Two Saturday Mornings

This morning I woke up and realized that I was meant to be at a tea party in less than an hour. The tea party was being hosted by Nicola, the sister-in-law of my sweet friend Caren. I hadn’t yet met Nicola, but I knew Caren to be a stunning former model. The last time I was in South Africa, in fact, Caren’s picture was plastered on billboard advertisements for miles. Also, Caren is always impeccably dressed. I, at that moment, had full-fledged bed-head, was wearing mismatched pajamas, and within minutes of rising, I was covered in Skippy-Peanut-Buttered-handprints, courtesy of Monsieur Finn.

I sleepwalked toward a cup of chai and began to Google directions to the venue, Nicola’s newly opened bakery, La Fête. At the same time, our friend Ilze came downstairs (she’s staying with us for a few weeks), the sound of her bike cleats clicking virtuously against the stone floor. Ilze, adorned in a sleek biking outfit, began to fill her Camelpack backpack with water. She tossed her bike helmet to Finn as he stared, jaw agape at his aerodynamic new toy. Conor and I gave each other the “aren’t we so lazy??” look, before I returned to my computer, and Conor to his Cheerios.

“You sure you won’t go to Caren’s tea party Ilze? It’ll be fun…” I asked. (Ilze and Caren were close friends; I had met Caren through Ilze a few years back.)

“No, it’s all you,” she said, “that’s not really my cup of tea….heh. Plus, I really can’t wait to get outside for this ride – look at this day, sho.”

“Ok, have a great workout! Um…pedal hard!” I said, trying to be encouraging. Thinking, better her than me, and how comfortable our dining room chairs were.

Ilze left with a confident farewell. Ilze is a remarkable athlete. She played professional netball – it’s like women’s basketball – both at university, and then for the Western Cape’s team. Ilz is young, 26, and she would describe herself as “colored.” I know this term sounds strange to Americans, but during Apartheid in South Africa, people were grouped by color. “Whites,” “blacks,” and “coloreds” being the three main categories. Even though Apartheid was dismantled in the mid-1990’s, some terminology, and much of the de facto segregation, has stuck. Ilze and I have had long chats over the years about what her being “colored” has meant for her in her life, has meant for her family. I imagine you’ll see strains of those conversations in my writing to come.

After sending Ilze and her bike off for the morning, “white,” unenergetic me then pulled together the best outfit I could think of, choosing from the strange array of layers you pack when “volunteering in Africa.” I threw on a stack of gold bangles at the last minute, trying to liven up jeans and flats. Emboldened with fulsome directions and a very heavy 1996 Mercedes sedan we have rented for the summer, I set out to join the Stellenbosch “Ladies who Lunch.”

I arrived to see two very stylish dresses walking towards a very pink bakery. I say I saw the dresses, because (a) they were two of the prettiest dresses I’d ever seen, and (b) I was wearing dusty, well-traveled jeans and a hat from H&M. I immediately felt self-conscious. When I walked in, I saw my friend Caren. A standing, breathing Ralph Lauren ad in her riding boots and cropped velvet blazer, Caren is a pale, aristocratic brunette beauty with a delicate, lilting English accent. Within minutes I had met a group of her friends, and I heard myself telling a story – out of nowhere, mind you – in my flat American accent about how our macaroni and cheese in the States has fluorescent orange powder, whereas the macaroni and cheese in South Africa has actual cheese in it, and how delicious! Just like that, I was the random, loud tourist. I won’t say I didn’t fit in, I was actually loving every minute of it and did feel at home. I just felt so….American. A pink plastic flamingo in a garden of floral dresses with beautiful accents. (They spoke English instead of their native Afrikaans to be polite to me.)

