Holding Up the Sky (18 page)

Seeing Anne and Pete go left a particularly Australian hole in my day-to-day life as I no longer had anyone with whom to share the wonder of the experiences in Africa. I missed the lightness with which Pete held his life and the balance that Anne brought to mine.

However, within a few days my own new adventure was upon me: the big day of my move to the township had arrived. The house was much larger than most–like Mdu's family home, it was a manse of sorts. This house was currently home to seventeen people, including me, though the number seemed to fluctuate. I was to share a room with the three Skhosana daughters, sleeping in one of the two bunk beds that were squashed into the room. The two older sons shared a room out the back and a number of other boarders occupied rooms in the row of five. The youngest son slept inside, apparently not yet old enough to graduate to the freedom of the outside rooms. There were also a few boys who lived with the family; I assumed they were casualties of the unrest that forced many teenagers to find other places to stay once their homes proved too dangerous. Finally, Mama Skhosana's sister, Auntie Ni, also lived there and helped to run this large household.

Baba Skhosana ran a tight patriarchal ship. Men and women had different roles and young men were allowed far greater freedom than the young women in the house; in his mind, I was to be no exception. While I am no fan of patriarchy, for once I was being treated the same–my white skin bought me no particular favours in his eyes and, strangely, I liked it.

Nonsi, the eldest daughter, was exquisitely beautiful, softly spoken and endlessly kind. Sibongile, the middle daughter, while not as beautiful as Nonsi, had a presence and a power that drew attention to her–not that she cared what other people, including her father, thought of her. The youngest daughter, Thembi, was twelve and still in school.

Regardless of our age or disposition, because we were female our day began early. We got up at dawn and heated the water for Baba Skhosana's bath. While the house had running water, which was a rare treat, only cold water ran from its taps. We would fill large pots and place them on the electric stove. After Baba Skhosana, there was a hierarchy for hot water that finished with us, young women who did not work or contribute financially to the household. Mama Skhosana would remove the water from the stove when it was ready and take it through to the bathroom where she filled the bottom of the bath. Being the head of the household, Baba had the privilege of two pots of water to everyone else's one.

Once his water had been boiled and fresh pots set to heat, we began making breakfast for those who were leaving for work or school. We would use a pot of hot water to make porridge, one of us holding the pot while the other stirred with something that felt like an oar. Plastic plates were then laid out on the kitchen table and great dollops of porridge spooned into each one, to be topped with sugar or maple syrup. It required considerable mathematical prowess to ensure that the number of bowls matched the number of diners each morning. When everything was ready Mama Skhosana announced breakfast and the household gathered in the kitchen, each person swooping on a plate. We four did not eat, but managed the logistics of the event. While the rest of the household ate–some sitting, some standing, Baba Skhosana always at the head of the table–we made sandwiches for school lunches.

By seven o'clock, the house had cleared. Setting off in his car– another rare commodity in the township–Baba Skhosana would drop the children to school before he went on his morning pastoral visits in the community. If there were any young men left at home by this time, they became suddenly invisible as the daily housework began. We dusted, scrubbed, polished, tidied, washed dishes, made beds and washed clothes. At about 10.30 we would make brunch for ourselves which usually consisted of porridge, toast and eggs. Mama Skhosana, Nonsi, Sibongile and I would then sit and chat, relaxing at the table and enjoying the rare quiet of the house. After brunch, we'd clean the kitchen quickly and then put the water on for our own baths.

Finally, once we were clean and dressed, the afternoons were our own. Nonsi and Sibongile were often keen to go to town or to a friend's house. One of Nonsi's closest friends, Zodwa, lived a few doors down in one of the outrooms next to Themba's. Zodwa was voluptuous and outspoken with an extraordinary curiosity about life that made me irresistible to her. We spent many hours discussing how things are done in African culture as compared to Australia and other countries around the world. She was the first black woman to speak to me openly about sexual norms and practices in the township. Newly married, she told me of the difference between single and married sexual politics, what the expectations were and how young women felt about it. This line of discussion led to many conversations between Nonsi, Zodwa and myself about identity, self worth, body image and meaning for women in Africa. Sometimes we were still deep in discussion by the time Themba came home from Sizwe and he would be drawn into these exchanges, judiciously adding the views of the African male. We all knew, however, that Themba was a rare man as he didn't agree with the township practice of single men having many girlfriends at one time and all the lying and manipulating that went with it. He was waiting for someone special, and we knew it.

