As part of the UConn study abroad
program, we've been scheduled to spend the weekend with various families in
Ocean View, Cape Town. Ocean View was established in 1968 as a township for
coloured people who had been forcibly removed from so called "white
areas" by the former apartheid government under the Group Areas Act. It
was first called Slangkop and the first resident moved in 1 August 1968. It was
ironically named Ocean View, with residents being removed from their previous
sea-side homes and views. As a result, its history is thoroughly embedded in
apartheid.
We got off the bus in the parking
lot of a casually posh food and wine shop which was abutted by an antique shop,
a used book shop, a small restaurant, and various other tourist traps with
wares clearly priced beyond the reach of locals. Just beyond the parking lot,
there were horses and white camels to ride, and a small farm where children
could view and pet animals. An ocean breeze kicked up the red dust of the
parking lot, and I raised my hand to shield my eyes. “Maybe we're just making a
pit stop,” I thought. The wind kicked up more fiercely this time and my hand
was not enough. I turned my back against the dust, swiped at my eyes with a
handkerchief, and opened them.
Across the road from where we were,
a multitude of colored building in varying states of disrepair lay scattered
across the hills at the foot of the mountain. Some of the buildings were little
more that shacks, planks of wood and piles of bricks and stones settled under a
corrugated tin roof. Behind them, the mountains loomed, sketching a permanent
and unforgiving horizon. Bushes and trees lay strewn about and between stones
of dreary grey and brilliant white. The wind blew once again and I shivered.
We were led across the road toward a
grassy park fringed with palm trees. The grass was different somehow, a tougher
kind than I'd known at home. A swing set and monkey bars sat on the far side of
the park, brightly colored, empty. We cut across the park in silence, bags in tow,
toward the building.
On the other side of the park, short
home sat stacked directly beside one another, shoulder to shoulder, yet set
apart from one another by chest-high stone walls or fences topped with cruel
pointed ends. Here and there, people lingered in and around the street, on
their front porch, behind windows, watching us. The staring was nothing new. By
now, we learned that it was simply blatant curiosity and nothing more. We waved
and flashed smiles. “Hello!” The curiously faces brightened, cheeks upturned,
lips parting on beautiful teeth. “Hello!” they returned.
The wind tossed bits of trash here
and there, tumbling in and out of the road, onto lawns (such as they were),
mingling with the dust in the air. A filthy dog sidled up to our caravan and
began smelling my hand. “Hello!” I said. It seemed the right thing to do. He
sniffed me a time or two more before sitting back on his haunches and laying
down in the road, a bright pink tongue lolling out of his open mouth. I reached
down to pet him and was told “We don't touch the dogs here.” There was no
further explanation and nothing more was said on the matter.
We trudged under a labourer's sun,
sweated, buffeted by dusty wind, winding through the streets of an unknown
town. Endless rows of eyes watched us as we trekked through the streets and
past the homes. Soon, we came upon a large building, easily the largest in
town, that marked Ocean View's center, housing a few shops and a dentist's
office. Here, I noticed more dogs, some as filthy and nature-worn as the first,
some domesticated and well groomed, all of them friendly, curious, each padding
toward us to investigate for themselves. We crossed a dirt and grass square and
started up another unfamiliar street.
Halfway down this new road, we were
ushered into the garage of one of the homes – a quaint mustard colored building
with a neat yard and various flowers and plants on display. The garage was deep
enough for three cars but none were parked here. Instead, the space had been
converted into a “Crèche” – what we'd call a kindergarten in the States. In
place of a bare concrete floor and walls lined with tools, the floor was
carpeted and the walls decorated with educational posters. A bank of cubbies
stood near the front of the room,, each marked with a child's name. In the rear
was a small bookcase with a few books resting on top of it. Behind that, a
small basket of toys lay just out of sight. Colorful plastic child-sized tables
and chairs were stacked neatly against one wall. We filed in and sat on the
floor.
The people that introduced
themselves and welcomed us to town were wonderfully upbeat, bright, friendly,
passionate. We were told that we would be volunteering with children the
following morning though the following afternoon and, though I had already
heard this before, I cringed. I do not do well with children.
