A glimpse of life in South Africa in Before times, and a brush with history. The photo above was taken on Rondebosch station in 1969. Signs such as these had all vanished by 1995.

In 1966 I was a graduate student at the University of Cape Town, living in a boarding house in a tiny dead-end street with the impressive name of Rustenberg Avenue, in a room so small and dingy that only students considered it fit for habitation. Hendrik Verwoerd, chief architect of apartheid, was Prime Minister.

In August a new tenant moved into a room recently vacated by me. He was a Greek by the name of Dimitri Tsafendas. To the dozen or so students he was a middle-aged loner with whom they had nothing in common. He was treated politely and kept at arm’s length. There wasn’t much “Hey, Dim, how’s it going?” – although he had impressive linguistic abilities and claimed to speak ten languages. He had a job as a messenger at parliament.

On the morning of 6th September he left for work with, as was soon to become clear, a sheath knife concealed on his person. As the bells were ringing for a parliamentary session to begin, Dimitri Tsafendas walked up to the seated prime minister and stabbed him in the chest, to the great astonishment of everyone in general and no doubt Dr V in particular, in the process setting an all-time standard for no-frills low-budget assassination. Verwoerd fell, gurgling out his last moments and creating unpleasant stains on the carpet.

Within hours, ten percent of the country was in mourning, ninety percent quietly rejoiced, and police stormed up Rustenburg Avenue to interrogate the students of Aldor Boarding House.

Their responses ran something like:

“Who, me? I know nothing about the man, never spoke a word to him.”

“Tsafendas is a weirdo, but I never guessed...”

“I mean, uh, we knew he was strange, but, I mean, I swear none of us ever believed he would.…”

“If only we’d acted on our suspicions and told the police.”

It’s not easy to say this kind of stuff without allowing a smirk to spread across your face and while you’re thinking “he had it coming”.

The situation was no joke. The South African judicial system was at that stage carrying out dozens of executions every year, all for offences far lower down the scale than Prime Ministerial assassination. This was clearly a hanging case if ever there was one.

Students at the University of Cape Town had never been renowned as loyal supporters of the apartheid government. A whiff of conspiracy could have led to an Aldor-ite dangling at the end of a rope, but after a few days it became clear that students were not only stupid (a fact long known) but also innocent of conspiracy to murder (a fact grudgingly conceded), and police left the inhabitants of Aldor Boarding House in peace.

Soon it became obvious to investigating psychiatrists that Dimitri Tsafendas was barking mad so he was declared unfit to stand trial. He died in prison more than twenty years later and is now regarded as a Hero to the Cause.

When apartheid ended in 1994 I could have stepped forward and claimed “Yes, it was me. I put Tsafendas up to it. Told him to stick a knife into Verwoerd.” But I never thought of this at the time. Stepping forward could have earned me a position in post-apartheid South Africa, perhaps even designation as a minor Hero to the Cause.

I did not think, so am not.

Nelson Mandela was at that time three years into his life sentence. As a banned person he could not be quoted or even referred to by the press, which in effect imposed an iron curtain of silence. Eventually news of the assassination reached the political prisoners on Robben Island. In his autobiography ‘Long walk to freedom’ (in chapter 68), Mandela later wrote: “Although Verwoerd thought that Africans were lower than animals, his death did not yield us any pleasure…. It (assassination) is a primitive way of contending with an opponent.”

In the 1990s, President Nelson Mandela re-entered the assassination narrative in a way that reveals something of his depth of character. He had a sympathetic correspondence with Betsie Verwoerd, widow. When they finally met at an official function, he gently helped her through her prepared speech – as she had mislaid her spectacles.

Next week: back to the 21st century.

In the bright light of morning I wandered along the Simon’s Town jetty and watched a seal glide through the clear water, fully at home and in no hurry at all. A waterfront cafe became an opportunity to see South Africans being their normal non-racial selves. What a fine place, I thought. I bought copies of the left-leaning Mail & Guardian, together with the Cape Times and a few tabloid papers, then settled down to educate myself about the state of the nation.

