Vulnerable children end up in the arms of Masizame, St Kizito or the Institute because in one way or another they have been abandoned by father and mother. This tragic reality is here for all to see. Inescapable. Whether we are a people of faith or a people of no faith is largely irrelevant. The words of the psalm simply point to the gathering in of the orphaned and the vulnerable by a people on fire with compassion.
On my last full day here I am with the Xhosa speaking women of the St. Kizito project in Gugulethu. I arrived early and waited outside the locked gates in my car. The streets of this vast township are busy on Sunday afternoons with smartly dressed church goer’s returning to their homes and men of all ages moving around from one drinking hole to another. The streets were busy as I set out for a walk. Eventually I met with Thobeka. Simultaneously, a man touched me on the shoulder. He had followed me from the car to make sure I was safe!
We spoke for a while, he and I and Thobeka, about the rivalries between townships, fly tipping, youths on street corners, upwardly mobile blacks moving into places like Constantia in the suburbs and whites moving off the street as a result, whites moving into a township and blacks wondering what they are up to. We embraced the guardian angel dressed as a man and went in to St. Gabriel’s. He had started work at the Institute hostel two months ago and recognised me!
The women talked about their work, some in their Xhosa clicks, some in English. As always the theme is the children in a world of poor and messed up adults. The mothers with young babies to multiple partners, the men who disappear, the child allowances collected by relatives no longer caring for the child, the neighbours caring for children who are not their own. The volunteers are like detectives unravelling knotted balls of wool. Alongside the spectacular story with a remarkable ending is the one that would frustrate a Sherlock Holmes.
Thobeka invited me to her home in another part of Gugulethu to meet her daughter Tamara and beautiful little grandchild. When it was time to leave she insisted on escorting me to the N2. It was not safe for a white man on a Sunday afternoon to stop at intersections overlooked by black men drinking. She left me at the slip road and walked back into her world to get a taxi. I coasted down the motorway to collect Karen and Marc at the Waterfront, ten minutes and a world away.
So ends this time of ours in the Cape.
We return in late February. The blog will continue in the meantime for Cape and Dale dwellers alike.
Sunday 29 November 2009
Wednesday 25 November 2009
coffee and shoes and desmond tutu
It’s funny how it works. While the little everyday weavings of our lives are quietly going on, we have little idea of how the final tapestry is taking shape. The other evening, we had supper with Marc at Il Leone, a fine, friendly, family restaurant. A guy by the name of Judd came over to Karen and apologetically announced he had noticed her shoes. Yeah, right! She had purchased them in a newly opened boutique, next to our adopted coffee shop, La Fonteril in Plettenberg Bay. It so happens they were hand made by Judd’s flatmate Grandt. Erm! Indeed his girlfriend duly lifted a leg to reveal a similar pair in a different colour and pattern. They are only sold in two shops eight hours drive apart. Judd is a master coffee roaster and his new place, “Deluxe Coffeeworks” opened today on Church Street. We went there and sampled the coffee. It was very good!
We were given a master class in coffee from picking the cherry-like fruit to removing the pulp to drying the green beans, all the different sizes depending on which part of the branch they come from, and then the roasting process itself. We learned that all the coffee that Africa produces is bought up by international dealers, shipped to Antwerp, London and New York, where it is processed and packaged. Then some of it ends up back in African coffee houses! Apparently Grandt the shoemaker is designing a coffee themed version of his new creation. Can smell it already!
The blended themes of coffee and shoes and the significance of places.
Il Leone, you blogfollowers will recall, is the place where we met the elegant Emma working on her PhD. She did indeed visit the Institute the following day to offer some of her free time. Margaret, one of the teachers – also featured in an earlier blog – described Emma as “a Godsend”. Her skills were exactly what they had been needing. She is now registering as a volunteer.
The first time I saw Desmond Tutu was in the newly opened Bradford City Stadium in 1986. Today he visited the Institute. Only a little less sprightly, he carried that same blend of charm and loving attention for everyone around him. He went first to the kids in the workshops and lingered with them. He spoke with all who came near him. He recalled his talk in Bradford and had his picture taken with Marc.
