Dirt, Poor, Strong, Heart

Day 6 (Saturday, May 17, 2008) Another early morning, another early shower--luckily nice and hot. I had some breakfast in the hostel cafe and awaited my tour guide to come and fetch me for my day amongst the townships (aka ghettos). When he arrived, we waited for another guy who hadn't yet woken up and was causing us to fall behind schedule. Finally, Mjongo (my main man for the day) made the decision to leave the guy behind and just he and I would go. It sounded like a great idea, and an interesting way to be directly immersed. Mjongo is of a tribe not native to South Africa, so he speaks several tongues. He asked where I was from, and when I said San Diego he was delighted. Turns out that he has a sponsor who is a professor at the University of San Diego who put him through university. A truly small world, and already we were connected. We first stopped at the Apartheid museum, which was both enraging and thought-provoking. The set-up was quite artistic, leaning itself more as a menagerie, or collage than a typical museum. There I learned about the Dutch government riping the non-white races from their homes in several suburbs of South Africa, and moving them to areas called 'townships.' What once were flourishing communities were bulldozed and never developed--left only as a political statement of power. The non-white races consisted of blacks, coloreds (mixed), and the Indian's or Malay's. The most famous area is called District 6. This place is now a land covered in rubble, over-grown grass, and memories. The only building still standing are houses of worship. Even today, life is difficult for the different tribes of South Africa. Mjongo must lie about his heritage in order to work the position he works. His working name is Jon. In the apartheid years, when people attempted to do this, the 'pencil test' was administered. A pencil was stuck into their hair and they were told to shake their head. If the pencil fell out, then they were of mixed race and it was okay. If the pencil stuck, then they were black and they were reprimanded. Another version of this test involved briskly, or forcefully pulling the pencil from the hair. If it came out easily, all was okay. If the pencil took with it a chunk of hair, or skin and the subject screamed in their native tongue (not Afrikaans, the native South African language), then again--they were reprimanded. At the museum we managed to pick-up another couple of tourists--a young an very attractive couple (he from Brazil, she from Australia). We continued onto the townships, where I wasn't too sure what I'd encounter. It was shocking. I am not sure I could think of a word to truly encapsulate the vision, the feel, or the idea of what was being presented before my eyes. Shanty houses covered miles, and miles of land. Homes made of anything; from old concert posters, to ads, to newspapers and cardboard, to gum and rope. My heart sank so deep inside me that I didn't have the strength to fish it back out. There were people everywhere--dirty, filthy dirty, with eyes older than their years. Clothing on their bodies looked more like peeling paper on an alley wall than a means of beautification or survival. And of course, we were being stared at far more intently than we were staring at them. Part of me felt intrusive--as if they were game, and I was on safari trying to capture a prize-winning shot for National Geographic. But those feelings soon melted away once I realized that in this dusty den of destitution there were smiles to be had, and a place to be offered in one's home even when there was no room to let. We first stopped into a 'shebeen,' a kind of pub where beer is home-made and the locals drink together in the dimly lit room. The premises were not what one would expect. We were basically in a shack, completed constructed of old, moldy cardboard, where a woman nyrsed a child and the floors were either dirt or old wood. We sat on small stools and met those that were also there to share in the drink. The beer was foamy-white, and in a medium-sized silver bucket. We were coached to pick it up and take a large swig. And so we did. The taste was much like a cider, with a bit of a tangy kick on the tail-end. I rather liked it. We shared a short conversation, took a few photos, and then we were off. From there, we walked the streets and met children in clothing made at some point of the eighties or early nineties, and they wanted to pose with us, hug us, and climb all over us. I wanted to scoop them all up and bring them away with me. Their sweet faces assured us of one thing--beyond all of this waste, and abandonment, they still understood the basics of happiness. We visited a persons apartment, about the size of a studio back home, where there were four beads. In each bed lived a family. Each family contained four to eight people. The smell was polluting, dense, and pungent. How do they not go mad? From here we went to a witch doctor, where he told us about different cures for ailments utilizing local flora, and fauna. It was dark, and smelled of jerky in the tin room. Dead, dry animal parts hung everywhere. Two women sat together in the dark nursing children, and the doctor stood behind a metal fence with only a single candle illuminating his face. We could barely see him, but his voice was like age old tobacco. Fortunately for us, we also visited a community of women who worked weaving, and doing bead-work to raise money for their families. Most or all of these families are afflicted with the HIV virus or AIDS. They were warm, beautiful women, and their artistry was incredible. I met one woman and took a photo with her. Her simple request was that I mail her a copy. That promise I will keep. We were fortunate enough to visit the home of our guide. We met his one-year old son who was just having his birthday. His grandmother bathed his chubby body in a bucket just as we arrived. He was beautiful. This land, poor and sad, was beautiful. At the end of the day, Mjongo drove us back to what we'd consider civilization and we thanked him for opening our eyes. I collected his information and hope to send him a gift upon my return home. From town, I was to take a ferry to the detention island where Nelson Mandela was held for twenty-some odd years, but the swell was far too dangerous so my boat was canceled. I spent the remainder of my day purchasing inexpensive t-shirts, and some last few odds and ends I'd need before leaving the city in two days time. I returned to the hostel then, after purchasing a wrap for dinner, and went to bed early (around 8pm). I slept through to the next morning. In my dreams, I saw the townships and just watched...spectated, and did nothing. And in reality, I did the same.