Jesus was not born here (Part 2)

“Jesus was not born here but sometimes he comes in through the little holes in the walls and sits on that chair” – Sandile Dikeni (Shack Chic)

The Elder

An old man sits in a shaft of light at the front of the small mud hut; his brown hands clasp the spine of his battered bible, motes of dust gently orbit his head and the butter-yellow sunlight sets his hair aflame. This one-roomed, thatched mud hut is a church located in rural Nyathi situated roughly an hour outside of Bulawayo. The old man is the church elder. The road to this village shows the many years of Mugabe’s rule: Dumi, a local urban pastor, laughingly refers to it as the Christian road because it requires a certain degree of sharing. All that remains of the road is a car width of pockmarked tarmac flanked on both sides by stony brown soil. Two cars race towards each other down the central median, and at what seems like the very last second, veer off on to opposite sides to let each other pass. Cyclists, chickens and pedestrians scatter to the left and right, skidding over the gravel and into the grassy verge, in a last ditch effort to avoid an untimely demise.

To church

We are here to visit this small church, its elders and congregants. They do not often have visitors and we are welcomed with clapping hands and toothy smiles, and are then led down a path between straggly mielie plants to the tiny church. We all stoop to enter and are asked to sit on what turns out to be pews made out of mud packed around a wooden frame. The rich, red soil is sturdy and I am surprised that it carries the weight of three or more people. At the  corner-edge of the pew I sit on, I notice a thin column of grainy sand standing about 15cm high, a nest of ants has fashioned this delicate tower and it has somehow survived the many bodies which have sat here.  The walls of the church are pitted and the backsides of noisy yellow bees waggle in and out of the holes. The room is scented with the smoke of a thousand fires, which has seeped into the mud on the walls, and soaked the clothes of the worshipers.

I can’t stop looking at the old man – his skin is lined and leathery, and whiskers grow out of his nose and ears. Both his hair and the stubble on his chin have grown grey. For all the years I have worked in rural areas, this is the first time I have seen such an old man. I am used to seeing young boys, teenagers and the occasional middle aged man. Even though apartheid in South Africa is long over, its legacy remains: men move to the cities to find work and seldom return, so the rural areas are populated by women and children. As each of us visitors stand to introduce ourselves, a small girl wanders over and settles herself comfortably across the old man’s knees. I don’t know if this is her grandfather or simply a male relative she feels at home with. I feel quite overwhelmed as I watch her; there are few children in rural South Africa, and indeed many parts of South Africa, who will have this experience, as men are no longer central to family life.

As the small band of Christians begin to sing, the sun filters in through the small square windows at the front of the room, while the open doorway behind me reveals full purple clouds hanging over the mielie field and huts. It is 11am and the sky darkens as the thunder rolls and lightning streaks the sky. Fat drops hit the earth releasing fragrances long stored in the soft, loose soil. It has not rained for months and they say our visit has broken the long dry spell. I love the fact that I am sitting in a far away place; the roar of the city forgotten, its sounds replaced by the tinkling of cow bells and the wind sifting through the mielies.

The Rain is Coming

Why are we here? We haven’t brought anything with us; in fact, it is our hosts who offer us delicious platefuls of pumpkin, mielies and squash, leaving the taste of honey and wood smoke on our tongues. So what is the point? As I listen to both Kent and Wessel, two team members, share and encourage this small church, I realise that sometimes it is simply being with people that is important. We travelled 1850km to sit and talk and share a meal together; most of us virtual strangers but linked by faith. Did we have to travel to Zimbabwe to do this? Could we not be doing it in some of our rural areas in South Africa? Yes, we could. But I know that our visit was important for these Zimbabweans; people in flux, people who are assured of very little in this life.  We know of their plight, we know of their fears and they know that we care.

The days that follow are filled with various activities, and the meeting of people from all walks of Zimbabwean life. I spend a morning at a local orphanage which is home to a number of small, beautiful children; some were abandoned at birth – unclaimed by relatives after their mothers died giving birth, some were dumped in bushes or isolated places – left to die, one is paralysed from the waist down – involved in a hit-and-run and then given over to the State when the father was unable to care for her. The American’s travelling with us are here to tell the kids about Jesus and to tell them they have a great destiny. Sally asks them questions to gauge their knowledge and they answer with ease, even when I am stumped, and my lack of biblical knowledge becomes apparent to me. These kids are bright, they are funny and they love to dance – I don’t doubt they have a great destiny. In the hands of Jenni and the mothers of the orphanage, I can see that these kids are loved, and because of this they are gentle with each other. At lunchtime the older kids help the younger kids to sandwiches and juice, only helping themselves once the small children are seated and fed.