Finally, there was the birthday celebration yesterday of another man whose time is given generously to everyone around him. Bro. Peter Simmonds sdb, now 82, was the original creator of the projects on Somerset Road. Though he is a good deal less sprightly than he was, he can still be seen wearing his workshop apron just as he did when he was a young engineer. The first weavings of the tapestry that grew to be the Institute Youth Projects began with this man’s vision.
Among so many other things, he fixes shoes!
We were given a master class in coffee from picking the cherry-like fruit to removing the pulp to drying the green beans, all the different sizes depending on which part of the branch they come from, and then the roasting process itself. We learned that all the coffee that Africa produces is bought up by international dealers, shipped to Antwerp, London and New York, where it is processed and packaged. Then some of it ends up back in African coffee houses! Apparently Grandt the shoemaker is designing a coffee themed version of his new creation. Can smell it already!
The blended themes of coffee and shoes and the significance of places.
Il Leone, you blogfollowers will recall, is the place where we met the elegant Emma working on her PhD. She did indeed visit the Institute the following day to offer some of her free time. Margaret, one of the teachers – also featured in an earlier blog – described Emma as “a Godsend”. Her skills were exactly what they had been needing. She is now registering as a volunteer.
The first time I saw Desmond Tutu was in the newly opened Bradford City Stadium in 1986. Today he visited the Institute. Only a little less sprightly, he carried that same blend of charm and loving attention for everyone around him. He went first to the kids in the workshops and lingered with them. He spoke with all who came near him. He recalled his talk in Bradford and had his picture taken with Marc.
Finally, there was the birthday celebration yesterday of another man whose time is given generously to everyone around him. Bro. Peter Simmonds sdb, now 82, was the original creator of the projects on Somerset Road. Though he is a good deal less sprightly than he was, he can still be seen wearing his workshop apron just as he did when he was a young engineer. The first weavings of the tapestry that grew to be the Institute Youth Projects began with this man’s vision.
Among so many other things, he fixes shoes!
Saturday 21 November 2009
manna from heaven ... for today!
Paternoster is a place to collect thoughts, reflect. The sea and the wind are the only sounds to be heard in this sunny cloister today as I reflect on a thought that has troubled me for some time.
Almost every encounter on such a journey as we have had here in South Africa, is transient. Like the manna that fell on the desert. Those familiar with this epic story of the Hebrew exodus from Egypt, will recall the miraculous appearance of a dew-like substance on the desert floor every morning. A miracle for those who believe in miracles, but what is most striking is the instruction given to the people. They must “go out and collect the ration for the day … and no one may keep any of it for tomorrow”.
I am persuaded that the gift in so many of these transient encounters is, like the manna from heaven, just for this day. So often we are tempted to collect them like souvenirs for the mantle-piece of our minds or to invest them with a future they simply do not have. To gratify something in ourselves. Disappointment too often follows. Some weeks ago in Plettenberg, I saw something of this in the face of a lady called Virginia.
She was hesitant
Her eyes wearing a wary look
Like a trench coat against the wind and rain of
Gilded promises
Carried by the white man
With the white hair
Sipping his breakfast tea.
I am chastened by these thoughts. Often I have wanted to collect the manna and store it for the morrow. Those in the exodus story who did so found this delicate food had become rotten and foul-smelling.
I am challenged to unwrap the encounter that is meant for today, fully enjoy it, fully honour it, and then move on. The mantle-piece of my mind is far too cluttered!
On the food and wine front! The most satisfying Cape Town eatery, taking into account food quality, the wine list, value for rand, service, and an astonishing view of Table Mountain from the tables outside, is Societi on Orange Street off Buitensingel.
Dare I say it, manna from heaven!!!
Almost every encounter on such a journey as we have had here in South Africa, is transient. Like the manna that fell on the desert. Those familiar with this epic story of the Hebrew exodus from Egypt, will recall the miraculous appearance of a dew-like substance on the desert floor every morning. A miracle for those who believe in miracles, but what is most striking is the instruction given to the people. They must “go out and collect the ration for the day … and no one may keep any of it for tomorrow”.
