It was a warm and comfortable dinner party and all around great time. The wine was flowing, the food was delicious, but the reason it was such a phenomenal evening was the company. The people; the happy shiny people. I had only known most of the people a few days or weeks at most, but I was overwhelmed with the positive feelings that come with being surrounded by great friends. Most people didn’t know each other before that evening, but you never would have known. Everyone was chatting, joking, and sharing stories with everyone. The room was full of such diversity across race, country of origin, language, education, socioeconomic status, sexual orientation, age, religion, life experience, political party. And it was truly celebrated and embraced and enjoyed. There were a million and one differences between all of us, and that, in large part, is why it was such a wonderful evening. Because we talked about all those things.. and shared and learned and laughed over Pinotage. Lee Anne and I talked about how we couldn’t help but wonder how a similar party would play out at home.. and we both had similar gut feelings that it would have been awkward and possibly cliquey – people would have spent most of their time talking to the one or two or three people they knew because that was safe and predictable. So I was supremely happy that it was the delightful opposite of that.
On Sunday morning I awoke to a fantastic birthday card from Marita. From there, the whole big group of us (15 students, Marita, Lee Anne, Jeremecia, Noluyanda, Amanda, and myself) went to Khayelitsha to see Jacob Zuma speak. Khayelitsha is the largest township in the Cape Flats and is home to over a million people, many of whom live in informal settlements. Zuma is the president of the African National Congress (ANC) and will more than likely end up being the president of South Africa as of their April 22 election day. [In SA, people do not vote for a candidate, they vote for a party. And then the party appoints the president. There are an innumerable amount of parties, but about 15 or so that have seats in Parliament. The ANC has ruled with two-thirds majority since the end of apartheid, and for the first time ever there is a bit of uncertainty about whether they will will the election. More than likely, they will win.. but it will be a closer election than it ever has been. There are some ANC supporters that are torn between being loyal ANC comrades since it was a grassroots organization fighting the apartheid regime, but not liking Zuma for a variety of reasons -- the corruption charges he is facing, his lack of education, the rape charges brought against him (he was acquitted), his 6 wives and 18 children by 9 different women, his lack of understanding about HIV and AIDS, and the suspicion that if he is appointed he will try to pass a new law that does not allow current presidents to face criminal charges (thus, eliminating the possibility of him being convicted of corruption).]
We took a taxi to the Elsie River police station where we then met up with many comrades on a Golden Arrow bus. Our bus was old and squeaky, and numbered 5504, which we were encouraged to remember and find in the event we got separated from the group... so I made sure to write 5504 on my hand for the day. Audrey, who is high up and well known in the ANC, led the way and took great care of us. She had dyed reddish pink hair, a gold tooth, and more energy than I've ever seen in one person. We drove through Khayelitsha: more stray animals, a sea of endless shacks under tangled webs of electrical wiring, children running and playing and laughing, toothless men smoking cigarettes and urinating on the side of barbed wire walls, women clad in traditional African dress selling sweet corn and mangos on dirt paths. En route to the stadium (aka, a big open field and a stage separated by old and rusty chain link fences) we stopped at a fellow comrade's home to get our free Zuma/Vote ANC t-shirts. We were welcomed into a stranger's home where we were benevolently asked what size t-shirt we needed.
While back on the bus, decked out in our Zuma-faced t-shirts, we practiced our songs and chants so we would be prepared once at the stadium. There was: Joy to the world, joy to the world, joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, join the ANC! and then Mshini Wami (which literally translates to "bring me my machine gun" but a more wholesome and meaningful translation is "bring me my liberation" as it was originally sung by those fighting the apartheid regime) and Amandla, Ngawethu (a few people yell out Amandla (power) and the larger group yells out Ngawethu (is ours; we accept) -- so the closest comparison for us would be "power to the people") and the good old VIVA Zuma VIVA, VIVA! (first person yells Viva Zuma (or ANC) Viva and the crowd responds with VIVA and a fist pump). There were smiles and laughter and clapping and foot tapping and camaraderie and celebration. It was almost like singing songs on the school bus to Camp Alfred, but so much better.
We were dropped off in a dusty parking area, from which we passed block after block after block of shacks, and the one porta potty for each 3 blocks of residents, and miles upon miles of garbage shred and tangled up in the barbed wire fencing. Bus stops were shallow looking slabs of concrete with rain soaked and torn posters of Zuma's face. The smells were every combination of month old garbage, urine, feces, dead animals, sour milk, and the worst kind of dirty rotten feet and eggs. I literally could not stop from gagging. Comrades in ANC colors and only ANC colors (block, gold, and green) flooded the streets -- Zuma t-shirts here and ANC flags there, everywhere. At the first gate, the sea of grey-blue uniformed police officers instructed us to proceed to the next... only to be repeated at the next. As we meandered through the streets of Khayelitsha, making it the appropriate entrance, we shared many spirited VIVA! chants with the local comrades.
When we finally gained access, after being lightly patted down and asked if I was concealing a knife in my bag, we entered the stadium. Stadium wouldn't necessarily be the word we would use in the states. It was an open feel with matted, dry, brown grass with patches of dirt and pebbles and dust. We were enclosed by the concrete walls that were topped with rolls of spiraled barbed wire. In the stadium there was only one small set of wooden bleachers that were occupied by no more than 40 people. As we meandered through the crowd, we all held hands and linked arms, as to not get separated and lost. While trying to find a nice open spot for all of us, it was almost as if we became instant celebrities. I guess a group of 20 or so white people will garner that kind of attention in Khayelitsha. People wanted to take our photos, and they did just that with their Nokia camera phones. I think Faina, one of the students (who has blond hair and blue eyes - very Californian looking) was proposed to a dozen times. We weren't even in our small grassy spot long enough to settle in before we got word from Audrey that we were being moved up to the VIP section. It was news that was exciting, but confusing; adventurous, but curious; and intriguing, but strange. Were we now considered VIP because we were a large group of Americans? Or white? Or was it simply because Audrey is well connected within the ANC? I was sincerely hoping it was the latter.