Andre playing with one of the boys

That afternoon I find myself in an unfinished brick building in a suburb reminiscent of a South African township. We have been invited to attend a women’s meeting where we will share a few words with the ladies present. One of the many things I love about Africa are the voices of women in song – loud and clear they seem to carry all the sadness, love, jubilation and hope of Africa as a whole. I stand amidst a sea of singing women and my skin prickles and my eyes water. These women are so firm in their faith, so convinced of God’s love and as I watch them I get the same feeling that came over me in the tiny mud hut of a church in Nyathi – Jesus is here, perhaps sitting on a chair or leaning in the doorway. He’s not loud, he’s not the centre of attention – he’s just here.

The boys

Bound for Bulawayo (Part 1)

Thomas Baines Print

Bulwayo. As the name of this Zimbabwean city gently floats from my lips, my mind conjures up images of colonial style maps decorated with roaring waterfalls and teeming herds of buffalo. Heavily laden sausage trees and flame trees awash with blood orange blossoms stand beside acacia trees, their pods clattering in the wind and releasing a familiar scent into the air. I’m in a foreign land, one not dissimilar to the one I have come from, and as the sceptics would like us to believe, one which South Africa could closely resemble in a few years time. I have joined a group from Glenridge, a local Durban church, travelling to Zimbabwe to spend time with various churches and people living in the city of Bulawayo.

Our journey begins in the manner of most long trips; a 3am start which finds friends and strangers stumbling around a car park, steaming mugs of coffee in hand, as bags are packed into trailers and seats selected with care. Is it wise to sit behind a 5 year old who is clearly used to being awake this early? No doubt, I will find out the answer in time. Our drive is long and we wind our way up past Johannesburg and into parts of South Africa I have only ever heard of. We live in a beautiful country; the trip between Louis Trichard and Musina is breathtaking; rocky outcrops rise up alongside us and faces materialise out of the stone. The quirky baobab tree is as prolific to this area as the palm tree is to Durban; tall, skinny, leafy ones; short, fat, squat ones; and enormous ones, trunks wider than our van, limbs reaching up into the sky and providing shelter from the midday sun. The sky is as wide and as blue as an ocean, clouds foamy and white.

After a sleepless night shared with a millipede at a wonderful little bush lodge, we arrive at the Beit Bridge border post at around 8.30am. We pass easily through the South African border and drive over to the Zimbabwe side, a no man’s land of desolation. Our van is immediately surrounded by men trying to ‘assist’ us with the immigration process, but we are with old hands and are quickly whisked inside and find ourselves at the front of an empty queue. It begins to fill up quickly though and we have to watch out for random individuals who simply walk past all those waiting and squash themselves in between you and the person in front of you. It is hilarious watching the South Africans, eternal abiders of queue etiquette, who fall into two camps: those that falter when it comes to confronting the offender, and those that protest passive aggresively. The first group simply look nonchalant and unphased by the interloper’s actions, while the second group attempt to reclaim their space in front of the offender.

Outside a group has gathered around a large van which is overloaded to the hilt with all manner of paraphernalia; the trailer is being unpacked by the border police and each item is painstakingly being pulled out. As we watch this scene unfold a red bakkie races past and we all admire the furniture on the back. Suddenly it screeches to a halt as Rob, one of our team members, flies through the air and onto the tarmac, his head cracking the floor. We all stand stunned for a moment and then a flurry of activity ensues – the bystanders watching the van being unloaded simply turn around and become spectators to a new human drama. The driver tears out of the car to check on Rob and reveals that he had been looking “over there” – and vaguely points in the direction of the immigration office. Thankfully Rob is not badly hurt, although shaken, and we manage to load everyone into the vehicles and head off into Zimbabwe.

The landscape is not unlike South Africa so I do not get a sense of being in another country until we come to our first road block. The road block appears to be a standard Zimbabwean operating procedure and it becomes abundantly clear that being a police officer is the number one form of employment in this country. Everyone is professionally dressed and quite assured of their knowledge of their country’s laws, even when blatantly incorrect. In the space of 20km we have been stopped roughly 10 times, often a small discussion will be held outside of the van by our driver (and team leader), Clint, and the officer on the rules of the road and the status of our “tourist” vehicle. Seemingly a permit is required, although this was denied at the border. Clint has been gifted with a golden tongue and twinkling eyes, so we are more often than not on our way, the officer left standing bribe-less, but smiling.

