Once at POH, we passed under the barbed wire fence and through the steel frame gate. The building is old and dilapidated. The ceiling is leaking in the dining room; four or five different buckets were collecting water one drip at a time. The tap in the bathroom sink barely ran. Last June, it was unclear whether Place of Hope would even be able to keep its doors open because of severe lack of funding. With an anonymous donation of R15,000 ($1,500) they have been able to squeeze by since, and just barely continue to serve women and children. (It astounds me - positively and negatively and complexly that such little money could keep them open this whole time.) Jenni is the heart and soul of POH; she is only full time, paid staff person, and I wonder if she's even able to pay herself. Every other person that we met -- Beverly who does the cooking, Jill who works reception, Sabrina and Veronica who do the childcare -- are all volunteers. POH would literally not open its doors everyday if it weren't for them.
As run-down as the building is, it is equally warm. Colorful murals of African landscapes and happy children adorn the walls. The South African flag is proudly laid out on the kitchen tables. Art that the women created in their art therapy sessions hangs on the walls. The warmth of both the rooms and the people are immediately comforting and create a feeling of connection. After a tour of the facilities, we sit with Jenni and enjoy roobois tea and carrot muffins. The conversation is that of domestic violence, governmental benefits, the challenges of running a shelter program, racism, politics, her family, our lives and work in the states. Jenni, her late husband, and their daughters lived in the United States back in 1998 while her husband was on scholarship at Harvard. And where did they live, you might wonder? On Grove Street in Auburndale! The world is so small!
After tea, we dove right in to volunteering. We helped Beverly in the kitchen and Sabrina and Veronica in the cresch (day care). We helped serve lunch, and had a few little ones on our lap, spooning them their rice and vegetables. A word about the kids: so. fucking. adorable. Big eyes and tender giggles and creative imaginations. In Cape Town in general, the children are incredible. I don't know that I've ever seen such a high concentration of precious children. Everywhere you look, there is another adorable little one running around. During their lunch time, I especially enjoyed feeding Cayden and Ezekial. Cayden was focused and straight forward. When he finished chewing, his mouth was open, ready to accept another bite. If I wasn't quick enough with it, he would lean into it. Ezekial was a bit more distracted and mobile. He was a squirm and had to be switched from one knee to another. He had to be encouraged to take a bite, but he enjoyed it just the same. After lunch, all the kids went down for their afternoon nap.
It was around that time that we met Megan, Jenni's daughter, and her boyfriend Thembo, who had arrived to do some work. Megan is 27 and an occupational therapist; Thembo is Zulu and from Limpopo (a northern province), and just finished his law degree. Megan is outgoing and insightful, we could have talked for hours. Themba is shy and laid back. Both are so passionate. Themba put new sand in the children's sandbox. Together, all four of us primed the children's wooden play structures. There is a small swing set with swing made out of tires (not to be confused with our tire swings) and a set of monkey bars. Eventually they will be painted with the primary colors. Themba wore a purple trash bag, as to not get paint on his clothes. Megan had green paint on her face. We all spoke about ubuntu, racism and politics, living abroad, visas, western standards of beauty, plastic surgery, corruption, immigration laws, and so much more.
Before leaving we got to play with Portia, Gabby, and one other girl whose name I did not catch. They are 6 years old and full of life. Lee Anne and I taught them how to play Simon Says and Red Light, Green Light. When they "incorrectly" put their hands on their knees during Simon Says, they looked like they might cry. I wondered if we mistakenly opened up a can of American-children's-games worms that we shouldn't have. But once we were in it, there was no turning back. It took a little while to catch on, but once they got the hang of it, they loved it. They loved us, too. The hugs and kisses were abundant!
Selfishly speaking, I loved my day at POH. I felt like I was able to really help, like each extra set of hands was truly needed and therefore greatly appreciated. I left feeling emotional and invested, like this was only the beginning of my relationship with POH.
Last night, Lee Anne and I headed to Long Street (think Bourbon Street in New Orleans) for dinner at Mama Africa's. Before even getting out of the cab, there was a young girl - probably about 14 or 15 - standing next to my window begging. Romeo, our taxi driver (more on him in a later post) shooed her away shouting, "you, no! Get away from my people." She obeyed and made her way further down the street. The restaurant is a bit of a tourist trap, but still enjoyable. The decor is purposely exotic and rustic. The food was yummy (I had crocodile!) and the Pinotage was delicious. Lee Anne and I shared stimulating conversation, as always. There was live music - the band was fantastic! I've never heard to seen drumming like that - it was deep and meaningful and amazing. And the dancing!
After dinner we strolled around Long Street for a bit and were bombarded with devastation. The street children were everywhere. During dinner, we could see out the window that the same street girl that attempted to approach us in the cab was walking up and down the same block, working hard to get money, any money. Each place you look: a nine year old boy in a ripped shirt begging, a group of three girls that couldn't have been older than 12 put out there hands as we walked passed. Lee Anne handed them our take away. It's heavy and emotional. And they're persistent, because they have to be. They walk next to you down the street, just begging and begging and begging. They follow you until you give them something, or they find their next possibility. I want to give them money, I want to. But my gut tells me that they have a pimp and the money they receive will not be their own. And I can't support that. At home, you'll see a homeless man in his 50s or 60s sitting on the sidewalk, holding out a cup with lose change, or displaying a sign. Here it's different. They're so young and so desperate and so perseverant and so soiled. It's far more raw and unavoidable.
There are the street children, and there are the prostitutes. It is equally raw and unavoidable. There is no shame, no discretion, no concealment. The women, revealing as much skin as possible, the trans women propositioning anyone that walks by. They call you "honey darling" and "baby". If you talk to them or even look at them, that is validation enough and they will try their damnedest to make a deal. They all need to survive and this is what they know and how they do it.
And then in an instant, it's over. We hop in a cab and are whisked away, treated to African gospel music and a driver that proudly sings along. The windows are down and the warm breeze is simultaneously hard and soothing. Within minutes we're back in the flat, away from the prostitutes and street children. But how do you separate? What is that boundary? Do you shut your brain off and sleep at night, or stay awake replaying and thinking and thinking and replaying and justifying?
It's difficult to see beggars of that sort. That is what it was like in Morocco when I was there. It's quite sad. Especially if you see any children who have been maimed for the sake of being more "appealing" beggars. Was there any of that there?
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