life on the street

As our time here approaches the end of the month and the moment of departure, the diary becomes ever more full as ends are tied up and each encounter has that feel of a goodbye about it. We have dived deeper, it seems to me. While Cape Town, in all its weird and wonderful manifestations, retains something of its mystery for us, we have become more intimate with its contrasting and contradictory layers of life.

For example, there is a layer on the street which is peopled by those with nowhere else to live. I went there with Julius from the Institute. He is a street worker and his job is to befriend the homeless youth and invite them to come to the projects where they can learn a trade, be fed and loved. Some of them live under the N2 and the N1, sleeping on grassy embankments or against safety barriers. You can see them – if you look – as you transit along Oswald Pirow Street. I realised that, as I walked around with Julius that I was intruding on their living room, or their bedroom or even their toilet. I saw them undress and carefully wash as they kept an eye on their belongings. I realised that up to this moment they had been invisible to me. I had so often taken the ramp onto the motorway without a glance to the right or to the left. I had simply never noticed them. We spoke to a small group in the corner of a wasteland. They were sharing a joint of cannabis. One of them said “it takes away the fear in my heart”, another that “it dulled the terrors of the night”. When the police move them on they confiscate their blankets. The nights are cold in Cape Town. Some of them are as young as ten.

There are places dotted around the city where they can eat. We drew up to an elegantly named, “The Dining Rooms” on Canterbury where they can get a meal for 5 cents. That’s less than a penny. Men and women of all ages turn up to join the line outside, some waiting idly on the sloping bank opposite. Some of the younger ones danced and flirted with each other. The whole scene is overlooked from the balconies of expensive apartments and the city traffic continues its remorseless ant-like shuffle in a parallel world.

Julius was familiar with all their haunts. I was surprised at how many there were, a corner of a petrol station car-park here, an unlit alley-way there, each with its own “family”. They look out for each other, feel safe with each other. The sad fact is the street is safer than whatever home they once lived in. At the end of a day with Julius, we were made welcome in their “new home” and not one person had asked for money or made us feel unsafe.

And you know what; it really makes me think about myself and my situation.

suffer the little children

Sally Weatherall from Appletreewick visited Dunoon with us. Below are her impressions.

"Children are children where ever you are in the world.

I was apprehensive about my visit to DuNoon. Michael said that it was nothing like Kwanokuthula in Plettenberg Bay, a Township I have visited on many previous occasions and he was right. On turning right from the main road into DuNoon, it is a sight which will remain in my memory for ever. I could see a school, and in the distance a large building which was the one we were heading for, the Sports Hall. There were lines, almost like Avenues of shacks, there were blue Portaloo’s, there were people, children, a few dogs here and there, but more than anything there was dust.

We were meeting Mary, a Canadian lady who gives her time and energy supporting the children of DuNoon in many different ways, and every Tuesday and Thursday she runs an after school ‘club’. One of the primary purposes of the club is to provide a ‘Safe House’ where the children can go until their female carers, be it their Mothers, Aunts, or Grandmothers return from work. They are safe from their male relatives, who sadly can often subject them to sexual and physical abuse.

We were there in good time, so spent a little time putting toys on the floor for the younger children, games, such as snakes and ladders, jigsaws etc., on tables for the older children, and checking that the food, bags of jam and peanut butter sandwiches were ready for the break, and that bottles of orange juice were prepared.

Henry, a 22 year old refugee from Zimbabwe helps whenever possible, and today he was writing the names and ages of the children as they entered the Hall. I asked him if he minded me sitting next to him, this for me was a way of meeting the children.

I was overwhelmed by emotion as they stood in front of him, some of them only 2 years of age, so many children. I thought of my family at home, they have everything, food, clothes, shoes, a home. I thought of my Grandchildren who have a warm bed in winter, and lovely homes with so many toys to play with. Then I thought of the words that Charlotte would have said, ‘Mum Get a Grip”. So I took several deep breaths, and began talk to them as they sometimes struggled to spell their names to Henry who coming from Zimbabwe speaks a different language, although all these children appeared to have some understanding of English, even the youngest.

