When people hear that you are a South African, they often have quite strange reactions. I remember once, in Italy, I gave a lift to a hitchhiker who took a look at me and said, "But I thought all Africans were black." Another common reaction, especially from kids who have only heard of South Africa at school, is to ask (somewhat diffidently) whether, seeing that you are South African, you are a racist.

That is a real poser. The truth is that, of course, yes, you are a racist. But then, the fact that you think of yourself as a racist probably indicates that you are less of a racist than someone who says no. And he, in turn, may be less of a racist than someone who is proud to admit to being one.

In any case, there must be a sense in which all South Africans - maybe all people - are conditioned by race; make different judgements and allowances for people depending on their colour. In the end, the liberal white South African is so concerned to make no distinction based on colour that he ends up making a distinction based on colour.

I hope that that was not the basis of my friendship with Jason Khumalo. We worked together in a market research company, both newly graduated from university. He from a black university, I from a white university. He was a lonely figure in the office. Partly because he didn't quite fit in with the rest of the (white) market researchers or with the black field workers and cleaners who were of a different generation and social class. Partly because he was a slightly reticent personality.

In any case, we seemed to strike up a friendship. A few words here and there, at the beginning; later a bit more. I must say that I found him an interesting figure, different from the rest of the crowd and, to be honest, a touch exotic. In those days one did not meet black graduates that often, and real communication with blacks was often hampered by a language barrier because of the government policy of own language education.

We talked about work and then about music. He was a Jazz fan. I liked township jive, myself, but that was something he despised. Black intellectuals listened to Thelonius Monk and John Coltrane or Miles Davis, it transpired. One evening he asked if I would be interested in attending a concert. He was a member of a Jazz appreciation society and they had hired a hall for a concert.

So, that evening we went down onto Grey Street, near the bus station, where the Garment Workers Union hall was jam packed with eager fans. The music was way out - far too advanced for me - but the atmosphere was wonderful. Some time later we held a party in our flat. Jason came with his fiance and a couple of friends and they were the life and soul of the thing; easy, relaxed, dancing.

I wouldn't want you to think that mixed race parties meant more than they did. Even in those days it was fashionable in certain liberal circles to have blacks at parties. There was a certain cachet or street cred to be had, but I had consciously never moved in those circles. You had to make an effort to break into that scene and go out of your way to meet blacks, and that always seemed to me to be an unwarranted adjustment to race, some sort of positive discrimination.

Anyway, now it seemed to happen more or less naturally, and we began to see each other socially on the odd occasion. We talked about politics, about racism, about music and the future. And we spoke generally about the idea of going to one of their parties out in the township. It was always very vague, one day there would be a party and a few of us whites would be invited out there - or maybe we would go out for a meal.

Christmas was approaching and Jason told me there would be a party at their house in Kwa Mashu on christmas eve. Would I like to come? I replied that of course we would be there and, as time drew on, it began to be a definite arrangement.

I don't know how many times I had been out to Kwa Mashu. Not many. Once or twice to the bus stop on the edge of the township to drop off our servant when she had worked late and missed the bus. Once or twice with the field workers on market research enquiries. The normal procedure was to check in at the police station at the entrance to the township and then we were free to go where we wished.

At that time it was not dangerous for whites to go into the township on normal working days. Everything was quiet and people would invite us in to their homes where we would ask the usual questions. What did they think of the taste of this new chocolate bar? How many times in the next ten would they be buying Joko tea?

Nevertheless, going out in the evening, though theoretically safe, would be to venture into strange territory. Would it be safe? We decided that as we would be with friends, we would probably be OK. Although we wondered what the police would think of our fraternising with the blacks and going to parties - would the party itself be safe? How much would people drink?

We shared and office with Mervyn Foster. He was not a racist. The three of us would eat our sandwiches together. He would even go out with us for a curry sometimes - especially if the boss were with us - but he believed one should keep a little distance. Cultural reasons; scope for misunderstandings and so on.

"You can't risk taking your wife out there." said Mervyn. "The townships are violent places. Christmas eve, even Hillbrow isn't safe. And if you run into trouble there's no way anyone can get in to help you."

"When I was a kid," I rejoined, "my dad used to go to meetings on the reservation to preach. We were guests and nothing ever happened to us."

"Yes, but that was different." Mervyn was quite in earnest, "those were farm Afs. They weren't these Tsotsies and hooligans in Kwa Mashu. Anyway, you won't get a permit to go to a party in Kwa Mashu on Christmas eve."

