Rosie Schulz- Stories from a South African Childhood

The Magic of Play – Stories from a South African Childhood by Rosie Schulz

My childhood was steeped in the wonder of imaginative play. We had none of the technology that fills our lives today—no computers, televisions, or electronic games. Instead, we drew upon our unfiltered imaginations to create our own adventures, and we did this with enthusiasm and abundance.

Durban in the 1960s and ’70s was truly the “Golden Era” of the South African holiday, and my memories of those joyful, imaginative days remain forever etched in my heart. I grew up with a great love of being near the ocean and took it for granted that our playground was by the sea. I loved the wide-open space of the beautiful sandy beaches, the smell of the Indian Ocean, and the sound of the roaring waves. Durban was widely celebrated as the “Golden Era” of the South African holiday. Long before the advent of modern digital entertainment, Durban’s subtropical climate, the warm Indian Ocean, and bustling beachfront combined to create an idyllic, sun-drenched playground, packed with sun-lovers basking on canvas deckchairs, building sandcastles, or body-surfing the warm, rolling waves. The Indian Ocean was always warm, making it a delightful playground for us kids as we grew up, all through the year.

While memory fondly paints this as a sun-kissed paradise of carefree imaginative play, it is historically grounded within the realities of its time. Under apartheid legislation, the beachfront, hotels, and amenities were strictly segregated, meaning this specific “holiday playground” experience was legally reserved for the white minority, a progressive step ahead of the rest of the country. In Durban, there were three distinct beaches for the segregated racial groups. While we enjoyed our carefree fun on the exclusively white beaches, further down the promenade and away from the bustling shops, cafés, and entertainment, were Indian, then Coloured, and then Black beaches specifically designated for the racially segregated group you belonged to (as stated on your birth certificate). The irony is that in this sun-basking-obsessed culture, it was the Europeans who were darkening their skins with lashings of oil—even baby oil—resulting in burning my skin to a crisp and suffering for days after a day on the beach. We didn’t have sun protection factors in the sun oils—no creams—in those days. For days, my skin was red, raw, and tender. I would lather it with calamine lotion and then watch as it blistered and the surface began to flake and peel.

My imagination was a vivid landscape where my siblings, friends, and I built countless fantasy worlds. My most cherished possessions were my dolls; I loved them so deeply, that I could never bear to part with them. Each doll had a unique name and a distinct personality. As my collection grew, I transformed them into students and appointed myself the headmistress of a bustling boarding school.

In my mind, these pupils lived in the clouds and descended to my ‘earthly’ school for their education. Their stature depended entirely on the cloud they hailed from: tiny dolls arrived on wispy little clouds, and larger dolls came from the great billows above. Long before the internet arrived, this was my ‘connection to the cloud.’ As a forward-thinking headmistress, I practiced true inclusivity—a student’s importance was never determined by the size of the cloud they called home. I did have my favourites, though, but that was always a closely guarded secret.

One of the most iconic dolls of the time was Barbie, along with Ken. I had an array of Barbies and one or two Kens. I loved to dress them up in their variety of outfits and take them out on adventures. Another popular doll was Sindy, a very British alternative to Barbie (who was considered quite American). Having a Sindy or Barbie doll as the centerpiece of a birthday cake was enormously popular when I was growing up. To have a beloved doll surrounded by an exquisite cake was a highlight of every birthday celebration. Here, the centerpiece birthday cake featuring a beloved Barbie or Sindy doll—with an exquisite billowing cake baked to look like the doll’s ballgown—was the highlight of our childhood birthday celebrations.

There were many games and activities where we were outdoors, making things and using our imagination, which kept us occupied for many long hours during the day until my mother, at dusk light, would call us to come inside for bath and dinnertime. One of the most exciting activities was building go-carts (or box-carts), which was the ultimate rite of passage for kids growing up in the ’60s and ’70s. Long before digital entertainment or store-bought kits, it was a gritty, hands-on masterclass in backyard engineering and imagination. Essential to your go-cart was a good set of steel ball-bearing wheels (often salvaged from an old perambulator). The chassis used a frame from a sturdy piece of discarded timber, such as a wooden packing crate used for fruit or tomatoes.

Our backyard engineering designs were rudimentary but effective. I can’t recall anyone showing us how to make our carts; we certainly couldn’t look it up on YouTube! We had to figure it out through trial and kids’ creative thinking. For steering, we got ourselves a thick length of rope tied to both ends of the moving axle. You sat on the board, held the rope taut, and pulled left or right to steer. If you were feeling brave, you just used your feet directly on the front wooden axle to guide yourself. Brakes were often a complete afterthought! The most common mechanism was a simple lever—a piece of wood attached to the side of the cart with a single nail. When you pulled back on it, it rubbed directly against the back wheel or the road surface, creating friction and hope. If that failed, your trusty rubber-soled takkies (sneakers) dragged along the tar and did the job! (Slap and takkie and Goei a spark)!!

Once the go-cart was rideable and deemed semi-roadworthy, it was time for a test drive. In those days, we played with our neighborhood friends, testing out our new “engineering feat!” We gathered on the pavements outside our houses, preferably at a house up a hill. Here the real action happened! My brother or a friend would sprint behind and then give a massive push before jumping onto the back bar for the ride. If we were on a steep suburban hill or long sloping driveway, it was a terrifyingly beautiful moment of acceleration, where we would feel the shaking steering and screaming ball-bearings and just hold on tight. On one occasion, I recall tearing down the hill, feeling exhilarated and utterly fearless, when I swerved to avoid an oncoming van. This is when I learned specific and unforgettable life lessons that come with wiping out on a homemade go-cart. One second you are tearing down a suburban driveway feeling completely exhilarated and utterly fearless; the next, the universe reminds you how easy it is to lose control and the transition from flying to tumbling happens in a split second. Tumbling off onto the tarmac is part of the rites of passage. Of course, scars of honor were part of the experience! You couldn’t go go-cart racing without a few grazed knees, stubbed toes, or a bit of “tar-burn” from a wipeout. But it wasn’t a tragedy—more a badge of honor to boast about at school the next day, usually patched up with a quick wipe of Dettol with a fierce sting, calamine lotion, or some Mercurochrome that turned your skin bright red.

And so it was, that growing up in Durban by the Indian Ocean, with the freedom of unfiltered, outdoor play, made 1960s and ’70s Durban an unforgettable paradise forever etched in memory.