I am persuaded that the gift in so many of these transient encounters is, like the manna from heaven, just for this day. So often we are tempted to collect them like souvenirs for the mantle-piece of our minds or to invest them with a future they simply do not have. To gratify something in ourselves. Disappointment too often follows. Some weeks ago in Plettenberg, I saw something of this in the face of a lady called Virginia.
She was hesitant
Her eyes wearing a wary look
Like a trench coat against the wind and rain of
Gilded promises
Carried by the white man
With the white hair
Sipping his breakfast tea.
I am chastened by these thoughts. Often I have wanted to collect the manna and store it for the morrow. Those in the exodus story who did so found this delicate food had become rotten and foul-smelling.
I am challenged to unwrap the encounter that is meant for today, fully enjoy it, fully honour it, and then move on. The mantle-piece of my mind is far too cluttered!
On the food and wine front! The most satisfying Cape Town eatery, taking into account food quality, the wine list, value for rand, service, and an astonishing view of Table Mountain from the tables outside, is Societi on Orange Street off Buitensingel.
Dare I say it, manna from heaven!!!
Thursday 19 November 2009
small shards of a great mosaic
Small and white, enclosed with regular teeth, the cowley shell was once used by slave owners to “pay” their slaves. On the beach at Milnerton we came across poor white men, their faces burnished copper by the glaring sun, their eyes trained on the sand, each looking for these cowley shells which fetch R1 per 25. Worthless to the hapless slaves and of piteous value to these collectors, they are used to make necklaces and bracelets for the tourist trade. They showed us their other finds, ancient fossilized shark’s teeth, old and broken blue crockery pieces from shipwrecked galleons, perhaps carrying slaves in their holds. All worth a few rand to some collector. Across the narrow lagoon inlet black people in their orange tunics collected rubbish from Woodbridge Island beach, their filled bags bringing in the minimum wage of R60 a day.
In a small down near Worcester, displaced Zimbabwean immigrants are prepared to work for R40 or less a day. Two days ago, a thousand locals invaded their informal settlement and tore it down. Now they sleep on a playing field under the stars, the more vulnerable in a local hall. Earlier this year many were put to death in the townships.
Two nights ago, a black Maserati pulled up outside the best Italian restaurant in town, Il Leoni, a block from the Institute and a mere 200 metres from the Salvation Army soup kitchen. As the staff came out to look, other high value, big engines were directed by a policeman to take the one way the wrong way to shortcut on to Somerset Road. A tall, elegant waitress doing a PhD in English called Emma observed wryly with a tired sigh, “Yah, this is Cape Town”.
Pondering on these and many other images in the dead of night, awake because the howling wind caught the scaffolding opposite, making a sound like a rehearsal for a tubular bells recital, South Africa seemed to strain with its great contradictions. We are meeting the tall Emma at the Institute in the morning. She will be offering her free time to the Projects.
And, yah, this too is Cape Town, anotherof those tiny shards of a great mosaic.
In a small down near Worcester, displaced Zimbabwean immigrants are prepared to work for R40 or less a day. Two days ago, a thousand locals invaded their informal settlement and tore it down. Now they sleep on a playing field under the stars, the more vulnerable in a local hall. Earlier this year many were put to death in the townships.
Two nights ago, a black Maserati pulled up outside the best Italian restaurant in town, Il Leoni, a block from the Institute and a mere 200 metres from the Salvation Army soup kitchen. As the staff came out to look, other high value, big engines were directed by a policeman to take the one way the wrong way to shortcut on to Somerset Road. A tall, elegant waitress doing a PhD in English called Emma observed wryly with a tired sigh, “Yah, this is Cape Town”.
Pondering on these and many other images in the dead of night, awake because the howling wind caught the scaffolding opposite, making a sound like a rehearsal for a tubular bells recital, South Africa seemed to strain with its great contradictions. We are meeting the tall Emma at the Institute in the morning. She will be offering her free time to the Projects.
And, yah, this too is Cape Town, anotherof those tiny shards of a great mosaic.