But in my first few days in the township, these conversations were still ahead of me: I was just being introduced to Zodwa and her husband. We spent a few afternoons with her sitting on the stoep outside her room that week, but more often we all went into 'Maritzburg together to wander around the shops and see who we might bump into.

Getting to town was a whole new experience for me and one that I particularly enjoyed. From our house, which was on a road that cut across the bottom of the valley at the foot of Sweetwaters, we walked down the hill past Zodwa's and on to the shop which was about halfway to the main Sweetwaters road. The shop was set slightly back from the road, allowing trucks and kombis to enter and turn on the dirt circle out front. A few tall gum trees were dotted around the shop, giving it the only real shade on the street. The shop itself was quite large for a corner store, made of concrete blocks plastered and painted a pastel yellow and topped off with a corrugated iron roof. It sold all sorts of food stuffs, usually in small amounts, as township homes rarely had refrigerators or sufficient space to store large volumes of food. They did a roaring trade in sweets, chips and soft drinks which seemed to be the staple diet of most township children. It always surprised me that with so little money around, it was these things people chose to spend their money on.

The shop was also the local meeting point and taxi rank. As Caluza was located on the edge of Edendale, on the border with Sweetwaters, it was the end of the line for taxis. The kombis that serviced Sweetwaters tended to enter the city by taking the road past Hilton as opposed to driving through Edendale. Sweetwaters was a predominantly Inkatha area, whereas Edendale was predominantly ANC. While Inkatha and ANC supporters fought it out in Imbali, the rest of Edendale was relatively aligned. So when the taxis arrived at our little shop, it was the last stop before turning and heading back to 'Maritzburg. As a result, taxis would wait at the shop for as many passengers as possible to fill the seats before making the return journey. In the peak hour, the turnaround was quick but at lunchtime we had to wait until the driver was ready to move. These kombis were the only form of public transport available to the majority of residents. A few homeland buses operated by the Kwazulu government ran through the valley on Edendale road, headed for the western escarpment and the valleys beyond, but they rarely stopped in Edendale valley as they carried passengers from the Inkatha-aligned areas to the west. So for Edendale residents, it was take a kombi or walk.

Each kombi could ft approximately twelve passengers, plus the driver and a young boy who collected money for the driver or helped to load people into their seats. However, some of the women who rode the taxis were so large that only three could ft along the back seat, compared to the usual four. When you entered the taxi, you made a quick mental note of who was already there and who was queuing behind you to try and pick a seat that would still allow breathing space. The taxi driver, who was paid his wages as a percentage of the takings, was always keen to ft as many people in as possible. Sometimes I imagined I saw a gleam in the driver's eyes as they spotted me, skinny as I am; I'm sure some of them thought they could easily squash me in to get an extra fare.

Once the taxi was full enough, the sliding door would close and the driver would pull out onto the road and drive at full speed towards the city. If the kombi was full, he would stop for nothing– pedestrians, potential customers, other cars, traffic lights. It was always a hair-raising ride. If the driver was particularly reckless, the older women would shout at him and try to shame him into slowing down. Sometimes it worked, mostly it didn't. If the taxi was not full, the driver would be on the lookout for more passengers. During the quiet shift in the middle of the day, he would slow down next to pedestrians, especially female ones, and haggle prices for a lift or sometimes suggest a get-together after his shift. Generally, he would keep an eye out along the road as commuters indicated their destination intentions with hand signals; a single forefinger raised for town, a hand tilted sideways for a township on the other side of town, a finger pointed down for Imbali etc. These hand signals could be made from any location near or far and the taxi driver would screech to a halt to do a pick-up.

