I had written about half this blog before my comp got stolen, but now I have to start from scratch, which is too bad because the other one was really good. I mean it was poetic. I'm not even going to be modest about it.
I guess I'll start my general reflections with some of the myths and common misconceptions of townships like Kayamandi, some of which I was guilty of believing. Consider how you individually perceive the physical and social geography of a township, or even any major slum around the world like those in Brazil or India. I imagined an utterly dismal pit of misery, desperation, and suffering: widespread crime, alcoholism, gang activity, drug use, rape, and the list goes on. While these conditions do exist and will continue for the foreseeable future, that is only one half to the story. The other is one of Ubuntu and community togetherness. Here, ambition, pride, and honesty surface. You can feel the ambition among the youth - the dancers, soccer players, and singers - the pride in the home of the mother of twelve children, and honesty in the general absence of theft. Joy was to be found in the meager tin, plywood, and metal dwellings. I saw joy in Lily's tears as she was finishing her story, one that she had probably told hundreds of times; fun in the playful competitiveness of kids playing soccer in the street; ambition and commitment in of the youth dance program; talent in the voices of the teenage choir.
The "never be in a township after dark" fear is another of Selwyn's myths. As we walked beyond the vicinity of the tour van after dark had fallen, in the narrow alleys that weave through the conglameration of shacks, with my camera in the front pocket of my hoodie and children swarming all around, I couldn't have felt any safer. Selwyn told us that the kangaroo court system is responsible for community orderliness and the general absence of crime. Because it is so hard to hide in a place where virtually everyone knows everyone, this system of street justice protects people who manage to move up the social ladder. For example, a man who was eventually recognized as a cell phone stealer faced the kangaroo court of township elders for his sentence. They burned a tire around his neck as punishment, a way to convince him to never attempt robbery again and to show the community the consequences of petty theft. Another man was stripped naked, tied to the back of a car, and dragged around the township for a similar crime. This vigilante justice has its merits and flaws. The gruesome punishments and community surveillance system have made theft relatively obsolete, a non-occurrence. Rape, a frequent crime that is an outcome of a violent, male dominated society, contiues without prevention or prosecution by the system. Although, given this scenario you have to wonder, where are the federal police in township justice?
I think Hollywood is part to blame for some of these misconceptions. After all, suffering sells. So does poverty, gang violence, and drug use. Slumdog Millionaire, City of God, Hotel Rwanda, Tsotsi (an so on) informs, in large part, how we imagine places like Kayamandi. South Africa, a country so recently liberated from a violently oppressive system, is highly affected by these prevailing mental images. Understanding that apartheid is the most common association to "South Africa", the World Cup in 2010 provided the SA government a perfect opportunity to showcase the remarkable strides toward "change" that are being made. What better place to do this than in the townships that line the N2 national road that connects the airport to the city center. The government implemented a housing program that would build suitable houses for some of the township's residents. And from the road the houses look comfortable and attractive. Here's a pic of the houses of Project Gateway and an article on its failure. The recipients of these homes would suggest otherwise, as many have moved out and prefer their original (shack) homes. While the appearance is pleasing, the walls are paper thin, the lack of proper ventilation makes them incredibly stuffy in the summer heat, and the contruction is shoddy. The living conditions are fully inadequate, but that doesn't matter. After all, the government completed its objective. The thousands of fans who flew in for the World Cup could drive down the N2 could very clearly see the "progress" being made in the townships. It was little more than a cosmetic charade and a waste of funds, $2 billion. Selwyn was keen to remind that "apartheid is still very much with us".
Speaking of the faults of the The Man, Selwyn had us lured down the rabbit hole once again with a harrowing image of what apartheid really meant. He pointed towards a light that seemed unnecissarily tall and asked, "What do you make of those lights?" Nobody had any idea. Testing us he added, "OK, but what if you think of those lights in relation to this highway?" (Crickets...). "And what if I tell you their is a national road at the other side of this township?" I guess we're just a bunch of imperceptive ignoramuses, because we still didn't put the pieces together. After all the buildup Selwyn finally divulged. He indicated that in the event of an uprising, the army would be able to surround the township in a number of minutes. Because the lights were too tall to be shattered by the throw of a rock, they could light up the township as helicopters flew overhead. The setup of any township in South Africa is similar, with the evenly distributed surveillance lights and enclosure by national roads. As we drove past later that night, and all the lights were lit up, I truly had a sense of how chilling the repression must have been. In his memoir of coming of age in apartheid South Africa, Kaffir Boy, Mark Mathabane described how traumatic the random night police raids were as a child, as well as the widespread sources of terror in apartheid life.
