There are several things I learnt in
Mpumalanga this week. Perhaps I’ll put them in a vague order in terms of the rhythm of life in a typical day...
Dawn is not quiet in Schoemansdal. It is
loudly and enthusiastically welcomed by every chicken and rooster on every
small piece of land, who in turn wake up the multitudes of birds, dogs and
livestock in the region. It’s a chorus that is amazingly harmonious and vibrant
from 4am until about 6.30, when the sounds of people take over. Soft greetings,
children’s voices on the way to school, a local tractor, bakkies starting up
and easing over the dirt roads to reach the R597 which is the primary road to
Swaziland.
I sat on my step every morning, somewhat
blearily, gazing at the surrounding hills which morphed from blued out haziness
to something more in focus. The coffee definitely had something to do with the
transition, not just the rising light. Oh, and contact lenses helped with
getting more focus too. There is such simple and heart-filling satisfaction in
starting your morning listening to the sounds of a village waking up, and
welcoming the day with reflection.
I’ll skip breakfast, and move onto
transport. Piled into a Mahindra semi 4x4, we bumped down to the main road and
turned right. There seems to be no urgent rush, no hooting and no anger.
Instead, drivers greet each other and we passed other vehicles unhurriedly
making their way wherever they are going. A couple of donkeys on the right,
beautiful Nguni cattle on the left, tractors, women setting up roadside stalls.
I loved the colourful bra shop aka gazebo draped with all sizes and colours of
brassieres and the rows of grass brooms neatly laid out alongside. A one-stop
shop.
By now the kids are all in school so the
few that wander are either bunking, unenrolled or possibly stateless with no
identity documents. If you have no birth certificate you have no access to
schooling in this part of South Africa. Pretty tough for the kids who had no
say in obtaining the certificates in the first place.
Thembalethu Nkomazi, situated at Zakhele
Training Centre, has colourful buildings and a roof that is being scraped down
and sprayed green right now. The workers diligently continued under the hot
Nkomazi sun. To the right are shaded veggie gardens and a huge shaded area for
veggie seedlings, to my left an indigenous tree nursery and tunnel for tree
seedings. A huge heap of used plastic
soft drink bottles will be turned into planters for seedlings before they are
transplanted to the more often used black plastic bags that I see in nurseries.
Near the bottles is a large heap of mulch and compost.
A young man, wearing an old t-shirt and
faded pants, greets me. He has muscles that yuppy Capetonians work out for, a
bright open face and a welcoming smile. This young man went to college, got his
degree and has come back to manage the agricultural side of the project. He’s
researched which vegetables grow well in the region and has a team of people to
help him plant seeds, water them and get them ready for market. He’s
instrumental in planning and strategy and always eager to learn. I was
impressed by his quiet knowledge, hands on attitude and welcome. As I moved to
join our meetings he had already returned to the thatching grass being laid
down to protect the new seedlings planted in his garden. They’ll feed the kids
who come to the afterschool programme here. I envied the satisfaction that
comes from working with the soil… and the lack of snails!
Later in the afternoon I heard kids
laughing in his garden. They were learning to care for the garden and watering
the plants. Sprays of water arched in the hot sun and small faces giggled in
glee and cooled off alongside the tomatoes and lettuces being refreshed.
In Nkomazi there is time to sit down and
have a chat. The local high school teacher, denuded of his students, rests
under an awning with two out-of-school teens. I greeted them and sat down for a
chat. They were keen to learn about Cape Town, so I pulled out my phone and
shared some photos. They’d never seen a starfish before. They ooh’d over the
sea. Then they aah’d over photos of Vredenburg on the West Coast where
communities that are not that different to Schoemansdal cram into settlements.
The illegal electricity lines over the telephone poles hit an immediate
response. In Schoemansdal most homes have electricity and you just don’t see
the spiderwebs of lines over a village. The conversation moved to things youth
struggle with. We talked about social media and actually knowing who the person
was who was your “friend”. And brand. How are you portraying yourself. The
questions are the same in Cape Town.
As evening settles children head home,
tractors putt-putt back and cows low. The heat starts to dissipate and the
village quiets. The sun makes a brief statement as golden light glows behind
tall jacaranda trees and iron woods. The bush rustles as it settles. A mango
falls from the tree next to my bungalow. By dark everyone is indoors, and by
9pm most lights are out and people are already asleep. Dawn comes early here.
The sound of birds is replaced by frogs and mosquitos, a good reminder to find
your spray and put on long pants.
When you walk to your room it’s essential
to have a light to ensure you don’t tread on the resident puffies or cobras,
even though I have not seen any so far. The rustle of the blue headed lizard
has me jumping.
As I unlock my door, I look up at the pale
skinned dark eyed geckos waiting for unwary insects near the light. I silently
wish them “good hunting” and step into my room. Nkomazi is already mostly
asleep.
