London Book Fair 2010 – SA Market Focus

The South African Pavilion at this year’s London Book Fair looked a little fore lone today. Empty stands and a little bit of chaos this morning were blamed on the travel situation. But the show had to go on and in the spirit of creativity London friends of SA authors were roped in to do readings.

Panel discussions were no less exciting. Five minutes into the the Overview of SA Publishing Fathima Dado came rushing through the doors. Clearly relieved and proud that she made it. I would be too if I had to hitchhike across the English Channel. She got a lift from a ‘very handsome Belgium gentleman’.

Brian Wafawarowa, Executive Director of the Publishers Association of SA had his hands full. He chaired most of the SA focused discussions and announced this year’s Cape Town Book Fair which will be held on 29 July to 2 August 2010. There will be an extra day added to focus specifically on the trade industry. However the fair will keep its festival feel and it will celebrate books and reading across South Africa.

Wafaworowa hopes that the Cape Town Book Fair will become the African Book Fair and act as a gateway to the rest of Africa. He also announced that The International Publishing Association will be hosted at the 2012 Book Fair in Cape Town – a first for Africa.

General SA Book Info:

Average selling price of a book in SA = R124 (The highest it has ever been)

Adult fiction = 2.6m units sold in 2008

Adult non-fiction = 5.7m units sold in 2008

Children’s fiction = 1.1m units sold in 2008

Children’s non-fiction = 1.9m units sold in 2008

Adult fiction sales are up 14.7% from 2007 to 2008.

It is estimated that only 4% of people in SA read outside of the educational structure. Most of them are white and middle aged.

The boom in middle class black readership has not happened yet.

Two reasons are listed for this: Firstly that the distribution network is exclusively located and not attainable for the general population. Secondly that the content is not appropriate for the target population.

Wafawarowa said that he wasn’t certain that these were all the reasons, or that he agreed with them. He pointed out that Exclusive Books opened a huge bookstore in the centre of SOWETO and that the results were not encouraging. Also the bookstore in Newtown, Johannesburg is not doing so well either.

Unfortunately, as with so many things in life, there doesn't seem to be a solution for this specific challenge. Government subsidies and cutting VAT on books have been talked about but not much has been done. Many have to choose between buying a book or paying their electricity bill. As long as books continue to be a luxury item, then there is not much hope for an increase in reading habits.

I am an Afrikaner

When I was younger I used to be embarrassed to be an Afrikaner, a Boer. I felt dirty, guilty, rotten. When I went to the big city to Jo’burg, I taught myself to speak English with a non-Afrikaans accent. People thought I was English. Few people spoke Afrikaans to me. I felt relieved, proud, free.

But still it wasn’t enough. So I fled. I went to America. Then I went to England. I wanted to brush the dust of Africa off of my feet. I wanted to have nothing to do with it. I shut down all feeling about what was going on. I didn’t want to care who was president. I didn’t want to be interested in the new South Africa.

Even so, I went home every year, to visit my parents, my friends. All the time thinking, I am not part of this anymore. I can remove myself and be a tourist here. The couple of times I tried to speak Afrikaans with people they replied in English. And that was okay. It didn’t bother me.

When foreigners asked me about South Africa I had the standard line: “It’s an amazing country with so much forgiveness, such strong people.” Did I believe my own words? Not really. I couldn’t even forgive myself how can I expect others to forgive me?

So the guilt? It never left me in fact it just got worse. I found this huge hole inside me. Something was missing. I couldn’t fill it with new friends, new countries, new experiences or even a new passport. It became a dark festering sore.

At the beginning of 2010 I decided to go back for an extended visit. I stayed for five weeks under the pretext of research for my novel. In the Eastern Cape I met a woman from Venda. She was the same age as me. She grew up on the other side of the apartheid curtain. But she seemed to have moved on. How did she do that? I asked her. I asked the same question to Xhosa man I met a few days later. How do you forgive? How do you do that? How can you forgive me and my people?

His answer? “We have no choice. If we want to make this country work we have to move on. We have no choice.”

Move on? No Choice? Really? Maybe I’m still stuck in the old days. Maybe I’ve been away for too long. I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking at things from a different point of view. From someone separate from it all.

I was a good child. I listened to adults. I obeyed all the rules. I was a real little patriot. I stood on attention when the flag was raised. I sang with all my might when Die Stem played during assembly. I was scared of black people. I believed that they were bad. They were going to break into our house and kill me in my little bed.

Now I know different. We were the bad ones. We were the ones that did the bad things. How scared must that woman from Venda have been in her little bed in the township at night, waiting for the police to come, to take her daddy away? Our fears? They were the same. We had the same fears.

After we’ve talked around in circles she took me by the arms. She looked into my eyes. She said:

‘You have to move on. This thing is ruling your life. It is not right. You did nothing wrong. You were a child.’

She shook her head at me. She must have seen that I didn’t believe her.

‘I forgive you.’ She said. She pulled me closer and hugged me. I was stunned. That was not what I was looking for. I wasn’t looking for absolution. That’s not what I want. I want to feel bad. I want to beat my chest with my fists. I want to wail. I don’t want to be forgiven. I can’t be forgiven.

I felt my arms hug her. I felt the tears. My tears. Can it be this simple? A few words, a hug. Is that all that lies between my guilt and my freedom?

