Star/Cliffs/Swaziland Pt. 3

Having given our thanks in letting us tour her home, we waved goodbye to the old woman and children as we rode away in the back of the bakkie once more. Her smile and her wave faded as we drove further down the hill, stopping for errant farm animals and passing the day laborers who trek in and out of town. All stared at the spectacle of 3 Whites, one Coloured (RSA's legal classification for "mixed race") and our Black guides crammed into the cab and bed of the pickup flying past them at 50 mph. We unabashedly stared back, trying to understand the driving force that compels these men and women to town everyday while they probably tried to guess as to why so many disparate colors were mixing in the same car.

The amount of people walking in these groups bears mention and explanation before the rest of this post continues- as part of a government program to create jobs and lessen the impact that unemployment has on poverty and crime in the townships at large, 20 people are tasked to do a job that can be done by 5. Cutting grass on the side of the freeway? 12 people with weedwackers and butcher's aprons. Sweeping dirt roads with brooms to make the game parks nice for the tourists? It didn't make sense to us either, but thats 6 ladies, 6 brooms and 6 very large sunhats. I took econ twice -begrudgingly- but even to my admittedly number-phobic brain, that doesn't sound like a recipe for success, especially when money isn't really being generated by these jobs. The flip side is worse though; idleness generally leads down set paths in the slums, and that thought races through all of our minds when we tour the townships and see the hundreds -if not thousands- of primary and high school students walking home from class. What is to fill their time when they matriculate? Fr. Loftus rhetorically asked us this same question the first week we arrived, and we have yet been able to answer.

Uncertain futures are not a deterrent to these people though, and what we were about to pull up to put it all into perspective for us. Speaking to our driver through the little glass door between the cab and the bed of the truck, Charles told us we were in for a treat. We were flying down a rocky road atop the spine of this ridge, white-knuckling the sides of the truck, trying to duck from the dust and not let the previous bed's load of dried compost manure get in our shoes and socks. We finally skidded to a stop and hopped out. The left shoulder of the road sloped a little and our driver guided us down the decline while motioning with her hands to be careful. What we came up upon was absolutely breathtaking: were we standing on a cliff that extended as far as the eye could see north and south, with all of Swaziland splayed out a few thousand feet below us. We had come to the literal edge of South Africa, and were all awed by what we saw. While not a garden of eden, vast farm fields stretched here and there, and the glint of water in lakes, rivers and aqueducts shone in the distance. Charles explained that of the 2 major South African dams and reservoirs nearby, nearly 70 percent of each one's water supply went to wet Swaziland's fields. I am sure there was a compelling political reason for this, but one couldn't help comparing the rocky ledge and the country attached to it with the much greener one below.

After everyone had a moment with view and his or her thoughts, the conversation absentmindedly turned to things like how far the drop was; someone threw a rock, someone tried to spit all the way down to Swaziland. Normal guy stuff. "How do people get back and forth"? Our driver replied "well, the schoolchildren can make the climb in about an hour, but for older people like myself, it takes a little longer". "Oh", everyone nodded. "That makes sense", we thought. "Schoolchildren have tons of energy to use hiking up and down a mountain between two countries to get to school and receive the education they need". I think the sound of a record player scratching could be faintly heard in the distance. "Wait", we all replied at the same time. "Schoolchildren"? "Yes". "Hike up and down this mountain"? "Yes. An hour and a half each way". "...every day"? To this she just laughed, now aware that we were having a hard time processing this newfound fact of South African life. John, Ryan, Darryl and myself all visibly took this revelation in and wrestled with it. I know I compared my own remembered desire to attend Servite and measured it against 2000ish feet of mountain and sweat and heat... and homework. I am sorry to admit my desire was found lacking in this case. I am sure my fellow companions came to similar conclusions.

And in that moment, at least for myself, the bigger picture of South Africa came into focus that much more. The entire country and it's ethos might best be distilled into one kind of mantra that applies to everyone we have met up until now: Do what you need to get ahead, because the options otherwise are always at your heels. This driving force accounts for the hundreds we see walking miles to work everyday, the schoolchildren we see crowding the rural roads mere feet from passing cars, the 5 people we see doing the job of 1. The desire to better their land, their towns, their country, their life; it is most definitely alive. But like a lot of things in this country, it is hampered by the circumstances the government creates for the people. Corruption, inefficiency, and utter disregard for the people they are elected to serve runs rampant in all governmental circles. This translates to sometimes darkly comical misuses of money- go down any street in Durban, and you will see several street signs for the same street. One in Afrikaans or English crossed out in red, and the now-official one in Zulu above it. We were told that several hundred million Rand were alloted to each major city to change the signs. This kind of gesture may appease an annoyed public in a country whose economy and government run relatively well, but in one where the poor don't eat for days or ring the city limits in shanty towns several kms wide... you can imagine the general sentiment.

It is this position of addressing the cosmetic problems facing South Africa while ignoring the much more malignant roots that damns many of the people on the lower end of the economic spectrum. It is a bittersweet juxtaposition; the government may create jobs, but they do not have any system in place to effectively train the people to perform them. This problem becomes crippling when they mandate the advance of that grass cutter or road sweeper to positions originally held by "non-previously disadvantaged" business people. The effect is like promoting the custodian of a fortune 500 company to CEO; the business eventually crumbles, and the economy along with it- leaving more and more people destitute and trapped in poverty.

