The Aftermath

by Samuel C. Florman

  In 1992, white voters, by referendum, endorsed the concept of reform. Equally important, Mandela met with Buthelezi, raising hopes for accommodation between the ANC and the Zulu Inkatha party. In 1993, agreement was reached on an interim constitution, and in April the following year, elections were held. In the new South Africa, the tribal "homelands" were dissolved. Nine provinces were established, one of which incorporated the old Zulu homeland and the territory called Natal: hence, KwaZulu Natal.

  As if this succession of events was not miraculous enough, one must add the story of Buthelezi and the deus ex machina. Up to a week before the elections, the Zulu chief had resolved not to participate, which would have been an unhappy portent for the future. As told by Buthelezi, a mediator from Kenya was coming to see him, but he, Buthelezi, was on his way elsewhere in an airplane. However, his plane developed engine trouble and had to turn back. Buthelezi met the mediator and was convinced to throw in his lot with the democratic election. Obviously, divine intervention was responsible!

  —————

  Aboard our ship, the designated experts on African history and culture were Richard and Deborah Frost, a professorial couple from Stanford with impeccable academic credentials. They had been recruited to give a series of lectures, and to lead our shore excursions. Of course, the engineers in the group whose homes were in South Africa had the knowledge and awareness that goes with being a native. But the Frosts possessed the detailed information and perspective that comes with scholarly study. One evening, shortly after we arrived on the beach, but before the expeditionary force had reached Ulundi, they shared some of their ideas with our Focus Group.

  Richard started off by quoting an old Afrikaans saying: "'n Boer maak 'n plan" (a farmer makes a plan). Then he explained: "A farmer must accommodate to the weather and the soil, and plan realistically for the future. The Boers extended this Stoic philosophy to all aspects of life, and so became the world's greatest realists. At the same time, there is a streak of tenacity in these folk that stems from a belief that they are a chosen people. Not so many years ago, they taught their children in school that the Afrikaners had overcome a host of mightier enemies with help from on high."

  The night was warm, with a breeze from the northwest that carried odd and unidentifiable scents from distant places inland. Our "guest lecturers" sat closely together like a newly married couple, touching, as if reassuring each other that they were there, alive and together.

  Herb interrupted Richard to say, "Hey, I thought the Jews were supposed to be the chosen people."

  "It's sort of the same thing," Frost replied. "It's the Old Testament tradition—the Exodus, and the experience of having survived adversity through the years. When the Afrikaners won the election of 1948, they controlled the destiny of the nation for the first time. The new prime minister, Daniel Malan, declared: 'Afrikanerdom is not the work of man but the creation of God.' "

  Herb pursed his lips thoughtfully, and Richard continued.

  "There are interesting comparisons we can make, not only between the Afrikaners and the people of the Bible, but also between Afrikaners and the black citizenry of South Africa. Both groups share tribal traditions—loyalty to the extended family, respect for authority, respect for one's elders, respect for one's ancestors. Today, in a world laid waste, with formal government destroyed, I believe that this shared heritage should stand us in good stead."

  "I don't know," Tom Swift interjected. "I've read a lot of end-of-the-world fiction, and usually there are bands of marauders roaming the countryside living by pillage and plunder. When the formal bonds of society are removed, all hell breaks loose."

  "Let's hope that there's a difference between our reality here and the nightmarish fiction you're so fond of," Richard responded with a smile. "I'm optimistic. Assuming, of course, that there's food enough to go around."

  "Aren't you being something of a Pollyanna?" asked Sarah. "Our shore excursion reading material warned that there was lots of crime and disorder in KwaZulu Natal, and that was before the chaos in which the survivors must now find themselves."

  "Yes, there was crime," Richard said. "Left over from years of riot and protest, and made worse by unemployment. I know that many of the young people, both black and white, had become materialistic cynics with little use for the old traditions. But I think that the catastrophe—fury descending from the heavens, if you will—might well bring renewed respect for the time-honored ways. And we know that there won't be any more unemployment problems. There will be a great need for everyone to pitch in. I dare hope for a spiritual revival, for a return to the finest tribal traditions. If there is food—let me repeat—if there is food enough for all survivors, I think that the forces of decency and cooperation will prevail. This may astonish us, and should certainly amaze such heavenly powers as have seen fit to test us by fire and flood."

  At this point Mary spoke up. "There is another important factor that you haven't mentioned," she said. "The disaster occurred on Christmas Day, when families must have been gathered together. Those who survived will be moved to give thanks and resolve to work together in the Christian spirit."

  "That's an interesting point," Richard said. "During the apartheid years, many of the black men got used to working in the large cities and returning occasionally to their 'official' homes. They are now free to live anywhere in the country; but it is still the custom to return to tribal centers, particularly, I would think, on a holiday like Christmas—whether they are Christian or not. You know, I keep saying 'are,' but 'were' is the operative tense."

  "I'm just afraid that all the pent-up hate that the blacks must feel for their white oppressors will now come pouring out," Roxy said, expressing aloud what most of us had probably been thinking.

