Adrian is a coloured man from the Karoo. He looks taller because he is thin. His profile is elegant and composed. He speaks precisely and gently and with great feeling. A year ago, his father, with whom he was living, denied paternity. He said, “You are not my son”. Adrian, devastated, moved in with his grandmother. For many weeks he cried when he was alone. Together we spoke the words of the psalmist, “when your father…abandons you, Yahweh will gather you up”. He has forgiven his father and although he no longer sees him, he gives him honour by reporting to him of his progress at work. To give honour to a father is part of his tradition. Adrian is thirty four years old, now looking to other fathers to feed his soul.
Don is white. His intense eyes look out from deep set hollows that look like caves, partly obscured by lush black brows. At seventeen he wound up in prison and served three years. He began studying during periods in solitary confinement. He told a story of adventurous drifting through jobs in Botswana, Malawi, Zambia and Mozambique. He took to working on ships. In Maputo he met his wife. Their daughter is at school in Europe and she likes his nomadic life. Some time ago, his grandmother died and left him some money with which he bought some land. Developers have their eye on it but he has a dream that one day he will build a centre for poor kids. Don is a waiter and he lives with other waiters in town. He is forty one years old and remains a rolling stone in his heart, surfing the crags of this strange and beautiful country.
Sandile is a Xhosa black Anglican priest. His huge smiling face gives no hint of age. At the end of coffee in a small courtyard bistro, he stands and prays aloud with us for the people of Africa and the two white visitors and their own little dreams. The diocese has placed him in a downtown apartment in a white area but he will not stay there. Sandile is a true black African. Proud of his ancestry, he tries to draw the “traditional healers” into the Christian narrative refusing to adopt the European view of them as demons. In ancient Israel, the leaders of the Hebrew faith brought the “seers” into the prophetic community as did the Irish with the druids. His passion is to have more Xhosa priests who will mediate the Christian passion with a truly African voice.
Three men of Africa, one in search of a father, one with a dream set like a gem in a piece of land and one with a vision for a Xhosa nation fulfilled. Each looking to a new and distant horizon.
Saturday 27 March 2010
Friday 19 March 2010
The other side of the track
There is another side to Milnerton, away from the beach and the lagoon and the eight pelicans that caught my eye as they lifted off like a line of bombers in the direction of Table Mountain. Its border begins less than a mile away at the Loxton Road intersection. It’s the other side of the track that separates the affluent from the rest. It straddles the Koeburg Road that runs all the way to the N1 near the city. From around 6pm, young prostitutes ply their trade there along a deserted three mile stretch, each one standing like a lone sentinel on their allotted corner. You notice the cars slowing down as the girls glance momentarily in their direction. The pimps wait up side .streets. Near the Loxton end stand faded malls, signs of earlier aspirations, with mostly empty interiors.
This morning I waited near our loan car for Karen to return and noticed a man heaping angry abuse on his partner as they pulled away. I saw her tears and they convicted me with shameful memories of my own. It was 9am and around the corner another couple were already drinking bottles of beer at a street bar. We were hunting for a breakfast eatery and found three. They were shut. Milnerton, of course, is not the waterfront with its tourists decanting daily from five star hotels. More Scunthorpe or Dewsbury than York, crumbs from the World Cup table will not blow this far.
Early every morning Table Mountain, its high angles tinted with orange light from the rising sun, is visible across the lagoon from our large bedroom windows. It is sometimes easy to forget about that other world that stretches across the endless flats beyond to the north east, beyond the membrane of this bubble we occupy. But we are slowly getting to know that other world. The other night in Kleinvlei we listened to the women as they reviewed their caseloads. For one of them, every child lived in a HIV household. For all of them, the children came from desperately poor families, going to school without uniforms on empty stomachs. Strident, assertive and undeterred by the scale of the challenges they face, they talked of their need for more money to get more clothing and more food.
Cecilia, tall and elegant, with a waspish sense of humour, said how working with St. Kizito was transforming her own life.
They treated us to a short account of how they prepare the five or six tureens of soup every Wednesday with an assortment of vegetables and soup mix and the sorrow they feel when there is not enough. On a Wednesday in early April we will join them on the soup run. The Kleinvlei women are one small group in the teeming Cape Flats making what difference they can.
