After teaching class on Friday, the street on which Ntyantyambo stands was a blurr of yellow ANC shirts, flags, and signs streaming towards the local, rusted stadium. Bursts of cheers erupted from buses trucking people into Zwide. Bus after bus. As they passed by the school, appendages and banners waved zealously from the windows - where did these people come from? With a mixture of enlivened curiosity and confusion, Scott, Michael, Phil, and I asked our students what was going on. Thousands of people don't congregate without good reason, unless its a rugby match. Amidst unbridled and fervent chatter, a few kids answered, "Zuma is here! Zuma is here!" Dismissed, they broke into a run to join the flow of yellow. I could hardly believe my ears, even after confirming with the principal and other teachers. And I had to see it.
Zuma? In Port Elizabeth? In the townships?!
The municipal election season broke upon PE two months ago. Overnight, a spate of campaign billboards and posters, which occupy virtually every pole or lamppost in town, appeared. ANC, DA, VF (an Afrikaner party), COPE,... (No joke. There are so many that I doubt that the 2 we stole for Annie's Cove are sorely missed). A pronounced lack of discussion or interest followed, excluding certain student organizations, like SASCO. Weird. Voting opens this Wednesday, and there are about 60 seats up for grabs in this region. According to an ANC campaigner at the rally, there is a lot at stake. To everybody else I've talked to, the elections are already decided - for the Eastern Cape, that is. The man who opened a checking account for me at FNB assured me that the ANC has unrivaled support here - the real battle is over the Western Cape Most students I speak with aren't even voting; they are smitten with apathy. Skeptical that the DA, the ANC's largest contender, can even compete - many did not even take the time to register.
Fair elections? As we walked down the street towards the stadium, were felt up and down by security at the gates, and filed in - our jaws dropped more and more. It was like walking into the biggest, most unhinged afternoon party the area had ever seen. People were stoked to have officials visit them - Zuma was, at that moment, door-knocking on homes rumored to have been won over by the DA. Why was there all of this excitement and support for a party that has systematically left out their communities and underfunded their schools? I guess if you show up every couple of years - bearing free groceries, free t-shirts, blankets, and a big "I'm your daddy" smile - you can win a lot of votes among the poor and disadvantaged.
Sorry for the brash cynicism. I don't mean to insinuate that the thousands living in the Zwide, Kwazakeli, and New Brighton townships don't understand the insidiousness inherent in the ANC's lust to maintain its consolidated control over government...but it seems as if the ANC depends upon the uneducated and jobless masses to keep support. Almost all of the educated black people I talk to are strictly for the DA, not the ANC. They understand the kind of stagnation and dissolve of democracy that occurs when a party rules for 17 years, effectively as a patronage network. Is it too conspiratorial to suggest that it may be in the conscious interest of the ANC to maintain a poor black majority? And provide only the bare minimum to better their socioeconomic position? Do they realize that the educated portions of society are shifting their support toward the DA, or not voting at all? What a terrible thought.
To be fair, the DA doesn't really campaign in the townships - some of the stigma and fear may be apocryphal, but the ANC is cunning in its projection of the DA as a "white party" to township citizens, ensuring that these areas will be somewhat hostile to other parties. The more people I talk to, the more of the townships I see, the further my disappointment and anger increases. Their government drops by during election season and then disappears. Other parties are hesitant to engage.
Of course, I wouldn't open my mouth at the ANC rally. Before following the campaign volunteers to their home to receive free XL t-shirts, stickers, and a flag, we marveled and mingled with supporters. Vendors sold cheap fruit, candies, and hot pies. Marching mixed with dancing; groups broke off into separate songs, indiscernable to our ears. Groups of schoolchildren wove their way through the crowds; men were peddling cigarettes and an odd array of trinkets. A man demanded 2 Rand from Phil when he quietly admitted his un-support for the ANC. The sun glistened on gold banners, on shaved heads, in supporters' gleaming eyes.
We were excited to get our hands on the t-shirts. But there is a certain sick nuance that accompanies my attainment of such (for me) valuable political artifacts. What is fascinating to me is for others the symbol of an increasingly arbitrary government that should no longer be ruling and that does not seem to care about the situation of the townships. I hope the t-shirts truly do become artifacts sooner than later - when citizens vote in a worthier party that is not leaning, as the ANC is, towards more radical "nationalist" rhetoric. Their Youth leader, Julius Malema, has recently been highlighted in a controversy surrounding what is clearly hate speech - he publicly sang a struggle song which includes the lyrics "one bullet, one Boer."
A final note: a friend's political science professor is not voting. She is fed up with the ANC, but she will not vote for the DA either. Why? Because the party is still "too white." When will the legacy of race dissolve?