On the return trip, I was sitting shotgun and wasn't following the conversations in the back, but heard Robbie talking about Kevin Spacey. Selwyn entered the conversation, while I was still lost, and they kept talking about Kevin Spacey. Finally I had to ask what all this Spacey gibberjabber was all about. Selwyn said, "You know the movie 21? That's based off me." In utter disbelief I asked, "What do you mean?" In a conversation that would consume the remainder of the trip (and for close to 30 minutes after we arrived back at the Barrington house), Selwyn told stories from his card counting days: He told us that he was one of four mentors that worked with the MIT students to master cardcounting, he explained where in the movie the true story was adjusted in order to sensationalize it, and told of other gambling schemes from Seattle to Newport. He educate us in the art of legal, casino-style highway robbery. If you take $100 Canadian dollars to American casinos across the border, they will give you $110 in playable chips (to entice the Cannucks). By following basic blackjack strategy, and exchanging the playables with cashable chips you're almost guaranteed to have an 8% return. And when you're playing with huge sums of money (private investments from Europe to the MIT team), the winnings aren't too shabby. Selwyn said he continued this for a while "until he just got bored" and "realized that money isn't everything". He told us how he had discovered, in a Take 5-like computer gambling game at a country club in Newport, RI, a basic algorithm that held the secret to the game. He called up his crew, and they drained the country club dry by exploiting that one machine. He remembered how befuddled the owners were because they were used to oldtimers making casual dime/quarter bets at the clubhouse. All of a sudden, fourteen guys came in and spent all day making $10-$20 bets. This scheme only lasted three days max, but he assured the spoils were handsome. He tested us, like he probably did the MIT team, with riddles, magic tricks, and brain-teasers the entire trip, and added more casino escapades and stories.
You're probably thinking that I'm just a gullible smuck, falling for a cheap scam. But the 21 digression wasn't part of the tour "routine", it was a tangent. Selwyn wasn't even the person to bring it up, he filled us in only after he heard Robbie and company talking about it in the back (Josh's mom had toured with Selwyn when she was visiting, and the rumor had spread). Further, there was something about Selwyn's character that made the story conceivable. He was giving us a free tour, even paid for our lunch, and hung around after his tour to just chat it up because he wanted to educate some young minds about true township culture. He was one of the most down to earth, genuine, and fascinating people I have ever met. A 21 gimmick, simply doesn't make an ounce of sense to me.
The Kayamandi experience was the first time I was witnessed and participated in a non-Western culture, with quite a different worldview. Selwyn's method of engagement instead of spectation -which most tours provide, and is sort of dehumanizing/zoo-like - gave the five of us a glimpse into a world of unexpected social beauty beside the pain of destitution. I felt the essense of revolutionary song in the church mass, I saw the difficulty of life in the communal water pump, I heard pride in the song of the youth choir, and competed with the street footy skillz of Kayamandi's finest. Those kids can ball.
(Special thanks to Seb for the use of his computer for this blog)
I bless the rains down in Africa
Friday, June 8, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
McLovin in Cape Town
As some of you may have heard, I got robbed on my own street last night
by three guys who pulled up with their car, the hatchback bandits. First, they drove by,
stopped, and asked me where Church Street is. I told them I'm not
familiar with streets around here, so they pulled a U-turn at the next
intersection and sped away. I made it halfway down my street and they
came speeding back, stopping next to me on the sidewalk. A guy from the
back gets out, grabs my arm while threatening to pull out a weapon in
his jacket, and says "Get in the car, get in the car". I back up, and
say "I'm not getting in the car", then drop my backpack and grocery bag. The guy hesitates, then grabs my backpack, gets back in the car, and they make their getaway.
Now you're probably wondering, what's the damage? My Camelbak backpack
(which I was quite fond of) contained my Macbook Pro laptop and charger,
my iPod, Columbia jacket, glasses, and house keys...let's say $1,500. But, I was fortunate to walk away with my cell phone, wallet, most comfortable pants, apple juice, and shrimp flavored ramen noodles. All is not lost.
The loss of money is definitely a bummer. But luckily, I see this incidence from a new perspective. I still have my life, running water, and comfy pants, and can probably earn the money lost in three weeks. What really makes me angry is the loss of all the pictures and movies I have taken here in Cape Town, the masterful collection of music on my iPod, the Word document I had saved about teaching methods and techniques that were inspired by different university professors, and all of my past essays. But these "challenges" are laughable when compared to those of Lily and other Kayamandi residents. In the end, it's about perspective. Samuel L. Jackson's character from Pulp Fiction, Jules, has a few words to say about good, evil, and perspective:
"There's this passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is The Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." I been saying that shit for years. And if you heard it, that meant your ass. I never gave much thought to what it meant. I just thought it was some cold-blooded shit to say to a motherfucker before I popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this morning made me think twice. See, now I'm thinking, maybe it means you're the evil man, and I'm the righteous man, and Mr. 9 millimeter here, he's the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could mean you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is, you're the weak, and I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm trying, Ringo. I'm trying real hard to be the shepherd."
Quoting Pulp Fiction makes me feel pretty badass, and while I'll never be able to exact revenge personally, at least I can make fun of the thieves behind their backs. I mean these guys were a bunch of fuckin' amateurs - they let me go with wallet and cell phone in pocket. So, a) if they had any skill in the art of theft they could have taken my atm card and withdrawn all the money from my account in 5 minutes time; and b) let me get away with a phone I used to call the police. I mean, come on, that's absolutely pathetic. It would be like taking money from the register at a bank, while ignoring the vault, if you were to attempt a robbery. BURN!
