11 Apr 2009 – Nyanga

Around noon on Saturday, I joined Emily A and Faina on a trip to the township of Nyanga, where they had arranged to meet two of their friends from Thandokhulu School. We packed our bags as sparingly as possible, knowing the risks of taking expensive items into the townships, and then we added the three bags of groceries we’d purchased early that morning to bring as a thank you for hosting us. Worried that we were running late, we jumped on a minibus heading to the Mowbray taxi rank, but when we arrived and were directed to the taxi headed for NY 1 (Native Yard One), we wound up sitting for no less than one hour and ten minutes in the terminal before the minibus filled to capacity and got the go-ahead to leave for its destination.

While we were waiting on the minibus, one of the women who sat next to us asked us about where we were going, where we were from, and what we thought of South Africa after all of our time here. Many people seemed curious to know about the three white girls sitting on the minibus headed for the townships, and we made casual conversation the whole twenty minute ride to Guguletu. Our contacts in the township, twin sisters Zimkhita and Zintle, had told us that when we got into Guguletu, we should get the driver on the phone with them and they would explain to him where we were supposed to get off. Clearly, this was an unusual scenario, but both the girls and the driver knew that we didn’t know the area and we couldn’t simply get out of the minibus unguided in the middle of the township.

So as the taxi began to empty along NY 1, Faina called the girls and thrust the phone in the driver’s ear, asking him to listen to their directions. The driver proceeded to drive the ramshackle vehicle down the pedestrian-filled street with one hand on the phone, shouting in Xhosa at the girl on the other end of the line. The three of us exchanged concerned looks as the minibus slowed on the side of the road a few minutes later and the driver returned the phone to Faina in a huff. Several passersby rapped on the windows and directed some unsettlingly presumptive remarks our way. We sat there, a little ill at ease, for a few more minutes before one of the girls finally appeared, walking down the road toward us and waving.

Zimkhita immediately greeted us with a spirited smile and warm hug, despite the fact that she and I had not yet met. Then she grabbed our hands and led us down the street of sandy, littered lots, square, cement homes, and roaming dogs and children. We drew eyes and comments everywhere we walked, and Zimkhita advised us not to bother paying attention to the men who catcalled or approached us with hands outstretched and mouths full of kowtowing flattery.

The small yard in front of the twins’ house was full of activity when we approached, with a dozen men and boys crowded around a fire that was churning puffs of gray smoke into the breeze. As we got closer, we saw that they had in fact just slaughtered a goat, and were gutting the splayed carcass in the dirt beside the fire pit. Their heads snapped toward us as we walked past, and several extended cheerful greetings. When we entered the house through the side door, we had to scoot by several family members in the kitchen area, and in the

process, we received hearty welcomes from each person we came across – an aunt, an uncle, a cousin, a little brother. A few paces forward and we were in the doorway to the living room, in which four people sat obscured by shadow, two on the plastic-covered furniture, two on a blanket on the floor.

The two on the floor immediately caught our eye because their faces were covered in a smeared white paste. We’d seen people from the townships wearing such paint, before, but did not know its significance, so after we were encouraged to sit down on one of the plastic-lined couches, we started a conversation with the two women next to us. We each introduced ourselves, and then we asked the women about the ritual that seemed to be taking place in the house. Why had the men just slaughtered the goat? What was the significance of the white paint? Why were they eating the goat meat from a plate on the floor? We asked these questions without judgment and out of sincere curiosity, and the women seemed both surprised and delighted that we wanted to know more about it.

The younger woman explained that the ceremony marked her transition into womanhood and that all of the aspects of the ritual helped to link her to her ancestors and her family’s honor. I asked if I could take a few pictures, and everyone in the room graciously obliged, so I took out my camera and recorded as much as I felt was polite. They all were eager to see how each picture turned out after I snapped the shots.

Handfuls of people moved in and out of the tiny house while we sat talking with the women in the living room. Several were men from the front, bringing in bowls of goat entrails and eventually the gutted goat itself, which they lay across a bed of leaves in front of a wall unit on the cracked linoleum floor. A short young woman with a baby tied to her back was among the half dozen other women who came and went while we waited for the twins to finish some household tasks. Emily, Faina, and I sat in the room beside the three women and the goat carcass, engaging in conversation as best we could and trying to control our wide-eyed grins, which probably looked an awful lot like the ones we were receiving from everyone else who walked in and saw us sitting there, as well.

The twins hurried by a few times, promising us that we’d be going out to lunch in a few moments and then disappearing again out the door. About twenty minutes after we’d arrived, the twins collected us from the living room and brought us to a back room to leave our bags. Heading out the side door, again, the girls’ neighbor, Thandi – who happens to be a cleaner at Thandokhulu – met up to join us for lunch at Maphindi’s Butchery, where we were planning to buy and braai meet, a few blocks away.

Walking down the streets to Maphindi’s, the girls seemed to know a shocking number of the people we passed. I’d wanted to bring my camera along, even though we’d had to leave our bags at the house, but even though I’d concealed it inconspicuously in a sock and intended to keep it hidden in my pocket, Thandi insisted that I give it to her for safekeeping. She muttered something about the corrupt people around the townships as she took the camera and tucked it away down the front of her blouse. I turned to find Emily and Faina’s eyes, as my own widened in bemusement. No sooner had we left the front walk and started up the street than the twins had us by the hand and were looping our arms through theirs for the five minute walk to the locally renowned butcher.

