Holding Up the Sky (31 page)

Once more, the kombi was full of friends, though this time it was only six others besides Teboho and myself, making the journey a little more comfortable. They all knew each other from SUCA and so were studying at various universities across the country. While I was once again the only white passenger there was a mix of language groups in the kombi; English, as a common denominator, made a more regular appearance.

It was somewhat frustrating to me that just as my Zulu was becoming comfortably conversational, I was switching to languages that were at the other end of the African linguistic spectrum. Both Sesotho and Setswana, the more common languages of the northern part of the country, as well as Lesotho and Botswana, had a completely different rhythm. Zulu has a regular beat to it, with every syllable being pronounced. Sesotho and Setswana have a lilting tone that tumbles like water over a rocky creek bed, more complex and irregular than the drum beat of Zulu. While I had enjoyed learning Zulu, there was something exquisite about listening to the music of Sesotho being spoken, spurring my desire to begin again.

After travelling all day and well into the night, we arrived at the little desert town of Springbok which marked an end to our easterly trek and the beginning of the drive due north to Windhoek. We pulled up at a petrol station and all piled out of the car to stretch our legs. As Teboho and I walked towards the kerb of the empty street, I asked him if we were stopping here for the night. I was exhausted and my body ached for a comfortable bed. He laughed, as did Joe who was nearby, and I suddenly realised my first world assumption: I was on holiday with a bunch of black university students; a motel room was beyond the scope of the budget. While my mind understood this, my body screamed out in protest as I dropped into the gutter and cried. My own lack of stoicism during these holidays was embarrassing– which made me cry even more. The image of that dark empty street, the solitary lights of the petrol station, the feel of the cold concrete beneath me is still burnt into my mind, so sharp were my feelings of helplessness and disappointment.

While I had hoped to hide my minor breakdown from the rest of my travelling companions, of course everyone knew by the time I came back to the kombi. They were each full of understanding– naturally, they said, I was not used to being poor as all white people stayed in hotels on their holidays and few to their destination, not being subjected to twenty hours in the back of a kombi. While my own childhood holidays had been car trips and simple motels, they assumed that the wealth of white people was uniform and considerable. Teboho just gathered my head into his lap, making me as comfortable as he could so that I could sleep. We were soon on our way again, driving into the utter darkness of the desert night.

We arrived in Windhoek just after dawn. We were staying with another friend who had been part of SUCA and was now a member of the newly formed independent Namibian parliament. Dani was one of the few white people who had been a member of either organisation. Despite his white Afrikaaner heritage, Dani was a simple African man. He was still living in a modest four-roomed cottage in the suburbs of Windhoek. As we pulled into the driveway, I realised that while this would be a different experience to Kopela, the sleeping arrangements would be similar. We spent the next week with nine of us camping on the floor of Dani's house. Fortunately, mattresses made a huge difference to my enjoyment of our stay. We spent New Year's Eve celebrating in the township, discussing the future of Namibia and dancing until dawn. We spent a day at Swakopmund, enjoying the beach will all shades of local beachgoers. Dani also arranged for us to have dinner at the Cuban embassy. Much to the surprise of my friends, I was more impressed by the ambassador's expansive book collection that covered all the walls of the large study than I was by the opportunity of talking to notorious Cubans–I am, at heart, the daughter of booksellers.

After a fabulous week, we made the long drive home. This time I was mentally prepared for driving through. When we stopped for petrol just inside the South African border, only Teboho and I were awake. Dawn was still four or five hours away. We were both feeling fine, enjoying the opportunity to talk about the experiences of the last three weeks without other people listening in. Teboho drove and I was his navigator. While I could read a map, I could not read Afrikaans and my inability to distinguish between two similar sounding towns took us on a four-hour detour to the south, almost halfway to Cape Town. Teboho and I fell about laughing when we realised, glad that the others were still asleep.

As dawn broke over the desert, with just the two of us to see it, I felt so fortunate to be with him, having adventures that would otherwise have escaped me and being able to enjoy them in the warmth of his effervescent love.