On arrival in Bulwayo we head to our host family’s home and are directed to the house they are in the process of building. It is set in what must have once been an affluent suburb; the houses are huge with overgrown gardens and unkempt verges – clearly municipal services have not been in operation for some time. There is something quite lovely about the haphazard roads and creeping foliage; it is as if nature is trying to reclaim its space. We make our way up a steep drive way and are greeted by Adrian, Ingrid and Bruce; the men are covered in dust and we realise they have been working furiously to finish the house for our arrival. And it is beautiful. Built out of the stone found on the land, it is a two story home with many rooms waiting to be filled by both stranger and friend. They have built this home specifically to accommodate people from all over the world who come to Zimbabwe on mission trips. Outside are another two rooms; in one a large rounded rock formation merges with the bathroom, and the other has a wooden deck with a spectacular view of the leafy green belt that houses this suburb. I’m absolutely amazed by the generosity of this family. Even though they have built this house with the intention of housing guests, it is also to be their family home. It is not yet completely finished but they have given it over to us – and I’m sure by the time we leave it’ll be a little weathered and worn.

View at the Houghtons place

A large table made of heavy Rhodesian teak dominates the main eating space and the kitchen and living room all merge into each, allowing for free flow of people and conversation. A wooden patio hosts another large table and people begin to secure positions as the biltong, nuts and snacks appear. This is a far cry from mission trips of yonder and I can’t help but feel thankful that I am not standing over a fire tending my billy can of beans. It’s an interesting mix of people from different churches, ages and backgrounds and three Americans have joined our team.

I’m not really sure what to expect on this trip. I’ve been in a strange state of mind these last few weeks and this has led me to get into a van, with mostly unknown people, armed only with the knowledge that I was heading to Bulawayo, Zimbabwe.

(to be continued: part 2 – Jesus was not born here)

Let’s make some magic

Let me be honest, at times running an NPO and being involved with people who generally fall into one of the following categories: poor, disenfranchised, abused, neglected, and/or foreign, can be rather depressing. Sometimes I feel that I have so much to offer people by virtue of the fact that I have access to certain resources and knowledge, but then there are times were I feel two of the worst emotions: uselessness and hopelessness. And right now that is exactly how I feel because for all of the knowledge and resources I possess, they do not make a difference to the situation that the woman I met with today finds herself in.

I have spoken of her before; she is a quiet and unassuming young woman who is hugely driven and a survivalist. She has fled from one African country to another with her young son and youngest brother, she has studied hospitality through a local South African college even though she’d already studied the course in her own country – it was not recognised here. She has found shelter for her family, baked bread for spaza shops, and sold cigarettes and clothing in order to make money. She has tried, in various and interesting ways, to make a life for her little family in Durban, South Africa. We have walked a long road together, Denise and I, and every time I think that the tide has turned and she is about to emerge from a place of survival into a place of growth and security, a new challenge emerges and she is forced to begin again; she has to steel herself for another battle.

Today we met to discuss her dreams of starting her own small business; a café selling homemade Tanzanian and African cuisine. Denise has been an entrepreneur since the age of 14 when she bought and sold second hand clothing in Burundi so that she would not have to depend on a sugar daddy like the other girls her age. Last year she found herself a kitchen on Umbilo Road and began cooking and selling her food, much to the delight of the many foreigners who long for food from their home countries. Unfortunately, she did not have a proper contract with the kitchen owner and he soon realised that he too could make good money by selling food. So Denise lost her kitchen and she lost her income. She has spent the past two months looking for new premises and has been met with much resistance as a foreigner and as a woman. She was given a brand new stove to start off her small business but it sits gathering dust at the shop because she has nowhere to put it.  In a cruel twist of fate she has also been asked to leave the house they have called home for the last two years. She must move out by the 1^st of March and so far has not found anywhere else that meets her meagre budget.

So as she sat across from me, a woman filled with dreams and a viable business plan, I felt her utter despondency at the futileness of her situation. She told me she has never felt this lost, this scared and this uncertain about her life and the lives of her child and brother. She does not know which way to turn and cannot fathom how she will come out from this place. 