Sunday 15 November 2009
the cape of sorrow, grief and good hope
If you set off early on Saturday morning, Paarl is only 45 minutes from Cape Town. Our favourite coffee shop, the Monte Christo, was closed. At the rear, through a plain door from the shop that sells ornaments made in local townships, is a quiet room where people can pray and meditate. It is as unexpected in its simplicity and beauty as in its utility and popularity. But, Monte Christo was closed. We tracked back a little on Main described locally as the longest street in South Africa and had breakfast. It was good.
Paarl is a thriving industrial town, or at least it was until a string of factories closed down, ripping the heart out of the place. Nowhere now for the men and women, highly skilled in the yarn and clothing industry, to go in the morning. A pall of pessimism hovers over the once busy township.
We had come to be with the local St. Kizito group. We sat together in a decaying old structure awaiting funds that will transform it into a church centre. They talked about the children, the soup runs that never seem to bring enough soup, the teenage pregnancies, the great burden on grandmothers, the absent men, the new job drought.
After a while, Janette began to weep with great sorrowful sobs. There are many reasons for these tears, but the image that tipped her over was the one given by another, of the people still turning up at the soup-serving when there was no soup left. It seemed to symbolise their feelings of helplessness in the face of such need. Janette has been doing community work in the township for many years. On her own, before St. Kizito was formed. They are her people.
The tiny group of women shared her sorrow and began to dream of how one day they will acquire a container fitted with a cooker. How one day all the cups will be filled and no one will be turned away. How one day they will take more of the children on a fun-day out and see more faces filled with uncontainable laughter. Just for a day.
We left for Cape Town.
Bruised by the sorrows of these women.
Inspired by their hope.
We detoured to Franschhoek where we had a light lunch at the “Essence” restaurant. A young woman called Monise served us. Alone for a while afterwards, I began to write my blog notes.
She noticed.
She asked if I was writing a diary.
We spoke.
Into the quaint and innocent air of this small tourist town she offered her own sorrowful story. Her twenty two year old twin sister, Monique, was murdered in April by a boyfriend, father of their four year old child. They’d had a row and he shot her seven times over the course of the evening until she died. The child is now with an older sister, Carradine, and the boyfriend will leave jail when he is over sixty years old.
Monise wants you to know of her sorrow.
In a few words, here it is.
Sorrow, hope, grief on Saturday in a corner of the Cape.
Paarl is a thriving industrial town, or at least it was until a string of factories closed down, ripping the heart out of the place. Nowhere now for the men and women, highly skilled in the yarn and clothing industry, to go in the morning. A pall of pessimism hovers over the once busy township.
We had come to be with the local St. Kizito group. We sat together in a decaying old structure awaiting funds that will transform it into a church centre. They talked about the children, the soup runs that never seem to bring enough soup, the teenage pregnancies, the great burden on grandmothers, the absent men, the new job drought.
After a while, Janette began to weep with great sorrowful sobs. There are many reasons for these tears, but the image that tipped her over was the one given by another, of the people still turning up at the soup-serving when there was no soup left. It seemed to symbolise their feelings of helplessness in the face of such need. Janette has been doing community work in the township for many years. On her own, before St. Kizito was formed. They are her people.
The tiny group of women shared her sorrow and began to dream of how one day they will acquire a container fitted with a cooker. How one day all the cups will be filled and no one will be turned away. How one day they will take more of the children on a fun-day out and see more faces filled with uncontainable laughter. Just for a day.
We left for Cape Town.
Bruised by the sorrows of these women.
Inspired by their hope.
We detoured to Franschhoek where we had a light lunch at the “Essence” restaurant. A young woman called Monise served us. Alone for a while afterwards, I began to write my blog notes.
She noticed.
She asked if I was writing a diary.
We spoke.
Into the quaint and innocent air of this small tourist town she offered her own sorrowful story. Her twenty two year old twin sister, Monique, was murdered in April by a boyfriend, father of their four year old child. They’d had a row and he shot her seven times over the course of the evening until she died. The child is now with an older sister, Carradine, and the boyfriend will leave jail when he is over sixty years old.
Monise wants you to know of her sorrow.
In a few words, here it is.
Sorrow, hope, grief on Saturday in a corner of the Cape.
