Holding Up the Sky (23 page)

The following day, we invited Nonsi to go down to the Durban beachfront with us, inadvertently providing my parents with yet another experience of what it meant to be a black South African. We arrived in Durban mid morning with enough time before lunch to wander along the boardwalk and browse though the craft markets that lined the walkway like clusters of colourful annuals.

The boardwalk stretches along the coast from Pirates Beach in the north to Addington Beach in the south, a distance of about 4 kilometres. As an Australian used to uninhabited coastline fringed by long, sweeping beaches, the Durban beachfront always made me laugh. The four kilometres of coast were divided into nine or ten separate beaches, some by a pier and others by distinguishing north from south. What really tickled my funny bone is that surf reports were given for each tiny beach; while my friends assured me that the surf was actually different beach by beach, it always struck me as overkill.

On top of that, the beachfront was anything but uninhabited. Half the human race seemed to descend on Durban each weekend, some taking to the surf, some happy to play or lie on the sand and a great many just taking a stroll along the concrete boardwalk. Neither Nonsi nor my parents were dressed for the beach itself–Nonsi had never swum in the sea–so we fell into the latter category and were simply ‘strollers'. We took our time chatting to the women who made and sold African crafts as they sat with their legs stretched before them, industriously producing the next item for sale. We found a shell-covered jewellery box that we knew Mama Skhosana would like and tucked that away to surprise her with on our return.

Along the street next to the boardwalk, Zulu men dressed in flamboyant traditional outfits offered rickshaw rides to tourists. They reminded me of peacocks, their headdresses spraying out like feathers, competing for attention with the next colourful male. One young man came up to Nonsi and told her in Zulu that if she could ditch the old people, he would give her and me a ride for free. He got an evil stare from Nonsi who had a boyfriend and did not take kindly to being propositioned, while I burst into laughter at his bold offer. Realising he was not going to make any headway, he disappeared back into the crowded street.

By now we were hungry and spotted a hotel across the road with an open air cafe that spilled out onto the street. After almost ten minutes of waiting to be seated, chatting happily amongst ourselves, we realised it wasn't the fullness of the tables that was causing the delay but rather the attitude of diners and staff to Nonsi's presence. Nonsi stood there, looking like an entrant in a Miss World competition as always, yet the white patrons looked at her as though they saw a bag lady waiting to collect leftovers from their plates. Irate, my father ushered us back onto the street, loudly berating the narrow-mindedness of people who couldn't see past the colour of a person's skin. While I supported his sentiment, I was afraid the volume of his tirade was going to land us in trouble with some of the burly men seated nearby, so I grabbed his hand and pulled him across the street and out of earshot. Dad adored Nonsi and to have her treated like this when he believed things were changing in South Africa was a slap in the face. Nonsi, on the other hand, had appeared nervous as we approached the cafe. I should have foreseen the problem too, but thought she was hesitant because she had never eaten at a restaurant before. Wandering along the beach with my parents had allowed me to momentarily forget where I was.

We decided to go down to the wading pools where there were a number of fast food shops, finally deciding on some fish and chips. I tried to lure Nonsi onto the stepping stones that crossed the shallow pool, wanting to recreate the lightness of our earlier mood. She stepped out bravely, taking my hand as we slowly crossed from one concrete cylinder to the next. But we were all now aware of the disapproving stares of those around us and found a place to sit on the grass that was a little less under the public eye. From there, we began some people-watching of our own. We saw a large group of black primary school children–clearly seeing the ocean for the first time– being herded along by two harassed looking teachers. After about an hour, we decided it was time to head home, Dad still angry about the irrational racism towards Nonsi and perhaps a little frustrated that he could not make it right for her.

On Mum and Dad's last weekend with me we had a very different experience. We had decided to go and visit Fred who was now working for World Vision in a remote rural area of Kwazulu just outside Tugela Ferry. Setting out early in the morning, we drove out through Greytown and past what served as a border between South Africa and one of its homelands. Kwazulu, like a few other homelands, did not have a single border that delineated it from South Africa. Rather, it was composed of a multitude of areas: you were never sure when you were in and when you were out. For the most part, though, the Zulu homeland consisted of areas that white farmers didn't want–although it was still situated in a part of the world that was so exquisite it made you gasp.

Arriving at the border that morning, we pulled up outside a small building inside which sat two bored Kwazulu officials. Fred had phoned late the night before, apologising profusely that he had forgotten to get the local chief's permission and warning that this might create problems at the border post. I asked Mum and Dad to stay in the car and, feeling that the best form of defence was attack, walked through the door with a very formal Zulu greeting, asking after the health of many of their relatives, before going on to explain why we wanted entry. I hoped that my Zulu abilities might distract them from their usual business of saying no, allowing us to proceed to Tugela Ferry. While I knew I did not speak the ‘deep Zulu' of rural areas, I hoped my urban slang would still prove entertaining. I was soon back in the car, permission in hand.

Not far from the border was a small town made up only of a few shops and houses lining the street. Displayed along the fences in front of each building were bolts of material flapping in the wind–purple, turquoise, burnt orange, gold–giving the impression that this town was simply a gust of colour blowing across the tar.

Twenty minutes later the road had turned to dirt and we began our ascent to the top of an escarpment. As we crested the final ridge, the valley opened out beneath us. On a lush food plain cut open millions of years ago by the Tugela River we could just make out the small plots of patchwork crops being grown close to the river. The road dropped down into the valley and split into the two on the far side of the river, one road running to the east and the other to the west. Fred had told us that he lived near the fork but we would find him about two kilometres along the western road at the workshop. Either way, I knew we could find him by simply stopping and asking for the
‘mlungu'
, as he was certainly the only white man living in this part of Kwazulu. We followed his directions until we spotted a small building made of concrete blocks set just back from the road. It stood in stark contrast to the traditional round mud brick rondavels with their thatched roofs and parked outside was Fred's trademark red four wheel drive bakkie.