Here she stands: experienced, educated, willing, and determined to make something of herself, and yet she faces such obstacle and barriers. I know there must be a way for this woman – someone must know someone who has a space they want to rent out in an area that meets her budget. Surely. Surely between all of us, we can make magic out of this seemingly hopeless situation. Because one day, soon, I would like to be sitting at a little café table in the heart of Durban, eating a plate of hot and tasty Tanzanian fare prepared by Denise and served by her brother Joseph.

If you think you can help, or know of someone who would be interested in assisting Denise, please get in touch with me at ashling.mcc@gmail.com or visit www.ilearntolive.co.za

A taste of Tanzania

It’s broke…let’s fix it

Hills of Zululand

A Zululand day is like a cat on a hot tin roof; no matter how fast you move you just can’t escape the heat. By 7am the air around you is a thick and soupy 30 degrees, and you know it is only going to get worse as the sun climbs across an impossibly blue sky.

January 11th 2012 was registration day at the local Further Education Training College and I was taking my three students to sign up for their year of study. I’m a very ordered person; I make a plan and the primary aim is to stick to it; which is a pretty useless skill when you run a non-profit organisation in Africa. Plans are merely guidelines and the real skill is to go with the flow and move with the events as they unfold around you in ways which you had not factored in at all. The day before I had popped into the Izulu Orphan Projects office and five young women were standing at their door, asking the seemingly universal question posed by school leavers, “What do we do now that we have passed matric?”. IOP asked me if I would take the girls along to the College the next day to see if they could register for college as well. I stood their nodding my head while internally I was visualising trying to fit 10 girls into my car. Logistically it was not going to work but I figured that some of the girls would not arrive at the specified time, so it wouldn’t be a problem. I was wrong; clearly these girls want to study. I offered to pay for two of them to catch a taxi into Richards Bay and after much silence and feigning of a lack of English communication skills, two girls were dropped in town to make their own way there.

One of my favourite parts about working in Zululand is driving on the dirt roads into the rural areas. It is really one of the loveliest areas; giant cactus and aloe plants can be found in abundance and when the aloe flowers it truly is a sight to behold. It lights up with hot orange pokers and is an iconic emblem for this area. The dusty and rutted roads take you past small homesteads which are often surprising in their design and décor. I have often been caught completely off guard by a wonderful mural splashed across a rondavel wall; a herd of leaping impala or a ferocious leopard in full flight. Some gardens are abundantly full with vegetables of every kind; pumpkin, tall rows of green and gold corn, huge bunches of the freshest spinach and beetroots the size of a small soccer ball. Cows stand languidly in the middle of the road, chewing the cud, and slowly saunter off after you grow tired of waiting and hoot your horn. For miles vegetation and clusters of huts can be seen with few cars on the road, which stretches out before you. It is in this environment which my students grow up; this beautiful yet world-limiting place, where young women feel trapped and long for a way out so that they can offer something better for their own children one day. Simply getting into town, a 30-40 minute trip by car, is out of the question. The options are to find the R40 each day for a return trip via taxi (which one often must wait hours for), to walk the long distance under a baking African sun, or to stay at home knowing that they will merely repeat the family cycle of poverty, pregnancy and HIV/AIDS. Access to information is near to impossible; though most people have cell phones many do not have internet enabled phones which means that in the early 21^st century young people can’t even find out necessary information such as what subjects to study at school in order to become a nurse or engineering. They don’t know where to study, how to get there, what it might cost or any other crucial information which would help them to make the right decisions. We all know that the decision making process is detailed and requires sound knowledge so that choices can be made; these young people live completely without that knowledge. They cannot ask their parents, many of whom never finished school and some of whom have never seen a computer with their own eyes, let alone used one. How do you change your life when you are shackled by such ignorance? For those of us who do have this knowledge, these life changing resources, I believe it is our duty to bring it to the people. As much as it is government’s responsibility to do this, I truly believe it is ours as well. Our government can never reach all of the people, nor can it provide all of the resources and man power. But together we can make small inroads into this social problem which will one day, and is already beginning to, affect us all.