Read more: http://mg.co.za/article/2011-05-16-zuma-malema-creating-racial-divisions-says-zille
Monday, May 16, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Rainy Day Thoughts
Before I begin: readers should know to check my facebook profile for hundreds of recently posted pictures, as it is very difficult to post them on this blog.
Sheets of rain move over Port Elizabeth; the pages of the storm are like that out of the longest book, it is in this fashion that the torrent claims the entire day – dawn until dusk. Mini-bus horns trill in the distance and the streets are still cluttered with people, though the pace picks up in these conditions. I’m happy for the downpour. My thoughts dissipate throughout my flat and I finally have hours to organize them.
Lately I’ve been collecting various editions of the Herald, which is one of the largest newspapers in the Eastern Cape. For a mere 5 Rand, I can keep checks on the pace of the May 18th municipal elections and the various outbursts and controversies erupting around the ANC and the DA, the two significant contenders. Story one: ANC official’s plans to build a mansion in a notoriously poor township district are scrutinized; he claims that it is only by coincidence that the billion-dollar road plans for the area are altered to included a paved section next to his home. Story two: housing distribution is riddled with fraud, nepotism, and defective homes; uncompleted housing and a lack of organization by unskilled project managers is met by the DA’s statement of plans to revamp the accommodation projects should their party win seats. But there is a third story that catches my eye – on critical education in the townships. First, to give you context:
The promises of these parties are met with intense skepticism on the part of community leaders in the townships. As I was told by a grandmother who voluntarily runs a cafeteria at the secondary school (down the street from the school I teach at), she finds it sad that she and many others can no longer put faith in the party that ushered in their liberation. After 1994, many expected a protracted engagement of disadvantaged communities by ANC officials. Now, not only do many of the township schools no longer receive any funding (many teachers work without pay), but the only time that they ever do see the ANC is during the elections. Their repeated campaign strategy is a running joke – entering particular township neighborhoods ever 5 years to hand out groceries and blankets in turn for support. After that, besides stopping by to install a few more billboards with Zuma’s face plastered everywhere, the ruling party is a ghost. “They don’t care about us anymore,” said Mr. Qunta yesterday, the principal of a township secondary school. “But we’ve learned to come up with our own solutions and find sponsors for our materials and our children.”
I too find it incredibly challenging to give the 55 children in our English class a proper lesson plan when we lack so many basic materials. Though the students are nevertheless adamant about their education, what I want to find are books and articles that are accessible to them and that speak to their particular struggles, passions, and personal histories. I want them to relate to the characters in the stories and, furthermore, inform or measure written accounts against their own. So you can imagine my elation when I came across this final article in the paper: a book project called “Harmony High” – a fictional township high school series written to enthuse young readers with stories relevant to their lives. How awesome is that? I’m looking to pick up a copy to distribute among some of my students.
Sheets of rain move over Port Elizabeth; the pages of the storm are like that out of the longest book, it is in this fashion that the torrent claims the entire day – dawn until dusk. Mini-bus horns trill in the distance and the streets are still cluttered with people, though the pace picks up in these conditions. I’m happy for the downpour. My thoughts dissipate throughout my flat and I finally have hours to organize them.
Lately I’ve been collecting various editions of the Herald, which is one of the largest newspapers in the Eastern Cape. For a mere 5 Rand, I can keep checks on the pace of the May 18th municipal elections and the various outbursts and controversies erupting around the ANC and the DA, the two significant contenders. Story one: ANC official’s plans to build a mansion in a notoriously poor township district are scrutinized; he claims that it is only by coincidence that the billion-dollar road plans for the area are altered to included a paved section next to his home. Story two: housing distribution is riddled with fraud, nepotism, and defective homes; uncompleted housing and a lack of organization by unskilled project managers is met by the DA’s statement of plans to revamp the accommodation projects should their party win seats. But there is a third story that catches my eye – on critical education in the townships. First, to give you context:
The promises of these parties are met with intense skepticism on the part of community leaders in the townships. As I was told by a grandmother who voluntarily runs a cafeteria at the secondary school (down the street from the school I teach at), she finds it sad that she and many others can no longer put faith in the party that ushered in their liberation. After 1994, many expected a protracted engagement of disadvantaged communities by ANC officials. Now, not only do many of the township schools no longer receive any funding (many teachers work without pay), but the only time that they ever do see the ANC is during the elections. Their repeated campaign strategy is a running joke – entering particular township neighborhoods ever 5 years to hand out groceries and blankets in turn for support. After that, besides stopping by to install a few more billboards with Zuma’s face plastered everywhere, the ruling party is a ghost. “They don’t care about us anymore,” said Mr. Qunta yesterday, the principal of a township secondary school. “But we’ve learned to come up with our own solutions and find sponsors for our materials and our children.”
