Nyanga.

I think it's best to start with today and work backwards. That way I can write about what's fresh. So you'll hear about the safari later.

Noluyanda met us at the flat this morning and then the three of us walked over to the Spar where we were picked up by Megan and Temba. From there we all headed to Oscar Mpetha High School in Nyanga, where we met up with Mongamo. Along with Noluyanda and Balbowa, Mongamo was featured in the film Testing Hope. He and Noluyanda are both studying at the University of the Western Cape (she in political science; he in math and statistics); although they don't see each other often, they are still good friends. Today was the first day that had seen each other in quite some time, but as they showed us around Nyanga you could sense their closeness and comfort and brother/sister-like bond.



Noluyanda is short in stature, but full of energy. Her eyes are bright and her giggle is infectious. She doesn't like to smile in photos, but otherwise she's constantly smiling. She has a mild voice, but a strong and direct presence about her. She is the proud and doting mother of Lonwabo, who is three. Hers (or his?) favorite mode of transportation is carrying him on her shoulders. Lonwabo's eyes are equally large and curious as his mother's. He sticks his belly out and covers his eyes when he laughs.



Mongamo is no more than 5'7"; he is slender and carries himself like a soccer player, which is fitting since that's his sport to play and watch. He is shy and quiet and may be the sweetest and most genuine young man I've ever met. Eye contact is rare and thus special. It's hard to pinpoint, but there's something about him that is undeniable and it invites connection. He does not openly offer information freely, but will answer any question you ask whether it be about life in Nyanga, his girlfriend, how outsiders are perceived in the townships, being featured in a documentary, what music he listens to, or his goals for the future.

When we were at Oscar Mpetha we met with the headmaster, who seemed a bit frazzled by the drop-in visit. He appeared to be uncomfortable with having outsiders stop by the school without any advanced notice. The assistant headmaster told us that usually when there are visitors the teachers and staff are able to talk to the students, to prepare them... and without those conversations, there was a possibility of problems. We all felt strongly about not wanting to cause any problems whatsoever and were willing to leave. But it was insisted that we stay for a short visit. Noluyanda, Mongamo, and the headmaster showed us around the high school. The headmaster graciously answered questions about the school, the number of learners, the length of the school day, the violence surrounding the school (he showed us the day's newspaper, with a photo of some of the aftermath from the minibus taxi strike: two dead bodies on the side of a street in Nyanga), and so on. Noluyanda and Mongamo told personal stories about their former classrooms and memories of Oscar Mpetha.



On the way out, I asked Noluyanda if we shouldn't have dropped by, if we weren't welcomed. She explained that the headmaster was only uncomfortable because usally when there are visitors to the school he prepares the choir to perform for the guests.. and he didn't want to feel inadequate.

From Oscar Mpetha we walked around the streets of Nyanga, which is one of the oldest black townships in Cape Town and means "moon" in Xhosa. Nyanga is also known as the murder capitol of South Africa: 303 murders in one 11 month period. I think if you've heard about the townships and seen photos, you have an idea of what to expect. But there are so many things you cannot prepare for. Like the smells. Depending on how the wind was blowing you would smell smoked meat, urine, burning garbage, fresh air, feces, cigarette smoke, sweet corn, chemicals, or smoldering ashes. Lots and lots of smoke. I didn't always know the source, but every other moment smoke of some sort would waft into my nose. And you could see it. Burning embers at the street meat market would create puffs of grey smoke. Piles of garbage and old shoes and animal waste and grass and dirt would burn in the streets and produce spots of black smoke.

As we walked by people's homes, crookedly delapitated one-room shacks smaller than my office at Walnut Street, children played barefoot and elders looked on. There were men shoveling dirt and gravel and women hanging brightly colored clothes on the line to dry. The florescent orange spray paint on top of the patchwork of materials keeping the shacks together numbered each home. Some people's front doors were open, and as you walked by you could glance in and see flashes of their warm and comfortable and welcoming homes. One boy, who squatted in front of his home with his back resting against the kelly green siding, sat quietly, wise beyond his years, just watching the world go by. There were piles of wooden planks, old tires, and barbed wire. Broken glass, murkey water and milky mixtures, and piles of animal feces scattered the side of the roads. I eventually stopped counting the ANC and Zuma t-shirts, signs, and posters. There are just people everywhere. Unemployment in Cape Town is 50% (in an earlier blog entry I incorrectly wrote it was 20%) and probably upwards of 70-80% in Nyanga (and of that, at least two thirds are considered unemployable - with no education or skills set) -- so there are people everywhere with no job and no where to go and nothing to do. Stray dogs and cats and chickens roamed aimlessly and haphazardly. Halfway down one particular street, there was an open area, where children were kicking a soccer ball, loud music was playing and people were dancing. It was joyous and fun and celebratory. Cars were parked, neighbors were laughing and sharing and ANC t-shirts were the norm.