They all smiled, and believe me, their smiles are so special. They played, just as any child plays, they argued, they pulled each others arms if they wanted something the other child had. They are just like any child, perhaps the only difference is that these children lack so many of the things that our children and we as parents take for granted

What can we do? There are so many DuNoons in the world, but if just one child’s day can be made a little better then it has to be worthwhile."

Thank you, Sally.

our friends in Mozambique and the life they have

Two years ago Karen and I visited the city of Durban. In transit we met a missionary by the name of Eugene. We became friends and have been in touch with him and his wife, Tina, ever since. Below is their latest newsletter. I include it here, partly to honour them, but also to give you a picture of the life they have. They gave up a very comfortable existence in Cape Town to live amongst the poorest of the poor. Those who can pray, pray for them and those who can wish, wish for them.

“The feeling, at times, is that my life in the mission field is like the man who could be called, “The silent, invisible juggler.” We had a S.A. team arriving to work on the appalling electrical system in our home and they had scarcely arrived when the leadership of the local church came to ask for help in a situation that was nothing less than a nightmare. While attempting to appear calm on the outside, we juggled furiously on the inside, to resolve this.

We send a few selected student families (Husband, wife and child) to a long-term Bible training school in Beira. These young families live and study there on a full-time basis for a period of three years, after which they are placed as full-time church workers in Moz. On the day they were due to graduate one of the young wives collapsed and died in the bathroom. The family were obviously tremendously distraught and wanted to bring their daughter’s body back to Zambezia province for burial. The costs of doing this were absolutely prohibitive (equivalent to about 3 years’ salary for a Mozambican) and so they approached us for help. We gave them what we could but the costs kept on spiralling up as the governor’s office became involved, post-mortem procedures had to be paid for and to really crown the crisis, the refrigeration unit of the mortuary ceased working and the body was simply allowed to lie on a slab for three days in Mozambican summer temperatures of 38 degrees!!! We finally got Joanna’s body back to Quelimane a full five days after her death.

We strive so hard to avoid creating a “dependency culture” mentality among the locals, and yet at times such as this, the question remains, “What else could one do?” The juggler juggles on – time, resources, people, finances and wisdom flow through his nervous, clumsy fingers, guided only by a supernatural power, not by his fragile abilities.

On a much lighter note, the team from S.A. were awesome. The pic on the right shows three men in a body of water. The scary part, not shown, is that the body of water is actually the crocodile infested Zambezi River. Judging by the abandoned joy on their faces and the happy immersion in chest-deep water, they appear ignorant of the fact that many Mozambicans have become the main meal of the day for the local crocodile population in the very spot they chose for their midday bathe.

This same carefree joy came to permeate our home and we have been revitalised, refreshed and more motivated than we have been in years. Victor, João, Vincent and “Matches” – Thanks guys, not only for the huge job you did in making our home liveable and free from “death by electrocution”, but especially for the fellowship and the fun we had together. Your sense of humour and fresh comments were like a cool shower on a 42 deg. day.

We live in a brutal environment; life here seems to be heavily focussed on simply having the strength to make it from sunrise to sunset. Our view from the apartment is filled with ugliness, and you guys brought in the fragrance of His Spirit. It all helps to make it bearable and provides strength to carry on. Thank you.

Our living space has also been remarkably transformed – we have new ceiling fans in the lounge, working plug points in the kitchen, an automatic veranda light with a day/night sensor so that we no longer have to struggle up a darkened staircase in order to reach our front door. The icing on the cake was an automatic float-switch for the header tank, so, no more stumbling naked from the shower, body covered in flaking, tacky soap, hands groping for the switch that turns on the pump. Ah! Such is life, to appreciate the wonders of electricity, automated air-cooled living and freedom from the technological perils that once stalked our humble abode.