Bad move. My reading over subsequent months leads me to offer this advice to anyone visiting the country: if you want to enjoy yourself, do not read a South African newspaper. Even a casual glance could shatter the illusion that South Africa is fair and just, and that it moves on a higher moral plane.

On the positive side South African papers are now completely uncensored, which is a vast improvement on Before-time. Back then, Big Brother looked over every editor’s shoulder. Nowadays, After-time newspapers pull no punches, and get away with savage criticism.

Several papers covered fraud perpetrated by white-collar creeps. One current story involved an investment group with the blandly reassuring name of Fidentia, headed by a podgy-faced young CEO with one of the most reassuring names in criminal history: Mr J Arthur Brown. Fidentia had been entrusted with investing the entire two billion rand assets of the Union of Mineworkers’ Provident Fund, a fund held in trust for the benefit of widows and orphans and accumulated over many years from contributions made by poorly-paid men who sweated deep underground and died young.

Fidentia, whose top executives rewarded themselves a modest monthly R26 million, had within two years managed to lose most of UMPF’s two billion rand. No apologies. Just ‘you gave it to us and we spent it’. Mr J Arthur Brown was in prison awaiting trial. One paper ran a story about a deceased miner’s orphan children, now destitute and living without hope. I was filled with a desire to stuff my copy of the M&G down J Arthur Brown’s throat .

The paper that astonished me most was the Daily Sun, a tabloid packed with exclamation marks and screaming headlines. Dead babies found in dump! School stabbing chaos! Burned and raped! Teacher killed in front of her horrified class! Death by devil-doll! Witch-hunters be warned! Cop’s evil plan backfires! (Took out life insurance on a friend, then shot him.)

I’m not suggesting that the Daily Sun gives a balanced view of life, but it sure opened windows on a world previously unknown to me. The most striking feature of these reports became clear only after I’d bought several issues. Almost every story is a one-off. No back-stories, no follow-ups.

South Africa’s abundance of shocking violence means there’s no need to rake over yesterday’s stories. Today, school stabbing chaos. Tomorrow, fifty new murder cases to choose from. There’s no such thing as a slow news day in the Republic.

Weeks later it occurred to me that the Daily Sun could be part of a white plot, making up stories in order to discredit the ANC. I made inquiries and was told that the owner, a gentleman said to carry a long-barrelled pistol at all times, vigorously defends his team’s journalistic integrity, claiming that every story is taken from police reports, and that all his writers are black Africans with Xhosa and Zulu and Tswana names. Anyway, who am I to disagree with a man who carries a long-barrelled pistol?

One story disturbed me more than most: Why I had sex with a dog! A man in Mothutlung was arrested for copulating with his neighbour’s dog, named Sport. Confronted by police, the man defended his choice of partner, explaining that his preference was a responsible form of safe sex that conveyed the dual benefits of protection from AIDS and saving on condoms. So far, so bad. But the response of Johanna Moholo, Sport’s owner, gave a glimpse through the gates of hell. Her quoted words: ‘How can he rape my dog like that? There are plenty of girls outside.’

The contrast between idyllic landscapes and nightmare headlines was giving me cognitive whiplash. Rapid switches from scenic beauty to dead babies in a dump felt like listening to Mozart while viewing a chainsaw massacre.

So what did I find? Has South African society truly changed since the days of apartheid? The answer: yes and no. The After-country is a blend of miracle and madhouse.

It’s exhilarating, but has a culture of extreme violence. Life is cheap.

It welcomed Mandela with open arms, but now ignores his example.

Apartheid laws have vanished, but inequalities have worsened.

The land is beautiful, but the slums are horrendous.

The constitution is female-friendly, but there’s an epidemic of rape.

Delight and despair are close companions in the new South Africa and anyone who lives there damn well needs to laugh, or else go mad. I mean, in what other country can you find road signs announcing ‘Dung beetles have right of way?’

And so it came to pass that after three decades absence I returned to South Africa for several months travel. The idea was to wander dusty back roads, stay with local families in small towns, meet friends from the past, talk with strangers whom I could not possibly have met in the past, discover the feel and flavour of the new South Africa, and find how much influence Mandela still had in the land of my birth. I hoped that as a returning exile I’d be a time-traveller on a quest to discover the Rainbow Nation’s soul, and to compare life Before with life After.

