Buckets and Huts

The rural communities of South Africa are different from the townships, but not exactly what I had expected.

Lindi

As we drive along the dirt road, swerving rocks and deep holes I watch the small cement houses pass by. Each seems to be connected to a large garden that produces enough to feed an extended family. I find myself crossing my fingers that Eric’s car will pull up to one of the round huts with grass roofs that appear from time to time intermixed with the other houses. I don’t know why but I have this incredible urge to sleep in a hut.

Ironically to my chagrin we pull up to one of the largest houses I’ve seen in the area. Of course they send the Americans to the nicest house, we start laughing in the car because it appears to be the most luxurious in the community.

We are greeted by Lindi who is the mother of the family. Her head is tied in a wrap and she has the same complexion as Eric: they are both from the Shangaan tribe. 

Lindi’s voice is deep yet light hearted. There is a power about her that seems both nurturing and commanding at the same time. Her one-year-old is tied tightly to her back and he smiles widely at us with big, engaged dark eyes.

The entire family welcomes us when we walk in to the house: Three older girls 14, 15, and 17 and the younger boys-- Bruce who is about 10 and his younger brother (whose name I can’t spell… Bafanas?) around 6, and the baby who wobbles around the living room . Sandra who is 15 has her hair half done in braids and her sister sits behind her on the couch helping her twist them in to her hair. They tell me it takes about three days to finish.

Bruce is quiet towards us at first, but there is such a gentleness and wisdom about him that I can hardly believe he’s only ten. His sister tells us he’s a great dancer and he grins, throwing himself back in the big chair. She starts playing an Usher song on her cell phone and he stands up and starts dancing with elegantly controlled movements. He moonwalks like Michael in small steps, then puts his hand to his heart contracting his rib cage and pulling his shirt with his hand in such a way that it appears his heart is pumping out of his chest.

He hasn’t had any lessons and we applaud when he finishes, completely impressed with his talent and style. Later, he sings the African national anthem to us. His voice is soft but I marvel at how uninhibited he is—something that I find myself noticing in so many African children since I’ve been here.

Lindi brings out the dinner she prepared: two spinach dishes, pap, and chicken, which she puts out on the table for us to serve ourselves buffet style. There is also a dish of small sweet potatoes—a staple that is always around the house like a sweet for everyone to eat even with coffee or tea.

“Pap” is probably like the dinner rolls of South Africa…or maybe the ranch dressing? If it’s not on the table, everyone is looking around asking where the pap is. It’s made of corn and probably closest in taste to polenta or grits but the texture is harder. Lindi serves it in round slabs that you pick apart with your fingers and use to scoop up the food. It can also be prepared to have the appearance of mashed potatoes.

I marvel when I see Lindi’s because I’ve never seen it in slabs before so I ask her if she’ll teach me how to make it after dinner. She agrees. The food is wonderful, some of the dishes are really salty (South Africans like their salt) but it’s so nice to have a cooked meal like this with nearly all of the makings coming from her garden. Talk about sustainable living the Oregonians would be proud.

No, I didn’t eat the chicken. But I don’t think anyone noticed.

 Shangaan

We talk late in to the night after dinner. Lindi’s brother comes over and the conversation switches from English to Shangaan. Jillian (the other volunteer) and I play with the littlest boys and make faces at the baby. I watch the family conversation intently—listening to their voice inflections, hand gestures and any English words I can make out. In my head I try to imagine what they’re saying.

When they notice how closely I’m watching them, they ask if I can understand. I tell them I was trying to guess in my head. What was my guess? Something about work because Lindi was talking about photocopies and gestured, adjusting an imaginary suit. They all started laughing and explained they were talking about the increase of identity fraud by Zimbabweans who were entering the country (they photo-copied the ID’s of South Africans and then made a business of selling them). I say I should stop trying to guess what they’re talking about and go look for my credit card. They laugh.

The house feels so warm and happy with everyone talking and joking. What was it like to be raised in this environment? There is no running water and the rats scamper across the roof and in the walls that the father made himself. But everything feels relaxed. The children have shining faces and hopes for the future: careers off in the distance they will pursue after school is finished. When we finally go to bed, I don’t brush my teeth because I don’t know where to get water.

The Bucket

Jillian and I wake up the next morning at 7a.m. Lindi is heating a kettle over a fire in her garden and the kids aren’t up yet. The kettle is so black and burnt that it’s hard to believe it was ever any other color. She pours water in to buckets for us to take back to our room and bathe. I am embarrassed that I forgot a towel and she brings two for us along with a bar of soap and some lotion.

Now I could barely take a bath effectively in a bathtub—let alone a bucket. So I stand in it and kind of brush the water up and down my legs. I grab the bar of soap and attempt a lather, which is only somewhat effective. Water sloshes on to the floor and I decide that I’ll shower when we get back to the house later that afternoon. I still feel like I wimped out.

Lindi takes us to the school where she teaches and tells us about the huge classes and problems with children misbehaving and using drugs in school. The community seems so united and peaceful it’s still hard for me to imagine this dark underbelly. 

I don’t really know how to describe the school. I guess it is what you would expect of a rural school in South Africa. Parts are dirty and falling apart, there are cracked windows… I didn’t see any of the classrooms and I really wish I had. Sorry I don’t have any pictures (big surprise) I forgot to charge my camera. It’s good to know that my forgetfulness transcends boarders, oceans and cultures.

Outside we could hear drums banging and shouting. One of the older daughters who is my age and out of the house takes us to the backyard of one of the houses where a group of men are practicing their traditional tribal dances. She says that these groups perform for tourists and it’s a good way to earn money because there are few other outlets to make money so far from the city.

I watch the group of five men, huge smiles spread across their face as they kick the air in unison. Their faces are bright in the sunlight and their dreadlocks smack against their faces as they turn. Each has his own swagger that gives the historic dance a modern feel.

Later we see property her grandparents own. Chickens run around in the yard and several large huts are on the property next to the main house. We go inside one and Basani tries to catch a cockroach with her foot. There are animal pelts on the floor, a huge snakeskin spread across the wall and chests filled with glass jars of herbal medicines and remedies covered with dust.

I wish I could stay on this land with the family. Sleep in the hut on the grass mats. I tell them I’ll come back and visit and stay for longer.

Later we return to Lindi’s house to leave. She packs us plastic containers filled with boiled sweet potatoes and a root vegetable that tastes kind of like a yam but not as sweet. She embraces me and I give her the rock with “strength” inscribed in it that I brought from the states. I know she doesn’t need it.

It's odd to feel nostalgic about a life that is so far from your own. But there is something about the simplicity of their lives that keeps grabbing me and pulling me in. In these small communities everyone is in it together. Mothers take in orphaned children as their own. Families have such light-hearted connections and unity that life seems so basic and easy. In America we try to emulate sustainable living by being "green". If you grow your own lettuce, you're progressive. But here it is all a given.