Thursday 12 November 2009
something remarkable is stirring
The “widows mite” is one of those startling parables you read in the New Testament which has a mildly edifying impact but rarely assumes any concrete image for us. A mite has come to mean something very small, referring as it does to a poor widow who reached into her purse and gave up this smallest of coins as a gift, something she could hardly afford to do.
Last night, Karen and I were guests at another St. Kizito meeting in another poor township on the edge of Cape Town, somewhere between Somerset West and Kuilsriver. The women, all coloured and all poor themselves pitched up to discuss some of their cases, mostly involving the abuse of the young children of other poor families. What was most striking to us was their humble telling of how they themselves had difficult problems of their own but felt they could not ignore their struggling neighbours,
In the very midst of the horrors of these poor and dysfunctional neighbourhoods, something remarkable is stirring. People are beginning to mind other people’s business.
Remember these are the women whose motto is: “Your child is my child”. When they visit a neighbour, they are not only crossing a threshold, they are dismantling a social taboo. As one said eloquently, “our generation has always been taught to mind our own business, but now it is time to reach out”.
One woman called Hendrinia told how, after reaching out to help other families, she found it in herself to love her own family even more. Another, who had lost her job described how the courses she went on gave her insight into how she might encourage her children with their studying. Giving has enriched them in ways they least expected.
If they have food, they bring some to the family they are visiting. If they notice a child without shoes, they will find some. If a hospital visit cannot take place because a fare of R20 is impossible, they will find it. Somehow. Such examples as these are concrete images of the widow’s mite.
The Cape Kids account, managed by RW and myself, will donate £500 for this movement into what will be known as the “Widow’s Purse” for just those times when the smallest coin will make a difference.
Email myself or Robert Weatherall if you want to help with any of the three projects that we have adopted and that have been featured in this blog:
St. Kizito
Masizame
The Institute
We really want to donate sustainably. Any giving welcome, standing order best.
Michael: mchstw4@aol.com Robert: robert@pwf.uk.com
R20 is currently £1.60
Last night, Karen and I were guests at another St. Kizito meeting in another poor township on the edge of Cape Town, somewhere between Somerset West and Kuilsriver. The women, all coloured and all poor themselves pitched up to discuss some of their cases, mostly involving the abuse of the young children of other poor families. What was most striking to us was their humble telling of how they themselves had difficult problems of their own but felt they could not ignore their struggling neighbours,
In the very midst of the horrors of these poor and dysfunctional neighbourhoods, something remarkable is stirring. People are beginning to mind other people’s business.
Remember these are the women whose motto is: “Your child is my child”. When they visit a neighbour, they are not only crossing a threshold, they are dismantling a social taboo. As one said eloquently, “our generation has always been taught to mind our own business, but now it is time to reach out”.
One woman called Hendrinia told how, after reaching out to help other families, she found it in herself to love her own family even more. Another, who had lost her job described how the courses she went on gave her insight into how she might encourage her children with their studying. Giving has enriched them in ways they least expected.
If they have food, they bring some to the family they are visiting. If they notice a child without shoes, they will find some. If a hospital visit cannot take place because a fare of R20 is impossible, they will find it. Somehow. Such examples as these are concrete images of the widow’s mite.
The Cape Kids account, managed by RW and myself, will donate £500 for this movement into what will be known as the “Widow’s Purse” for just those times when the smallest coin will make a difference.
Email myself or Robert Weatherall if you want to help with any of the three projects that we have adopted and that have been featured in this blog:
St. Kizito
Masizame
The Institute
We really want to donate sustainably. Any giving welcome, standing order best.
Michael: mchstw4@aol.com Robert: robert@pwf.uk.com
R20 is currently £1.60
Sunday 8 November 2009
What can be done to change a world
As I read through the emails and comments from those who follow this blog, a common theme is expressed in the question “What can be done to change a world where terrible things happen?” I have reflected very much on this cry. From the beginning of our journey Karen and I have felt the weight of it. Yet the real truth of it is this, we ourselves are being changed into people of hope. Every time we encounter the once lifeless eyes of children now smiling their impish smiles up at us, we know we are seeing a miracle. Some say its God’s miracle, some are not so sure.
