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.