I have lived in Durban all my life, and seen vast changes during that period. At my present age, my long-term memory seems to have rekindled some past events and persons long forgotten. My early twenties were a time of great excitement to me, as I am sure it to be the case with the modern youth just starting out in life today.
I remember during the war years, the troop ships calling into port. South African soldiers boarding to go up North. The excitement and ecstasy. The rolls of thin crepe paper streamers thrown by troops on board to their loved ones saying goodbye, each one holding an end, to break as the ship pulls out of the harbour. The feel of the sticky salt air. Our lady in white singing through a fog horn farewell to the troops. The sweet sickening heavy odour wafting from the whaling station across the bay from the Bluff. At night the search lights criss-crossing the skies, as if expecting a German onslaught on the military batteries stationed on the point of the Bluff. Salisbury Island in Durban Bay a British Naval base. The Union Jack flying from just about every building in town.
In town from Point Road, down West Street, the electric trams rattling, at times sending up showers of electrical sparks from the rails embedded in the tar road below as well as from the single trolley connection to the electrical cable above. In my thirties these trams are replaced by double-decker electrical busses with their twin electrical trolleys connecting to twin cables above. Riding in these busses, with their silent whine, is a jerky experience with every start and stop.
People dress up to go to town. Women in stylish hats, gloves and nylon stockings. Hair curled with manual hot curling irons. Men looking almost all the same. Either grey or navy blue long trousers, all with white starched shirts with a variety of ties, black mirrored shining shoes and a limited style in hats. Hair plastered down with Brylcream. Jeans were unknown. Unkempt clothing unknown. Unkempt hair unknown. The highest building at the time, the Fairhaven Hotel, pride and joy of Durban, being on the beachfront, 10 storeys high (today a dowdy block of flats). Riding in the bus down West Street after work, towards the Berea where I lived, passing Brown’s Coffee factory with the lovely smell of roasting coffee beans in passing. The crawl and groaning of the bus as it struggles up Berea Road, turning right into Musgrave Road and then left into Silverton Road, my stop where I get off. I walk around the block into Essenwood Road to my parent’s home.
Night life was exciting, especially Friday and Saturday evenings. A black or Indian was nowhere to be seen. The city was white by night. You could safely enjoy window shopping, a favourite evening pastime, with crowds of people milling around. Standing in long queues in your Sunday best to get into one of the bioscopes, and there were many, all clustered in Smith Street opposite the City Hall. There was the Playhouse, the Princess, the Embassy, the Piccadilly, the Coliseum, all grandiose buildings with marvellous palace like architecture and plush seating inside. Inside you looked at the large screen through a haze of smoke; you came out with your clothes smelling of stale nicotine. Women smoked through their long stem cigarette holders. At the end of every film, the British Anthem would play with everyone standing singing “God save the King”, and left only once this had ended. The best seats were very expensive at 2 shillings (20c) per person. A good household salary was Sixty Pounds (R120) per month.
(Note: For the Afrikaan mentality who will take up issue with the white by night setup, let me remind you that that was how the racial divide was taken for granted, both here in South Africa, the USA and the rest of the English speaking world prior to the 1950’s. I am not hereby advocating a return to the past racial divide, only expressing life as it had existed factually in my twenties).
On the beachfront the rickshaws’, as is the same today, were gaudily dressed with their fancy headgear. The rickshaws’ taking one from the Indian Market, up the Berea, laden with vegetables, was plainly and uninterestingly clad. The latter do not exist today.
Rugby and soccer did not attract crowds as the Greyville racecourse did in those years, with the annual crowning event being the July handicap. There existed only North and South Beach (North and South of West Street where it ended with the ocean). Addington beach came later, and later still all the other beaches north of North Beach. Surfboards were heavy and clumsy, made either of plywood or masonite, usually about six feet long. The inside was hollow. You had to be strong in order to carry one of them in those days. It usually took two persons to carry a surfboard. Other races were not allowed on the white beaches. On the other hand, the wooden pier jutting out into the sea was manned mainly by Indian fishermen, very few whites taking an interest therein at the time.
Well, for now enough. I am now tired, going to bed after first sending this letter off to Webvoet.
Aunty Schwartz
