Robben Island

There were two things I would crawl over crushed glass to do in Cape Town. The first, achieved last week, was to climb Table Mountain. It was an exceptional day. The 600m climb was steep as could be imagined, and the mountaintop a plateau, lush with flora and views to kill for. The only other thing remotely comparative would be to visit the prison of Nelson Mandela in Robben Island. I was going to be there next day.

I had been given a copy of Long Walk to Freedom, and at my aunt's insistence, had spent the night reading the book. It was a godsend. Mandela's account is moving, as he explains life and politics inside the prison. It's such a fantastic account that every so often you had to remind yourself that it wasn't a work of fiction, but biography. It was spellbinding. Without Mandela's prison memoirs, all I would have been able to do was walk through dark hallways and look at empty cells.

The ferry trip to the island was uneventful, save that I think I spotted every American onboard. Why, and someone please explain, why do the Yanks always manage to be the loudest, most obnoxious tourists you ever meet? I've met many amazing Americans, but regrettably few US tourists I wouldn't want to strangle with their camera-straps. My worst encounter was ten years ago on the long-haul from Kuala Lumpa to Auckland. An American couple were sharing the seats behind us. The in-flight movie was showing some awful slapstick, and in the quiet drone of the flight, all that could be heard for two hours were these retards, punctuating our peace with their absurd commentary.

"George! George! Did you see that, oh how funny! He hit his head on the railing!"

"Oh yeah, Martha, that was great!"

"Oh look at that! He's chasing the man round the garden now, oh that's just great!"

And so forth. I do not hate Americans, but in this occasion, I took much pleasure fantasising their life-expectancy reduced if I were to suffocate them with their sick bags. How can a plane of otherwise placid people not rise up against such annoying travellers? It's a sad fact of life that people will mysteriously continue to tolerate assholes.

We landed on the island and were ushered into buses. Our tour guide took us around the island, stopping at a few places, notably the limestone quarry which the prisoners were forced to mine, and the house of PAC leader Robert Sobukwe.

Amidst the modern history of South Africa, it has been largely forgotten in the international public that Sobukwe was the man behind much of the early protest against Apartheid. Educated in Fort Hare, and lecturer at University of Witwatersrand, Sobukwe turned to activism, and became the founding member of the PAC in 1959. Most famously, he initiated the pass law protests in townships nationwide on March 21^st, 1960.

In the spirit of peaceful mass protest popularised by Ghandi, blacks turned up to police stations around the country in their thousands without their passbooks, and asked to be arrested. In the township of Sharpeville, police, in panic, accidently opened fire on the crowd, killing 69. In the ensuing investigation many dead were found shot in the back as they fled for their lives.

Sobukwe was arrested, and eventually kept in Robben Island without charge, and in isolation for six years. His cottage was kept separate, and in secrecy from other inmates. Later, what could only be a sadistic move, wardens set up their dog kennels next to his house. Although eventually released, his health was poor and he died from lung cancer in 1978.

Robben Island is a dry, desolate place. The soil around the prison is coarse and dusty. Although trees were introduced to the island, little around the prison has been attempted to be nurtured. The vegetation, where it exists, struggles to grow, tempered by the lifeless dirt and harsh sun.

The prison was a collection of tall, thick walls and barbed wire fences. The concrete floors shone with polish, and we were told prisoners were forced to keep the place religiously clean. The corridors were wider than I expected, but the cells themselves were little more than broom cupboards. Everywhere were heavy barred doors. The prison was old, and every piece of metal was rusted and peeling.

Walking through barren hallways, the story of the prison seems like a distant memory. The walls and cells don't do justice to Robben Island at its height. Every aspect of the prisoners lives were subject to torture. Prisoners were given ill-fitting clothing, were denied newspapers and other reading articles, were allowed only two half-hour visits a year, were underfed and forced to hard labour. They were both verbally abused, and some beaten. The prison was designed to destroy the body, crush the soul, and break the spirit.

To bring it to life, our prison guide was a man named Vincent. A short man, Vincent wears thick glasses, obscuring his eyes. He is missing his front teeth, and speaks slowly. Vincent was a university student, and a member of the ANC. He was arrested for recruiting South Africans to the then-banned organisation, and himself sent to Robben Island in 1980, still a teenager. He was released in 1991 when he was 30, eleven years after incarceration.

He takes us through A-section, and shows us the cell he was locked in. He tells us that while he's still on the island, the cell will always be his. He shows us the thin mats they slept on, describes the gruel they ate, and the battles they fought to improve conditions. Black, coloured, and Indian prisoners were given different portions, the rationale being that different ethnicities preferred different food, but the reality being that all things being equal, black people were given less.

In the final years, political prisoners were given more freedoms. They had a tennis ball, which they had cut a tiny hole into, and would stuff with messages for other prisoners. They would throw the tennis ball to different block sections to keep other prisoners informed of events both inside and outside the walls.

Vincent leads us to the infamous B-section, home to the leaders of the ANC. Vincent walks us to the courtyard where prisoners chipped stones for their first few weeks. Mandela, a lawyer, and founding member of Ummkhonoto we Sizwe, the military arm of the ANC, never gave up fighting, and in his years on Robben Island, had managed to bargain many improvements for political prisoners. Eventually, he was given permission to tend a small garden in the courtyard. It was this garden that we were standing in now, a small patch of green amongst the grey.

One wall of the courtyard was built while Mandela was in prison. He had hidden his memoirs in the courtyard, and was alarmed that the wall's foundations were being dug at the same location. The game was up, and some of the memoirs found. Vincent smirks as he tells the story, then leads us away, through the different rooms of B-section before stopping outside Mandela's cell. It's a tiny thing, enough room to lie down, and still touch your head and feet on either side. A bed, a desk, a stool, and some lockers. That was the life for the president of South Africa for nearly two decades.

Taking us to the games room, a late addition to B-Section, he sits us down to finish his own story. He was released from prison in 1991, and served firstly with the ANC, but later with the Independent Electoral Commission as a community project manager. He was sent to the townships around Cape Town to teach people about what it means to vote, and about what it means to participate as a citizen in the new republic.

But with the election over, Vincent returned to Robben Island. It's been his home for many years of his life. We're told that political prisoners return to put to death the memories of their horror. I ask Vincent why he returned, and after a long pause, he answers.

He's not bitter, he tells us. He then talks of the machines of government and fear that produces the police that arrested him and the wardens that abused him. He talks of forgiveness, of how he had to forgive so that he could move on. He then tells us about his decision to return to Robben Island as a means to serve his time retelling his story each day.

The ferry takes us from the island as another arrives. It's a tale worlds apart from western life. Thousands of visitors tour Robben Island each week. Thousands, tens of thousands have probably already heard Vincent's story, yet, I imagine, it hasn't lost its potency.

In 1991, all political prisoners were freed from Robben Island. Nelson Mandela, in becoming President of South Africa, ordered the island to be closed as a prison, and reopened as a monument for educating the world. In 1999, the United Nations ratified this decision and declared Robben Island a world heritage site.