The Kwazekele Township

So much for “finishing tomorrow”. The past few weeks in this country have been all but one animated blink, the forging of various friendships through constant play. All is still well – among the other flats at Annie’s Cove, we’ve been lucky not to have been visited by cockroaches or armies of ants. During the evening, we’ll stand around the braai and watch our meat cook (meat, fruit, and vegetables are relatively cheap here). Jokesters are tossed in the pool, swimsuit or no. As 9 or 10 o’clock rolls around, we’ll pack ourselves into taxis and hit the town. Walking along the sidewalks towards the bars, we look like an odd gang (quite diverse) bursting with chatter and energy. On a stormy evening a couple nights ago, we brought wine down to the beach and watched the wind tossle the white froth of waves. This is a simple, leisurely, and wonderfully relaxing culture – even though, to be honest, my underlying urge to get back to work and wake the brain is beginning to boil. Certainly a world set apart, if there are clocks in Port Elizabeth, it is a slower clock that ticks away almost inaudibly. You’ve probably heard the term: “Africa time”. I think they’re onto something...
Surfing lessons went swimmingly (“paddle paddle paddle!”). I got up on the board a few times and even rode all the way into the beach twice. Admittedly, the waves we claimed were quite dwarfish, but it still felt like a feat of sorts. Terry, one of my French friends in Annie’s, is a splendid teacher. We went again today and the waves were enormous - spread apart evenly and conveniently; it was thrilling to ride even the smallest of the giants. The riding gets easier and easier. Nearly broke my nose on an ambitious run, but only a swollen lip graced my face today. Lucky! Sometimes we’ll lay on the beach for hours with a precious Times Magazine clutched in sandy palms or draped over a face; naps and bodysurfing are woven in as well. Speaking of news, in another entry, I’d to discuss the current revolutions taking root on Arab Street and the fleeing of former President Mubarak. This is an incredible time to be alive – what is currently happening in Tunisia, Egypt, Algeria, Yemen, Jordan, Libya, and Iran (again!) will without a doubt be under meticulous study by political scientists for years. Though I am skeptical that stable democracies will emerge immediately – we must instead find hope in the rise of strong institutions and security – I also doubt the takeover by Islamic extremists. After what may be a rocky transition, we must support only fair elections and freedom of speech, even if the resulting regime does not align wholly with U.S interests (e.g. is not pro-Israel. Let’s be realistic). But again, what a tremendous time in history!
Classes have been great. On Monday, I had my first lecture. It is a history course bearing on South African politics in the 20th century; the professor is an old Afrikaner and strikes me as a subtle racist. He dubs the post-Apartheid era as “reverse-Apartheid”, where preference is enjoyed by Blacks and apparently harms Whites. Obviously, I completely disagree with such hyperbole. The blatant gaps marring the previously subordinate groups are today kept abidingly in place socially, culturally, and economically – though perhaps not politically. Small achievements have been made, though sadly enough, the ANC is not the machine for it anymore. Corruption and internal factions have slowed the pace for reform. Nevertheless, though current affirmative action programs are a bit slipshod (I know this is a sensitive issue back in the States) and Black employment quotas are not the solution for correcting Apartheid, a clever program is needed. Upon visiting the inland townships, where a white face stops cars and people in their tracks, it is clear to me that poverty and wealth gaps still overwhelmingly follow racial lines. It will be interesting to hear more of what Dr. Terblanche has to say – but I am in the meantime a bit wary if fascinated by his viewpoint. On a lighter note, I do have more appreciation for the National Party's efforts at reforming and tearing down the system of Apartheid in the 1990s.
Anyways, to involve the title of this snippet: we went to the townships to start up a soup kitchen last weekend! We’re doing it every Saturday with a grad student named Bantu, who grew up in Kwazekele. It was unquestionably my favorite day so far. The township is about a 20-25 minute drive from Central Ave in Port Elizabeth; it is part of an immense inland township – one of the larger slums in the country (or so I have heard). Imagine a stretch of small, square, and multi-colored shack/houses spread out over the horizon, intersected by heavily trafficked roads or factories. Hundreds of people are meandering along the paved streets; the vendors bustling with chatter on street corners, selling fresh fruit and vegetables. Sometimes the wind carries the smell of spicy meat stewing. Little children bolt by on bikes or peer from dark doorways.
When we arrived by mini-bus, we immediately met up with Bantu and walked 15 minutes to the local grocery store. Everything is ridiculously cheap; some of the food probably doesn’t even compute to U.S dollars. Note: 6.9 Rand = $1. After divvying up the edibles between us, we purchased and headed back. On our way, Bantu spread the word to wandering neighbors about the soon-to-be feast. We waved to nearly everyone we met; we were so excited. On Bantu’s driveway, we cut potatoes, cabbage, lettuce, peppers, and onions. Inside, beneath the soft golden light generated by the window shades, a few others cut apples and watermelons. In the kitchen, we set two large pots of rice to boil and slowly assembled the beef stew. Cleverly, Michael added a mutton soy protein mix for nutrients and to thicken the soup. Bags of candy were unloaded, unwrapped, and poured into serving containers. Gradually, a crowd of children began to converge on the streets in front of the house. Many were very outgoing, and given an hour or so, the shyer kids opened up as well. It was such a moving experience. We played games (Ring Around the Rosie) and sang songs (they all know Shakira’s “Waka Waka”!). After 30 minutes or so, most had been through the line to grab food, Tupperware in tow. I’m confident we served nearly 75-80 children. It was incredible. The best part is: we get to do this every weekend. So hopefully I'll be able to strengthen my relationship with the kids.
One of the little boy’s names was Messoula. He was one of the many I grew to like very much; he wanted to be held for so long, his face buried in my neck. At any one time, we’d have 5-6 children climbing on us, tugging at hair and earrings, all smiles. With that image in your mind and on this page, I’ll leave you. Hamba Kahle! Enjoy the pictures (the one at the bottom of the page is hilarious).