But in the face of all that, the spirit perseveres; the kids get up before dawn to walk to school, to go to work, to climb that mountain, to better their life. It is a lesson humbly received by us as we stand out on that cliff edge, backs to the cane smoke and rock, looking to the horizon.

Words: Hamrock

Photos: Hamrock

Star of the Sea and the cliffs of Swaziland Pt. 2

After two days and more than a few customary whiskeys with Thulani and Toland, it was time to continue our journey eastward to the mission in Ingwavuma. We awoke early to beat the midday heat, and after a few more conversations of future projects together, we said our farewells and took off. With most of the missionaries we have talked to, it has been a battle to try to warm them up to prospective ideas about how some Californian High School a world away can help them with their own causes; it seems the older generation is wary because of past experience and promises unfulfilled, the younger generation more hopeful but wary just the same at our suggestions and the work involved with committing to unproven relationships. Results are not out of the question, but this kind of mindset just makes one more obstacle to get passed in any case.

The road East out of Mnguzi was even more desolate than the one coming in, and as is par for the course, the landscape began to change immediately from sandy soil and palm trees and clear blue skies kept clear by ocean breezes to angry red soil studded with jet-black rocks, and thorn trees. As if to add insult, the cane smoke that plagues the midlands of the country seemed to follow us from Mtuba and sat with us the entire rest of the drive to the mission. This is funny because the nearest cane field was some 300 kms away at this point. The path itself posed a challenge as well with whole sections of road almost impassable in our little micro machine; with every pothole that ate our wheels we all held our breath to listen to any telltale sounds of escaping air. The road got better however, but the isolation of the potholes was replaced by locals driving up and down the mountain that Ingwavuma sits on with rallycar-like speed and absolute disregard for lanes, shoulders or the cliffs that plunged ever higher the more we climbed in altitude. Not too fun.

Once we got to the mission, we met with Fr. Charles, a native Nigerian and sole priest at this particular mission. He was a kind man, wearing knock-off diesel jeans and shorter than most of the South African Zulus. Since he was not a Zulu or Xhosa, it was interesting to hear his take on how matters in the country were progressing, with both the elected Zulu president, the semi radical ANC and the traditional Zulu monarch. We got a short tour of the mission grounds, saw the bat-piss ruined roof of the chapel, and then hopped into the back of a bakkie to visit the surrounding township and the houses that Fr. Charles helps out with. The woman who owned the vehicle and who was currently driving down the rocky roads at breakneck speed actually turned out to be sister to one of the 30 or so wives that was married to the Zulu King. She acts as Fr. Charles cohort, and sees it as her duty to help her people out. Pretty simple, pretty noble, but her conviction became clearer once Charles told us that the Zulu King receives something like 30 million Rand a month in government funds as his royal stipend to help out his people. Needless to say his people are left wanting while Ferrari, BMW and Mercedes ship their latest models to KwaZulu Natal. This fact was appalling because in the desolate mountain top we were now touring, people living among the scrub and smoke and rocks eeked out the sparsest living we had seen yet.

There was no fertile soil to plant gardens like in Mtuba, there was no sand like in Kozi Bay to make cement-making easier and less costly. No, here there was only heat, dust and rocks covered by a thin layer of soil. This geological makeup posed several obstacles, from the obvious to ones that we as Americans never faced until this moment. Let me frame it for you: have you ever played the game mine-sweeper on a Windows laptop? Or for you older folks and nostalgia freaks, a game of Battleship where you guess the position of the opponent and sink accordingly? Well in Ingwavuma, digging foundations for houses works much the same way, but in reverse. Not hitting rocks mere inches down in the soil is considered a victory, and a rare one at that. And like I wrote earlier, houses are the obvious thing that comes to mind when taking into consideration digging depth. I would give you a gold star if you mentioned water wells, but this is taken care of by pumps and a communal cistern up the road. No, the thing that blew our minds were the piles of rock we had to step over and pass to visit the first site that Charles took us to. With each step, we were passing over generations of the buried dead that had occupied this small little spot of land overlooking the green plains of Swaziland for decades. The question was so practical yet so foreign that it took most of us by surprise: where DO you bury someone when you can only dig a few inches into the soil? Well the answer was passing us by in the form of waist-high piles of rock mere feet away from the huts and the kitchen and the clear spot that served as the children's play area.

Initial shock aside, we strode into the clearing and met the matriarch in charge. As we walked up, this gnarled woman was busy mending her chicken coop, and after several minutes of translation learned that she had built most of the other structures there as well. Busy woman. She wiped her sweaty brow and took us on a tour of her little kingdom, then plopped down in the shade of her hut. Before doing so she gracefully thanked each one of us and stated that it was her great honor to receive guests, adding that it had been years since anyone else had come through. As we rode away from that meeting Fr. Charles explained to us that her husband had died some years prior and it was only her holding the family together. Someone asked her age and Charles replied with "93". With the conditions she lived with, I couldn't help but to think about how long it would be before she joined the mute piles of stone that served as sentinels to her rocky home...

Next post wraps up our trip to Ingwavuma and puts the words "hike", "hill", "school" and "2 hours up and down" into perspective.

Words: Hamrock

Photos include: Blurry street scene, Batpiss roof, Fr. Charles explaining Zulu royalty, Rocky clearing Rocky soil Rocky grave, Most stoked little kid ever- Ryan's luscious locks won him over, Matriarch with baby.

Photo Creds: C, H, H, H, H, H, C, H, H