We leave Johannesburg around 3:30, it was supposed to be three but she was running late. Soon we’re on the road and the gray fog of the city morphs into brown hills and dry land. Short trees stretch upwards, their branches bent and crooked—characteristics that only perpetuate their sense of wisdom. There is some green but it is sparse and pale waiting for the summer rains.
Johanna from Molteno tells me we are driving to Sun City in the Northwestern Province. I think to myself that it’s so convenient the provinces are named after their location, otherwise I would have no idea where we’re going.
I would define this area as “rural” but I’ve found in recent weeks that ones' definition of rural is pretty relative. The outskirts of Sun City is rural compared to Jo’burg—but then again almost any place would be. This rural has groups of shacks spread out on large stretches of land. The communities are small and poor, but there are streets and schools and people selling avocados and oranges along the road.
There are some gas stations every so often and Johanna will later show me a “mall” which has quite a few shops, a Chicken Lickin’ (South Africa’s Popeyes) a supermarket, a furniture store etc.
On the long stretches of road in between the fenced in communities there will be a man or woman walking ever so often. Looking forward and behind me, I can’t see where they are coming from or going to.
The B+B
We eventually find the Bed and Breakfast that I am staying at—it’s a beautiful two story house with a high fence and fresh paint. It stands out from the houses around it and I feel that sense of dread in my stomach when we pull in.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate having nice accommodations that are paid for. I could say that makes these excursions more like a vacation than like work. But to be honest when I look at the housekeeper, I wish I could have just stayed with her and given her the money. Even if it meant living in a shack, it’s odd but I think I would prefer it.
The staff is very welcoming and nice. They’re eager to find out what I would like for breakfast and I struggle to make a list for them.
Gladys
Gladys is tall and thin and could pass for a model in the United States. Here, she is a housekeeper for the Bed and Breakfast. Her hair is a light brown wig that compliments her mocha complexion. When I first see her eyes, I’m convinced that they’re color contacts and they remind me immediately of a pair my friend bought in middle school. When I think about this twice, I realize they’re not fake.
After I’m settled Gladys comes into my room and I invite her to sit on the bed. When I tell her I’m from the United States she lets out a yelp, throws back her head and claps her hands.
“Wait until I tell everyone that we have someone staying here from the U.S!”
I tell her that one day she can visit me and I’ll have biscuits for her just like she has for me. She shakes her head vigerously and beams when I ask her if she would like to come to the U.S. someday.
She eagerly says yes.
We start talking for a while and she says that she came here from Zimbabwe three years ago. She says that she had nothing there and it was her only choice to come here. She has a three year-old daughter and I ask if she was pregnant when she came. She tells me that is a story for another time.
Gladys found a job once she got here but it paid so poorly that she was only making R50 a month after taxes. That’s the equivalent of six dollars. She said she had to live in a shack and eventually work another job.
After moving several times, she gave birth to her daughter. They wouldn’t give her a birth cirtificate at the hospital because she is Zimbabwean—even though her daughter was born here. I ask her if she wants to enroll her in school when she is old enough. She says desperately yes. I ask her what she is going to do about the birth certificate (children can’t be enrolled without one) she says she is going to keep praying that something will happen.
A little bit after her daughter was born, a friend phoned Gladys and told her her mother had died. She says she still hasn’t come to terms with it. Because she didn’t have enough money to fly home for the funeral, Gladys worked as hard as she could for a few months before she flew back. Her job would only let her off for a week and because that wasn’t enough time to grieve her mother, she quit and flew to Zimbabwe.
Listening to her talk I felt that familiar, overwhelming urge to do anything for her. To help her get the birth certificate for her daughter, to give her money to move in to a better house… anything. But in reality, I realized there was little I could do.
As the week went on we became closer and closer. I asked to photograph her and she let me even though she was embarrassed that she hadn’t done her hair. She showed me a picture of her with her hair showing on her cell phone, it’s short and sticks out from her head, framing her face. She says she cut it off when her mother died.
She touches my hair gently and is shocked when I tell her I don’t put anything in it, just wash it and let it dry because I am too lazy.
She feels it with her fingers, “I wish I were white.”
I think she means, “I wish I had white hair” but the comment sticks with me.
On Wednesday I am so sad to leave this family that has welcomed me. I promise to come back and visit, especially the little boy, Kabello, who is ten.
I hug Gladys and tell her that I left her a present by my bed. As we drive away I imagine her walking up the stairs and finding it: a rock with “courage” imprinted on it and R50. It’s all I had.