This morning I waited near our loan car for Karen to return and noticed a man heaping angry abuse on his partner as they pulled away. I saw her tears and they convicted me with shameful memories of my own. It was 9am and around the corner another couple were already drinking bottles of beer at a street bar. We were hunting for a breakfast eatery and found three. They were shut. Milnerton, of course, is not the waterfront with its tourists decanting daily from five star hotels. More Scunthorpe or Dewsbury than York, crumbs from the World Cup table will not blow this far.
Early every morning Table Mountain, its high angles tinted with orange light from the rising sun, is visible across the lagoon from our large bedroom windows. It is sometimes easy to forget about that other world that stretches across the endless flats beyond to the north east, beyond the membrane of this bubble we occupy. But we are slowly getting to know that other world. The other night in Kleinvlei we listened to the women as they reviewed their caseloads. For one of them, every child lived in a HIV household. For all of them, the children came from desperately poor families, going to school without uniforms on empty stomachs. Strident, assertive and undeterred by the scale of the challenges they face, they talked of their need for more money to get more clothing and more food.
Cecilia, tall and elegant, with a waspish sense of humour, said how working with St. Kizito was transforming her own life.
They treated us to a short account of how they prepare the five or six tureens of soup every Wednesday with an assortment of vegetables and soup mix and the sorrow they feel when there is not enough. On a Wednesday in early April we will join them on the soup run. The Kleinvlei women are one small group in the teeming Cape Flats making what difference they can.
Monday 15 March 2010
Broken images
Men do not attend St. Kizito meetings. Paul is an exception. At the township of Lentageur the other night, this small and gentle man described his difficulty in making home visits to vulnerable families. “The women are suspicious of men, afraid of them”, he said in answer to a question from Karen. He sees the fear in their eyes as they recoil to safety. He was touching on something here, something that men like him inherit from the behaviour of other men. A broken image.
I have seen this before. Catholic priests, devoted men, exemplary lives. Some of them say they get the same knowing look even from close family, a look that says “are you like those others who have abused children?” They too feel soiled by the behaviour of other men.
Paul, and other men like him, climb this mountain alone, each step making a firm foothold before the next step is made. Every solid and honest encounter with women and children is a building block in a restored image. Trust is remade the hard way and only the braveheart sets out on the journey.
The R27 runs from Cape Town to Milnerton and beyond to Blaauberg then on to Velddrif before it becomes another number and ends up in Namibia. The city is funding a multi million rand road transit system that reaches Blaauberg. Rumour has it that once the world cup is done, the new buses will be mothballed and the system will be suspended. In the meantime, a report in the Cape Times gave details of an incident involving one of those ubiquitous white taxi’s which ferries people to and from the township settlements. On pulling one over, the police counted out 103, that’s one hundred and three, children. They are licensed to carry eighteen! We struggled with the maths and the packing skills of the driver. We struggled too with the bent logic of the city fathers and their priorities. The taxi men, by the way don't want this state of the art system. It will put them out of business!
Our rented home overlooks the lagoon at Milnerton. The other morning in the early fade of orange that highlights everything like dew, I caught sight of five magnificent pelicans working the water like silent cruise ships. When they are contemplating a take off, they raise their giant wings in preparation. I rushed for my camera. I missed the picture I had already formed in my mind and witnessed instead their majestic flyover. I dedicate this exquisite blend of pleasure and frustration to my friend Stephen Garnett whose similar stories are most probably numbered in the thousands.
I have seen this before. Catholic priests, devoted men, exemplary lives. Some of them say they get the same knowing look even from close family, a look that says “are you like those others who have abused children?” They too feel soiled by the behaviour of other men.
Paul, and other men like him, climb this mountain alone, each step making a firm foothold before the next step is made. Every solid and honest encounter with women and children is a building block in a restored image. Trust is remade the hard way and only the braveheart sets out on the journey.