Home sweet home

As we attempted to register the girls for their qualifications, I found myself giving a crash course in career guidance as their hopes and expectations were wildly out of sync with the reality of the situation. Even though they arrived with dire marks for maths, accounting and economics, they were determined to enroll in Business Studies or Financial Management courses. The chances of them understanding the work and passing the year is slim; the FET College system is plagued by an 80% drop out rate for the simple reason that students are not guided properly in relation to their career path. Young school leavers with 13% for maths are enrolled in the Engineering course, and although this course is not at University level, it is sufficiently difficult enough that someone with a low proficiency in maths is more than likely to fail. I heard from a friend about a young woman who enrolled in the Hospitality course when really she had wanted to study Nursing; as English is her second language she was under the impression that the word hospitality and hospital meant the same thing. While this might seem mildly assuming, it is a terrible mistake to make. The reality is that she was never going to study nursing; she did not have the required marks, let alone the correct school subjects which would enable a career as a nurse.

Since my return from Zululand two week ago, I have had countless people call me to ask what they can do for their children and the children of their domestic workers. Children are not receiving the necessary information regarding subject choices and career guidance in school, and are attempting to access it when applying for university or college. What use is it to know that you did not study the correct subjects to become a doctor or engineer when you are standing in a university registration queue? One of the main aims of I Learn to Live this year is to ensure that school children, both urban and rural, have access to this information well in advance of applying for tertiary studies. We hope to reduce the number of children who have been let down by this current system by providing them with a new system, one based on solid research and the current realities of study and employment in South Africa.  

Dancers in the dust

Living in Africa

I have always believed that I am one of those truly privileged individuals. And, while I know it is both wrong and untrue to believe such a thing, I have always held on to the notion that God loves me just a tad more than he loves others. My reason for believing this is that I was born in South Africa, in a place called Zululand, where the veld rolls out endlessly before you and acacia trees offer the only real respite from the heat. This is not a notion that many people will identify with, but for me it is home away from home, the place I visit in my head when I am sitting in the dentist’s chair about to experience something truly horrible. My Irish parents moved to South Africa from Switzerland in the mid 1970’s. They were meant to stay for a year and then move back to Switzerland which had been home for seven years. They arrived in Johannesburg and my mother confides she felt rather tearful when her gaze fell upon the scorched and thirsty lands that surrounded the ugliness of that concrete jungle. From there they made their way to East London where the ocean winds carried the scent of the sea and softened the longing for the lush green mountains of Switzerland. My sister Cara was born and while my mother laboured my father was 2 up and 2 to go on the golf course. The barman, on hearing the news, ran onto the green shouting, “Baas, it is a child, it is a child!”; he lost the next two holes. Five months later my father was asked to move to the small town of Hluhluwe in northern Zululand to work as the food and beverage manager at the local hotel. And thus began a love affair which would be passed on from father to daughter; a longing for the open spaces and vast skies found in this small part of Africa.

Sunset over the veld

My sisters and I were raised in a way that instilled in us an appreciation for the bush and all that inhabit it; our reality was soaked in it right from the start.  Our childhood password, to ensure we would not be snatched by a paedophile or human trafficker, was Windy Ridge – the name of a beautifully rustic game reserve up near Empangeni. If the adult fetching us could not tell us the password, then they went home empty handed. The soundtrack to our early morning road trips to school was that of a very monotone individual with a slightly Afrikaans accent who would intone, “Number 212, the Yellow Throated Long Claw”, and then a demonstration of the call of said bird would fill the car. To this day the three of us can tell you the name of a bird which is calling (I’ll admit it is usually a good guess) but there is a strong chance we can’t actually point the particular bird out to you. My father is a twitcher; there is no other word for it. On many an occasion we could be found holed up in a bird hide next to a pond or dam, binoculars in hand, watching and waiting for some elusive bird to make itself known. We would always take along a pack of cards to while away the long hours. At the time it seemed a perfect waste of time and tediously boring but as we’ve grown older and spent endless hours in game reserves, we have been converted.

