This year marks the 20th anniversary since South Africa's first democratic elections, which in 1994 drove the final nail into the coffin of Apartheid. To commemorate this event and measure the depth of racial healing between blacks and whites in "The New South Africa," longtime Mantle correspondent Michael J. Jordan launched a documentary-film project, The Clubhouse: A Post-Apartheid Story. Below is Part 1 of his six-part travelogue from his recent production trip, on the making of this film.
Heading into this road-trip to shoot our documentary film on South Africa’s “most racist town,” I have one nagging fear.
And the drumbeat will grow louder as the weekend progresses.
My worry is not whether we’ll capture enough compelling scenes and “beauty shots” to bring The Clubhouse: A Post-Apartheid Story to life. (We will, as you’ll soon see in our new trailer.) Or, if I can press our soft-spoken hero, Samuel—the first black golfer to kick down the door of the all-white Golf Club in notorious Ventersdorf—to expose more of his psyche, and enable our audience to actually care about his heroic journey from dehumanized caddy to card-carrying member of the club. (He will, and then some.)
Instead, I fret over our film’s content: “racial healing and equal opportunity” in post-Apartheid South Africa. If not explored deeply enough, it may damage my reputation. For being too positive. Or in media parlance: “a puff-piece.”
After all, we’re talking about Ventersdorf—home of Eugene Terre’Blanche and his violent Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging (AWB—Afrikaner Resistance Movement). Three loyalists even fought to the death, defending Apartheid. So from this town, which even some local whites are still ashamed to call their own, our film will show smiling white golfers glad-handing black golfers?
For the first three-quarters of our weekend in Ventersdorp, during which we're filming the 2014 Golf Club Championship, we shoot plenty of smiles and glad-handing of Samuel and his buddy, Monte, who joined him on his 15-year crusade to crack the Club's color-barrier.
“We need to find an older member here who’s not happy with this situation,” I tell my South African partner, Danny Lurie. “We gotta get their voice in the film.”
Danny, weighing the wrath of his compatriots, agrees.
“Yeah, or the South African media may tear us apart, too.”
We journalists are often criticized for focusing on the negative, for ignoring the positive. Now we're desperate to do the opposite: dig up dissent.
Meanwhile, time is flying, daylight is fading, and we have to squeeze as much as we can out of our two cinematographers. We divide up: Danny and his crew stay to shoot on the golf course; I drive my crew to hunt for the rural Terre’Blanche farm. He was murdered there in 2010, by two of his black laborers. (We’ll weave the trauma of widespread farmer-killings into our story-telling.)
And then, it happens. My mobile rings. Danny on the line, his voice grave.
Mike, there’s been a development. Come quick!
From what I gather, a white foursome behind Sam and Monte’s group grew irritated with the caddies over a wayward shot. Or because they were too loud. Or something that set off one golfer, a dour-looking man who looked to be in his early 50s.
Stop making noise, you kaffir! … You want me to move you, you stupid kaffir?
“Kaffir” is the most searing of Apartheid-era racial insults, an Afrikaans term derived from the Arab slur for “infidel.” In today’s South Africa, the K-word packs a punch like “nigger” does in the U.S., yet feels even more freshly taboo and provocative.
So to hear that insult hurled in Ventersdorp – splashing into this placid sea of inter-racial golf – well, it also washes away my nagging fears of superficiality.
The question now is: how to handle this situation? ...
Follow Michael on Twitter @mjjordanink
Apartheid, Racism, South Africa, Sports