But it is a miracle.
No longer a miracle unseen, no longer a gift unopened, no longer a picture beyond our dreams. Life reappears in the desert flowers when the rain comes. Drop by drop, it transforms the faces of the children. So we ask for such rain to fall in abundance and it comes. All the pennies given, every volunteer hour graciously spent, every honest tear shed, they all revive this parched land. For it becomes a glorious flood. Today as we returned over the mountains from Worcester to Cape Town, the rain cascaded in great sheets down the steep gullies of the high peaks forming great foamy cataracts in the valleys below. Enormous waterfalls, dozens of them, had appeared. In a few days there will be an explosion of colour.
Its like that with the children.
I spent an hour in the prison at Knysna. In the larger wing which holds the convicted, I took time in the yard with the 160 men in their bright orange prison issue. Some were huddled in two’s and three’s, some walking up and down, a school of silent domino players noisily despatching their play on the wooden board, others electing to sleep the afternoon in one of the four dorms. Aged from 25 to over 60, they seemed like school children in a schoolyard. Men who never grew up. In one of the rooms, a remarkable woman called Cora teaches them how to sew soft toys for children to the sound of ambient music which calms them. She gives of her time for free every day and then works evenings to support herself. She is white. She brings rain to this parched prison place.
People like Cora lead us into new dimensions, lift us to new levels. Some years ago something changed in this middle aged woman and she was able to break new ground. To spend time with hardened black criminals dressed in orange. In a little prison sewing room.
Performing miracles.
But it is a miracle.
No longer a miracle unseen, no longer a gift unopened, no longer a picture beyond our dreams. Life reappears in the desert flowers when the rain comes. Drop by drop, it transforms the faces of the children. So we ask for such rain to fall in abundance and it comes. All the pennies given, every volunteer hour graciously spent, every honest tear shed, they all revive this parched land. For it becomes a glorious flood. Today as we returned over the mountains from Worcester to Cape Town, the rain cascaded in great sheets down the steep gullies of the high peaks forming great foamy cataracts in the valleys below. Enormous waterfalls, dozens of them, had appeared. In a few days there will be an explosion of colour.
Its like that with the children.
I spent an hour in the prison at Knysna. In the larger wing which holds the convicted, I took time in the yard with the 160 men in their bright orange prison issue. Some were huddled in two’s and three’s, some walking up and down, a school of silent domino players noisily despatching their play on the wooden board, others electing to sleep the afternoon in one of the four dorms. Aged from 25 to over 60, they seemed like school children in a schoolyard. Men who never grew up. In one of the rooms, a remarkable woman called Cora teaches them how to sew soft toys for children to the sound of ambient music which calms them. She gives of her time for free every day and then works evenings to support herself. She is white. She brings rain to this parched prison place.
People like Cora lead us into new dimensions, lift us to new levels. Some years ago something changed in this middle aged woman and she was able to break new ground. To spend time with hardened black criminals dressed in orange. In a little prison sewing room.
Performing miracles.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
when the fathers come home the sons will follow
The Masizame shelter for orphaned and vulnerable children is next to the police station in Kwanokuthula, about half a kilometre from St. Monica's. When they arrive, some of the children are in such a state of neglect that for a week or so, they lie around the place on the ground unable to respond to any form of stimulation. Emotionally they have been starved to a condition of near death. The little community of Masizame staff and volunteers brings them back to life. Then begins the delicate task of teaching the children how to eat from a plate, sleep in a bed, toilet in a bowl, speak with other children and adjust to a new world where adults are no longer a mortal danger to them.
The most dangerous adults in a township are men. The old ones and the younger ones. It is they who introduce the young to violent sexual initiation, abuse their wives, neglect their babies, kill and maim each other. In some parts of Khayalitsha in Cape Town, the women, young and old, huddle together during the night at one end of their tiny dwelling so as to provide some protection against their own menfolk. In some of the gangs, you see, it is a condition of promotion to a highr rank that the man rape his mother or his sister.