My night did not end there. Eventually the cops showed up to take me to the station for all the formalities and to file a complaint. First we drove around Rondebosch and the surrounding areas to see if the thieves were feeling risky enough to double down their bet. We drove around for about ten minutes, when they got another call on the radio, causing them both to go into high alert mode. The one cop looks back and asks, "Do you mind if we make a detour?" What did he think I was going to say - no officer, I would rather not pursue this call that may be a life-threatening situation for someone, thanks for asking though (sarcasm). He turns on the flashers and puts the pedal to the metal, like the Millennium Falcon going into light-speed. Meanwhile, I'm in the back seat, having trouble digging the seat belt buckle out of the cushion, slightly freakin' out. With the tight roads, high speeds, and cars ahead simply ignoring the siren, I didn't exactly feel safe. Talk about suspense - I have no idea who or what we were apprehending at top speeds, the adrenaline was pumping. The car was a manual and there were a number of speed bumps around the neighborhoods, so the car was bumping all over the place (it was kinda like that one stationary-car-rollercoaster thing that used to exist at funscape, for all those lucky enough to know what I'm talking about). The driver didn't see one of the speed bumps that we hit at a pretty high speed, and he was courteous enough to look back and apologize once the car touched back down. Finally, we get to the scene of the crime, where six cop cars are surrounding this one small sedan. We didn't stay for long because the situation was very much under control.
I felt a bit like McLovin in Superbad, cruising around with two cops, joking with them between the pursuit. After that whole charade, I heard "79 Albion Road" (my house) come from the radio. The cop looked back and said, "Well, I guess the call just went out for your complaint" with a bit of a laugh. That means the thieves had about 25 minutes to get away before any police units were notified. If you were at all wondering about the police system in Cape Town, I think that says it all. Later they asked how their driving was, to which I replied, "A bit crazier than what I'm used to. But I'm from the suburbs, so it doesn't really count." He says, "What? Like NASCAR?" I joke, "Are you trying to call me a redneck?" It was some good fun and helped to distract the fact that I just lost some serious moolah.
Now, I think it's fair to say that I've had the full Cape Town experience.
The loss of money is definitely a bummer. But luckily, I see this incidence from a new perspective. I still have my life, running water, and comfy pants, and can probably earn the money lost in three weeks. What really makes me angry is the loss of all the pictures and movies I have taken here in Cape Town, the masterful collection of music on my iPod, the Word document I had saved about teaching methods and techniques that were inspired by different university professors, and all of my past essays. But these "challenges" are laughable when compared to those of Lily and other Kayamandi residents. In the end, it's about perspective. Samuel L. Jackson's character from Pulp Fiction, Jules, has a few words to say about good, evil, and perspective:
"There's this passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. "The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is The Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." I been saying that shit for years. And if you heard it, that meant your ass. I never gave much thought to what it meant. I just thought it was some cold-blooded shit to say to a motherfucker before I popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this morning made me think twice. See, now I'm thinking, maybe it means you're the evil man, and I'm the righteous man, and Mr. 9 millimeter here, he's the shepherd protecting my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could mean you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is, you're the weak, and I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm trying, Ringo. I'm trying real hard to be the shepherd."
Quoting Pulp Fiction makes me feel pretty badass, and while I'll never be able to exact revenge personally, at least I can make fun of the thieves behind their backs. I mean these guys were a bunch of fuckin' amateurs - they let me go with wallet and cell phone in pocket. So, a) if they had any skill in the art of theft they could have taken my atm card and withdrawn all the money from my account in 5 minutes time; and b) let me get away with a phone I used to call the police. I mean, come on, that's absolutely pathetic. It would be like taking money from the register at a bank, while ignoring the vault, if you were to attempt a robbery. BURN!
My night did not end there. Eventually the cops showed up to take me to the station for all the formalities and to file a complaint. First we drove around Rondebosch and the surrounding areas to see if the thieves were feeling risky enough to double down their bet. We drove around for about ten minutes, when they got another call on the radio, causing them both to go into high alert mode. The one cop looks back and asks, "Do you mind if we make a detour?" What did he think I was going to say - no officer, I would rather not pursue this call that may be a life-threatening situation for someone, thanks for asking though (sarcasm). He turns on the flashers and puts the pedal to the metal, like the Millennium Falcon going into light-speed. Meanwhile, I'm in the back seat, having trouble digging the seat belt buckle out of the cushion, slightly freakin' out. With the tight roads, high speeds, and cars ahead simply ignoring the siren, I didn't exactly feel safe. Talk about suspense - I have no idea who or what we were apprehending at top speeds, the adrenaline was pumping. The car was a manual and there were a number of speed bumps around the neighborhoods, so the car was bumping all over the place (it was kinda like that one stationary-car-rollercoaster thing that used to exist at funscape, for all those lucky enough to know what I'm talking about). The driver didn't see one of the speed bumps that we hit at a pretty high speed, and he was courteous enough to look back and apologize once the car touched back down. Finally, we get to the scene of the crime, where six cop cars are surrounding this one small sedan. We didn't stay for long because the situation was very much under control.
