6 minute read
Port Elizabeth Has Its Share Of Real Africa
Next Article
Port Elizabeth Has Its Share of Real Africa But pockets of difference are fighting this reality one hungry belly at a time
A stray dog scavenges for food on a typical South African township street.
By Lisa Wiedeman
For a young, white female who is used to the finer things in middle-class life, New Brighton is an eyesore.
For a first-time visitor, it is daunting to get there. You travel through the industrial areas that puff out noxious gas and blacken the walls. On the main roads, people dawdle, walk and run, and you never know why they’re running. Cars come out of nowhere — and sometimes are in the process of disappearing somewhere. The road is strewn with squashed oranges, Simba packets, and a heavy history.
But turning down a side street shows you the residential New Brighton, and it is difficult to decide whether or not to be frightened. There are dogs everywhere. They run under, in front of and alongside cars, and bark like they mean it. There also are kids who look smaller than their school bags, and whose eyes are big and inquisitive.
Ladies sell, men huddle, and the old people clean or sit.
Everything moves.
Dust skims along the tarmac, litter takes to the sky, and your heart plummets.
You cannot understand the place, unless one is from there. One cannot understand the smells, the attitudes, or the hunger of the kids. However, there is a building where people try to understand and solve this portion of the world’s problems.
Bureaucracy built the place, neglected it and left it for dead.
A small group revived it.
In the middle of large grounds stands a cement block. It used to be a school, but when it closed, it became the base of a guerrilla operation — in the form of an aftercare centre.
The centre does not own the building. It does not own the soil, but the employees painted the walls and built a jungle gym on the grass.
The children love it. Maybe a hundred of them come to the centre each day after school, expecting lunch and safety, regardless of the lack of funding or the handful of employees.
“Umlungu, umlungu!” the kids shout while trying to get your attention.
They don’t know your name to start with, but surprise you when they remember it week after week.
Photo by Chris Allen
One of the factories in the industrial area on the outskirts of Port Elizabeth.
It’s difficult to remember theirs.
“What is your name?” they ask, laughing at their use of English.
“Lisa. What’s your name?”
“Siphokazi,” she replies, looking at her hands to signal the end of the conversation.
Words don’t come easily to these kids — and speaking English to a white lady with foreign hair is terrifying.
Before words come pinches, punches, kicks, tears.
Sometimes you really have to wring sentences out of them, which is frustrating when you’re trying to conduct a class.
“Is that soup?”
“Yes.”
“It looks yummy.”
“Yes.”
“Will we see you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
They like to tell you what you want to hear, or what they think is the right answer, rather than express themselves. It isn’t clear whether this is because they are not encouraged to think for themselves or because they are just constructing a game in which whoever gets the most approving nods wins.
Some of the children are six. Some are 16. Generally, their reading abilities are the same.
There is a drama club, and its popularity is based on the idea that the kids are encouraged to dream.
Romanticized notions of the poor sometimes give one the idea that dreams come naturally. However, future goals, personal successes and happiness only develop in the right environment.
One has to cultivate these things, planting ideas in their minds, watering them with optimism, only learning the percentage yield years later.
Outside the fences, promises are fickle. They litter the pavements, and drift from mouth to mouth, parent to child, state to people. The state is too far removed from these children to know realities. There is a definite rift between the elected and the voters — the sole connection is statistics that lie in the “In” trays of politicians, and only gain importance during campaigns. Umntwana wakho, ngumntwana wami: the state campaigns for this, before sanitation, before employment, before parents can look after their own children, never mind their neighbours’.
“You can’t get emotionally involved. You mustn’t think about it, because it’s
A child plays outside his shack home in a Port Elizabeth township.
Photo by Chris Allen
not our job to help them in that way.”
It makes sense. But if we don’t help them, who will?
“What’s wrong?”
No answer.
“Are you OK?”
A shaky lip.
“Talk to me.”
Tears.
These little children carry such heavy loads. Sometimes what helps is to get them to draw a picture. It calms them and distracts them from their thoughts. The little girls draw hearts and European-looking stick figures, and the little boys draw graffiti and write “I love you” in English.
These things are pleasant to see. They briefly capture normalcy within the chaos of poverty. Other times, all that helps is for one of the meaty security guards or strong male volunteers to replace an absent father for that short time and hold a weeping child.
Are you poor?
Yes.
Are you hurting?
Yes.
Are you just a baby?
Yes.
It’s not fair.
No.
The parents seem grateful to the centre. A small number of them make their way to the grounds at sunset, carrying jackets for their kids, and greeting the security guards. These are good people whose eyes
smile at the sight of their little ones, and who carry the marks of hard labour. Other children must be told to leave. Reluctantly, they walk home in large groups that disintegrate at the end of the road. It is the parents of some of these kids who have started sending their children to the centre early in the morning for breakfast. The centre does not serve breakfast, but these parents now expect it. They do not see the wrong in allowing others to care for their children, especially the Whites.
It’s a stressful situation, and being responsible for a hundred kids at a time is not something for which one easily volunteers. The children fight. It doesn’t take much to set them off — crisps, juice, bread can end in scratches, cries and scars.
“What’s he doing?” shouted an American volunteer.
“Put it down!”
A little boy stood, focused, facing his companion. His scrawny arms were
Photo by Chris Allen
Most residents don’t have running water or electricity, so women walk daily to bring water home from one tap shared by hundreds of people.
Photo by Chris Allen
On the busy streets running through the township areas, everything from fruit to clothing to live chickens and cooked goat heads can be bought.
reaching upwards, and a large rock in his miniscule hands shook precariously. The target was the other boy’s head.
“He could have really hurt someone or himself.”
The fight was probably over the crisps.
It’s a different world compared to that of a middle-class White. There are different rules of play and different emphases.
Africa: land of the brave, land of the strong and fairly stubborn.
Port Elizabeth has its share of real Africa, and not just the diluted versions to which the middle class is accustomed.
At times, these parts of the city are frightening, daunting and disheartening. But the small pockets of difference that appear — fighting these realities — operate like guerilla warfare. They change society, one hungry belly at a time.
They are not glamorous. They are functional, and they are vital.
