Rows of tin shanties line the streets, pieced together with sheets of scrap metal. They look fragile and cold. It is winter in South Africa, and frost kisses the tips of the tall yellow grass. I am wearing a coat and scarf to protect me from the chill, but the wind slashes against my face. Still, I am shivering from the wintry bitterness.
There are ten million things reminding us how far away we are. The roads are dusty and unpaved, and garbage is scattered around the dry earth. I watch three little boys playing in a heap of trash, none of them older than 6 or 7. Together they sift through foil wrappers and Styrofoam as if they are searching for treasure. One of them is holding a glass bottle like a telescope. He lowers the object and our eyes meet. He smiles and waves. I do the same.
We are inside the township of Ikageng, which is two hours from Johannesburg. It is only one of the many slums in South Africa whose inhabitants suffer from Aids and starvation, among other plagues. The number of those infected with HIV is still climbing, and so is the number of parentless children. The epidemic is seen visibly in the faces of those we pass and their living conditions.
We walk onto the job site, which looks strange among the wild plants and trees that embody the African Savannah. In 7 days were hoping to resurrect a training center for foster parents of aids orphans. As of now, the site is only a poured foundation outlined with a few large bricks.
Someone hands me a trawl and rubber gloves. Were given a quick tutorial on brick laying, then team up and form makeshift assembly lines to get the bricks in place. My job is to put the mortar on top of the wall and scrape off the excess. We do this for hours, taking breaks to drink water and eat lunch.
Our quiet labor is broken by a new face that has wandered onto the construction site. Jonaha, who is 9, lives in the township and doesn’t have school this week. He wants to help with the training center because someday he’d like to be a builder. We give Jonaha a bristle brush to sweep the dry mortar off of the bricks. Jonaha takes the task seriously, and is meticulous in removing each spec of misplaced dirt.
I am singing, “Three Little Birds” under my breath while I work. Jonaha hears me and joins in.
“Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing is gonna be all right,” we belt in unison.
I laugh when we finish the chorus and ask Jonaha if he is a Bob Marley fan.
“I don’t know,” he says, “but let me sing you my favorite song.”
Jonaha begins singing loudly, almost shouting. His song is an upbeat tribute to god and the earth,
“God is great, he made this land, mamba mamba,” he cries, clapping and stomping in rhythm with each verse.
I tell him I like his song because it makes me want to dance. Jonaha says he likes dancing too, so I teach him the Macarena.
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Our bodies are sore from lifting and moving around the job site, so we welcome a break to help with the delivering of food and supplies to the village. The sun rests high in its blue cradle, and for the first time I am warm enough to remove my scarf. I look off into the distance, where the reflection of sky bounces off tin rooftops. I think about what it must be like to sleep in a tin shack during winter, and suddenly I feel cold again.
Today we are visiting a woman named Shiam. Shiam lives in a shanty with ten orphans she has taken off the streets.
When we arrive she cups both her hands around mine, and the corners of her mouth turn upward into a smile. She doesn’t know English, but it doesn’t matter. Her eyes speak for her.
We carry armfuls of ground corn and blankets into her meager, self constructed home. Inside there is no floor, only hard ground and a single aluminum card table. Shiam nods a thank you, and a restored faith in altruism begins to trickle back into me. Her act is a true act of selflessness.
When we exit we find the local children invested in a game of Rugby. I consider myself lucky not to be a part of it, as adolescent boys bludgeon each other for a piece of the odd shaped ball. The younger boys and girls sit atop a nearby tree stump watching the game in admiration. A little girl approaches us with braided hair and long eyelashes. She asks where we are from.
“New York City,” we reply.
“Do you know Alicia Keys?”
We smile and tell her no, and that New York City is a big place.
She doesn’t understand how this is possible. She knows everyone in her village.
We talk to the kids for a while about school and what they want to be when they grow up. They huddle around us and ask us to take their picture. We retrieve our cameras and tell them to smile. Some of them do, but most look into our lenses very seriously, focusing on nothing but holding still.
Their faces are compelling and beautiful. I want to take them all home.
When it is time to leave they begin asking for food and money. We’ve been instructed not to give them any because it causes quarrelling.
“Can I have some food? I am hungry..” I hear a young boy ask a friend.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any,” he replies apologetically.
The little boy is persistent. “Please. I’m hungry.”
I watch as my friend looks around for observers, and then stealthily produces an apple from his pocket.
“Put this away. It’s a secret. Deal?”
The boy squeals and runs away with his apple raised high in the air in triumph.
During the car ride back I jestingly tell my friend I caught him breaking the rules.
He says, “How could I deny a hungry child an apple?”
I do not blame him.
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It’s dawn, and I am leaning against the window seat of an open air wrangler. We’re moving steadily through the savannah, searching for movement in the grass to signal wildlife.
The sky is a golden hue, glowing against the hilly terrain and brush. In the distance is a hot air balloon hovering over a large basin of water. We are on safari and looking for animal life, but I am perfectly content observing the stunning 360 degree view.
A game drive the previous evening produced sightings of elephants, zebras, and even a lion, but my favorites were the giraffes. Seemingly awkward with their gangly necks stretched high over the trees, they still moved with grace and ease. So strange and majestic, I could have watched them for hours.
Our guide is a local and a serious animal enthusiast. His name is Dato, and he has a clear passion for nature and its wonders.
“Every year, thousands of Rhino’s are poached and killed for their horns,” says Dato. “It is such a sad thing. Just think of the impact this has on Rhino’s feelings? Many Rhino’s with emotional issues because of this problem.”
We all try not to laugh at this, and I quietly joke about how the park should hire Rhino Psychiatrists.
Later we see a pack of Rhinos in an open field. Their massive bodies are impressive and their horns foreboding. They look closer to something prehistoric than anything I have ever seen. I immediately dub my Rhino Psychiatrist comment as insensitive. It is a shame for something so astounding to be taken from this earth unnaturally.
Dato drives onto a trail that slowly scales the side of a mountain. We finally reach the top, leveling off into a more rocky, tree infested area. A quick gasp from Dato has us all glancing around eagerly.
“There, there!”
We look in the direction his finger points and see a Leopard, only about 7 feet away. At the leopard’s feet is a dead zebra, bloody and half eaten.
The leopard glances upward momentarily at our convoy, then continues his meal. He thumps his tail against the ground as he eats his prey. We watch for several minutes as nature in its truest form exposes itself.
“My whole life, and I have never seen leopard this close,” says Dato.
Suddenly, the leopard lets out a small growl and looks up. I decide I don’t like Dato’s comment. Perhaps leopards aren’t meant to be seen “this close”. Our jeep shifts weight and lets out a loud creek. The cat becomes startled and scurries into the trees.
We sit in silence for a while, until someone remarks,
“That’s not something you see everyday..”
We laugh at this understatement and drive back down the ravine.
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I am at the Apartheid museum, standing inside a jail cell modeled after the one that imprisoned Nelson Mandela for a time. I stretch out my arms, and both my hands touch an opposing wall. There is no bed and no window, only a stone floor and a barred metal doorway.
Outside there are images of officers beating political protestors. Some of them are graphic, and I can’t help but look away. There is, however, one photograph that has me entranced. It shows a young, black African man leaping over a barbed wire fence to escape gunfire. His mouth is open and his eyes wide with fear. His outcome is uncertain, and I become frustrated by the fact.
1994 wasn’t long a go.
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