  "This is the true miracle of South Africa," said Deborah Frost, who until this point had let her husband carry the discussion. She was a petite, tanned, athletic California girl, in contrast to her husband, who was more of an Ivy League type. "I'm sure that you've heard about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of the 1990s. Established by the Mandela government, and chaired by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, its purpose was to try to heal the wounds of the apartheid years by exposing the crimes that had been hidden by the government. It was a quasi-religious idea. Members of the security forces and others were to confess their crimes before the commission, after which they were to be granted amnesty. So, families of victims would have the satisfaction of knowing what was done to their loved ones, and by whom. But the perpetrators would not be prosecuted. As you might expect, the process didn't work smoothly. But there were some successes, and the feared cycle of violent reprisal was averted. It was such a beautiful concept."

  "Well, I don't know," Herb said. "Isn't that just another example of your wonderful pragmatism, this time by Mandela and his people? The blacks knew that the police and the army would never agree to majority rule unless they were promised amnesty."

  Deborah smiled indulgently, enjoying Herb's challenge. "Yes, but it's a lot more than that. The wonder of South Africa is the absence of the pathological hatred that we find in so many places around the globe. We all know about Rwanda and Zimbabwe. And how about the Balkans, where after hundreds of years, the enmity among Serbs, Croats, Bosnians, and Kosovars blazes undiminished. The Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. And the fundamentalist Muslims in Iran and elsewhere. And ... well, you can make up your own list. In this part of the world, a guiding principle of the traditional culture is ubuntu. A journalist once told me that Archbishop Tutu had explained the concept to her along these lines: A person is human by dint of belonging to a community, and the essence of a community is harmony. Since resentment and anger and desire for revenge undermine harmony, ubuntu actually demands that you forgive. When someone refuses to forgive, that person is said not to have ubuntu; that is to say, he is not really human. And this same reporter confirmed that she had heard similar views—generous, forgiving, non-vengeful views—expressed by scores of black S
outh Africans over the years."

  "Maybe that's why they were spared by God," Roxy said wistfully.

  "I don't think that we have to bring God into it," Tom said. "First of all, we can't say that the people were spared. Clearly, most of them weren't. I only hope that enough survived to establish a meaningful workforce. If they turn out to be nice people, I'll be delighted. But, more important, are they competent people? Are they trained?"

  "Sure they are," Richard said heartily, responding to Tom's abrupt shift from philosophy to practical concerns. "KwaZulu Natal has become highly industrialized in recent years, and the population contains people with every job skill you could possibly want. Plus, as Mary pointed out, because of Christmas, many Zulu men employed in other parts of the country, especially miners and factory workers, would have been here with their families. We may appreciate their muscles as well as their industrial skills. Also, we may thank our lucky stars for the many small farms and cattlepens that are tended in the traditional Zulu communities. If we're back in the Stone Age, as you engineers keep telling me, then we won't be needing computer programmers, and other such people, at least for awhile. We'll be needing many of the skills that modern society has been on the verge of losing."

  "There was once a man who warned about that," I said. "Remember the book called Small Is Beautiful, written by a guy named Schumacher? He proposed that we maintain our local handicrafts and other low-tech proficiencies. We read some of his stuff in one of my college courses, and I thought he was a bit of a crackpot. Who could have guessed?"

  "Well, I think we may be in luck," Richard said. "Some of the skills we'll need have been perpetuated in the so-called backward villages up in those hills. And one last thing. If there's any fighting to be done in this world of the future—for example, if the villainous marauders in Tom's science fiction books ever do show up—I'll be happy to have some young Zulu men on my side. They're incredibly adept fighting with sticks and shields. It's a popular sport, and also a reminder of their martial heritage."

  "That's great," Herb said, picking up a pebble and throwing it out into the water. "But what do we do if someone shows up with bullets? The Zulus might have beaten the British once—spears against guns—but I wouldn't bet on it happening again."

  For a few moments, nobody said anything. Through the high cloud cover a few million stars peeked down at us forlorn creatures on the beach. Finally, Roxy broke the icy silence.

  "Maybe the one good thing about this terrible disaster is that most of the weapons have been destroyed. Even if there are a few rifles or pistols lying around, the ammunition for them won't last very long. Of course, the engineers will probably start building up arsenals again; but I don't want to think about that right now. So, okay, we're back to knocking each other on the head like in caveman days. We can't do too much damage that way. And, if we make friends with the local inhabitants, everything will be just great."

  On that semi-optimistic note we thanked the Frosts for their conversation and ended our meeting.

  "Well," I said to Sarah as we walked down the beach toward our lean-to, "maybe we'll luck out with the local gentry, just as we seem to have lucked out with the natural resources. But we won't know for sure until we hear more news from the expeditionary party."

  Sarah took my arm and murmured, "Doesn't it sound wonderful? Cooperation and forgiveness instead of conflict and spite. 'O, brave new world that has such people in it!' "

  "Don't set your hopes too high," I said, squeezing her shoulder.

  "That's Miranda from The Tempest," Sarah responded, ignoring my admonition and taking my fingers into her warm hand.