AFTER
LIVING LIKE A GYPSY FOR A MONTH, I WAS THRILLED TO COME BACK TO A HOME THAT WAS MY OWN. I STARTED BACK AT SIZWE THE DAY AFTER OUR RETURN BUT EACH EVENING HAD THE DEEP JOY OF NESTING, HANGING A PAINTING HERE, PLACING A PHOTO FRAME THERE, UNPACKING BOOKS AND MEMORIES. AS NEITHER JUSTIN NOR I OWNED A TV, THE EVENINGS WERE ALSO OPPORTUNITIES TO TALK AND READ, FURTHER DEEPENING MY SENSE OF HOME. BY THE TIME OUR NEW HOUSEMATES ARRIVED FOR FIRST SEMESTER, JUSTIN AND I HAD THE HOUSE JUST THE WAY WE WANTED IT AND I HAD MY SWEET LITTLE CAT SOMBU BACK.

The relative solitude each night also gave me the opportunity to refect on the events of the recent weeks. Teboho and I had taken some time out in the days before I left to talk about our future. To mark the seriousness of the proceedings, we had constructed a list–a long one–with every possible issue that needed to be aired and discussed in the consideration of a mixed marriage in apartheid South Africa. Teboho knew I still bore the scars of Msizi's decision to separate after seeing only unhappiness down that road.

What I had observed in my weeks in Jo'burg was a city that managed to accommodate a broad range of world views–the arch conservative Afrikaaners holding onto the past, the corporate liberals who saw the writing on the wall, the black middle class driving upwards, the urban poor and the migrant workforce struggling to survive–each sector carving out its own part of Jo'burg in which to live and build community. It also offered a large city's anonymity, allowing many to live as they wished outside the descriptors of race and class. Teboho and I discussed a future that might find a home there as part of the community of Mohlakeng, buffered by the bigger city. The western suburbs of Jo'burg, known as the West Rand, were home to the radically conservative Afrikaaners. Yet the area was dominated by the large townships of Soweto and Kagiso which were melting pots of language and culture, occasionally clashing but for the most part creating open-mindedness.

Aside from our environment, we also discussed our attitudes to the day-to-day stuff of marriage: work, money, children, parenting, family, domestic roles and responsibilities, church and community service. As much as these issues can be discussed in abstract, we appeared to share the deep values that create a framework on which a family could be built. At the end of our two-day round table discussions, we emerged with a sense of optimism that we could find a way.

In the late evenings, lying in my bed in Oxford Street in the largest bedroom I've had before or since, I enjoyed the thought that I might well have found someone with whom I could do the work I loved in a country that I wanted to call home. When I left Australia to come and work at Sizwe, I knew I was making at least a five-year commitment but hoped I would be able to find a place in the community in which to live more permanently. The past three years had given me a sense of purpose and meaning that I had never imagined possible when growing up in Australia. In hindsight, I also see that those were the years when I was satisfied with today. I have always been someone who lives with one foot in the future but at that time, the present was more than enough.

At Sizwe, the working year started with its usual bang. Almost immediately, we were running programs two weekends out of three. The teacher exchange programs were gaining a reputation and we were now running one a month. One white teacher wrote in his evaluation form: ‘It was the first real opportunity we have ever had of encountering the practicalities of Black Education, and we have been moved, impressed, stunned, saddened and excited by turns'.

We had also begun to develop a relationship with an orphanage in Edendale township called Thembalihle, beautiful hope. As our work at the creche in Sweetwaters was now complete, we had approached the principal at Thembalihle about sending groups of students to work with them as part of the development and dialogue program. The orphanage had never received this kind of support and they were thrilled at the opportunity. So we painted, repaired beds, made curtains, fixed toys and, most enjoyably, played with the children. Their ages ranged from newborn to teenagers, many orphaned by the violence in the Natal Midlands and many more by AIDS, though no one would speak about it. A number of the school students were so moved by their visit to Thembalihle that they returned with toys and books purchased by funds raised at their own schools.