Many people smiled and waved to us, some children even gleefully shouted hello; others just watched with trepidation. Many stared. I never felt unsafe, but was ubiquitously aware of not belonging. I was the only white person, this was not my home or community, I didn't speak the language, I carried myself differently, I felt like "American" was written on my forehead. My clothes, my hair, my bag, my country of origin, my experiences in life, my language, my sense of being, my existence with my undeserved privilege, everything was different. All of that being said, I was not insecure for myself. I did not feel awkward or uncomfortable for myself, it was for others. I was worried about offending residents; I did not want to impose, to disrespect, to patronize, to assume, to minimize, to trivialize, to objectify. I was markedly aware of being an outsider and wanting to do my best to walk softly with the utmost respect. It was in that vein that I was not at all comfortable taking photos.

While walking down one street, Lee Anne and I were asking Mongamo about how visitors are viewed. He softly reflected that they are welcome; no one seems to have a problem with people reaching out to learn. Upon being asked, Mongamo expanded that outsiders that visit the townships via tour bus, and snap pictures from behind the security of the bus windows are not necessarily regarded in the same light as those that walk around on the streets, between the shacks. In that very moment a young man, maybe Mongamo's age, crossed in front of us, made some hand gestures, and spoke angrily in Xhosa. Mongamo smiled and shook his head, offering nothing. When asked what he said, Mongamo simply said, "visitors". After we passed the young man and his group of friend, from behind us he mockingly shouted in his best American accent, "hey, how you doing?". In a separate moment, Lee Anne saw people make hand gestures as to create guns with their hands. She asked -- or stated to -- Mongamo that they were not happy with us being there. He nervously chuckled and shrugged in acknowledgment. So while Mongamo and many other residents of Nyanga may not mind outsiders, there are others who clearly, and understandably, do.

The meat market is a block or two of craftily structured half building, sitting close to the curb, and closer to one another. Right on the curb, opposite the openings of the buildings, are grills with open flames. At any given moment, on any given grill you may find corn on the cob (with the shucks scattered below), lamb chops, chicken livers, sheep intestines, whole chickens, beef sausage, and sheep's heads. Sheep carcasses were hanging out to dry with blood dripping to the pavement.

In the open market (which is located near the taxi rank, and in shade) one could buy clothes, tomatoes, onions, seasonal fruit, belts, earrings, meat, and the like. Across from the open market were barber and beauty shops, movie stores, and cell centers (R1 gets you 90 seconds of talk time), to name just a few. Store signs were either hand painted or promoted by Coca-Cola. Temba stopped at a barber shop; we stood on the sidewalk and looked on as he had his head shaved while a barefoot and energetic man was washing cars on our opposite side. Inside the barber shop, People's Court was airing from an old and scrambled television.

After Temba's hair cut, and more walking around, we headed back to Oscar Mpetha, before going to Maphindi's Butcher for lunch. What an experience! You walk in, peruse the counter, and pick your meat: chicken wings, pork chops, lamb chops, liver, beef sausage, mince, or a few other unidentifiable choices. We picked out a bunch of chicken wings and sausages, as well as a few lamb chops and one pork chop. They give you all your meat in one plastic grocery bag; you get your sauce in a plastic cup. You also get a half a loaf of white bread. Then you bring your meat and sauce outside to the braii and leave it to be cooked. There were six of us, plus Noluyanda's son -- we had more than enough meat, and bought several drinks, as well -- and it was R132. You find seats inside and wait for you meat to be cooked. Once ready, you dive in. The meat comes out on one big platter, dripping in a sweet chili sauce. No forks or knives, or plates, and barely even napkins. Just ripping meat apart with your hands and licking your fingers clean. You use the white bread to eat the sausages and sop up the sauce. We shoved the fat from the lamb chops and the bones from the chicken wings into one small styrofoam cup. When you're all finished you head over to the sink in the back of the room and wash your hands clean with just cold water. While I was enjoying the new experience, you could tell it was commonplace for Mongamo and many other locals. Oh, and they were officially the best chicken wings I've ever had.




After lunch we said bye to Mongamo and drove to Guguletu, another black township. The name Gugeletu comes from the Xhosa word for "our pride". We didn't walk around, but we stopped at the site of the Gugeletu Seven, which is the place where seven anti-apartheid activists were gunned down by apartheid security forces on March 3, 1986. Absolutely senseless.






If I came away with some things from the day, it is this: The poverty is extreme and absolutely deplorable. I use the word deplorable with no blame or judgment of the people, of the grassroots, of those who call Nyanga home. I use the word deplorable with anger towards the government. There is no excuse. No fucking excuse why you have millions of dollars to prepare for 2010 and yet you choose to ignore the millions of people who live in devastation -- pure and utter devastation. No running water and forced to live in the murder capitol of the country -- no access to the basic human right of safety.

While I have been making connections between South Africa and the U.S. during my stay in Cape Town, today was different. There is obvious poverty everywhere in the world -- both here and at home. But the vast extent of poverty in Nyanga is not even comparable to the poorest neighborhoods in any U.S. city. I have the selfish luxury and obnoxious privilege of being able to say this without having to live it, but give me poverty in the U.S. over poverty in Nyanga any day.