After what? I was intrigued by the varied names used for South Africa’s renaissance. Officially the anniversary of the first open election is ‘Freedom Day’, but the transition itself doesn’t seem to have a formal title, which is odd. I never heard it described as ‘Independence’. On various occasions I heard the events described as The Transition, The Hand-over, The Change-over, The End of Apartheid, Liberation, The Beginning of Democracy, The Struggle. But whatever labels are used, one thing is clear: the past is divided into Before and After.

Even the timing of After-ness is uncertain. Did it commence with the first open elections in April 1994? Or with Mandela’s inauguration a few weeks later? My pick: the precise symbolic moment was 3.30 pm on 11th February 1990, the moment when Nelson Rohihlahla Mandela walked through his prison gates towards a media scrum.

I visited in 2007. Capetown airport was a mess of reconstruction, overcrowding, jackhammers and noise. I was almost breathless with anticipation and apprehension, choked with half-remembered Before details of vineyards, mountains, home.

A black man in a suit strolled up to me. (Beware of suits, says the legend.) ‘Can I help you?’ He took pity on ignorant me and explained the basic features of Telkom phone booths and helped me with alien coins.

And so it went. Black and brown and white people offered directions. The car-hire lady was a model of patience and helpfulness. I began to relax. All those rampant-crime stories and tales of visitors being mugged on their first day, surely they were wild exaggeration.

We found our way to leafy Rondebosch and encountered a set of problems. Security gates remained closed and intercom buzzers unanswered. The suburb I’d once known now revealed a sinister face: high walls, electric fences, armed-response signs, guard dogs hurling themselves at locked gates.

So we fled south to Simon’s Town and found an excellent B&B. That afternoon, guineafowl emerged from the nearby mountainside and ran around like demented polka-dot cushions.

Next morning we woke to a sun-dazzled paradise of mountains and calm blue sea, the kind of vision that had lain buried in my memory for decades, and the reason I’d brought Jeannie here. Everything was going to be all right. The land was as dramatic and lovely as Before. So began our first full day at The Cape of Good Hope, a name redolent of peace and prosperity, conjuring up images of cheerful citizens, cosy cottages, snug harbours – a region of sunny optimism where warm welcomes are guaranteed.

Simon’s Town is a place of mellow stone, Victorian villas, rusty old anchors, a tiny mosque and buildings with names like Admiralty House. Above the Lord Nelson bar is a panel listing all the commanders of the Cape Station since 1797. On our second evening, Jeannie and I walked down the steep hill along a succession of twilight lanes, trying to ignore all the security warnings we’d been given.

In the reassuring haven of the Lord Nelson I asked the lady behind the bar if she had any advice on street-safety around town.

‘Oh, it’s safe,’ she replied. ‘The navy protects us. We’re not like other places.’

Even after dark? ‘No problem. I think.’

Next day I noticed a worrying detail. A ‘24-hour armed response’ sign outside the police station announced that its premises were protected by Chubb Security. That was a concern. If police lacked confidence in their ability to protect their own building, how much capacity would they have to protect me?

The last time I walked these streets, every public place was dominated by symbols of apartheid. Signs had been everywhere: on every beach, bus, toilet, park bench, and post-office counter. Whites Only/ Slegs vir Blankes. Only for Non-whites/ Slegs Nie-blankes. Separate entrances for post offices, separate seats on buses. And now? Not a trace. Not even one single overlooked park bench.

The winds of change had blown away separate-beach signs in the 1980s. Other signage vanished soon after 1990, so that when museums woke to the historical value of apartheid’s artefacts they were hard to find. Apparently the general relief at Mandela’s leadership plus the prospects of constitutional normality were enough to overpower piddling concerns like souvenir-collection. I wondered if a few whites-only signs lay hidden at the back of dusty store-rooms, but bringing them out now would be like displaying swastikas in Berlin.