Male pin tailed wydah in mating plummage

While the tourists are narrowly focused on catching sight of an elephant or a pride of lion, we can be found debating whether the bird of prey sitting on the dead yellow fever tree is a step buzzard or a falcon, and we’ve even been known to bring out the bird book in times of an unhealthy impasse. It is at this juncture that I should mention the McCarthy sister curse; and it is named as such because it truly only affects us girls – our parents are quite free of it. All three of us have been visiting the Hluhluwe/Umfolozi Game Reserve for 30 odd years. My twin and I were born in Zululand and every year, at the very least twice a year, I can be found in the reserve (them less so since moving overseas). But never, have any of the three of us, actually seen a lion in this reserve. We have traversed its many hectares, sat at its watering holes, eaten at its picnic spots and viewed every bush and shrub through high powered binoculars; but still the lion remain elusive. Everyone else connected with our family; whether first time visitors from Ireland or long time friends who’ve at the last minute decided to join my parents for a jaunt to the bush – they have all seen lion. They have seen lion mating, lion in a tree, lion at a kill, lion at the river, and lion soaking up the captured heat of the road at dusk. In short, they have seen lion EVERYWHERE. Like the elephant which sends vibrating infra sound tummy rumbles from one herd to another, across the very continent of Africa, so too must the lion of Hluhluwe Game Reserve when they hear that the McCarthy girls are tootling up the N2 and are about to enter the reserve. At this very point in time, every lion makes itself scarce or the very least secures itself a vantage point of extreme secrecy and watches as we enter the park with high hopes, and then exit dragging our broken expectations, like the entrails of a mauled impala, behind us. We decided that the only way to break the curse was to pay Phinda Game Reserve an obscene amount of money to take us directly to the lion; that wise old adage – If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must go to the mountain, applies. So yesterday, for the first time in 32 years, I sat in a very open jeep and watched as a beautiful mother lioness gorged herself on a reed buck. We were terrifyingly close, in fact, a little too close for comfort and as I was sitting directly in front of her, the first person in her line of sight, I felt quite ill. I’m hoping that this brings to a close the chapter of unlucky lion sightings however if it does not, we can at least “Remember when…” with the best of them.

A powerful predator

One of the most intriguing aspects of the bush veld is its sounds. The screech of the African cicada (Christmas beetle) will suddenly fill the air with a high pitched shrieking only to abruptly cease, leaving you with a sense of disharmony. The air continues to vibrate long after they have stopped. In direct contrast to this sudden shrillness is the wind. It murmurs through the acacia trees and lala palms and it is the perfect sound to fall asleep to. You feel like you have been transported to the banks of the River Nile and are softly swaying on the gently eddying waters while the papyrus waves in dance about you. There is no escaping the resonance; every insect, every bug, every moving, crawling creature creates a sound which will either thrill you or fill you with a sense of fear. If you are not an insect person, then the bush is possibly not the place for you. Giant moths, rhino beetles with their horny heads and spiky legs, cockroaches with moss mottled wings, teeny tiny beetles which get into your hair and under your pillows, spiders of all shapes and sizes (and levels of poison), and of course, the most irritating and most fear inducing – the humble mosquito. There is nothing as annoying as the buzz of a mosquito, especially one that you cannot see. For you know you are about to be on the receiving end of an unwanted bite but there is little you can do about it. Unless, like my father, you marinade yourself in Peaceful Sleep, you are likely to succumb. There is however a remedy; the sacrificial lamb. There is always one person which mosquitos will become quite partial to, so it is best to figure this out early on in the game and seat yourself next to them at all times.

I often dream of my own little farm in this neck of the woods; surrounded by lala palms and sand forests with giant cactus trees and the honeyed scent of the silver cluster leaf tree. Would I miss the city and what it has to offer or would I be so completely at home that the occasional visit to the city would suffice?  I can only imagine sitting night after night under a sky ablaze with hundreds of stars, the whoop, whoop of the hyena and the cacophony of chirping tree frogs. There is a plot of land for sale near here; the grass is neck high and when lit by the setting sun is set alight in a blaze of perfect light. The vegetation of my childhood would surround me and I believe I would be happy; living in a wide and open place. 

Wide and open spaces - a peaceful way to spend the afternoon

Izulu Orphan Projects Christmas Party 2011

Every year IOP manages to pull off the Christmas party of Christmas parties, and this year was no exception – with three days of partying for 3000 children and caregivers! We had more presents and food than we knew what to do with so everyone was incredibly blessed with armfuls of gifts and food to take home. We had a host of young face painters who ensured that every child was covered from head to toe in South African – and other nations - flags, birds, hearts, snakes and all forms of flora and fauna.

I’ll let the photos tell the story:

Gorgeous Boys (sporting the hair trend of the party)

Models in the making

Tasty!

Hair trend of the party

Kate (director of IOP) and a fashion victim

Happy Afrika!

Siyajabula! (We are happy)

A most regal lady – so colourful.

LADUUUUUUUUUUUMMMMAAAA! (Score!)

A little too much excitement for one day.

 

Thanks to all the volunteers who came out to support us and put together 6000 hotdogs, party packs and sort the thousands of presents so that each kid got an age appropriate gift. Looking forward to seeing you all next year!