I felt a bit like McLovin in Superbad, cruising around with two cops, joking with them between the pursuit. After that whole charade, I heard "79 Albion Road" (my house) come from the radio. The cop looked back and said, "Well, I guess the call just went out for your complaint" with a bit of a laugh. That means the thieves had about 25 minutes to get away before any police units were notified. If you were at all wondering about the police system in Cape Town, I think that says it all. Later they asked how their driving was, to which I replied, "A bit crazier than what I'm used to. But I'm from the suburbs, so it doesn't really count." He says, "What? Like NASCAR?" I joke, "Are you trying to call me a redneck?" It was some good fun and helped to distract the fact that I just lost some serious moolah.
Now, I think it's fair to say that I've had the full Cape Town experience.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Kayamandi Township II
Back in the van, Selwyn drives us
around the township, making four particular stops. First, he maneuvers his
giant van through the dirt avenues that link the condensed shack area in the
heart of Kayamandi. Like the master of suspense that Selwyn is, he hands out
plastic bags to a number of kids who immediately flock to the van, yelling
“Laduma, Laduma!” Without telling us what’s going on, he backs out of the spot
to the pavement roads, and tells us we’ll find out later what happens with
those bags. Next stop, we meet about 20-30 kids in the street where Laduma
tells the leader of the group to get his guys ready, again leaving us
wondering. Next he stops at a heavily secured house whose appearance stands
apart from all that surrounds. This is the home of a beneficiary of state
mismanagement, an ugly site of government corruption in a developmental housing
tax program that has become a major failure. Selwyn tells us the owner is
shameless of his greed despite the deplorable environment that surrounds. He tells
of another of his many initiatives, a program that replaces firewood ash with
toothbrushes and toothpaste for dental hygiene, as the former breaks teeth down
over time.
Thirdly, he drives to another
upper-class house in Kayamandi, where a white family chooses to live because of
the attraction of Ubuntu and tightly-knit community. The father of this family
is a wealthy lawyer who whips around a Land Rover, but is still a fundamental
part of the community – every Saturday, he allows students in the township to
use his printers because such technology and public facilities are rare. The
family says that they choose to live here because you cannot find relationships
so genuine anywhere else. He has been nominated by the community to be mayor of
Kayamandi. Lastly, we return to the large group of kids who are now assembled
in a team of six with goals for a short game of street footy. We played to
three with a soccer ball that was dead flat, and it was a heated affair. The
kids ended up taking us down 3-2, despite some late-game goalie heroics on my
part. After the game, the kids all surrounded you, jumped on you for a
piggyback, and ask to be lifted up to the sky. They held your hands, arms, and
legs, anything they could get a hold of really. You feel like Jesus walking
through a tunnel of palms waving, as your followers sing “Hosannah, Hosannah”. My
apologies for the sacrilege, but the sad thing is, for a lot of the younger
kids, that may actually be how they perceive you.
As we are finishing the Kayamandi loop
and heading back to the shack area, Selwyn reveals his “learn-to-earn”
methodology that will hopefully teach children to earn money rather than beg
for it. The kids had to fill their grocery bags with trash collected from
around the township in order to earn
an apple. The gains are threefold: keep the township clean, instill the concept
that rewards require work, and feed hungry children. This seemingly
insignificant apple project works to curb the culture of begging and replace it
with incentives for innovation, ingenuity, and creativity. But before we hand
out the apples, there are still more destinations on our tour. Dusk has set in
at this point, which, according to most tour operators, is incredibly dangerous
and something to be avoided at all costs. With my camera in the front pocket of
my hoodie and kids swarming all around, in the dark of night, in the middle of
shacks in Kayamandi, I was shocked at how safe I felt. Moving away from the vicinity
of our tour van, we enter a house that is typical of all the shacks surrounding
us – a very small two-room shed without running water or sanitation. The
grandmother who raised twelve children in this home was at church, our next
destination, but Selwyn informed of some of the children from this home who had
gone on to complete university degrees and enter the professional field. It’s
quite perplexing to understand how the persistence of human will can prevail against
such overwhelming adversity.
Here's a photo of the communal water source where many of the residents find their only source of running water. Selwyn told us that kids learn to balance jugs of water on their head early on, so that by adulthood, their neck muscles can balance around 55 pounds. The stereotypical pictures of African women balancing containers on their head should be understood, in Selwyn's eyes, as a crime against humanity:
The religious aspect of the township
was perhaps the most fascinating. Forget about the soulful worship of the
Harlem gospels or the New Age church nonsense, the piety in this tiny, one-room
shack church was more passionate than anything I have ever seen or heard of. The
function of the Church is a bit different than your average Christian
denomination. At any of the 65 churches in this one township, people raise
papers containing the names of loved ones that have fallen ill, whom they pray for
recovery. On the wall of the church there were different representations of
religious iconography, including the Star of David, the Crucifix, and pictures
of Jesus and other saints. For 1.5-2 hours every night, the congregation jumps
and sings the same hymn repeatedly, as the priest and deacons pound on this
deep, booming hand pillow. The tin and wooden planks that form the structures
are useless in containing the massively audible songs. Remember, this is one
small room with anywhere between 40-60 people moving constantly. Essentially,
it’s like doing a Richard Simmons routine in a sauna. While we watched outside,
a woman left the congregation to vomit. If there is anyone deserving of a
“Jesus is my homeboy” t-shirt, I think she makes a praiseworthy case (pun
intended).