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| Drew playing with children at creche in Ocean View |
After a few more introductions and
prayer, we were sent off in pairs to various homes in town to meet and settle
in with the families we'd be staying with. I'm marched off with someone else to
a small home on the opposite side of the town center. It, too, is modest,
outfitted with a small neat fence and carefully tiled patio. We walk inside,
eager to rest but expecting another task. Thankfully, we are shown to our rooms
straight away and allowed to unburden ourselves.
The house was not what I expected,
or, rather, what I was told to expect.
“This will be nothing like America.
Don't go looking for anything like America because it is not there. You will
not find it.”
We were not told what we would find,
only that it would be foreign, unfamiliar. Walking through the home toward my
room, I struggled to reconcile the expectations with my reality. This was a
lovely home, cleverly arranged and well appointed, very much like what I could
find in the US. I started to think that maybe I had missed out on the irony of
our pre-visit meeting. Everything was new, but everything was familiar. I felt
at home immediately.
Bags down and shoes off, I emerged
from my new room and joined my new “parents” on the couch. Here, instead of
ma'am and sir, respected elders are called “Auntie” and “Uncle”. It was unusual
but not out of my comfort zone.
“Would you like a beer?”Uncle asked.
“Sure!” I said, hoping I didn't
sound as enthusiastic as I felt, hoping more so that it would not be just one
beer. “I also brought a bottle of wine as a gift,” I said, standing and
crossing the room to get it for them.
“Do you want to open that now?”
Uncle asked.
“I... well that's for you and
Auntie,” I said, slightly unsure if my subtle declination constituted a breech
of etiquette. Quickly, I added, “Am I still getting a beer?”
Uncle flashed an impish grin and
handed me a beer. I liked him instantly.
* * * * *
Uncle, his brother, and I navigated the
streets in his neat blue SUV, cruising, in no particular rush. He pointed out
the window at a large building that housed a butcher shop. “That used to be a
bottle shop. They converted it some years back.”
“Bottle shop?”
Uncle curved his hand into a “C” and
tiled it toward his mouth.
“Ah. Where I'm from, we call them
'package stores' or 'packies'.
Uncle raised an eyebrow, confused.
“Why?”
We came to rest at a stop sign and I
shrugged. “I have no idea.” Uncle nodded and proceeded through the stop sign.
“The residents here, many of them
are poor because of home loans or high rent.” We pass a sturdy white house with
a grey stone wall. A woman stands in the yard hanging sheets on a clothes line.
Uncle waves. She smiles and returns the gesture. “Everything is rent,” he says.
“Everything is debt.”
We pause at another stop sign. An
old yellow dogs pads across the street in front of the car, his mouth hanging
open. Uncle remains still long enough to let him pass. The dog takes his time,
finally settling on his haunches under a palm tree on the other side of the
road. A strong breeze blows down the road, rattling the leaves of the palm tree
and the dog flops over on his side and closes his eyes. Uncle puts the car in
gear and we coast slowly past the stop sign.
The streets in this part of town
were named after astronomical whatnots – Neptune Road, Venus Street, Pluto
Drive. A mountain lay like a protective arm around most of the town, only
allowing an open view directly to the ocean. “Sometimes the mountain boys come
down and raid the place,” Uncle said. I raised my eyebrows.
Uncle's brother piped up from the
back seat. “Baboons,” he said.
I thought it was a joke and smiled.
Both of them stared out the window, suddenly pensive. “You can always tell when
they're hear. The children are screaming, the dogs are barking.” Uncle started
to continue and did not, and, ass curious as I was for more story, I let it end
there.
We climbed a large hill to reach the
highest point in Ocean View, stopping occasionally for Uncle and his brother to
greet friends along the way. We were in no rush. The top held a spectacular
view of the ocean, all frothing waves and hypnotic undulations, white sands and
blue skies. “It's beautiful,” I said.
And then I heard, “Lock your door.”
I pulled myself away from the ocean
view and paid attention.
“Lock your door, man,” Uncle said
again. I locked my door. Uncle seemed to relax and turned his attention toward
the ocean. I joined him. “It's beautiful,” he said.
I nodded, but I don't think he saw
me.