I was also becoming increasingly attached to the orphanage and its children. I once brought a visiting Australian film crew to visit as part of a piece they were doing on the Seven Day War and its aftermath. As always, when the children saw me they came rushing towards me like a tidal wave, all smiling eyes and outstretched arms yelling ‘Mama Sandy'. The journalist asked if the kids could do it again so as to catch it on film for their piece!

I was excited to see all the connections that had been made between schools and communities during the last two years of our work in 'Maritzburg. Many of these relationships now had a life of their own: student exchanges, joint cultural events, principal visits, swapping of resources were all being organised, and one school in the township received a gift of many thousands of dollars. In the context of the division that had once existed, these events were like a small revolution, one I was proud to be part of.

We once again had a number of volunteers coming to work with us this year, the first arriving in January. Her name was Fiona and she planned to work with us for three months. Fiona was mixed race, half English and half Indian, causing much curiosity in our work. I also spent many hours listening to stories about her childhood, my own interest piqued by the thought of perhaps having mixed race children of my own one day. Fiona and I became fast friends, being the only females of the same age at Sizwe, and before long she was staying with us at Oxford Street most weekends.

There were also a number of other friends in the neighbourhood around which an inner city community feel was being built. Home Group's Brian and Anthea and their baby Gemma lived in the next street in a similar sized cottage to ours, where we often shared meals or simply a quiet afternoon in the garden. In March, after having finished his two-year contract with World Vision, Fred moved back to 'Maritzburg and bought a place nearby. Tansey, the Latin teacher from Maritzburg College, was also only three streets away. As well, there were a few friends I knew through my connections with the university, one of whom lived in our street. I loved this fluid, inviting inner city life that was lived on the streets or in the homes of neighbours. Justin, Fiona and I would often sit on the wall of our front stoep with our legs dangling over the edge as if we were fishing rather than relaxing at home. From this vantage point we would chat for hours, greeting neighbours who passed by and always paused to say hello.

There was also regular traffic between Oxford Street and ETHOS. Teboho came not only to visit me but also to spend time with Willie. They had not lived in the same town since Willie was a young child. Justin and I were often at ETHOS catching up with Jacques and Margie and the other students we were close to. Jacques and Margie were now parents, Margie having given birth to a gorgeous, plump-cheeked baby girl called Stephanie who was the sweetheart of ETHOS. Jacques and Margie's parents took some time getting used to the idea of their first grandchild being babysat by black university students, but they did eventually adjust. Stephanie seemed to love Teboho the best as he made her laugh, speaking to her in imaginary languages that only they understood. Mama Florence, the housekeeper, was also seen whisking Stephanie up onto her back, tucking her into place with a blanket or towel, where she slept happily as had many African babies before her. Alice also provided a ready pair of hands, missing her own child as she did.

Alice, the only female student at ETHOS, was also a regular at Oxford Street. Not only were she and I good friends, but Justin had taken her son under his wing. Alice was one of those rare people who are completely who they are–no camouflage or deceit. As with so many of my black friends, her life up until this point had been very difficult. After falling pregnant with Stanley when she was just a child herself she was forced to raise him alone, pushing her own education into the background in an effort to earn enough money to keep them both alive. And, as for so many, it was the church that saved her. She was a member of Ebenezer in Soweto, where Khumo's brother was the minister. This was the sister church to Teboho's church in Mohlakeng and it was through this connection that she had applied to be part of ETHOS.

One weekend I had a long conversation with Fiona about her parents' marriage. As she was getting serious with an Englishman, Iain, the same mixed marriage issues were looming for her. She described the hardships that had resulted in her parents' eventual separation. Since she identified with both lines of her parentage she felt it was vital that Iain understood this. As it was, Iain was white but had been born in India and spent his early childhood there. He had lived between England and India ever since. Fiona felt this would give their relationship a much better chance of survival, seeding the idea in my mind that if Teboho and I did marry, we should also plan to spend some time in Australia.