We had to leave the stadium and make it back to the first gate that we were turned away at. A small group of smart, local, young men caught on to what was happening and immersed themselves in our group. They attempted to blend in enough to make it to the VIP section with us. Audrey caught on and gave them a scolding; they begged with their big eyes and got the okay. Security was much tighter and incredibly intense. There were far too many people for such a small space; lots of noise and yelling and commotion. Our bags had to go through an x-ray machine while we had to walk through a metal detector. We were all hesitant to leave our bags on the conveyor belt with such chaos happening, but there was little choice.
Once inside the VIP section, we settled in a open grassy area a stones throw from the stage. We were off to stage right and on the near side of the barrier chain link fence. On the other side of the fence were the locals, the loyal ANC supporters, the people voting in the upcoming election, the true comrades, and the children.. so many children. People and children were so tightly packed in, you couldn't quite tell whose feet belonged to whom and which arm went with which person.
*not my photo, borrowed from Dan.I was, once again, overwhelmed with a feeling of undeserved privilege. I wanted to trade places with one of the thousands of people crammed in behind the fence. I am not South African, I will not be voting in the April 22nd election, I did not fight in the struggle, I do not like Jacob Zuma and his politics. Someone who is all of those things should have been enjoying my place.
When we were all settled in, some of more reluctantly than others, Lee Anne went on a mission to find water. It was hot and dry and dusty and we were dehydrated. Lee Anne asked a man who looked like he knew what was going on where to find water; she was led to the VIP tent, where there was a cold bottle of water on every seat. Except people weren't sitting in the seats, so there was an endless supply of water. Lee Anne loaded up with as many bottles as she could possibly carry and brought them out to us.
Around the same time that Lee Anne was tracking down water and making it her personal mission to pass it along to those that needed it, young young children began hopping over and sliding under the fence. Some of the security guards tossed them back over the fence, others began helping them - granting them freedom of space to run and play and be children. Within the very first few moments of children crossing the barrier, a young boy of about 9 years old came and sat right next to me. He was shy and apprehensive, but intrigued. He would look at me and in the quick moment after we made eye contact, he would nervously smile and slowly look away. I think he was searching for validation and comfort and friendship. I told him my name was Greta; he told me his was Thabo. It was at that exact moment when Lee Anne handed me a bottle of cold water. I opened it and handed it to Thabo. He took a sip and handed it back to me. I had the second sip, he the third, and me the fourth. From there it was his water. I think that's around the time he fell in love. Although I don't know if it was with me or with his first ever bottle of cold water.
Thabo ran off to play with his friends on the dirt hill behind the stage, while I helped Lee Anne with her last (of many) trips delivering bottled water. For each child that received a bottle of water there were ten who did not. Hence Lee Anne's specific and staunch instructions on sharing. Throughout the afternoon Thabo would come back to hang out with me, only to run off for some adventure again.
By that time, Zuma was charismatically and energetically engaging the crowd. He spoke mostly in Zula, with bits of Xhosa and English interspersed throughout. Although we could not understand his words, you felt his passion and connection with the crowd. As per occasional translations from Amanda and Noluyanda, as well as the following day's articles in the Cape Argus, we know that he: instructed his supporters not to listen to what the newspapers write about him; slammed Nelson Mandela; promised electricity for all residents of the Cape Flats, as well as job opportunities for the future. Before wrapping up his time on stage, Zuma broke out into song and dance. Among others, he sang Mshini Wami and displayed his rhythm, and immediately fired up the crowd to the nth degree. I may disagree with his corrupt politics and personal morals, but it was wildly entertaining to see a charismatic soon-to-be-president break it down in front of tens of thousands die-hard supporters and fans.
As Zuma and his entourage exited the stage amongst photographers and journalists, the surprised and unannounced concert began. There were performances by four or so artists - I wish I could remember their names, but I can't. Noluyanda, Jeremecia, and Amanda explained that, here in the states, they would be the equivalent to Justin Timberlake, Beyonce, Jay-Z, and Aretha Franklin. Everyone on the inside of the chain linked fence rushed the stage. The cheers were deafening, the smiles were overwhelming, the joy was contagious. Children would point to you and your camera and then themselves. After you would take their photo and show it to them, they'd find themselves on the small LCD screen, point themselves out, and giggle. Thabo and I danced together. And I was happy.
We made an abrupt and quick exit when the zealous crowd knocked down the fence and charged the stage. We escaped just in time to avoid the possibility of any trampling. As we were just about to leave the confines of the stadium, I hugged Thabo and we said our goodbyes. It was not-surprisingly difficult, even though we barely spoke and had only just introduced ourselves a few short hours earlier. When we were making the trek back to the bus, we were stopped several times -- for more photos and inquiries about whether we could make an introduction to Barack Obama. After a few short minutes of the walk, I noticed that Thabo was tagging along, following close behind. He may have been looking out for us, making sure we made it back safely, or he could have simply been trying to hang out for longer. He ran into his friends and they bantered back and forth.. but he chose to come with us instead of them. Lee Anne and I lamented that with each step he took with us, it would be that much harder to say bye... and that really, truly, I just wanted to bring him home with me. When we finally found our way back to bus #5504 Thabo and I said our goodbyes for the second and final time. The hug was longer and tighter and I cried as I walked away. And when I looked back he was nowhere to be found.
It was a dusty and sunny and hot and windy day. One that was exhilarating and emotional and challenging and jubilant. And sure to be a birthday I will never, ever forget, nor have the chance to repeat.
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