πͺπππ‘ π£ππ©ππ ππ‘π§π¦ ππ‘π π£ππ’π£ππ π§π¨π₯π‘ ππ₯π¨ππ: ππππ ππ‘ π πͺπππππππππ₯ ππ‘ πππ£π π§π’πͺπ‘
Struggling through the city streets in a wheelchair is a daily battle against both concrete and indifference.
Yesterday I saw a man in a wheelchair in Cape Townβs Adderley Street battling his way through crowds of people. He was on his own and people simply looked past him and even tried to push him out of the way.
I saw a woman go up to him and assist him. This made me think of the late Alfred Rietmann, an actor from Woodstock, who died recently. He also used a wheelchair.
For those of us who walk freely through our cities, life seems simple. But for people in wheelchairs, every street, every corner, every step can be a barrier.
When Alfred was still alive, I asked him what challenges he faced with pedestrian crowds, transport and navigating pavements in this city. This is his story:
***
One day he woke up and the pain in his little toe was unbearable. He lived with it for a while, but eventually decided to see the doctor. Alfred is diabetic.
The doctor told him to get to hospital; the toe was severely infected. At the state hospital (Alfred decided not to mention the name), they informed him theyβd have to amputate the toe.
As a freelance theatre creator, like many others in the creative industries (and most South Africans), he has no medical aid. When Alfred woke up, his foot was gone. Off. Completely.
The doctor then revealed: infection had rotted his entire foot, not just his toe. The shock hit him hard: learning to live without a foot.
Later, back at home, another infection erupted in his leg, right where theyβd removed the foot. Back at the hospital, they amputated his leg below the knee.
The wound refused to heal; he blamed the hospitalβs appalling hygiene. They didnβt even stock toilet paper, he had to cut newspaper into squares. Once again infection ravaged the stump and they removed the entire leg.
Alfredβs life was shattered. This was 2019. He was 59.
He received no psychological counselling for losing a limb. There was a grieving process, the life heβd known was over.
Shortly afterwards, pain erupted in his other leg. They amputated it, too.
He had to begin a new life in a wheelchair. In his previous life, heβd thrown himself into work on and behind the stage.
Heβd appeared in countless theatre productions where he danced and moved with explosive energy. Alfred could dart into a cafΓ© in a flash, race to the bathroom, jump out of bed at the crack of dawn.
It was in this phase of his second life that he realised how brutal architecture and town planning could be. How concrete and walls petrify you, obstruct you and become living revenge monsters.
He works at Artscape. Although the cityβs MyCiTi buses accommodate wheelchairs, the problem begins with the pavements.
They do not all offer wheelchair access to the buses. Furthermore, as in Woodstock where he lives, potholes cause the wheelchair to topple over.
Getting from the MyCiTi depot in the city centre to Artscape also presents problems. Some of the ramps slope too steeply.
Alfred now uses Ubers, but the cost is becoming too much. Moreover, some of them, and Bolt too, donβt offer to help him.
One day it was misty and he was waiting outside his house for an Uber. It started raining hard. When the taxi arrived, the driver gave Alfred one look and drove off. A Bolt taxi has also done this to him.
βThe cheek,β says Alfred, βbecause then they still ask for a cancellation fee. They treat us like dirt. Itβs so humiliating.β
None of the cafΓ©s or restaurants in and around Christiaan Barnard Hospital, just opposite Artscape, accommodate wheelchairs. If he wants to go to Food Loverβs Market, he canβt enter through the front door; it has a turnstile.
He has to knock at the emergency door at the back for them to let him in. Countless, absolutely countless restaurants donβt provide toilets for disabled people. He doesnβt go to the cinema any more.
When he had to go to Stellenbosch for a production, someone hired an expensive room for him that they had specially designed for disabled people. It proved a terrible experience; he couldnβt reach the microwave and they had positioned the shower taps too high.
βThen there are people who park in our spaces, especially at the Gardens Centre,β he says. One day a delivery person at a supermarket laughed in his face when he complained he couldnβt get out of the taxi because the driverβs vehicle blocked access to the pavement.
The driver had double-parked, calmly lit a cigarette, blew smoke and then laughed at him. βThis hostility from people is nothing new,β he says. βIt crushes my dignity.β
An alternative to taxis is Dial-a-Ride, which picks up people in wheelchairs. However, they have fully booked their services.
Alfred also doesnβt have the finances to get someone to push him around; he has to manage on his own.
When many people crowd the pavements, they become impatient and bump into him. The trains deny access because the platforms from station to station sit at uneven heights.
βThe mere thought of going out fills me with dread,β he says. βMany people in wheelchairs prefer to stay at home. Some become recluses.
βWhen I was on holiday over the festive season, I didnβt leave the house for a single day. But Iβm strong; I wonβt let myself be defeated.β
For a moment, a performance in which Alfred appeared flashes through my mind. He acts in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
The musical ends. He steps forward and bows before the crowd. They give him a standing ovation. And then the lights dim out.