To our surprise, Selwyn then led us
into the church and we were accepted like nothing unusual had happened. After
spending about five minutes jumping, hands raised, and confused whether to
focus on the Star of David or odd Jesus pictures, we leave the premise
sweating. Standing in the yard outside looking in, someone in our group asked
if our intrusion was at all offensive or disrespectful. “Had we stayed for
another five minutes,” Selwyn responded, “they would have stopped the song to
say a prayer for you.” The undivided acceptance is similar to the taboo of
knocking on doors; of course they welcome worshippers with open arms. Ubuntu,
after all, is about shared humanity, whether expressed in a church, home, or
soccer game, or among people of different racial, religious, or economic
backgrounds. And if things aren’t hectic enough in this depiction of church
life, the constant turnover of membership is quite a common phenomenon. The
belief here is that if your prayers for sick loved ones go unanswered, and the
people die, that means that the specific church is to blame. So they move on
and try another…
In
this atmosphere of physically condensed worship and the passionate aura of
song, the potential for revolution became so clear to me. There is a very well
done documentary about song in the revolution against apartheid called Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony. Music and song are one of those incredibly powerful forces
that people often fail to recognize as a potent aspect of social change in the
past. For the 1920s in Harlem this was jazz, or blues in New Orleans; in the
‘60s it was gospel for freedom fighters, folk for activists, or even rock and
roll for anti-war Vietnam protestors. Being in that little church shack, you
felt a passion that could translate
into self-sacrifice when circumstances reached a boiling point. Selwyn
foreshadowed the potential for revolution among the township communities,
arguing that the forsaken promises of the Mandela era are resulting in deeply
suppressed tensions. Yes, kids are escaping the township to go on to
university, but the dismal economic state of the country and growing
unemployment is often a betrayal to the rare successes. Economic subservience
remains, expectations for change are swelling, and the body of qualified,
unemployed individuals from these communities is ripe for revolution. Before
every fears the next apocalypse in South Africa, remember these musings are
only based on one day in a township and the generalizations of an experienced
tour guide. Without a proper study, such speculation is unreliable at best.
For the final leg of our Kayamandi
experience, Selwyn brings us to the gathering of a youth choir practicing in
the house of the lead member. He wanted us to meet some of our peers to
understand what motivates them and the challenges they face. In another room
packed wall-to-wall, song is again the feature, and its resonance was as strong
as the church’s. The group formed a circle and spread those of us on the tour throughout
the circle. They sang one complete song, and midway through the second pulled Alie
in for a solo. Then I get reeled in by one of the group leaders, and was forced
to bellow out a soulful solo, “When you pick up your self” with the chorus response
“by the side of the Lord”. I must admit I was quite eager to flex my pipes in
front of my biggest singing audience ever - I knew that my fifteen years of
training in the shower would come in handy at some point. The volume of the
song was commanding, loud, and full, and you could see in the faces and feel in
the chorus that sense of deep passion and pride that characterized the whole of
Kayamandi. The main singer of the group, who has been doing this for fifteen
years, had unbelievable talent. Selwyn advised the group to create a video
instead of pursuing outside recognition through CD format, because having the
visual of the chorus atmosphere can affect an emotional response more
profoundly. Selwyn’s micromanagement and personal advice to individuals and
groups in Kayamandi is admirable, and by no means taken for granted in this
community.
In my final blog about the Kayamandi, I’ll give my
reflections and conclusions formed about the experience, and maybe even include
lessons that can be learned. Also, you’ll discover something about Selwyn that many
of you will fail to believe, but it is something that I am completely sold on
after spending 10 hours with him.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Kayamandi Township
Yesterday, Tuesday May 22, 2012, I had one of the most bizarre and fascinating days of my life. Because I have quite a lot of free time in between finals, I decided to spend the day wandering around Cape Town. As I was about to hop in a minibus, my good friend Flaxman calls me and asks me if I want to do a township tour. At first I put down his offer because I already had the township experience early on and with SHAWCO, and didn’t want to pay a guy who would just drive around and provide the normal tour guide bs. He said it was free of charge, so I said what the hell, I’m in. Little did I know I would be getting a tour from undoubtedly the most reputable tour guide in Cape Town, with an amazing lunch included, for about 10 hours. Our guide, Selwyn Davidowitz, had given similar tours to Danny Glover, Mel Gibson, Barbara and Walter Cronkite, and actually turned down Chris Rock in his career.
