“The habitual use of poisons for the purpose of inducing euphoria – a feeling of well being and happiness – is a universal remedy for the pain of consciousness…it is hardly possible to avoid the conclusion that the chacma suffers from the same attribute of pain which is such an important ingredient of human mentality, and that the condition is due to the same cause” Eugene Marais (p 106, The Soul of The Ape)
Residing in the upbeat suburb of Yeoville during the mid eighties, Sonya and I met regularly. Her enthusiasm and passion appeared to dance in step with my own. While those in our social circle were angered about the oppressive human rights situation in South Africa, we felt equally strongly about the animal one.
Against the backdrop of Apartheid, animal issues were lost, and unfortunately in a world ruled by humans, it was considered to be “sentimental” to care when so much human suffering was taking place. It was inconceivable to me that one could deny the link between racism and speciesism. They came from the same place – a symptom of the same mentality - the politics tying it together was one massive blow to the planet with its source firmly rooted in the developing economy. If you cared about animals you were considered soft yet to exclude humans from the big picture - from the issues that damaged our whole environment - was dangerous to all life forms, our own included, some thought.
We are not separate no matter how much we have tried to make it so. And to cull other species for their supposed over population while ignoring that our own is the most over populated and destructive species on earth will ensure the end of life as we know it.
It is just a matter of time.
And still we insist on seeing all conservation efforts through anthropocentric eyes.
This kind of thinking, especially in the context of a country drowning in human injustice, ensured an alienated existence, if you tried to live authentically. As a result, perhaps to keep human friends in close proximity, many animal rightists kept their thoughts to themselves.
After one busy year in Yeoville’s culturally rich environment, art exhibitions, exciting theatre productions, buzzing coffee shops and a multitude of music choices, I had decided to move back to serenity and peace in a natural area close to Cape Point. Before the move, I met up with Sonya to share a goodbye lunch in her second floor apartment on one of Yeoville’s busiest streets.
Yeoville during the eighties is a trendy suburb where multi-layered, artistic characters gather. Either you are a Rastafarian, or a bohemian, or a hippy or an immigrant - a concentration of different cultures with a myriad of music gigs and eating venues and tattoo parlors. Under the reigning Apartheid regime, Yeoville offers a haven where blacks and whites pay no attention to skin pigment and rebel without restraint. Part of thinking unconventionally, part of living in an eccentric fashion within the confines of the city, and challenging the status quo sometimes harbors a curiosity that leads one to explore or seek a way to hide from the more difficult aspects of a crowded and poverty-stricken life. With the exception of the very and sincerely religious, it seems as if the majority are escaping through toxins. Some search for greater spiritual meaning while others use this an excuse to bury what looks like a death wish – an unconscious desire to self-destruct. And on the whole, artists in Yeoville struggle. They struggle to survive, to make sense of the world, to make sense of their pasts, to channel their misunderstood emotions into something constructively understood to be “art”. So, along with this exciting environment lives a darker aspect. That being the easy access to mind-altering substances.
“It helps with my paintings” James the expressionist who lives next door says.
He puffs then inhales then holds the smoke inside his lungs as if it was the most vulnerable and precious substance, one held with sacred intent.
Perhaps it is.
“It’s a way for breaking through all the shit, I get more creative”.
“What shit?”
You know those voices. The ones that tell you, you can’t do things, the ones that limit your every move. And ya, all our fears, of failure and all that.”
Personally, I understand it all as deeply symbolic of the human condition. Everywhere I look, people seem lost, un-anchored. Hiding from something that apparently hurts, following some group into self-destruction while simultaneously seeking joy. A few in Yeoville have become regular yoga and meditation followers: they are in the minority.
As inspired artists, Sonya and I interact with what seems like a world of wandering– yet often brilliant - souls. Perhaps the same thing that calls others to hunt down the illusive feeling of wholeness has been summonsing and so, I feel a deep call to return to nature. However, the obstacles of getting there get in the way.
How to make a living and survive in the wilderness where humans seldom tread and work? Compromising, I promise myself a move to a natural area close to humanity, where wild animals still run, baboons, monkeys, caracal, raptors and genets.
My partner Glynn and I find a cottage to move to on a communal farm on Redhill near Cape Point.
Sadly, many of Yeoville’s – or South Africa’s - inhabitants have never had the opportunity of visiting a wild natural area or even traveling too far from Johannesburg.
The awe inspiring oneness when walking alone through a thickly woven forest or hearing the indescribable call of the Jackal at sunset or watching a Martial eagle take off to fly.
Nothing, nothing else in this world comes close to the harmony that nature paints the human spirit with, or so I think.
This is how nature affects me.
I did not know if it would do this to others.
A white tablecloth with hand-painted blue wooden Parisian-style candlesticks – painted by Sonya – greets me as I enter the apartment. Sonya fills my wine glass and places a full bowl of coriander smelling vegetarian curry before me.
“ We need to form a new anti-vivisectionist group”. She’s right; we needed to expose the fraudulent nature of Vivisection, a practice many still believed to be necessary to save humans.
By the end of the meal, we’ve agreed on a name – P.A.V – People for the Abolition of Vivisection.
When I leave, a slight tinge of regret penetrates my heart; I would be missing this important birth. I was about to move back to the Cape Peninsula, further from the city sense buzz, but closer to my inner self.