‘As I crossed the border from the Western Cape into the Eastern Cape, on our way to Makhanda, I noticed a roadblock behind me and a pothole heading my way,’ writes Murray Swart. ‘This scenario confirmed something that I have known for years.’
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Full disclosure, I know nothing of the land of Madiba’s birth, a green, grassy place where cattle roam freely and villages periodically pop up on the horizon.
I do know that things seem to function better in the DA-run province.
The province’s beautifully maintained roads were teeming with trucks, transporting their wares all around the country, infrequently giving way to a little Suzuki Ignus, carrying a talented printmaker and me, her voluntarily henpecked fiance, to the National Arts Festival in Grahamstown.
The trip from Mother City to Makhanda is quite a trek, so we opted to break it up into a two-day trip.
That way, we could take in more of the scenery and fully appreciate one of the most beautiful drives in the country.
It’s incredible how the landscape changes over time, as does the road surface, the presence of law enforcement and the notion that Cape Town is like the rest of the country.
It may seem like a state on its own but the reality is that things just work better in the Western Cape.
Infrastructure constantly seems to be improving and housing developments periodically pop up on the horizon, too new to be remembered but too expansive to be soon forgotten.
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Apart from the odd low-lying tree, all but submerged on the outskirts of informal settlements, the random signs, warning drivers to slow down for roadworks, there was no sign of the floods reported across the province just hours before.
It was also business as usual in all the dorpies where petrol attendants were only too happy to fill our little Suzuki at inland prices.
Maybe we were lucky but more than likely, we were simply the beneficiaries of efficient administration, a quick call to action and the hard work of public servants.
Towns like Mossel Bay, George and Knysna were spotless, rightfully earning their title as some of South Africa’s nicest places to live.
Other road users were courteous and law enforcement abundant. Traffic officials were friendly and polite, repeatedly reminding us that our vehicle license soon needed to be renewed.
Police officers, standing in the drizzle, asked us if we had any drugs or weapons in the car and when we jokingly asked if they were asking or offering. They chuckled and repeated the question.
That was the last conversation we had in the Western Cape. It was also the last of the drizzle for a while.
No sooner had we crossed the provincial border than the sun came out over the rolling hills and greenery, showcasing the Eastern Cape in all its splendour.
Suddenly the weather was pleasant but the roads were not.
They didn’t improve as we entered Makhanda either. Potholes mar the tar, turning it into an earthbound lunar surface, with donkeys sauntering the streets.
Had there been any roadblocks in the small Eastern Cape town, law enforcement would easily have been able to apprehend the intoxicated for driving too straight.
It was Friday and the start of the once prestigious National Arts Festival and while the town was busier than usual, the massive influx of foot traffic, that local businesses depend upon, seemed to have either failed to arrive or opted to run away.
The tents were up, the exhibits installed and the artists were happily chatting with their peers.
The Village Green and Longroom were dolled to the nines but festival attendees were few and far between.
There was the odd student and a few families and old friends milling around, getting their first taste of the offerings at Victoria Girls High School.
The set-up was pleasant but the supporters were sparse.
Here and there were small groups of teenagers, engrossed in their cellphones, along with the odd pair of what I can only assume to be businessmen or politicians.
Their warm smiles, saying ‘Hello old friend,’ while their exquisite watches whispered ‘Let’s meet about that tender on Monday.’
All the while, their waistlines screaming, ‘We can charge it to my expense account.’
Things work better in the Western Cape and this was clearer than ever as I saw what had become one of the country’s historic cities and its renowned festival.
The money, so desperately needed by the town to lure visitors from far and near, simply isn’t there.
The festival is certainly still worth the visit. The long drive from Cape Town… not so much.
Small business owners are suffering and art isn’t selling as many had hoped. There is an overwhelming sense of optimism, laden with concern for the future.
In contrast, similar festivals are thriving in our province, popping up in dorp after dorp with record attendance.
It’s not the standard of art in Grahamstown that is on the decline. It takes one visit to a gallery to realize this. A happy artist is a crappy artist and the high quality of work is a clear indicator that some of them are downright miserable.
It’s also not the event that has fallen into ruin. It’s been extremely well organised and the effort and attention to detail is palatable. Cape Town prices haven’t made it this far and the beer is cheap.
It’s the town, the province and most of the country that continues to fall into a state of disrepair thanks to mismanagement, maladministration, buddies with the lowest bid and guys with fancy watches.
Things just run better in the Western Cape. Unless the rest of the country follows its example this festival and the art itself will decline from inspiring to insignificant.
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Also read:
Enrich your mind, body, and soul at the Cape Town Arts Festival
Picture: Murray Swart