The real problem in Kwanokuthula, as it is in Khayalitsha and other townships and in the great cities of the world, is that a great many men are not being fathers. They fail to love, cherish, respect, protect and nourish their families.
You see the consequences of this failure in the lifeless eyes of the little ones of Masizame. As I awoke in the middle of the night with these thoughts, the words came to me, " When the fathers come home the sons will follow".
More on this and the miracles of Masizame in my next posting.
The most dangerous adults in a township are men. The old ones and the younger ones. It is they who introduce the young to violent sexual initiation, abuse their wives, neglect their babies, kill and maim each other. In some parts of Khayalitsha in Cape Town, the women, young and old, huddle together during the night at one end of their tiny dwelling so as to provide some protection against their own menfolk. In some of the gangs, you see, it is a condition of promotion to a highr rank that the man rape his mother or his sister.
The real problem in Kwanokuthula, as it is in Khayalitsha and other townships and in the great cities of the world, is that a great many men are not being fathers. They fail to love, cherish, respect, protect and nourish their families.
You see the consequences of this failure in the lifeless eyes of the little ones of Masizame. As I awoke in the middle of the night with these thoughts, the words came to me, " When the fathers come home the sons will follow".
More on this and the miracles of Masizame in my next posting.
Monday 2 November 2009
Angels came to sing at St. Monica's
St. Monica’s church is near the centre of Kwanokuthula, the township that lies at the very edge of Plettenberg. Every day streams of black people move between the two. Plettenberg Bay is not integrated. While racial apartheid is slowly breathing its last, the economic variety lives on. As it does the world over. Bombay, Bradford, Cape Town, Lima, Liverpool, Manila. Of the over six billion human beings who live on the planet, around a billion exists in absolute poverty, which the UN defines as anyone living on less than a dollar a day. Another billion live on less than two dollars a day. That’s a lot of starfish.
For a few hours every Sunday, the angels come to sing at St. Monica’s. The minister has left – they come and go here – but the dark-suited men of the guild and the purple clad women of the union, the alter boys and girls in their sparkling surpluses and soltanes, the deacons and the choir, they come every week. Regardless. With such colourful splendour and eager hearts, the heavy tide of their material burdens, the hardships of township life, seem to recede for this Sunday time.
They sing with great beauty and passion to the beat of the African drum in the sanctuary, the hoover attachment held by an animated chorister and the many hand-held leather pouches in the pews. The stand-in vicar is thirty minutes late, dozes while the deacon preaches in Xhosa and then leaves abruptly at the close. But he’s only there to do the business end of the altar and hardly notices the heavenly host dotted around the church building. Robert W had arrived with a crooked gait, sign of a painful back. It had gone by the end and he demonstrated the miracle with a little pirouette over coffee at Le Fonteril. Miracle?
Nobody is saying a word!
The generous donation to the plate by Jim and Lynne was graciously spoken of by one of the purple ladies as she gave the notices. Then it was back to everyday as the tide came back in and we steered around a young teenage boy high on something in the middle of the street outside.
For a few hours every Sunday, the angels come to sing at St. Monica’s. The minister has left – they come and go here – but the dark-suited men of the guild and the purple clad women of the union, the alter boys and girls in their sparkling surpluses and soltanes, the deacons and the choir, they come every week. Regardless. With such colourful splendour and eager hearts, the heavy tide of their material burdens, the hardships of township life, seem to recede for this Sunday time.
They sing with great beauty and passion to the beat of the African drum in the sanctuary, the hoover attachment held by an animated chorister and the many hand-held leather pouches in the pews. The stand-in vicar is thirty minutes late, dozes while the deacon preaches in Xhosa and then leaves abruptly at the close. But he’s only there to do the business end of the altar and hardly notices the heavenly host dotted around the church building. Robert W had arrived with a crooked gait, sign of a painful back. It had gone by the end and he demonstrated the miracle with a little pirouette over coffee at Le Fonteril. Miracle?
Nobody is saying a word!
The generous donation to the plate by Jim and Lynne was graciously spoken of by one of the purple ladies as she gave the notices. Then it was back to everyday as the tide came back in and we steered around a young teenage boy high on something in the middle of the street outside.
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