Selwyn
was one of the most personal, genuine, and intriguing people I have ever met
(for reasons I’ll later explain), but gave us a free tour because he had a
stake in the future of Kayamandi township, and all other townships for that
matter. He has been involved with Kayamandi for close to twenty years,
implementing community development initiatives and becoming an important figure
in the community. The kids all affectionately yell “Laduma”, or “GOAL”, as we
drive and walk by. After the World Cup, Selwyn was given this nickname, and it
stuck. Selwyn had three purposes for the tour: 1) To dispel myths about
township life, 2) To have us intimately engage with people of the township, and
3) to reveal current conditions and expectations of the future (which are quite
alarming, according to his understanding). Before witnessing the inhumanities
that characterize life in these environs, Selwyn would take us to the place of
his college years, a place well known for its wine, rugby, and high culture. I’m
referring to Stellenbosch, the former bastion of Afrikaner Nationalist
sentiment, where the political party that came to power to design and implement
apartheid emerged. To give some perspective, Selwyn recalled a common epithet
of the late rugby coach, who used to say, “A black will never wear the Green
and Gold”, meaning the rugby uniform of the national rugby team. His statue
still stands next to the rugby fields, a testament to the past and enduring
symbol of rugby as a white-only sport. This exercise in witnessing unimaginable
disparity – between that of Stellenbosch and Kayamandi Township – profoundly
amplified the tour experience in a way that is possible in very few places
around the world.
We
arrived in Stellenbosch, where Selwyn had planned a lunch at a small, intimate
bakery. The Panini, desert, and microbrew were individually the best foods I
have eaten my entire stay in Cape Town – and Laduma paid for it all. During
lunch, he gave us the entire, condensed history of South Africa, explaining
what forced the Afrikaner government to impose such drastic racial measures
upon coming to power in the 1940s. He also explained customs, etiquette, and
social expectations that we should adhere to in Kayamandi, but most importantly,
he described the cultural philosophy of Ubuntu. One of the most unique features
of township life, Ubuntu loosely means that your existence is dependent on the
relationship you have with others. In other words, my hardship is our hardship.
Ubuntu is a spiritual ethos as much a social force for efficient communal
organization; this, in my opinion, is what separates traditional African
lifestyles from Western conceptions of the world. Selwyn highlighted the
presence of Ubuntu as a community unifier, an arbiter for conflict, and place
township residents can find solace amidst the destitution that surrounds them.
Selwyn encouraged us to walk into people’s houses without knocking, because to
knock would be like saying to the homeowner, “Are you be proud of your house?”
when in fact they always take pride in their homes and have nothing to hide. Ubuntu
is revealed in the hours after residents return from work, when the streets are
filled with people talking, church services taking place, and groups of
children free to roam and play. The absence of electricity in many homes, and
thus lack of TV, means that the only source of entertainment is each other.
Ubuntu is an overwhelming feeling that you can only fully comprehend by
visiting and immersing yourself in the daily life. We were lucky enough to have
a glimpse of this, and even participate.
Following the lunch, we drove around
Stellenbosch University, whose beauty is comparable only to that of Stanford,
according to Selwyn’s opinion anyway. En route to Kayamandi, we stop to pick up
Lily, a township resident, whom we would later discover is featured on the South
Africa segment of CBS’s 1,000 places to see before you die.
Lily’s segment starts at 3:46 in this video:
At some point she lost
her job and took a financial risk on a small stove top (that is shown briefly
in the video). Again, against the wall of abject poverty, she did anything she
could to make money in an honest fashion – pride is immensely important in
township communities. She was divorced, unemployed, had two children to provide
for, and just enough money to purchase ingredients for scones, the saving grace
that catapulted her life. Because her scones became so popular in Kayamandi,
she continued to make more on that small stovetop, expanding her homestay
restaurant, which she named “Once Upon a Stove”. Gradually becoming a master of
traditional cuisine, and getting in touch with Selwyn, she traveled to Toronto
for an international food expo. Eventually, CBS recognized her story and her
“Once Upon a Stove” homestay restaurant, and that is where she is today – a
person recognizable as a member of the “1,000 places to see before you die”.
Again, this extraordinary opportunity came completely out of the blue for me.
Truly something ethereal.
Lily
continued to tell stories as we left her house, slowly making our way into the
van and then heading to a community center established by Selwyn. He runs a
dance program, which is based off a model in Harlem, that pays for children to
go to better schools if they can commit a full year to learning dance (the
movie Take the Lead is based on this
program). The program has multiple aims: to get kids away from drugs and off
the street, to instill virtues of discipline and commitment, and also to
encourage the boys to have more respect for their female partners. The kids are
chosen by their ability to commit, to prove they could adapt this commitment to
education, not by aptitude, tests scores, etc. The five of us on the tour provided
a unique opportunity for the kids to showcase their talent to someone from
outside the community. After they put on a few dance numbers, they asked us to
join, and taught us a few moves. As I would find out here and the rest of my
visit, participation is far more fulfilling than being a spectator at
Kayamandi.