She wasn’t finished. ‘You can show people over there, overseas people, that not all Afrikaners are bad. You can be an ambassador for your people. You have to finish your book and then people will see how things really were for you.’

When I got on the plane, back to London, I felt strangely less empty. Like the hole is slowly being filled, like one of those egg timers with the grains of sand slowly trickling down.

I had a few Afrikaans CDs and novels in my luggage. I am healing. This is my journey. Everyone has their own journey. Some may never heal. Some people have been damaged, hurt, brainwashed for too long. They won’t heal. They can’t heal. But there are others that can.

One image has stayed with me from my trip. Five students at Barney’s pub in Port Elizabeth. One white Afrikaans girl, one white English boy and three Xhosa boys drinking beer, telling jokes and not talking about the pain, just being students out on a Friday afternoon talking about stuff.

I’ve realised that I have to stop running. I have to face who I am. I need to make peace with the fact that I am a white Afrikaner. A Boer. This is probably coming many years too late, but I think I am slowly starting to realise that I am allowed to listen to Afrikaans music, read Afrikaans books and speak Afrikaans.

I am allowed to do this and enjoy it, because I AM AN AFRIKANER. This is who I am.

Where is Home?

When we left our home on Valentine’s Day the sun was shining, our skins radiated a golden southern hemisphere summer glow. Twenty four hours later we were burrowed in a Chicago hotel room with the heat turned up full and snowflakes settling on our rented Camry outside. I crawled under the duvet mourning what we’ve left behind, hiding from what was ahead.

South Africa with its blue skies, open spaces, bright smiles and friendships that bind people like the gnarly thorn trees growing in the north was our home. Pastel sunsets across the Jo’burg skyline. White waves crashing on Fish Hoek beach. Dolphins visiting swimmers at the pier in Port Elizabeth.

The flat open spaces stretching across the Free State becoming more mountainous towards the coast. The Klein Karoo with its water retaining succulents thriving in the summer heat. The pale blue skies of the Langkloof with the smell of apple blossoms in the spring and ripe fruit at the end of summer.

The Knysna heads where the waves pulse and swirl around the rocks. The Outeniqua Mountain range and forests with ferns the size of trees. The Addo Elephant Park with its regal grey giants.

We left the heat behind for a wintery Chicago. Cotton wool flakes dissolving on bare hands. Red smudges on knuckles and blue digits. The cold was unexpected. Our windbreakers and tennis shoes did not prepare us for the ice winds. Fashion was snubbed for puff jackets and snow boots. Wool scarves and hats replaced flimsy t-shirts.

The airline lost our luggage. Our first priority was to find shoes. My husband refused to meet his new boss wearing sneakers and a t-shirt. The taxi driver suggested Oak Brook Mall, a ten minute drive from our hotel. The rand dollar exchange rate sunk in when we got to the till and had to pay three times more than what we would have ‘back home’.

Our driver didn’t re-appear at eight pm in front of Marshall Fields as promised and we sat just inside the door not wanting to wait in the cold, arguing about how we were going to get back to the hotel. We found an empty phone booth with a number for a taxi pasted on the side of the box. Later back in our room, we ate nuts and Pringles from the mini bar for dinner.

When the buzzer went off the next morning it was still dark and the white blanket had not disappeared from outside our window. First light brought a sense of wonder with it and we ran outside like children throwing snowballs. I cried all day in our room and had had a shower before my husband got back from work. I insisted on this move, the least I can do is pretend, I told myself as I spread rose red on my lips, patted concealer under my eyes.

We found an apartment in River North, on the fifty second floor with a balcony and a view of Lake Michigan and the Hancock building. A grey white city stretched out below us for as far as our eyes could see. Smoke spewed from the extractor fans on the rooftops around us and the cold settled into my bones.

A new country, a new life. I wondered where the sun had gone. Do these people ever see light? How can the days be so short? I hardly left the building. We had a business centre, library, gym, Wholefoods Store and a Blockbuster Videos inside. No need to set a foot out there, in the white unknown cold.

The days became weeks, the weeks became months. Daylight hours got longer and with it the heat and sun melted the ice outside and warmed our blood. Five months later we’d all but forgotten those cold dark days. We enjoyed free concerts in Grant Park, the Taste of Chicago festival, Lake Shore Drive’s L.A.T.E. Bike Ride, free Tuesdays at the Chicago Art Institute, lazy summer Sunday walks along the lake towards Navy Pier, lunch by the river and Yo-Yo Ma at the Ravinia Festival with stars shining from above.

I found other charms too. The grocery stores with nectarines in summer and whole isles dedicated to bread alone. Designer clothes on a budget at Feline’s. A library taking up a city block and stretching across seven floors with gargoyles protecting its four corners. Walking alone up State Street to where it crosses Superior after dark and not feeling any fear. Sitting in Borders on Michigan Avenue sipping on a latte watching the trees swaying and bodies rushing past the Water Tower.

Autumn came too soon but it brought a new world with it. One I’ve only seen in movies. Plastic pumpkins filled with sweet treats next to front doors. Children dressed up like they’re from another world. When Thanksgiving came we were invited into American homes to celebrate with families. Christmas shone bright with lights on Michigan Avenue and nativity scenes in front yards.

I realised then that home is not a single geographical place, but rather somewhere where you feel wanted, cherished and accepted. And although South Africa will always be my first home, I found another place to call home. For four years I called the city by lake home.