Several men leered at us as we shuffled along the road, safely linked arm-in-arm with the girls, but we weren’t fazed by the few guys who tried to grab our free hands or walk uncomfortably close as we passed. We’ve been in Cape Town long enough to know what to expect of the townships, and we were not personally offended or put off by the forwardness or the reactions to our presence. For as many uncomfortable advances as there were, we had even more cases of people clapping and cheering us, expressing genuine pleasure that we had come into their neighborhood as friends. Even when a police car stopped in the road beside us and one its occupants asked to talk to us, the girls continued to look straight ahead and told us to ignore them. The pretenses of the policemen’s stop seemed dubious enough that we took the girls’ advice and walked on without glancing back toward the car, and sure enough, the police rolled away behind us a moment later.

The street in front of Maphindi’s two-story building was lined with old cars and milling patrons. The smell of braaing meat was thick in the smoky air as we walked into the deli section of the butchery and picked out our selection of red meat. The girls ordered a platter of long, thin sausage – a standard, here – and a carbonated lemonade, and then after a quick group photo, they showed us around the establishment. We walked outside to the braai and then around to the eating area, which included a dozen metal, fold-down tables and two TVs mounted on the walls. Between the Coca Cola signs hanging on the walls and the MTV music videos playing in the corner, it felt like we might just have slipped into an alternative-universe-United States; global corporatism is alive and well. But then the girls returned with the braaied meat and it became very clear that we were somewhere very different than Storrs, CT.

The winding rope of sausage was served on a large platter, dripping with braai marinade and lacking any plates, napkins, or utensils. The girls had bought a half loaf of white bread and several tiny plastic cups, and with those items alone, we proceeded to eat our meal. We watched as the girls and Thandi tore pieces of bread and squeezed off chunks of sausage with their finger tips. Faina and I tried to mimic the way they wrapped the sausage in the bread and then dragged the little rolls across the platter to soak up the extra juices. If I weren’t so caught up in trying to appear gracious and culturally competent (they had, after all, paid for our meal) I might have been repelled by the platter in front of me, but thankfully, my head overruled my stomach and I enjoyed the meal well enough. (Emily’s vegetarianism, however, led her to opt out of the Maphindi’s classic.)

Together we soaked up every last bit of marinade off the plate, and then we walked around the corner to buy soft serve ice cream cones at R3 (30 cents) a piece. It was nearing 4:30 when we left the butchery and started walking back toward the girls’ house, and the sun was slanting at an angle that warned us we had a limited amount of time left to travel safely by public transit. On the way back to the house we encountered more of the same reactions and comments on the street, but we felt fairly at ease now that we’d gotten a feel for the place. Thandi bid us goodbye at the front gate, and we parted with hugs all around. She returned my camera and waved as we turned to follow the girls back into the house.

We joined the group in the living room, again, and on request, took several group photos with members of the twins’ extended family, as well as with the desiccated goat. They all asked us to send them the pictures when we got home. Before 5:00, Faina called one of her friends in Khayelitsha, and the twins told us they’d walk us to the taxi rank to move on to our next destinations. Around the corner, we ran into some of the twins’ friends driving a small sedan, and they arranged for all five of us to squeeze into the backseat (sitting on top of one another, of course) for the ride to the terminal. On the other end of the short trip, we popped out of the little car like too many circus clowns, and the girls led us to the appropriate taxis.

I had opted to head back to Rondebosch before the limited safety of the daylight faded, so Zimkhita and Zintle found me the Mowbray-bound taxi and told me where to get off. I thanked them wholeheartedly for taking us into their home and around their neighborhood, and then I climbed into the back of the minibus and watched the twins lead Emily and Faina to the Khayelitsha taxis out of my line of sight. Faina and Emily would be spending the night in Khayelitsha with a friend, so I was on my own for the trip home.

Once again, I had to wait for the minibus to fill up before the driver returned to drive us toward the suburbs. But sitting in the minibus in the middle of Nyanga all by myself was oddly invigorating. A woman who sat down next to me in the back seat asked me where I was coming from, and I realized I didn’t know exactly where I’d just been, so instead I told her where I was going. She seemed to take our exchange as a cue to become my guardian for the rest of the twenty-minute ride through Guguletu and Athlone, helping to sort out my change after I paid with a 50 Rand bill and instructing me how to get the driver’s attention when we neared Rondebosch. I was happily surprised to find that I knew where we were for most of the trip, as I’ve grown familiar with Athlone and Klipfontein Rd, and I had no trouble figuring out how and where to shout, Thank you, driver! and disembark the minibus.

I walked around the Red Cross Hospital property and arrived back at Loch Rd just before 6PM. Only a few people were home when I arrived, but Kevin, Dan, and I ran to Woolworth's for a few items before dinner. We expect that most stores will be closed tomorrow for Easter, so many people had to buy items tonight for tomorrow’s picnic dinner at Kirstenbosch Gardens. Tomorrow marks the last concert of the summer at the Gardens, where a national youth favorite Goldfish will be performing at 5:30. More than half of the house has tickets for the event.

Today, meanwhile, the rest of the house had split up between dog-walking at TEARS, shark diving outside of Cape Town, and attending a braai in the suburb of Tableview. As expected, we’re all making the most of our final weeks in South Africa.