  5

  At his first meeting with the Ulundi Indaba, Carl Gustafsson described, with a mixture of politeness and urgency, the state of the dwindling food stores of the ship's survivors. The very next morning, a supply caravan left a farm outside Ulundi, carrying a large supply of corn and various other vegetables and fruits. Carts, sleds, pack animals, and numerous human bearers made a most colorful parade that arrived at the beachfront camp a few days later. Colorful and exceedingly welcome. Another procession brought freshly slaughtered sheep and steers. A few days after that, a number of milk cows arrived, along with several Zulu youngsters to tend them.

  The Queen of Africa kitchen staff reciprocated with a shipment of caviar, from the ship's ample stock, that went back to Ulundi with the Inlander porters.

  From the start there prevailed between the parties a spirit of friendliness, trust, and mutual generosity. Perhaps there had been fears and suspicions, instinctual although undeclared. But once Deck Officer Gustafsson shook hands with the leaders of the Indaba, a bond was sealed. Underlying the relationship was not only empathy and goodwill, but also an awareness that cooperation contributed to the survival of all. In the beginning, the survivors from the Queen of Africa were mostly on the receiving end, since the food shipments literally kept them alive. But lives were saved in return when Harold Carson and his staffers from FEMA were dispatched to Ulundi to supervise sanitation, water supply, and the clearing of wreckage. As time went by, it would have been impossible to say which of the two groups was more vital to the well-being of the overall community.

  Once a source of food was assured, the Governing Council's next concern was to improve the shelter facilities. Hardy and Nordstrom, along with the other Council members, briefly considered moving the camp up into the hills, closer to Ulundi. But the problems inherent in transporting all of their equipment persuaded them this was not practical. When the surveying parties completed their preliminary work, they selected a new site on the shores of Lake Mzingai, about two miles inland from where they first came ashore. The lake is a large body of fresh water fed by underground springs, and their new friends in Ulundi confirmed it as a good choice.

  Shortly after news of the relocation became official—subject to approval by the general population, which was forthcoming without incident—the ex-cruise director of the Queen of Africa, Marjorie Waters, declared that the new site, their new home, ought to have a name. Accordingly, she concocted a name-selection contest. Ever since the first days on the beach, Majorie and her staff had been arranging little entertainments—games and contests and the like— anything that might improve morale without interfering with the urgent work that needed doing. It was, in a way, absurd for a community in crisis, on the edge of oblivion, to have a group of high-spirited social directors; and more than a few of the cruise ship survivors were heard to make critical comments. But the very absurdity had an inspirational and distracting aspect, especially with the children and older people. So Marjorie soldiered on, with the backing of the Council.

  The naming contest attracted a lot of attention. The final selection, proposed by an anonymous member of the ship's orchestra, and then unanimously supported by the entire crew of the Queen of Africa was "Engineering Village." Wilson Hardy and the rest of the engineers and their families were deeply touched. Hardy himself had proposed "Scandinavia South," in honor of Captain Nordstrom, his officers, and the crew. Other suggestions that received honorable mention: Prevail, Memorial, New Hope, Miami Beach East, Richards Bay Redux, and Little China. But Engineering Village it was. It remained to create a place to go with the name.

  —————

  The only building materials available within a practical distance, aside from driftwood, were grasses, shrubs, bamboo, and short, slim trees that had survived the tsunami by bending before its power. The civil engineers and military people knew a lot about tents and framed structures. They were even ready to launch into building log cabins, if there were any logs to be found. But they had a difficult time figuring out how best to utilize the rather flimsy materials at hand. The problem was solved one morning when a group of Zulu specialists arrived on the scene. General White and his Corps of Engineers colleagues, dubious at first, soon came to the conclusion that this was a banner day in the history of construction engineering.

  The traditional Zulu dwelling, the indlu,
has an archetypal beehive shape. A number of pliable sapling trunks or branches are stuck in the ground, and then fastened together at the top to form a dome. These are covered with a woven grass mat, and then thatch is added. Grass roping is used to bind the structure together. Thus, delicate boughs and natural threads are made into solid and utilitarian structures. The concept of building an idlu is simple enough; but the skills exhibited by the visiting master builders impressed the Westerners as wondrous to behold.

  The floor of these dwellings is traditionally made from crushed termite soil, or anthill material, mixed with clay and cow dung. The survivors made do with sand and pounded dirt, and most of them felt that this was just as well. But some of the more adventurous young people later found out that floors made of a cow dung paste dry to a hard, smooth surface, not at all malodorous or unpleasant in any way. The early Boers learned this technique from the Zulus. They also adopted the use of thatch for roofing. For walls, however, they made use of mud bricks, baked hard in the sun. The Engineering Villagers were determined, eventually, to make bricks in kilns and to build more conventional row houses with cornered rooms; but they were grateful indeed for the interim use of the beehive dwellings.

  However, one feature of the new environment had a depressing effect. This was the almost total lack of greenery. First on the ocean beach, and then on the shore of Lake Mzingai, the newcomers lived in a world of sand and dried mud underfoot and blue emptiness above. The shrubs and grasses that survived the tsunami—those not uprooted for use as building materials—were terribly sparse. The citizens of Engineering Village craved the sight of lawns and trees and thirsted for natural shade. Perhaps in good time...