The R27 runs from Cape Town to Milnerton and beyond to Blaauberg then on to Velddrif before it becomes another number and ends up in Namibia. The city is funding a multi million rand road transit system that reaches Blaauberg. Rumour has it that once the world cup is done, the new buses will be mothballed and the system will be suspended. In the meantime, a report in the Cape Times gave details of an incident involving one of those ubiquitous white taxi’s which ferries people to and from the township settlements. On pulling one over, the police counted out 103, that’s one hundred and three, children. They are licensed to carry eighteen! We struggled with the maths and the packing skills of the driver. We struggled too with the bent logic of the city fathers and their priorities. The taxi men, by the way don't want this state of the art system. It will put them out of business!
Our rented home overlooks the lagoon at Milnerton. The other morning in the early fade of orange that highlights everything like dew, I caught sight of five magnificent pelicans working the water like silent cruise ships. When they are contemplating a take off, they raise their giant wings in preparation. I rushed for my camera. I missed the picture I had already formed in my mind and witnessed instead their majestic flyover. I dedicate this exquisite blend of pleasure and frustration to my friend Stephen Garnett whose similar stories are most probably numbered in the thousands.
Thursday 11 March 2010
Wonderful Land
Cliff Richard and the Shadows completed their magnificent “Reunion” tour last night at Kirstenbosch. The gardens are chiselled out of a vast mountain fastness overlooking the sprawl which is Cape Town. As Cliff graciously left the stage to his one time backing band, they played their favourite tunes. When it came to “This Wonderful Land”, it seemed as though this greatest of all instrumentals was the real star and the spindly men with their famous guitars became mere shadows in attendance. As the tingling ebbed and flowed, the hit song also seemed emblematic of a great and surging nation.
The evening before we had spent with the St. Kizito groups of Paarl. It, too, was a moving reunion as we sat in attendance upon a people who love the poor with passion. As we shared together in the heat, we began to see a glimpse of how real love works. The women spend their time with the hopeless and the abandoned and give what little they have. They want to do more, have more to give, make a real difference. But already, the hopeless are no longer hopeless, and the abandoned are no longer abandoned. And this is the gift they spread in the community they serve.
Cape Town’s arterials are still a warren of road works as the country makes ready for its World Cup. One wonders what will happen when the jobs disappear. At least it will be cooler in June. Paarl recorded a temperature in the low 50’s earlier on the day we visited. You can only imagine what this pink man looked like!
Followers of this blog will know that things happen on the beach at Milnerton. On the day we encountered the lovely, waist-coated pet pig, we noticed an army of sea rescue personnel wading in a line into the sea towards Robben Island. Further out was a small flotilla of red boats criss-crossing the waves while overhead was the drone of a lone helicopter. As we made our way home we believed we had seen a routine exercise. Far from it; the next day, the Cape Times carried a report that a man had stabbed his ex girlfriend - in the apartment complex we occupied on our last visit – and had then run into the sea. She will live. He has not been found. Memory of the incident returned while Cliff was singing “On the Beach” high up in Kirstenbosch.
The evening before we had spent with the St. Kizito groups of Paarl. It, too, was a moving reunion as we sat in attendance upon a people who love the poor with passion. As we shared together in the heat, we began to see a glimpse of how real love works. The women spend their time with the hopeless and the abandoned and give what little they have. They want to do more, have more to give, make a real difference. But already, the hopeless are no longer hopeless, and the abandoned are no longer abandoned. And this is the gift they spread in the community they serve.
Cape Town’s arterials are still a warren of road works as the country makes ready for its World Cup. One wonders what will happen when the jobs disappear. At least it will be cooler in June. Paarl recorded a temperature in the low 50’s earlier on the day we visited. You can only imagine what this pink man looked like!
Followers of this blog will know that things happen on the beach at Milnerton. On the day we encountered the lovely, waist-coated pet pig, we noticed an army of sea rescue personnel wading in a line into the sea towards Robben Island. Further out was a small flotilla of red boats criss-crossing the waves while overhead was the drone of a lone helicopter. As we made our way home we believed we had seen a routine exercise. Far from it; the next day, the Cape Times carried a report that a man had stabbed his ex girlfriend - in the apartment complex we occupied on our last visit – and had then run into the sea. She will live. He has not been found. Memory of the incident returned while Cliff was singing “On the Beach” high up in Kirstenbosch.
