By Anna Bloom-Christen
As the town awakens after the break, it’s a good time to reflect on how we get around. This is a love letter to walking in Makhanda—a celebration of the streets, the connections they foster, and the unique character of this city. As an outsider and anthropologist, I explore the pleasures and challenges of walking here: as a daily commute, a leisure activity, and a window into Makhanda’s social and spatial divides.
The public sphere is stirring back to life. After weeks of quiet—many locals having retreated to the coast or their homes for the holidays—the streets of Makhanda are once again bustling. I love walking through town during this time, sensing the renewed energy of a place
awakening. You, dear reader, may be a long-term local with countless stories about the city’s transformation over the years. Or you might be a newcomer—welcome! Perhaps you’re a Rhodes University student, a parent relocating for your child’s schooling, or someone arriving from the pace of Johannesburg’s fast-moving rhythms. This piece is for you. It’s a celebration of Makhanda’s streets and the connections one can form by simply walking them. Through my experiences on foot, I aim to highlight the benefits of walking and maybe even inspire you to step out and explore this town at 5 km/h.
The many opinions on walking
When I first arrived in 2016, the town was still officially called Grahamstown. I had come here to conduct a feasibility study for my PhD project on public space. South Africa offered a profound context for my research because of its deeply racialised history and ongoing efforts to reimagine public life. I wanted to discover on societies renegotiate public space after decades of institutionalised segregation and I wanted to do it on foot. I called my project Walking Together and began my search for a town that was entirely walkable.
I found Makhanda, cradled within the rolling hills of the Eastern Cape, a place marked by striking contrasts. From the bustling, vibrant streets that pulse with the energy of student life to the quiet, tranquil spaces where nature seems to reclaim the land, Makhanda is a town where modernity and history, wealth and poverty, and rural and urban coexist in sometimes surprising harmony. Since my first visit, I’ve lived here on and off, exploring its streets and corners, always discovering new layers of its complex identity.
Makhanda residents have strong – and varied – opinions about walking here. Some insist it’s not safe. Others carve the city into “walkable” and “non-walkable” areas. A third group judges walkability based on the time of day, the day of the week, or the season. And, for many residents, walking is not a choice but a necessity.
Locals often worry that I underestimate the dangers, given my Swiss background. I come from a place where public spaces are mostly pristine, well-lit, and famously safe. In my hometown Basel, a midnight stroll would raise no eyebrows. Makhandians have expressed concern that I might not fully grasp the risks here; some have gently suggested that I may lack the “street smarts” necessary to navigate the city – too naïve, they imply. I think that’s fair. And I appreciate all the advice.
Yet I’d argue that my background might be useful exactly because it makes me worry less, and wonder more. It makes me both insider and outsider, moving through spaces while reflecting on them as a participant observer. So far, this priviledged, naïve attitude has been nothing but rewarding. My love of walking is shaped by experiences in cities across the Global North – Basel, Berlin, even Los Angeles, where, legend has it, “nobody walks”. Over the years, I’ve learnt that walking is an opportunity to observe, connect, and immerse myself in the rhythms of a place.
In Makhanda, safety is a deeply felt concern. It’s not just about crime statistics. It’s the lived experience that matters most. If you feel unsafe, you’re unlikely to enjoy your stroll. Many people who’ve stopped walking here speak of muggings and other forms of harassment.
Sometimes it’s first-hand experience, sometimes anecdotes from others. In any case, in conversations about walking I often encounter a persistent anxiety of vulnerability.
This sets off a vicious cycle: the fewer people walk, the less safe the streets are perceived to be – for everyone. The absence of visible pedestrians reinforces the view that walking is risky. Moreover, without fellow walkers to greet or share the streets with, the perception of isolation deepens. So, what can we do?
Let me take you on a narrative stroll.
Crossing the divide: A vignette
Makhanda’s geography mirrors its social contrasts. The town lies in a natural bowl, with a steep incline separating the city center from the township. From the high ground of Sunnyside, where I currently live, I can see nearly the whole cityscape spreading before me.
To the west, Rhodes University’s green campus. The Gothic cathedral and the Victorian facades of High Street stand as markers of the town’s colonial past (and, arguably, present).
All these are nestled in the valley. To the east, the township sprawls. The “location” (as this part of town is euphemistically called) with its patchwork of tin shacks and modest homes stretches into the horizon. Gazing back and forth while trodding up Hillsview Road, the socio-economic divides that persist to this day gaze back at us.
I am not walking alone today. My dear friend Zinzi has invited me to her home in Eluxolweni, just east of Joza. We decide to spend the day strolling. We cross from Sunnyside down to Bathurst Street, a space where one world fades and another emerges. Makhanda’s socio-economic divides become starkly visible here. As we cross Beaufort Street, Victorian-era storefronts give way to informal salons, spaza shops, and iteksi vans ferrying township residents to jobs in the city and back home.
As we climb uphill toward Joza, the sidewalks become rougher, litter more prominent, and potholes resemble miniature craters. Stray dogs, cows and goats wander the streets. Women with toddlers, men with garden tools, children in school uniforms, all greeting warmly.
Molweni! There’s a vibrancy in this space. It’s a mix of community, resilience, and the undeniable beauty of Makhanda’s hills.
