As a little girl waits by her teacher’s house in Extension 9, she sees her reflection in the dirt-covered black corsa bakkie parked outside.
As a little girl waits by her teacher’s house in Extension 9, she sees her reflection in the dirt-covered black corsa bakkie parked outside.
She stands there for a minute watching, observing, intrigued by what she sees. Before long, a dozen children stand beside her. Some strike a pose as if for a photo, some practise their dance moves. Most simply stare at the child staring back at them.
As the children hang carelessly out of taxi windows, waving and shouting at passersby, life in Joza goes on as usual: plastic bags fight for space on the crowded wire fences, women hang their washing out to dry in the wind, dogs wander aimlessly along the dirt road.
As we leave Grahamstown, the smell of dagga fills the taxi. There is no air conditioner and the windows are shut. I stare absently outside. The dry grass, thorn bushes and countless termite hills echo the monotony of the music playing on the stereo: “So tell me, Mr Government man,” the singer repeats, “tell me where I belong.”
To my left, two men talk animatedly about the national liberation movement and how it failed to fulfil its mandate. Behind me, a Rastafarian debates with a young woman about the history of Christianity. The man in the front passenger seat, seemingly unaware of the raised voices and shrill laughter, plays a game of sudoku.
As we enter Hamburg, the two taxis in front of us stop and several children jump out. A metre or two from the roadside, the children pull down their pants and urinate. Realising they have an audience, two little girls giggle childishly and jump back inside the taxi. Feeling increasingly awkward, I look out the window at the river that twists snake-like alongside the sprawling hills.
We arrive at the Keiskamma Arts Trust and are welcomed by a group of young women. Dressed in white skirts, beads and little else, they compete with the howling wind as they sing and dance for us. As the other children go play on the swings, a little white boy protests as his enthusiastic parents urge him to watch the performance.
“If you’re staying in the Eastern Cape,” a woman says as we take our seats in the hall, “you should know how to speak Xhosa by now.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. That was the only English spoken during the three hour ceremony.
As an elderly man welcomes everyone, I look around the hall. Attached to the wooden beams, hundreds of angels made from wire and beads hang protectively over us. A tapestry telling the story of South Africa’s history wraps around the room like a ribbon.
A group of boys with long wooden sticks take the stage. Wearing shredded clothing, they pretend to fight with each other. They beat their sticks rhythmically on the cement floor as the audience ululates and whistles in appreciation. As they leave the stage, the smallest boy holds up a white flag. According to the woman next to me, the flag signifies that some of the boys are ready for initiation.
Standing in line for lunch, I look around the room. The elders have their food and are eating with their hands. I wonder if I’ll have to do the same. As I dish up, I scan the room and find a spoon. Relieved, I go sit with the English volunteer I met earlier.
Struggling to cut my meat with the spoon, I reluctantly take the lamb in my hands and bite into it. The juice feels surprisingly good between my fingers.
A man comes over to us and asks us if we have tried the tripe. We shake our heads. He tells us we should try it. Looking at the women nearby, he tells us it’ll make us fat. He looks back at us and laughs. He tells us in their culture they like woman to be fat. Chuckling to himself, he walks away.
As I walk toward the taxi waiting for us, I am offered some mqombothi. I am told it takes a very long time to make and is only drunk at important events that involve the ancestors. Remembering my last experience with African beer, I smile but shake my head.
We have to drive through the wealthy part of Hamburg to get to the sea. The Afrikaans man next to me jokes about how the “whities” won’t be happy we’re taking over their beach. He’s from Stellenbosch but speaks with an accent that suggests he feels more at home in Joza.
It is the first time most of the children have been to the beach. Their excitement is indescribable. Some of them have new swimming costumes and show them off proudly as they run across the sand. Others simply strip down to their underwear or change into shorts and a t-shirt.
It’s cold on the beach and I’m wrapped up warmly in a scarf and jacket. The older children have a ball and play piggy-in-the-middle. They all laugh whenever the ball drops in the water. The younger children, still intrigued by the vast expanse of water, scream and laugh hysterically whenever a wave breaks close by.
While we wait for the children to clean themselves and eat a snack, one of their teachers asks me if I believe in integration. “As in white and black people integrating?” I ask, surprised by his question. He nods. “I do but I don’t think it’s happening very well,” I tell him. “More needs to be done.” He seems to agree with me.