As the months in Oxford Street passed, I felt something in myself restored. Teboho believed I was more self-confident, settled and independent since the move. I suspect the state of shock I was in from the violence of the previous year was passing, as Oxford Street restored a sense of security. Regardless of the reasons, I was clearly thriving.

In April, Fiona returned home and I experienced the same sense of loss as I had with the departure of Nat, Pete and Anne. My life had evolved into a rhythm of constant companionship followed by absence and loss. But as with all cycles, this sadness passed and new volunteers arrived, once more from England. Fortunately, Peter and Heidi were planning to stay longer than a few months. Peter was a newly ordained Anglican minister and had negotiated a year's secondment to the diocese in 'Maritzburg. He also had a classics degree from Oxford University which secured him a teaching role. In order to acclimatise to the issues in South Africa, Peter and Heidi had asked to spend their first two months working as volunteers at Sizwe. Heidi was the daughter of an English minister who, in a strange coincidence, had met Steve through his first parish role. Because Heidi had taken Peter's name when they married, this connection was only realised later.

When Peter and Heidi arrived, Heidi was already several months pregnant with their first child. It had been agreed they could use the cottage as Fiona had, and others before her. However, after two weeks, Steve told them he would be needing the cottage and asked them to look for accommodation in town. We were happy to offer them space in Oxford Street for a week or two while they looked around, and they quickly found a place to rent around the corner: the crisis was resolved. With Robbie driving to work via Oxford Street, their transport to Sizwe was not an issue either.

Within a few weeks, Heidi found volunteer work with Margie who was now running an organisation called Thandanani, meaning ‘love each other'. Thandanani provided further training and resources for the creches that littered the townships. Many teachers in these township facilities were untrained or lacked the resources to allow the creche to offer anything more than babysitting. Thandanani understood the value of investing in preschool education and its team worked hard to equip the teachers with improved skills. The organisation went on to work with the many thousands of AIDS orphans in the province.

As a preschool teacher, Heidi's skills were put to better use at Thandanani than at Sizwe so it was Peter who remained as a volunteer with us. However, over lunch at Oxford Street one day, Heidi mentioned that she never felt welcome at Sizwe and was happy to find another organisation to work with. As she was the first to express such a sentiment I put it down to a personality clash between her and Steve because both of them are strong-willed and forthright.

In May, though it had been on the cards for some time, Teboho proposed. He took me to the same Greek restaurant where I had eaten with my parents when they met Mdu the year before. This time, we both entered through the front door. After a delicious meal, he took my hand in his and said, ‘Any last words as a Blackburn?' before slipping a ring on my finger. I was delighted, although I must confess the question did make me pause, sharply aware that one phase of my life was ending and another beginning. For a moment I held on to all that being a Blackburn meant: my family, my history, my life in Australia, my identity. But the moment passed as Teboho laughed and kissed me, despite the undisguised stares of our white fellow diners.

There was instant celebration at ETHOS when we arrived home from the restaurant with Margie particularly thrilled, taking credit for having set up such a fine match. Alice burst into ululation–
he le le, he le le
–as she danced in circles around us. She and Pat began to sing a much loved wedding song,
‘Makoti ke di nako'
, New bride, now is the time. Willie and Justin were equally exuberant when we told them the news. Still in high spirits, we phoned Mum and Dad. I can't imagine what it feels like to get a call from your daughter saying she is marrying a man from Africa whom you have met only once in a sea of faces at a picnic. But as always, seemingly unsurprised by my choices in life, they were happy for us and we celebrated together over the phone. The celebrations continued at Sizwe on Monday morning.

Two weeks later, Teboho went to France. The trip had been organised by the French Protestant Council of Churches, taking Moss, Teboho and Nimrod (another ETHOS student) to Paris, Lille and Strasbourg for three weeks. They spoke at various church meetings and conferences, stayed with Christian communities and held discussions with organisations who had an interest in what was happening in South Africa. It was the first time Teboho had ever left the region.