Our pleasant zigzag journey takes us up towards what I am told will not be called Jacob Zuma Drive much longer. Passing the street sign, we discuss the politics of name changes and I agree with Zinzi, it’s complicated! Residents greet us with verve and enthusiasm. By the time we reach Zinzi’s home, her partner and cousin are busy chopping wood for a braai. The smoky aroma of grilled pork mingles with the taste of the refreshment we share – the largest bottle of Black Label I have ever seen. As we stroll to a nearby shebeen to get beverages for everyone, we fall into walking with Zinzi’s neigbour’s daughter and exquisite gossip is exchanged in passing. From a nearby church, voices soar in harmony, carrying the haunting refrain: Sikhululekile – we are free.
An anthropologist’s perspective
Walking, of course, is not for everyone. Physical challenges – uneven sidewalks, potholes, steep inclines – make it difficult for parents with strollers, students in wheelchairs, or anyone with limited mobility. But for those who can, walking offers undeniable benefits: Physical health: A brisk walk is one of the simplest ways to stay active.
Mental health: Walking clears the mind, relieves stress, and fosters mindfulness
(though this only works if you feel safe).
Social connection: Greeting fellow pedestrians builds a sense of community and trust.
However, as I walk through the streets of Makhanda, I’m reminded that walking here isn’t just about health and community building. It’s a practice imbued with history, identity, and the unspoken dynamics of public space. Walking becomes a way of noticing the unnoticed, of bearing witness to the stories that sidewalks, streets, and public squares quietly hold.
For many of us, walking is a mundane act, but here it’s laden with the ongoing struggle for equity. This became clear to me during my research with first-generation students at Rhodes University. The act of walking through campus gates symbolised more than the pursuit of higher education, it was a renegotiation of historical and institutional boundaries. Students often spoke of the subtle tensions they felt in these spaces, of how walking could make them visible, vulnerable, or powerful, depending on the context. These are stories of inner and outer movement, of who belongs where, of the entitlement and reluctance to enter specific zones, areas, neighborhoods. These are stories of the claims people make to a space by simply occupying it.
Walking is never just walking. In Los Angeles, where I’ve studied pedestrian practices, the experience of walking can be both isolating and liberating. The city’s car-centric design relegates pedestrians to the margins, yet walking also becomes an act of defiance, of reclaiming space in a metropolis designed for speed and efficiency. I’ve seen how minority groups use walking to challenge dominant narratives, asserting their right to exist and move freely in spaces that often feel exclusionary. I have found all of these aspects present and relevant in Makhanda as well.
In both cities, walking reveals the social architectures we rarely pause to notice. Who walks where, and why, is shaped by histories of segregation, urban planning, and economic inequality. In post-apartheid South Africa, the layout of towns like Makhanda still reflects the legacies of colonial rule with wealthier, predominantly white, neighborhoods often separated from poorer, predominantly black, areas. Walking through these spaces, one is forcefully reminded of barriers both visible and invisible that persist.
But walking is also a practice of hope. In my conversations with students and community members, I’ve seen how walking creates opportunities for connection. A shared greeting on the street, a moment of mutual acknowledgment – these small acts accumulate, fostering a sense of belonging and mutual recognition. Walking can be a way of making public space feel more intimate, of bridging divides that often feel insurmountable.
As an anthropologist, I’m interested in how we pay attention to these moments. What do we notice when we walk? What do we overlook? In my work, I’ve found that walking is a way of cultivating a particular kind of attentiveness, one that’s attuned to the rhythms and textures of everyday life. This attentiveness is not just about observation, it’s also about participation, about being present in the spaces we move through and acknowledging the lives that intersect with our own.
Walking has taught me that public spaces are never neutral. They are shaped by power, history, and the choices we make about who belongs and who does not. But they are also spaces of possibility, where we can imagine and enact different ways of being together. In a world that often feels fractured, walking reminds us of our shared humanity, of the simple yet profound act of moving through the world alongside others.
So the next time you step out onto the street, consider pausing for a moment. Notice the patterns of movement around you, the ways people navigate and negotiate space. Consider what your own walking might mean – to you, to those you encounter, and to the stories of the spaces you traverse. Walking is not just a way of getting somewhere, it’s also a way of being, of noticing, and of connecting. It’s a practice worth paying attention to.
A conflicted love: Tread lightly
Before I get completely carried away by my pedestrian euphoria, let me clarify one thing. This is not a moral argument for walking. I am not here to shame anyone for driving, feeling unsafe in public, or choosing to stay indoors. Sometimes I walk home after dark, but that doesn’t mean I think you should or that there aren’t valid reasons to choose otherwise.
Safety concerns, physical limitations, anxiety, or the simple convenience of other modes of transport all shape our decisions about moving in public space. These are not just personal choices, and they aren’t always in our control. The risks and challenges are real and, for some, walking might even evoke memories of negative or traumatic experiences.
However, for those not bound by such constraints, I invite you to consider the possibilities. Imagine freeing yourself from the frustrations of potholes, car repairs, and parking woes. Picture stepping out from behind the wheel to rediscover Makhanda on foot. A pothole transforms into a birdbath. A commute becomes exercise. A routine trip becomes an adventure. Start cautiously: take a buddy, begin with short walks, and tread – both literally and metaphorically – lightly.
Walking is a means of making public space truly public, a shared experience rather than a backdrop to private routines. So, let’s reclaim the streets. Let’s walk together. And if you’re looking for a companion, don’t hesitate to reach out – I’d be delighted to join you.
Warmly,
Anna
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