The picture is for Anna and Lee and other besotted dog lovers!
Sunday 7 March 2010
Flying Pigs
The dog on Milnerton Beach stood next to its adoring owner, small spade in hand, as it discharged its doo da. As we drew near, we could see that this exotic specimen was no ordinary dog. It was a pet pig, replete with a skimpy red waistcoat and a bright red collar. It was the snotty snout covered in sand and the curly tail that marked it out as a non-canine. We looked at the owner whose eyes betrayed a tired glance which said “don’t ask!”
Yes, we are back in Cape Town, this city of colour and contrast, mad pigs and South Africans. In Khayalitsha, this little piggy would be on a spit at some street corner surrounded by snotty nosed kids.
But there is always more to this place than fun and eccentricity. Yesterday’s Cape Times carried a report on the rape of an 11 month old child. It was the babysitter. The day before, we visited a shelter for pregnant women; they can go there to give birth safely, hidden from violent partners, when they think the only alternative is an abortion. And like every other little charity, they need money. The young women fall out and fight with each other with no experience of resolving their differences by peaceful means. We will be sitting with them on the odd evening to maybe explore some alternatives.
I was a guest at a Christian men’s group in Constantia a few nights ago. It went well, or so I thought. They were a sincere bunch and they explore the difficulties of masculinity with great honesty. I knew a few of them from our last visit to Cape Town. Later I discovered I had offended one of them. I reflected. Indeed I had said the wrong thing or at least the right thing at the wrong time. This is not Yorkshire and certainly not Dublin. I need to watch my tongue. Lesson learned.
In another meeting in Gugulethu, Karen and I could see how acutely tuned in people are to being accountable for any donations they receive. It is not a question of embarrassment or shame. Just making sure everything is clean and clear and transparent. Unlike Jacob Zuma, the president of South Africa, currently on a visit to the UK, who has still not declared his assets 10 months after the deadline set down by law. That was the headline on this Sunday in South Africa.
A picture from across the border in Zimbabwe showed two boys collecting individual grains of maize that had been scantily scattered from a passing truck on a day when
Robert Mugabe spent $100,000 on his 86th birthday.
One day one hopes the rich and powerful of Africa will have their hearts of stone replaced with hearts of flesh, that they will behave like truly enlightened leaders, that they will notice the poverty of their own people.
And that the pet pigs of Milnerton will fly.
Yes, we are back in Cape Town, this city of colour and contrast, mad pigs and South Africans. In Khayalitsha, this little piggy would be on a spit at some street corner surrounded by snotty nosed kids.
But there is always more to this place than fun and eccentricity. Yesterday’s Cape Times carried a report on the rape of an 11 month old child. It was the babysitter. The day before, we visited a shelter for pregnant women; they can go there to give birth safely, hidden from violent partners, when they think the only alternative is an abortion. And like every other little charity, they need money. The young women fall out and fight with each other with no experience of resolving their differences by peaceful means. We will be sitting with them on the odd evening to maybe explore some alternatives.
I was a guest at a Christian men’s group in Constantia a few nights ago. It went well, or so I thought. They were a sincere bunch and they explore the difficulties of masculinity with great honesty. I knew a few of them from our last visit to Cape Town. Later I discovered I had offended one of them. I reflected. Indeed I had said the wrong thing or at least the right thing at the wrong time. This is not Yorkshire and certainly not Dublin. I need to watch my tongue. Lesson learned.
In another meeting in Gugulethu, Karen and I could see how acutely tuned in people are to being accountable for any donations they receive. It is not a question of embarrassment or shame. Just making sure everything is clean and clear and transparent. Unlike Jacob Zuma, the president of South Africa, currently on a visit to the UK, who has still not declared his assets 10 months after the deadline set down by law. That was the headline on this Sunday in South Africa.
A picture from across the border in Zimbabwe showed two boys collecting individual grains of maize that had been scantily scattered from a passing truck on a day when
Robert Mugabe spent $100,000 on his 86th birthday.
One day one hopes the rich and powerful of Africa will have their hearts of stone replaced with hearts of flesh, that they will behave like truly enlightened leaders, that they will notice the poverty of their own people.
And that the pet pigs of Milnerton will fly.
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