What
did I mean when I said Lily’s past was not atypical for the Kayamandi
community? Well, to put it simply, Lily’s case is the slimmest-of-the-slim
minority. Although Ubuntu brings joy to a desperate place, the existence of
horror is unavoidable for some. Male chauvinism and the abuse of women are borne
out of the tribal tradition of the circumcision ritual that occurs when boys
turn 18. Nowadays, the friends of boys undergoing this ritual get them
intoxicated beyond belief so that no pain is felt in the circumcision by knife.
Following this archaic medical procedure (which has a 2% death rate due to the
use of a communal knife, possibly infected with HIV), boys become men by
surviving “in the bush”, without medical treatment and by their own devices. This
time period is also an indoctrination session, hereafter they are “taught to
see any woman as a bitch”, according to Selwyn. The cycle of male dominance in
the home is perpetuated, allowing rape and domestic abuse to go on unabated.
Later in the night, Selwyn explained how Friday nights could be a terrifying
experience for women, even young girls. Upon receiving the week’s pay on
Friday, men will head to the bar to get loaded on beer, and rape is widespread
in this context. These are broad generalizations, and the supposition that all
men in Kayamandi have a penchant for sexual violence is an injustice, however. One
of the girls who danced for us earlier in the evening, maybe 15-16 years old,
was the victim of gang rape. In a related tangent, another boy in the dance
program, also very young, had dropped out and fell into a drug habit for a few
months before returning to the program. It is amazing how useful and attractive
a simple dance program can be in the lives of such disillusioned youth.
As we
piled back into the van and headed for the next destination, a boy flagged down
the van to talk to Laduma. The kid had been an original teacher at the dance
center, who had been a student at the University of Western Cape, but dropped
out because he failed an audition. Selwyn, like a concerned high school
counselor, tried to give the boy some direction because he hated to see
stagnation in people with such talent. As we drove off, Selwyn explained his
deep concern for the kid who we learned was gay, for homosexuality is almost
universally condemned. The reality in Kayamandi, as well as other townships, is
that tremendously talented individuals can become enslaved to their own
communities and there is an absolutely giant obstacle to real opportunity.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
AfrikaBurn Music and Arts Festival
Freedom Day. Undoubtedly
the best public holiday known to man (besides Dog Shirt Day, of course) just
passed this Friday, April 27. Coincidentally, the weekend hosts one the most
freedom-loving, hippie utopias in all of Africa, the AfrikaBurn music and arts
festival held in the middle of the Karoo Desert. For four days, ultra-hippies,
or maybe just ordinary people who decide to embrace a new identity for a bit,
are free to trip on acid or ride around on a bicycle completely naked, but are
required to abide by one rule: the use of money is strictly forbidden. People
are encouraged to participate in the “gift economy”, which functions on the
basis that you are supposed to bring something to offer, no matter how humble
or exotic. Gifts range from free hugs, fruit, massages, homemade jewelry, and
instruments to condoms, drugs, and giant communal tanks of red wine.
Although my festival
experience is a bit atypical, I had two guiding principles:
1. Drug Free is the way to
be
I do this as a life
choice, but I also really enjoy watching people trip on acid and dance in
extremely creepy fashion.
2. Utilize the day drinking
strategy to avoid the morning hangover, thus fully maximizing the length of
each day’s adventure and having full energy to lose it on the dance floor. It’s
a very scientific, and calculated formula for success.
That may
classify me as a “nancy” in the eyes of some of my peers, but that wasn’t the
case at the Burn. There is no social pressure, no stereotypes, and little
inhibition, instead it’s just the “you do you” mentality. If you want to join
the topless parade, go for it. Or maybe you want to lather glitter on your
mustache, you go Glen Coco! Not for you, Ok understandable, how about
challenging a opponent to dance karate? The giant collection of abnormality can
give you a powerful sober high, the moment when your face is glazed with a
dumbfounded smile as you realize how rare an environment you are in.
Getting my spiritual vibe on. This is what I ran around the desert in for four days:
Now that everyone
thinks I’ve immediately transformed into a giant, gibberish-talking hippie,
I’ll remind everyone that I plan to work for “The Man” next year. I’m referring
to the government operated Americorps program, an organization characterized by
its militarily structured discipline and civic engagement mission. That, along
with the reality that I take showers daily, converse in the common parlance
known as Bro-talk, and smoke fools on the footy field instead of the green
stuff, delineates me from the ranks of the dirty, lazy hippies (Dude,
“free-spirits” is the preferred nomenclature).
I’ll try and
recap some of the interesting things I saw and did at the fest:
· Puns/Play on words were
a common theme on the many of the camps, pieces of art, and costumed vehicles.
I think my favorite was a vehicle that was made to look like an ambulance,
which read “Ambivalence” and “Mental Health Services”, and had the classic
psychological evaluation chair on top.
· Rode on several theme
vehicles: One that looked like a giant snail, one that looked like a giant tree
and had hammocks on top and hanging from the sides, and on that was a
chopper-car hybrid.
· Got invited to a topless
parade by an absolute goddess (although the invitation to the event and the
nipple cover workshop was probably directed at the girl I was with)
· Was gifted a giant drum
which I played alongside the DJ’s beats, in a massive parade to a point in the
desert where 1,000 participants were organized to sit so that an aerial photo
could be taken to resemble Mandela’s face. My midday inebriation was not
conducive to proper rhythm, so I went from person to person offering them a
whack at it.