The interior of La Fête looked a cross between a lovely high-end lingerie store and a furnished English garden. The walls had a lovely subtle leaf print, with pink accents and lovely crystal chandeliers. Pastel armoires lined the walls, accessorized by dozens of small teapots and china dishes of multicolored macaroons. I believe I heard Nicola, the owner of the bakery, before I actually saw her. Her voice emanating straight from of a 1950’s Disney movie. I still can’t decide if it was more fairy or more princess. It was the kind of voice that would beckon bluebirds to alight on shoulders, squirrels and fawn to gather at feet. Nicola was a petite brunette, wearing a dark blue sweater the same color as her eyes, a hot pink bubble skirt, and brightly colored floral-patterned tights, the ensemble attractive largely because she is a size zero, at best. The entrepreneurial fairy princess poured me a cup of strawberries and cream tea (was it magic, I thought?), and asked which cookies I would like to try…sighing that La Durėe in Paris was her macaroon muse. All of this came out like a sort of song, as if a follow-on trill of “la la la la la,” would have sounded completely in keeping with her conversation. I was fascinated, and tried to do what I could to encourage her to say just a few more sentences.

Over those few hours, I had a truly lovely, sugar-saturated time at tea with the ladies. It was, as my mother would say, “very civilized.” I exchanged numbers with a few ladies, for play dates or afternoon tea in the weeks to come.

Returning home, half-eaten macaroons wrapped up in a pink lacy doily, I learned from a pale, distraught Conor what had happened to Ilze in the meantime. (She has given me permission to share this story.) While I was sipping tea, Ilze and her friend Nadine had charted their biking course from Stellenbosch to Paarl and back, a journey about 80 kilometers. At the crest of one of the many hills, they reached one of the poorer, rougher neighborhoods in the area. Coasting slowly into the shoulder of the road, Ilze prepared to descend the hill, only about a third of the way through her ride. That is, however, until two men jumped out of the bushes nearby, one violently grabbing at Ilze’s backpack. Cleats attached to the pedals, Ilze was stuck to her bike and unable to run. Undaunted, the man continued to attack, knocking her off her bike while trying to rip off her bag. Ilze – tough, spunky gal that she is, swung a heavy punch which landed squarely on his face. Enraged, the attacker threw down, pulled her into the bushes, and began to beat her, punching her in the face until she was huddled into a ball.

Her friend Nadine had seen that this maniac’s friend had a knife, so she (wisely) ran to the center of the road to flag down drivers to help them. She screamed to Ilze “he’s got a knife!!” just as the second man sliced his arm down, his knife swiping the air just an inch away from Ilze’s face. Ilze screamed in Afrikaans “Please, no!! You don’t want to do this!!” At which the man suddenly stopped, then ran off to follow his friend, who had already grabbed Ilze’s bike and phone and run off, over the fence. Disappeared.

A police car which had driven by randomly saw Nadine gesturing crazily and stopped. Upon hearing her quick recount of the attack, they sprang immediately into action. A bleeding Ilze, covered in scratches and bruises, a shiner on her eye where the fist had impacted, limped to the car to describe her attackers.

I found Ilze at home, sitting in our upstairs lounge, looking small and sad. She was writing to her friend, the one from whom she had borrowed the bike, trying to find out if it was insured. In keeping with our Ilze’s strong faith, she was saying how blessed they were that it was she who was attacked, not Nadine, as Nadine and her husband were riding in a marathon bike race later this month. And, despite his retaliation, Ilze was very proud to have landed such a strong punch to the face of her attacker.

The day did redeem itself for Ilze, and continued to be beautiful for us. After her justifiably marathon shower, we convinced Ilze to come out with us to Fairview Wine Estate. There we met up with friends, ate ten kinds of cheese and a duck liver pate, and washed it all down with a dry, crisp Chenin Blanc. After ordering one last round of Roydon cheese, Ilze casually mentioned that her mom wanted her to see a doctor.

“But I told my mom, it’s ok, you see, because my hand wasn’t bleeding after I hit him. My blood didn’t touch his blood. It’s fine.”

And my stomach sank, as I realized what I had forgotten to process. How quickly and easily Ilze could have picked up AIDS this morning.

So anyway, those were our two Saturday mornings.

I know, right?

Chat soon,

Liz

p.s. Yes family, we’re being very careful, we promise. And we’re taking good care of Ilz.