Imagine this. Imagine a country ruled by grey-suited old men, every one of them obsessed with skin colour, believing that dark-skinned people need to be kept as far away as possible, poor, voteless, and subject to a thousand humiliations.

That was South Africa from 1948 on, a paranoid system headed for disaster. So I left. Packed up not long after Steve Biko’s murder in 1976 and escaped to free and orderly New Zealand. Living in the old South Africa meant having your conscience battered daily while watching your beloved country being dragged into conflict by secretive grey-suits. I was a rat leaving a sinking ship.

Outsiders who suggested it was an exceptionally dumb idea to keep most of your population as second class citizens were dismissed as ignorant. ‘You have no right to meddle in our internal affairs’ was a stock response of the grey-suits.

But miracles happened. With a country teetering on the edge of civil war a new leader of the grey-suits gazed into the abyss and changed his mind. Within five tumultuous years, apartheid was dismantled, democratic elections held, Nelson Mandela became the most respected leader on earth, and South African was promoted from pariah to rainbow nation. You could hear the collective sigh of relief across the world.

Many of the events leading up to the 1994 elections were tragic and some were farcical. Some of the most bizarre involved a white supremacist with the improbably perfect name of Eugene Terre’Blanche, a demagogue who founded a neo-Nazi party and aroused in his volk a conviction they should fight to the death against a black takeover.

But insane good fortune lent a helping hand. First, while leading a rally through the streets of Pretoria, Mr TB fell off his white horse, an event whose symbolism was not lost on the public. Second, an investigator spied on him in flagrante with one of his female followers, and reported that Terre’Blanche had a significant number of holes in his underwear.

This presented him with a challenge. Never before has a demagogue been forced to defend the integrity of his underpants in public. He proved unequal to the challenge. The man’s reputation and power base withered away – presumably along with his libido – and the counter-revolution fizzled out. If he’d chosen to wear fully functioning briefs, South Africa could’ve been plunged into civil war. On such events hinged the fate of a nation.

Things became even better. Elections were held, the ruling clique handed over power to the black majority in a sort-of-voluntary way, Nelson Mandela became President, and for the next five years his calm wisdom and moral authority helped guide the country through a dangerous transition. The country’s future didn’t rest entirely in Mandela’s hands. Many others combined to create moral leadership, in particular eternally cheerful Desmond Tutu, who initiated the TRC – the truth and reconciliation commission.

In a rational world, everyone should still be wandering around smiling their heads in wonderment, calling out to each other the good news that South Africa had earned given a fresh start in life, and that black and white now live together in harmony. Well, sort of.

Utopia it is not. Fear still haunts the nation, and it is a truth universally acknowledged that bad news travels better than good news. In the view of many outsiders, Africa remains the natural home of conflict, disease, corruption and poverty. Great wildlife, shame about the politics.

According to Afro-pessimists, African cities are inhabited by a feral underclass eager to shoot you for your cell phone and pounce on any driver foolish enough to stop at traffic lights after dark. If you believed all the rumours, any visitor will be lucky to escape being stabbed, shot, beaten, burned, mugged, road-raged, carjacked, or (for the privileged few) eaten by lions. So it goes

And yet, and yet.

Like anywhere else, most people are good, reasonable, friendly, fair-minded, law-abiding. South Africa remains a dramatic land of wide horizons, flaming sunsets, blue-dome sky, African music, African laughter, resilient can-do attitudes, boundless open space, jackals calling in the night, and the intoxicating aromas of rain on hot earth – the blend of a thousand details that call us home to Africa. I wanted to mingle with people who understood that ‘just now’ rightly means ‘in the near future’ and not ‘in the recent past’. I wanted the primal pleasure that comes from wilderness evenings in the company of elephants. I wanted to see for myself whether the country had experienced a genuine change in mindset and was now guided by Mandela’s example, or whether there had simply been a regime change with enmity lurking beneath the surface like crocodiles.

Also I’ve never been able to listen to Black Mambazo or read the opening lines of ‘Cry, the Beloved Country’ without tears coming to my eyes; (‘There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills…’)

Africa is in my bones.