We have been working hard toward the creation of that mystical state called “a weekend OFF!!!” and are proud to announce our third successful weekend off for 2010. Well, in reality, perhaps it wasn’t an entire weekend, it was in fact just a day, and it never happened over a Saturday or a Sunday. Springing forth from the fellowship of the nuts came the fruit of their labours. The team finished before the appointed time and so on their final day with us we decided to take everybody for a short drive up the coast and go to the beach at Zalala, about an hour’s drive north of Quelimane. For all the guys out there who drive Toyotas, I thought that I would sneak in this one quick pic as a small bit of unsolicited advertising. As the old advert goes, “There are many, many vehicles that will take you off-road in Africa, but only Toyota brings you back!!!”

Another Nissan/Mitsubishi/Land Rover/..etc safely rescued from the burning clutches of the shifting sands. I am mature enough now, not to leap forth from the driving seat and place another notch in black koki pen on the front fender. We did have a great time at the beach though and the guys were quick to forgive me for leading their lesser vehicle into sandy danger. Finished up with a superb meal of local, freshly caught Rock Cod with traditional Mozambican prawns. Since the shower and toilet facilities at the beach were broken, the guys decided that we could still freshen up after our swim and long walk with a communal spray of deodorant. The can, much depleted was left standing on the table.”

Back to the usual blog territory next week.

the abandoned ones

The following is taken from today's Cape Time's editorial entitled, "Abandon Hope".

"Every life is different and it would be disrespectful and presumptuous to speculate about why so many young women have abandoned or murdered their children over the past month.

In a single month in Cape Town there have been seven incidents involving mothers and abandoned or murdered children. On October 5th, a six week old boy was dumped in Khayalitsha. His mother has been arrested. On October 8th, a five day old baby was found in a manhole in Killarney Gardens and ten days later, the body of another newborn was found in a stormwaterdrain in Khayalitsha. In Philippi, a day or so later, a 28 year old woman was charged with murder and attempted murder after apparently poioning herself and her daughters, killing the younger child. Over the next week, two babies were found abandoned in Delft. And on October 26th, in Bishop Leavis, a one year old child and her mother survived a suicide attempt.

Unless and until the women concerned choose to tell their own stories, we cannot know what exactly drove each of them to do what for most of us seems unthinkable.

But there are at least two common threads which link their tragic stories; poverty and the failure of society to offer them any hope. Abandoned, in most cases by the fathers of their children, they also seem to have been abandoned by the authorities".

Two young Xhosa men from Dunoon, near Killarney Gardens came to the men's forum meeting on Saturday last. At the end they expressed their wish that there should be a gathering for men in their own township. And at the end of a bad month for mother's and their children, there is this ray of light, this flutter of a butterfly's wing, this potent and unpredictable thing called "hope".

We must never abandon hope. Never.

monkey business

Karen writes:

I have decided to put some of my thoughts down about our time here. I will begin with my impression of Dunoon, a township where we have spent some time on this visit. Dunoon is a small township compared to the likes of Gugulethu and Khayelitsha – but has the reputation of being one of the most dangerous. One of the things that hits is the filth and rubbish around the place (common to all townships I have been into). Perhaps it would be easy to blame the people who live here for the state of it. Why don’t they dispose of their rubbish properly – but how? They don’t have a wheelie bin each, never mind 3 in order to sort the rubbish. Black bags then? Would you buy black bags when you can’t afford to feed your family? But it isn’t just that, rubbish is collected by the municipality sporadically in such places – unlike where we are currently staying where it can be collected on a daily basis should we so wish.

Waiting to get into the yard of the hall where the after school club is held that we have been attending, I was struck by the row of mobile plastic toilet cubicles, similar to those you often see on building sites. Anybody who knows me will know that I have a ‘thing’ about toilets. These toilets are a step up from not having a toilet at all, but can you imagine what they must be like. They service hundreds of people. Who cleans them? Who supplies the toilet paper? I am afraid it is way beyond my imagination. Perhaps this explains the smell emitted from some of the children.

Despite these conditions, most of the children at the after school club have a smile on their face – just like any other child the world over, enjoying doing jigsaws, colouring in, or playing snakes and ladders – a big smile on the face when they go up a ladder, a frown when they slide down that snake.

Michael and I do also take plenty of time out to enjoy ourselves and have just returned from an overnight stay in Hermanus. A place which, at this time of year is famous for the whales that come into the bay. They can be seen coming out of the water as graceful as ballerina despite their great bulk. The male and female frolicking in the sea with their calf.