MaPetticoat

 

Dancing Feet

 

Her feet are cracked; they are as parched as the ground across which they fly, raising small puffs of dust as she dances to the tune in her head. Her movements belie her age as she shimmies and shakes with the grace of a young girl. She is in another time and space and we are simply the props around which she constructs her current reality. Her name is MaPetticoat; a 70 year old sprite with mischievous eyes and an impish grin. Her shadow sweeps the yard and ripples across the circle of women whose hands dip and arc as they weave long strands of ilala palm into baskets. She does not join the women in their craft; she is too busy telling tales of days long past. She is the story teller, the curator of memories that she does not wish to let die with her passing. She reveals small morsels at every meeting, keeping us going, ensuring we are drawn in and silently pleading for more. Her hands are gnarled; one finger fused at the second joint so it stands to attention as she waves her hands above her head in demonstration of her irritation at the politics of the day. She is not one of the masses, not one of those enamoured with our hero Mandela. No. She is a supporter of the opposition and it is this very finger which has brought her to this place of sheer inflexibility. A run-in with the ruling party during the faction fighting which invaded this beautiful region like a black cloud of hate, resulted in a few broken bones and a finger which refuses to curl and soften; a daily reminder of a time rather forgotten.

As she dances around the weaving circle of women, their hands mimic her movements, building layer upon layer until the strips of ilala begin to resemble shapes which will store grain and mealie cobs. For these women the products they weave are merely vessels in which to store everyday items, but for the women for whom these products are intended, they create masterpieces to be displayed on the mantelpiece; a little treasure from Africa. This group does not resemble the sweat shops of China where visions of cramped quarters crammed with hundreds of tiny birdlike women and children fill the mind. These women sit out in the open under the improbable expanse of an African sky. They shelter in the shade offered by acacia trees and giant cactus and they chatter and sing and howl with laughter as the sun makes it slow journey across the sky. The young girl children are divided into two camps; those that sit alongside their mothers in order to learn this art of coaxing new life into the drying strips of ilala, and those that sit just far enough away from the circle so that they are not drawn in to learn but can still listen to the adult banter. These girls tell me they are destined for better things; they haven’t quite worked out yet how they will get there but menial labour is not for them and will not lead them out of this place in which they feel trapped. They have yet to realise the doors which will be opened to their mothers as the demand for their product grows so that they are barely able to keep up and their hands fly well on into the night.

Weaving Women

I rise from the circle, unfurling my aching back and stiff limbs from their lotus position. The women roar with laughter as I stretch and bend, encouraging blood to flow back into my legs. I am not built for this work; I am too tall and my hips and bum are woefully inadequate, they lack the necessary padding required for sitting all day long. I have already been promised to at least four strapping sons, for tall women breed tall children and tall children grow up to become police officers; the holy grail of employment in these parts. I cannot offer these men what they really want; strong women to fetch water – walking for miles, swaying along ancient pathways with buckets filled with water perched atop their heads. Not a drop spilt onto the thirsty ground. Women who can cook and clean and work the day away bent over double in the fields, bringing forth abundant vegetable life; beetroots the size of a baby’s head. I watch the men as they sit in the shade of a marula tree. While the hands of the women are constantly in motion, these men sit idle; the only movement is the lifting of a quart of beer which travels from its resting position on a thigh and makes its way up to an opening mouth. They appear to be deep in intellectual debate;  but the few words and phrases I understand reveal that they are merely discussing the prospects of their local soccer team. As the days go by I begin to realise that these men are displaced; no longer the breadwinners, no longer the mainstay of family life. Their wives have surpassed them with their skilful weaving and their ability to bring financial rewards into the home. It is now the men who must ask their wives for money to visit the local shebeen. This shift in power is like a slow cancer; it moves so stealthily, it catches the community unawares. The men while away the day drinking beer under the trees as the women toil. They have no purpose, no drive to achieve. What is the point when your wife is the one to bring home a new colour TV or from her profits sets the house awash with the soft glow from solar electricity? Because she buys it in her name, replacing his surname on the docket with her maiden name and when it arrives the children shine and clap their hands at their mother while he stands under the tree, refusing to be part of the celebration.

Patriarchy, like MaPetticoat, has begun to shimmy and shake. As it rocks and sways it creates an undercurrent of turmoil which infiltrates the homestead like smoke from a fire; its presence felt long after it has gone.