· Listened in to an
intimate acoustic performance at one of the themed tents of the festival’s main
circle, and was absolutely mesmerized by a singer who mine as well have been an
angel. It was completely refreshing after listening to the bass heavy, “trance”
electronica music. A favorite of acid trippers, this DJ bullshit featured
almost nonstop for the first half of the festival, not a fan btw.
The last
bullet reminds me of the main dilemma that played out throughout the weekend –
the case of the lost bag containing a $300 camera and Nalgene reservoir that I
was quite fond of. It was Saturday, the first full day of the festival, and I
packed my Aim High Running Camp drawstring bag with the necessary survival gear
– Nalgene reservoir, camera, dried fruit and cigarettes to gift, and enough
mixed drink for a solid midday brown-out. Between the Mandela aerial photo
parade, riding on the chopper hybrid mobile, and dinner back at the camp, I
lost the bag. The in-betweens were a bit fuzzy, hence the brown-out. After
dinner, I went to the tent for a two-hour recuperation nap. Before dozing off,
I angrily ranted to Petra about losing my bag and repeated multiple time “I am
so mad, I can’t believe I lost my bag” – it was the maddest I had been in a
really long time, and I searched the entire tent quite aggressively to no
avail. After the nap, I reacted more rationally about my loss, although it did
put a slight damper on the rest of the night.
The next
morning, I woke early and without hangover, and putting the pieces together
from the night before I determined my bag had to be at the photo area. Upon
arriving at the area, I found no blue bag in sight, but had reconciled the
anger of the night before. I wasn’t going to let a few lost possessions ruin an
amazing festival – actually, after hearing that friends from two different
camps found cameras I felt that it was just part of the natural lost-and-fount festival
cycle. The few remaining acid zombies still dancing to the DJ drone at 8:30am
(literally played all night) intrigued my curiosity, so I decided to make my
morning walk full circle to get a closer look. The main circle was quite
desolate, due to the masses of slumbering hippies physically impaired by the
night’s intoxication. All that remained were younger children riding bikes and
the all-nighter rave champions. I walked past one of the two remaining DJ tents
and was completely shocked to hear “MIKE!” come from Petra as she ran toward
me. Unlike the dozen or so remaining dancers fueled by a long acid trip, Petra
had survived on willpower alone, wanting to stick it out to see the sunrise
with her friends who are experienced Burners. Then I popped over to another
camp of a few friends to watch the “wake-ups”. Like witnessing a bear emerge
after a long winter’s hibernation, it was quite exhilarating to watch my
friends crawl through tent doors to the bright rays of morning. Ryan Marvin is
the best to observe exhibiting this natural phenomenon, par excellence.
The
artwork and creativity was quite amazing, and rumor had it that some structures
took up to a month to construct and the material costs could be in the
thousands of dollars – all to be burnt in the last days of the fest. You come
to realize that AfrikaBurn consumes a significant portion of some participants’
lives, especially for those who do both the Burning Man Festival in Nevada and
AfrikaBurn in South Africa. For a ticket that can cost as little as $45, it’s
quite the deal. The music was the only disappointment I had with the festivals,
which was primarily DJ techno-trance-electronica kind of stuff – it’s not
really my thing so I don’t know how to accurately describe it. Occasionally, a
band/singer would prop up a stage for a nice organic jam, a refreshing
interlude. I’ll thank my new Dutch friend Simon for his DJ skillz on the last
night. The healthy mix of classic rock with songs that sounded like the Dutch
version of Josh Groban or Andrea Bocelli, was a godsend for the group of us
huddled around the campfire. The friends, some rolling on molly, the campfire,
the stars, the whiskey buzz, and the festival atmosphere all came to a climax
(well at least for me) as Neil Young’s nostalgic, simple “Helpless” came on.
Later, we all headed out to the main circle to witness the big burns (literally
where they would set giant art structures on fire). Making a perfect last
night, the DJ’s played mash-ups of popular songs, again, much preferred to the
unending thud of electro-bass. Flip man, I was in the zone.
Accepting
the loss of my bag and camera, but fully satisfied with my AfrikaBurn
adventure, I was ready to leave the Karoo Desert after an outlandish four days.
After a breakfast of bacon and eggs provided by our travel group, our overly
zealous tour guide, who was really determined to embody the festival’s
principles (i.e. “Leave No Trace”, “Radical self-reliance”), encouraged everyone
to pick up any scraps around our truck. Like a dream, a modern miracle unfolded
before my eyes: there, only feet from the campfire ring appeared my blue Aim
High bag. DURRRR! The anger that
surfaced two nights before transformed into complete ecstasy, I immediately
felt on top of the world. In the utter stupidity of my mishap, I recognized the
classic-ness and hilarity of it. The ultimate drunken, characteristically-festival,
blunder deserved a chuckle. The only thing is, I’ll need to borrow Petra’s
pics, because my camera only has about five.
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