Regular readers of the blog will know Michael is passionate about ‘fathering,’ or the lack of and how it affects the family. We had a graphic illustration of this on our journey to Hermanus. Driving along we noticed cars in front breaking suddenly. There was a large group (sorry don’t know collective noun) of baby baboons messing about on the road, narrowly escaping death! Rounding the corner we were met with the sight of the parents, on a narrow wall at the side of the road, in a very compromising position. There they were seemingly with not a care in the world “in flagrante delicto”(non-Latin scholars Google it!) despite cars driving past hooting their horns, a 50 metre sheer drop off the wall into the sea, and not least of all their children risking life and limb in the middle of a busy road. As I say an example of parents not giving offspring the attention they need. I have to confess though it raised more than a smile, we giggled all the way to Hermanus. Just wish I had had my camera at the ready, but I didn’t, so this blog will have to do with a picture of a graceful whale!

miracles and other endings from down under

In the week that the Chilean miners began to emerge from their tomb into the glare of 24/7 media, two spectacularly under-reported events were barely breaking the surface here in Cape Town.

In the first, a young mother reported to the police that someone unknown to her had offered to mind her baby at the local outpatients department while she went to the toilet. A day later the child was found buried under rubbish near the girl’s home in Khayalitsha. She was dead and the mother has been charged with the murder.

Two days later, a lorry driver delivering his goods noticed a young woman with a baby, standing on the pavement. A little later, as he passed the same spot, he sensed there was something wrong. He stopped and crossed the street, finding himself standing over a manhole. On opening it he found the baby up to the neck in putrid water. Alive.

Karen and I have been working with a project in the township of Dunoon. This is the place, out on the M5 beyond Milnerton, where, late last year, the murders of Zimbabwean immigrants were carried out in a xenophobic frenzy. It’s a hard place where children and women are not safe. The project is “an after-school club” where the kids play, do puzzles, and eat while their mothers are still at work. This period is when they are at the most risk of rape and violence at the hands of the drunken men in their community - fathers, uncles and older brothers.

Tomorrow we take the sandwiches we made from the ten loaves of bread and 1.5k’s of poloni bought at the local supermarket today. It will be their manna for the day.

the world beneath the surface

In every rich enclave of this wondrous planet there is an “underbelly”, a hidden, shadowy existence known only to those who peel away the thin veneer on the surface. Plettenberg Bay on the Garden Route is one such place. Few know that it is a Mecca for those seeking rehab attracting recovering addicts from all over the world. Fewer still know about the “trustafarians”, a little known group so called because they live off the trust funds set up long ago by their wealthy parents. They look the part, wearing that worn, dishevelled look, shabby chic apparel, long hair and sandals. You see them selling vegetables at the Harkerville market on Saturday morning or wandering around in the Plett Market eateries on Friday and Saturday night leaving a sweet trail of patchouli in their wake.

Anthea and her partner Bridget had breakfast with us at Milkwood Manor on our last morning there. An African/American and a coloured/African with a pinkish/Irish man and a tanned woman from Birstall. A somewhat hilarious racial cocktail. Anthea reminded us of a conversation she had with a white person who asked her how she felt about the changes in South Africa since 1994 and if she didn’t feel a little pessimistic about the future. Anthea’s response, deadly as a well aimed arrow, surprised the questioner: “you are talking to a woman of colour, everything is better for me than it was 20 years ago”. Bridget’s humour was no less caustic: her problem was less to do with her colour and more to do with being an American abroad, a burden of mostly myth and little substance. She wanted to be seen for who she really is. Just like Africans, who are offended by their portrayal in outdated mythic images by visitors who often want to see them in “traditional” dress. What they actually wear everyday is jeans and t-shirts, hoodies when it’s cold, sensible shoes, suits to work. We had a good time hunting down the stereotypes with loud laughter and fiendish fun.

Meanwhile, back here in Milnerton by the sea we were hunting down a dead rat in the guttering above the atrium which was threatening to drive us out with its nauseous pong. I nearly put on my patchouli!