A friend once told me she treats taxis like wild buffalos–the most dangerous animal in the African bush–and avoids them on the assumption that they are dangerous and erratic. It would be impossible to estimate the number of deaths caused by taxis in Africa, but they are a major cause of the massive road death tolls in the continent. When you jump into a taxi, you do so with a leap of faith that the death toll will not include you. Then you busy yourself in conversation with fellow travellers so as to block out the many near accidents the driver causes on his way to town. It was these conversations that made riding the taxis so enjoyable for me. Given my tendency to strike up a conversation with anyone I meet, I fitted in extremely well in the commuter culture. It was also a great place to practise my Zulu. People generally wanted to know how on earth I happened to be in the township, why I didn't have a car like every other white person in the country and why I wasn't afraid to ride the taxis. Once these initial questions were out of the way, they wanted to know where I was living, where my family was and how they felt about what I was doing. After my first few trips to town, all of Caluza seemed to have caught up on the answers to these questions, so new ones were then posed: did I like living with black people, was I not afraid of being in the township, how did I learn to speak Zulu?

My language skills were a fascination for everyone. Very few white South Africans learn to speak African languages so when a white person does, everyone wants to hear them speak. As I had learnt my Zulu from interactions with Zulu speakers and not from a series of tapes, my intonation and vocabulary were very colloquial, which people found particularly amusing. In fact, I was a source of evening entertainment in the Skhosana household, with the family wanting to know what phrases I had picked up each day.

Whatever Nonsi, Sibongile and I got up to during the day, we needed to be home before dark. Sibongile took pleasure in telling me that it was a rule for the girls only, to keep us from sneaking off with boys. Boys, she argued, could do whatever they wanted with other people's daughters–her brothers could come home any time they pleased. Aside from this purity curfew, I knew that Mama Skhosana needed us home to help cook for the seventeen people who would be wanting their supper. Baba Skhosana wanted dinner on the table at 7 pm promptly. He and the other adults would be served their supper on the dining room table in the lounge room, with the rest of us eating in the kitchen. As with breakfast, seventeen plates would be laid out on the kitchen table: crockery for the adults and plastic for the kids–which included me as an unmarried woman. Nonsi and I would then dish the appropriate portions of food onto each plate: more meat for Baba Skhosana and any male diners and larger portions in general for adults. Supper usually consisted of chicken, rice or pap with vegetables. From time to time, we would dish red meat but this was more expensive than chicken and while the household was comparatively well off, we had many dependants who were unable to contribute financially to the running of the household.

Each night after supper, Baba Skhosana would host family prayers. These could take anywhere from thirty minutes up to an hour and a half if he thought we needed extra moral correction. He would lead out with a prayer then encourage each of us to pray simultaneously. I soon worked out the longer and louder one prayed, the more approving looks were received from Baba. After prayers, he would read a bible passage and talk to us about the principles contained therein, switching back and forth from English to Zulu. Despite my own church background, I found these evening sessions a test of endurance. I was also careful not to catch Sibongile's eye as she tried to make Nonsi and I laugh. One night she succeeded, with disastrous consequences: an extended sermon on respect for parents. When Baba pronounced the evening prayers finished there was always a collective sigh and a rush for the nearest exit. The boys would disappear outside, whether to their rooms or to the street, and we three girls would retire to our room or sometimes to chat with Auntie Ni who, despite being reliant on Baba Skhosana's goodwill, was more than willing to laugh with us about the entire family's lack of enthusiasm for religious instruction.

One night, Mama Skhosana asked if I would cook one of my favourite Australian meals for the family to try. I tried to explain that Australia doesn't really have its own style of cooking, but that our favourite meals are usually drawn from one of the many communities that make up the eclectic culture of Australia. I told her that I was a big fan of pasta, an Italian specialty that was popular all around the world. She agreed she would like to try pasta and so the next afternoon, I was sent to town with Nonsi–Sibongile being grounded for some infringement or other–to buy whatever I needed to feed the household. I decided to try a carbonara with bacon, mushrooms, herbs and cream. Mushrooms were not part of the staple diet in the township but I thought I could slip them through in the general mix of things. I also bought garlic bread and parmesan cheese, two more new entrants into the household pantry.