I too find it incredibly challenging to give the 55 children in our English class a proper lesson plan when we lack so many basic materials. Though the students are nevertheless adamant about their education, what I want to find are books and articles that are accessible to them and that speak to their particular struggles, passions, and personal histories. I want them to relate to the characters in the stories and, furthermore, inform or measure written accounts against their own. So you can imagine my elation when I came across this final article in the paper: a book project called “Harmony High” – a fictional township high school series written to enthuse young readers with stories relevant to their lives. How awesome is that? I’m looking to pick up a copy to distribute among some of my students.
Chasing fairies and cows on the Wild Coast
23 April 2011
After 4 hours of mid-intensity hiking through the rolling hills that slope down – sometimes gently, sometimes violently in the guise of jutting cliffs – to the sea, Terry and I could hardly tame our groaning stomachs. We cut a line parallel to the rhythmic ushering of the tide, which broke on shores crowded with cattle. Quite a hilarious sight. Imagine going for a swim on the most beautiful, isolated beach and topping your afternoon off chasing fattened cows through the white sand. This is truly the more rural South Africa we’d been dying to see: the Transkei, or the Wild Coast as it is widely known, is where the agrarian lifestyle of small Xhosa villages remains somewhat untouched by the globalizing tendencies of its urban counterparts. On the one hand, the entire display of forest, green hills, and sea coupled with a spattering of huts is captivating. But on the other hand, the region is impoverished – children run after your car begging for sweets or spare change. Older kids begin to sell crafts and jewelry (and hostels promote these healthier activities to guests seeking to give back), but many also sell drugs (in Coffee Bay – psychedelic mushrooms were offered by all ages). We were once approached by a man, who, after we turned down the shrooms, whipped out a huge black bag filled with live lobsters. R100 each.
Clusters of huts typically belong to one family: that is, one man with multiple wives – each with her own hut. The principal of the secondary school that we visited last week believes that this tradition of polygamy is a major cause for the continuing spread of HIV/AIDS.
Lumbering along a trail that occasionally became confused with the attention-deficit meandering of goat paths, we eventually decided to scale a sizeable cliff so as to regain a view of where the actual trail might be. As we scrambled to the top a half hour later, far below we saw a boy waving his hands and running after us. This isn’t unusual. Along the way to “Hole in the Wall”, at least 20 children will, for money, try to guide you to the landmark. Thinking it impossible that the boy would catch up, imagine our surprise when he stumbles beside us a mere 5 minutes later, barefoot. Impressive climbing deserves reward. The boy’s name was J.J; I gave him 10 Rand to help us find the trail – his eyes widened in glee. Below us, fishermen hauled huge hake into the small towns clustered by the beach.
Overall, our trip to Coffee Bay was quite eye-opening. Packs of horseback riders would form caravans near the roads, transporting goods between villages. Sitting in circles or playing games near the roads or power-line poles were groups of children. As you come over the crest of a hill, a burst of color will break the undulating rural landscape: soccer games. Indeed, all activity is organized around roads; where we use the airwaves to stay connected, in the Transkei, roads form the medium of communication and the locale for news or means of transportation. Hitchhikers jut out into the road waving signs; in Africa there is always a way to fit one more.
On a separate occasion, a friend travelling in our car had seen small children filling the potholes with tar and asking cars for 2 Rand in return. The uncomfortable gap between the tourist spots along the Wild Coast route and the widespread poverty just on the outskirts of guesthouses or hostels is appalling.
While trying to avoid potholes and livestock, the bustle of people also weave in and out of the pavement. Women carry 10 foot long bundles of wood on their heads and small children lead donkeys, topped with their siblings, bumping along beside their mothers. We drove by ruins of schools, breweries, or simply incomplete buildings, abandoned during construction. Signs for all businesses were the same: either Coca-Cola or Vodacom are the standard backdrop, even if the business is a hospital, not a cell phone company.
Side-note: Driving norms are especially interesting in South Africa. People are certainly a lot less hostile. When you are looking to pass somebody on a two-lane highway, they move over into the shoulder to make it easier for you to get by with oncoming traffic. An absolutely brilliant system. After you pass, the unspoken and widespread norm is to flash your hazards in gratitude; sometimes they will flash their brights back. I can’t think of any similar gesture in the U.S; we usually only express anger, using hands, fingers, and horns.
