gland station. Catch the train to Lausanne and then a taxi to the opera house. Imagine dressing for the opera and riding a motorcycle with a winter coat, boots and helmet. The opera is spectacular and of course all in Italian and the programme in French, so I do my best to understand