We pulled up just as Fred emerged through the front door, waving and calling out a Zulu greeting in his thick Cockney accent. He was followed by two middle-aged women, both in traditional Zulu attire. One of the delights of visiting rural areas was to meet people who are less infuenced by American advertising. While Coca Cola billboards could regularly be seen outside a rural corner store, people were less likely to own a television set or dress like US rap stars. These women were wearing the thick Zulu leather skirts trimmed with hand-beaded edging, large red dish-like headdresses and thick beaded anklets decorating their bare feet. Their faces were smeared with white clay which acts as both sunscreen and face mask. The only glimpse of a western infuence was the T-shirts they wore, one advertising Omo washing powder and the other a Durban football club.

Fred gave me a big hug followed by warm handshakes to each of my parents. His co-workers were introduced: Mama Mkhize and Mama Dlamini. The three of them were employed by World Vision to set up employment-generating enterprises in Tugela Ferry, Fred being the primary contact; he had employed the women as local fieldworkers when he arrived. They had two projects under way: one was a wire fencing business that employed three local women and the other a mud brick business that employed another four. Both projects were relatively new but Fred and the women were proud of their early successes.

Beth, Steve's wife, had been to visit Fred about a month before and had given us photos to take to the two women. She was a keen photographer and had shot a few reels while she was here. Through Fred, the women explained that they had never seen photos of themselves. In fact, they had never even seen themselves in a mirror and were very keen to have a few of the photos to keep. They were thrilled when we told them we had a gift from Beth and quickly opened the envelope, poring over the images it contained. It was one of the more bizarre situations I had witnessed since coming to Africa. These women had no idea what they looked like and therefore each had to be convinced by the other that the person in the photo was in fact her.

Fred took us to see the wire-making project first, leaving Mama Dlamini and Mama Mkhize to finish the work they were doing at the new community creche. Its concrete structure was the first thing Fred had created when he arrived and it would soon be finished. We left the hire car where it was and jumped into Fred's truck to drive a little further along the valley, Fred firing off questions about all our friends in 'Maritzburg. Before long, we pulled up beside a mud brick building where some women were sitting outside in the shade waiting for us to arrive. News of visitors travels fast in a remote community and my parents' new car had clearly given us away.

After greetings all round we went inside and saw what looked like a large loom, but instead of cloth this loom produced wire fencing. One woman showed us how she hooked the wire across the various pegs from one side of the loom to the other. Where pieces of wire touch they are then twisted into the recognisable shape of mesh fencing. Fred explained that this project was quite successful as it did not introduce a new product to the local market but simply gave people the means to produce it for themselves. The loom was also easy to maintain, entailing little reliance on others for success. Fred's job, once the women had been trained, was to help set up processes that allowed the fencing to be sold.

Many development projects were now targeting women as they proved to be the most reliable workers and always ploughed profits back into their children's education, nutrition and health care. Men seemed to find other more pressing uses for the money they earned, some of which left them in no condition to work the next day. The only catch was that the men didn't like being cut out of the manufacturing and were therefore reluctant to buy the project's products. Because this was a rural area, the women had less purchasing power than women in the city–so there was a fine line Fred had to tread.

After visiting the fencing project, we went on to the mud brick project where another group of local women were hard at work setting another row of mud bricks. To one side were the stacks of dry bricks, hard and ready for sale. Then there were rows and rows of bricks in various stages of drying, some turned out this morning, others from yesterday. The women told us how happy they were that Fred had come to work with them as they now had both an income and a purpose. It was also clear they had other intentions for Fred, hoping to set up a match between him and one of their daughters. But Fred, who was shy in matters of the heart and had a long-term girlfriend, was quick to change the subject.

We left the project site and drove back to Fred's rondavel for lunch. His home reminded me of Dr Who's tardis, being bigger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. It was also surprisingly cool despite temperatures reaching the mid to high thirties outside. Inside, Fred had built a low wall that arched around one side of the room, dividing the kitchen from the rest of the living area. On the larger side of the division was a bed, a bookshelf full to overflowing with an eclectic mix of reading material and a spacious area that acted as the living room, containing a lounge suite, a coffee table and a large dog bed.

Fred's huge dog, Mandy, had come with Fred from 'Maritzburg– the only constant between his two worlds. She went everywhere with him, diving into the back of the truck in one easy leap. She was a pavement special, as Fred described her, but had grown to the size of a Baskerville hound in the three years since he'd had her. She served as companion and guard dog. While the locals owned dogs, they were usually small scrappy things that never grew beyond your knee, whether due to breed or malnutrition I was not sure. So Mandy stood out as an ogre, keeping both Fred's truck and his home free from theft.

While he made our sandwiches Fred told us how much he was enjoying his life here. He was now functionally fluent in Zulu, albeit with a Cockney twang, and had found the community incredibly welcoming. Mama Mkhize and Mama Dlamini in particular had quickly connected him up with all the key families in the area, including the chief's. He loved the work as it was so easy to see the impact of what he was doing. I was always a fan of Fred's, given his warmth and easy generosity, but my respect for him deepened as I saw what he was doing here. I knew, despite all he said, that there would be moments of loneliness that must have made him question his choice–yet he had stayed.

After lunch we went for a walk to see some of the local farmers and their produce. While we stood looking out over the bend of the river and the lush harvest that skirted its edges three of Fred's female neighbours approached, hoping for an introduction to the visitors. Fred obliged and explained, as was custom, the relationships between us all. After this initial exchange, the women were keen to know more about Mum and Dad. They too asked how many children my mother had, showing the appropriate sorrow at her small, tenuous brood.