The Transkei was unquestionably my favorite part of South Africa. When hitch-hiking back to Coffee Bay at sunset, we were picked up by a large and generous Indian family. We hopped onto the back bumper and held onto the roof for dear life as we clamored and rattled over each hill on the uneven road. As the last of the sunlight bathed the green hills and the metal cone roofs of the huts, we waved and yelled what we did know in Xhosa to bands of kids, who laughed and returned our imperfect greetings. It was the finest 4x4 ride I’ve ever had.
After 4 hours of mid-intensity hiking through the rolling hills that slope down – sometimes gently, sometimes violently in the guise of jutting cliffs – to the sea, Terry and I could hardly tame our groaning stomachs. We cut a line parallel to the rhythmic ushering of the tide, which broke on shores crowded with cattle. Quite a hilarious sight. Imagine going for a swim on the most beautiful, isolated beach and topping your afternoon off chasing fattened cows through the white sand. This is truly the more rural South Africa we’d been dying to see: the Transkei, or the Wild Coast as it is widely known, is where the agrarian lifestyle of small Xhosa villages remains somewhat untouched by the globalizing tendencies of its urban counterparts. On the one hand, the entire display of forest, green hills, and sea coupled with a spattering of huts is captivating. But on the other hand, the region is impoverished – children run after your car begging for sweets or spare change. Older kids begin to sell crafts and jewelry (and hostels promote these healthier activities to guests seeking to give back), but many also sell drugs (in Coffee Bay – psychedelic mushrooms were offered by all ages). We were once approached by a man, who, after we turned down the shrooms, whipped out a huge black bag filled with live lobsters. R100 each.
Clusters of huts typically belong to one family: that is, one man with multiple wives – each with her own hut. The principal of the secondary school that we visited last week believes that this tradition of polygamy is a major cause for the continuing spread of HIV/AIDS.
Lumbering along a trail that occasionally became confused with the attention-deficit meandering of goat paths, we eventually decided to scale a sizeable cliff so as to regain a view of where the actual trail might be. As we scrambled to the top a half hour later, far below we saw a boy waving his hands and running after us. This isn’t unusual. Along the way to “Hole in the Wall”, at least 20 children will, for money, try to guide you to the landmark. Thinking it impossible that the boy would catch up, imagine our surprise when he stumbles beside us a mere 5 minutes later, barefoot. Impressive climbing deserves reward. The boy’s name was J.J; I gave him 10 Rand to help us find the trail – his eyes widened in glee. Below us, fishermen hauled huge hake into the small towns clustered by the beach.
Overall, our trip to Coffee Bay was quite eye-opening. Packs of horseback riders would form caravans near the roads, transporting goods between villages. Sitting in circles or playing games near the roads or power-line poles were groups of children. As you come over the crest of a hill, a burst of color will break the undulating rural landscape: soccer games. Indeed, all activity is organized around roads; where we use the airwaves to stay connected, in the Transkei, roads form the medium of communication and the locale for news or means of transportation. Hitchhikers jut out into the road waving signs; in Africa there is always a way to fit one more.
On a separate occasion, a friend travelling in our car had seen small children filling the potholes with tar and asking cars for 2 Rand in return. The uncomfortable gap between the tourist spots along the Wild Coast route and the widespread poverty just on the outskirts of guesthouses or hostels is appalling.
While trying to avoid potholes and livestock, the bustle of people also weave in and out of the pavement. Women carry 10 foot long bundles of wood on their heads and small children lead donkeys, topped with their siblings, bumping along beside their mothers. We drove by ruins of schools, breweries, or simply incomplete buildings, abandoned during construction. Signs for all businesses were the same: either Coca-Cola or Vodacom are the standard backdrop, even if the business is a hospital, not a cell phone company.
Side-note: Driving norms are especially interesting in South Africa. People are certainly a lot less hostile. When you are looking to pass somebody on a two-lane highway, they move over into the shoulder to make it easier for you to get by with oncoming traffic. An absolutely brilliant system. After you pass, the unspoken and widespread norm is to flash your hazards in gratitude; sometimes they will flash their brights back. I can’t think of any similar gesture in the U.S; we usually only express anger, using hands, fingers, and horns.
The Transkei was unquestionably my favorite part of South Africa. When hitch-hiking back to Coffee Bay at sunset, we were picked up by a large and generous Indian family. We hopped onto the back bumper and held onto the roof for dear life as we clamored and rattled over each hill on the uneven road. As the last of the sunlight bathed the green hills and the metal cone roofs of the huts, we waved and yelled what we did know in Xhosa to bands of kids, who laughed and returned our imperfect greetings. It was the finest 4x4 ride I’ve ever had.
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