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articles from 1999

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Don't Cry for Me Afrikaner

– Kurt Shillinger, The Boston Globe, 15 March 1999


JOHANNESBURG — It took centuries of violent struggle to bring the vote to all South Africans in 1994.


Now, as the country heads toward its second democratic election on June 2, it is taking a man in a dress to bring all South Africans to the vote. Evita Bezuidenhout, the sharp-tongued alter ego of satirist Pieter-Dirk Uys, once lampooned white prejudice during apartheid's darkest years. Now Uys's caricature is on the road with an upbeat, nothing-is-sacred show, to stir slumbering voters and to "remind people what fun an election can be."


A shameless racist, Evita jabs at politicians and people of all hues and creeds. And the multiracial audiences seem to love it. They often walk in nervously, whites sitting among themselves, blacks not quite convinced there's a man balanced on those stilettos. By the end of the show Uys has them all mixed up, laughing at one another and with one another.


There's a reason behind the fun. Unlike the first elections, when voters lined up for hours at polling stations, there is little excitement this time around. The government has no money for voter education. Barely 60 percent of eligible voters have registered. Forty-one parties have candidates, but the only suspense is whether Nelson Mandela's African National Congress will win an unopposable two-thirds majority in parliament.


"The thing I mean to do with this is underscore optimism," Uys said after one performance, still dressed in sequins and false lashes. "My job is to enthuse people about things they don't want to talk about. The laughter is all, because there is very little reason to laugh in politics today. If you can entertain people about something they're not looking forward to, then maybe they'll remember the laugh and go to vote."


There's a story in the name. In the late 1970s, Uys — a prolific playwright, actor, and social commentator — wrote a weekly political column, and found himself constrained by government paranoia. P.W. Botha had just become prime minister. Censorship muzzled the media.


So Uys created a voice, a mystery female he later described as "on the fringes of power but elbow deep in the catering," to speculate publicly about the hushed and rampant rumors of official scandal.


The mystery voice appeared in Uys's columns once a month for three years. Along the way someone dubbed her "the Evita of Pretoria." In 1981, Uys brought her out of the shadows and onto the stage. He called her Evita Bezuidenhout, taking the last name of a martyr and legend among the Afrikaner Volk — a peasant hanged by the British for rebelling against the Crown.


The caricature of a racially insensitive suburban "madam," Evita egged the stone-gray edifice of Afrikanerdom. She mocked white privilege by putting its ugliness on display. Because she was fictional, she was untouchable. Because she was portrayed by a gay man in flamboyant gowns, the Volk were shocked beyond response.


Playing Evita is harder now that apartheid is gone.


"Then there was such a target . . . one target: the culture of death," Uys said. "Now it's a democracy. I can't perform. I have to listen to the audience. I've got to adapt everything according to where they are."


But adapt he has. Evita was recently honored in parliament. A few years ago, Uys did a show called "Truth Omissions," a satire on South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission, in which Evita apologized for her role in apartheid.


These days, Evita walks on stage in an ethnic two-piece and headdress, and quips: "It was made for Winnie Mandela, but the designer sold it to me when Winnie refused to pay for it."


After a brief, politically incorrect review of South African history, Evita invites supporters of various parties to summarize their views. And if some listeners still aren't stirred to vote, she has this final touch: "We Afrikaners know how important the vote is. That's why we denied it to all of you for so long.

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