"My dad always got a permit." I said. "I'll just tell the cops that I'm going to a prayer meeting."

"You're mad." said Mervyn.

Maybe. Or maybe just a racist.

We talked it through at home and decided we couldn't back out. I spoke to Jason in the morning and we decided that I would go out and sort out the permit at the police station and that he would pass by our place at eight to with a friend of his who had a car to lead us out. (The streets had no names, just numbers and block numbers.)

With some trepidation I drove up to the police station. It was on the main road into Kwa Mashu near the bus rank. At that time in the afternoon there was very little going on. There were one or two buses parked in the bus rank. Another had the bonnet up and half the engine stripped out on the side of the road. A few would-be passengers waited in the hot sun, sitting on blanket rolls surrounded by suitcases and cardboard boxes tied up with string. They were on their way home to spend Christmas with their families on the farm.

The breeze had blown bits of newspaper and paper packets into the gutters. The debris of the morning exodus to work in Durban, cigarette packets, bits of paper, the odd rag of cloth, lay on the ground. A few ragged kids played around the scrawny thorn tree at the end of the building housing the toilets.

The police station, by contrast was comparatively clean. A prison work party weeded the sprinklered lawn. The building was new, built of face brick with white painted plaster around the windows. The security fencing of the compound came up level with the front of the building. There was only one door. One presumed that the glass of the windows was armoured but, to all intents and purposes it looked like any normal new government office.

From the entrance hall one turned right into a bare room with a counter down the middle. A few posters - Do Not Spit; Reward for Information; Regulations Governing the Occupation of Economic Housing in the Kwa Mashu Urban Settlement Area in English Afrikaans and Zulu (this to give an idea, I cannot remember what actual material they would have had). Around the edge of the room were a dozen chairs. The same as we had at school, metal pipe frame, worn Masonite seats, stackable.

Behind the counter a lone constable in the standard dark blue uniform safari suit seated with his feet on the desk. He looked up from his book and smiled: "What can we do for you, my mate?"

"Well;" I hesitated, "I wondered if I could get a permit to go into the township tonight."

"Hell man, why would you want to do a thing like that?" this was not the usual sort of request.

"Well ....." I hesitated again and he continued.

"Listen, man, I wouldn't advise you to go in on christmas eve. You know these kaffirs. They will get drunk and kill each other and there's bugger all we can do about it tonight. We won't be going in there to get you out without a good reason."

"Well, we have an invitation to visit someone." I said.

"I don't know if I can give you a permit for that, you know."

"Well," in for a penny, in for a pound - and in any case, I could always decide not to use the permit later - "we were going to go to a midnight service in one of the houses. It is Christmas tonight." (We could always say a prayer at midnight so that it would not be an outright lie, I comforted myself. This time he hesitated.

"OK then," he said at last. "I'll tell you what. I'll give you a permit. But you'll have to sign a disclaimer. You'll go in on your own responsibility and, if anything happens, you're on your own." He pulled over the book of forms and carefully, in a clear schoolboy handwriting, he took down the details. Name, Address, reason for visit, Number of Motor Vehicle, Permission to enter Kwa Mashu from 8.30 PM until 2.30 AM. Might be better to wait a little after midnight till things started to die down before leaving.

Gratefully I took my permits and set off home. The streets were very quiet and it seemed that all the rest of the city was inside relaxing and enjoying themselves. Whether we went to the party would depend exclusively on what I said when I reached home.

We agonized the rest of the afternoon over the decision. Would it be safe? Would there be fighting in the streets? Would people get drunk? What should we wear? Should we take a bottle? Of what?

At last we got dressed - not jeans, slacks and shirt; no tie. We tidied the flat. It was nearly eight. We sat down to wait. No cars in the street. A look up the road. Still no one. Eight thirty. Eight forty five. Time etiquette among the Africans is different. Nine thirty.

They never came for us and so we spent a quiet Christmas eve at home. Had they forgotten? Had they had second thoughts about our coming to the party? Had the party been cancelled at the last moment? Perhaps they had not been able to get hold of a car.

The next day was Christmas and, after that, the office was closed between Christmas and New Year. Jason was away for a week and then I was out for some reason. I never asked him what went wrong with the arrangement. The result is that - as always - you only get a part of the story. I suppose the fact that we could carry on more or less as if nothing had happened shows how little we really understood about each other. That's the end of the story; except for Mervyn Foster.

His homilies on the unreliability of inter racial friendships would be insufferable. First thing back at work he asked me how the party had gone.

"You were right Mervyn," I told him. "It was too dangerous. We decided not to go."

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