by Mary Galea
When I was just 16 in 1972, I went to South Africa as a Rotary Exchange Student. It was a very exciting time. Everywhere I went and everyone I met reinforced the perception that I was a bit more special than the average person because of this opportunity.

At 16 one is a sponge and tends to believe both the positive and negative things you’re told about yourself. For a self-assured and confident youngster, it was easy for me to believe what I appeared to be on the outside . . . mature, capable, confident, leaving no room for me to voice that I was also filled with a tremendous pressure to succeed or that I was apprehensive in any way about anything, even questioning my coping skills.

I went to a small farming town, Swellendam, 300km east of Cape Town, and in some ways quite similar to the area I’d grown up in South Australia.

It was at a politically sensitive time, but the conservatism of the area surprised even conservative me (as I was at the time), especially as it was dominated by the right wing Dutch Reformed Church, to which most white families belonged.

Of course, being Australian, at a time when my own government joined the world in a boycott of South Africa over its apartheid policies, I was continually asked my views on the political situation at home and constantly reminded of what South Africans viewed as the White Australia Policy, putting a new twist to
my ears on what foreigners thought of Australia.

I quickly discovered as an exchange student the way my host country and its media saw Australia and it wasn’t always positive. The real benefit of this learning experience for any exchange student is how one deals with such comments. It becomes a measure of one’s maturity.

I knew I was to be hosted by two different clubs for six months each, first Swellendam, then Bellville, a suburb of Cape Town.

I’d also known that I would be hosted by up to eight families, which meant that I would be moved on average of every six weeks. Initially that didn’t bother me, but later on it would.

My first host family of Dad, Mum and three children (all relatively close in age to me), were great, and apart from the fact that there was a maid living in the house (this was pretty much universal practice in South Africa then) I was quite comfortable from the outset with them.

I would have loved to stay with this family for the whole 12 months, and developed a very close bond with them all, especially my host mother.

I settled into life in Swellendam, going to school and undertaking my speaking engagements in schools and Rotary clubs.

Being a small town, and being four years before television came to South Africa, I soon got to know practically everyone. As the Rotary club was very active, I joined in with lots of their events. I had a great social life within the club, being invited to spend time with lots of Rotarians and their families. I tried hard to fit in at school where the main language was Afrikaans, and for someone who’d only learnt Latin apart from English, learning German in Afrikaans made for an interesting experience!

One day in March, I was booked to speak at a lunch meeting at the Rotary Club of Worcester, about 80km away. One of Swellendam’s Rotarians offered to take me.

He was one of the more active members of the club and always helpful. He was married with young children. Having known him over the course of my stay there, I was comfortable with him. He was very outgoing and popular in the club and so none of the Rotarians had a problem with him taking me either. He wasn’t one of my host fathers, but we were all one happy family so it didn’t matter.

I felt safe. I trusted him. However, en-route to this speaking engagement, his conversation became increasingly personal, but he did it in a flattering, non-threatening way. I wasn’t aware that I ought to have been offended. I interpreted his questions as just being curious about me.

When he asked about boyfriends I just went along with the conversation because it felt good to be treated and talked to as an adult. At 16, one believes, however erroneously, one is an adult.

I know now this is the way adults prey on vulnerable adolescents.

I spoke at the lunch, still believing I had a familiar ally with me at an unfamiliar club, and on the lovely sunny autumn day, we drove home.

Rotarians really like exchange students. It makes them feel good to be promoting international understanding.

The road we took home, that late afternoon, was not a major one, so there wasn’t any traffic. The view of the Langenberg Mountains, rising up majestically, snow-capped and dull grey as the sun began dipping behind their peaks, was breathtaking. I was relaxing. I had successfully given a well-received speech. I’d had several very pleasing comments about my presentation and I was feeling good with a job well done.
The conversation on the way back took a different turn. It became a lot more personal. It was making me uneasy and very uncomfortable. Although I knew what he was saying was wrong, I felt suddenly not the adult I sensed I was on the earlier ride, but the child I still was and powerless to stop this talk.

Upon reflection, he was initiating well-practised grooming and setting me up for the abuse that was about to occur.

He stopped the car. He exposed himself. There was nothing I could do. Then, he raped me.