Plett Rage
The first
meal I devoured in South Africa was a mini tube of Pringles, a four-pack of
oreos, and a calcium vitamin water. I’m pretty sure I was subconsciously
expecting to find bugs and leaves for sale, because I was rather taken back by
how Americanesque the gas station was. My expectations since that first night
have also been pretty far from reality. I was prepared to live in a grass hut
in view of Pride Rock. Complete with pet giraffes grazing nearby. Plettenberg
Bay, I have come to find, is in no way similar to the Liong King. Saturdays are
spent on the beach or shopping the boutiques in town. There is excellent
dinning and an upbeat nightlife. The locals are all in all, quite welcoming
with their distinct accents.
Surf Café has become our hang out. We socialize on the deck,
munching on their delicious nachos and veggie burgers. The staff knows us as
“the group of Americans”, occasionally questioning us about our “holiday”. We
go on to share about our work projects in the surrounding townships with Plett
Aid.
“The townships are pretty hectic, eh?” replied our waiter
one afternoon. Well hectic is one way of putting it, I suppose. And when asked
about his perspective on racism in the area he replied, “It’s really not that
bad anymore.”
The thing is; Plett residents like this fine young man, who
have spent most of their lives in the area, literally, don’t have a clue. I’ve
heard comments concerning how the locals don’t think the townships are abnormal
and I’ve come to the conclusion that to South Africans, townships are just a
part of living in the Eastern Cape.
My advice for them: Take a drive up the hill, and it’s a
whole other world. And let me know if its really “not that bad”.
Kwanokuthula: A quiet place.
Walking through the front doors of the Kwanokuthula clinic
every morning a little after eight, I have a mix of two emotions. One is,
shamefully, of white superiority and the other is of sympathy. The people of
Kwano line the walls of the entranceway, patiently waiting for the receptionist
to pass them on into the larger waiting area. Anya and I bypass these civilians
and sit in our corner of the waiting room, anticipating the arrival of our
caregivers.
I’ve sat in the same beige plastic chair almost every morning for
the past five weeks. I normally have my head buried in my Kindle, but
occasionally I witnessed something out of the ordinary. I’ve seen a white nurse
lose her temper on the stubborn patients who neglect to swallow their tablets
every morning. I’ve seen a curious youngster creep closer and closer to my backpack
in search of sweets. I’ve seen children scolded for playing with the
wheelchairs. I’ve seen crippled men hobble in on their canes in search of an
empty seat. I’ve seen mother after mother take down the babies from their
backs, tied with blankets, to wait for the doctor to tell them why their infant
has a cough.
In the background the TV music plays softly from across the
room, the janitor drags a clanking bag of trash over the tile floor, and the
roar of the crowd is a mix of English and clicking Xhosa. Coughing fits break
out in between announcements called on the intercom. I’m occasionally
interrupted in my writing with a “good morning” or “unjonny”, from a clinic
worker.
The people of Kwano chat with one another about matters I do
not only understand, but I will probably never have to experience. The warm
hearted giggles between neighbors may be because they see each other as
complete equals. All dressed in mix-matched hand-me-downs. The feeling of
togetherness that can be found in the waiting room of the clinic, as well as in
the streets of Kwano, is something spectacularly admirable. These people and
their families struggle together, laugh together, live together. I sometimes
envy the sense of belonging that comes along with this lifestyle. Kwano seems a
simple place compared to the hustle of living in the States, but below the
surface, to say life is simple for these people would not do them justice.
(The following are
exerts from my journal.)
It strangely reminds me of a scene from the Walking Dead.
People drag themselves up and down the street, stopping occasionally to inquire
on what their neighbors are up to. Life is slow and quiet as Poppy and I start
our rounds. Freerange roosters crow, and the township begins to wake for one
more day of despair, masked by hope of a better tomorrow.
I’ve walked the streets of Kwano in the cool rain and in the
beaming hot sun. It has been hot, and has also been cold, but the weather has
little to do with the emotional floods I trudge through on a daily basis. I
walk the dusty brick sidewalks alongside Poppy, asking the occasional question
and attempting to make small talk. Her life is ultimately a mystery to me
still, other than the bits and pieces of information she offers up on occasion.
I’ve gathered from our time together that she would much rather talk about
others, opposed to herself. She often tells me tragic stories of our patients
and how hard their lives have been, translating their Xhosa complaints to
English for me.
Cars pass by on “the wrong side” of the road, and I often
look both ways several times before trailing behind Poppy. The main street
through Kwano is busy with small manual engines, gearing up and down in-between
the frequent speed bumps. Taxi vans hook obnoxiously when they pass someone
they know, and Poppy often hollers after vehicles with their windows down, upon
recognizing the driver. Along with the bustle of the main street, people walk
to and fro greeting each other along the way. I can only assume the difference
between those who are off to the workplace and those who spend their days
working at home. Children make their way to school when our taxi drops us off
in the morning, and by the afternoon they are playing in the Primary School
yard. Many children, however, roam the side streets and alleyways, unable or unwilling
to attend school. The boy with his trash bag kite and the boy who spent his
cents to give me a piece of grape candy from the corner shop.
The floors are covered in shreds of linoleum and plastic,
the walls are chipping of bright paint, and the front door is always open. A
woman lies covered in fleece blankets still at midday because she has no legs. A man struggles to sit up because his right arm cannot function correctly, due
to a stroke. Another lady sits bewildered as I take her blood pressure, because
she suffers from epilepsy. Two children gulp down crushed TB meds doused in
water from little plastic teacups. I feel bed behind my mask, because I hope
the old man isn’t too offended that I do not want his TB germs.
At times I’ve been uncomfortable and anxious, but I’ve also
been extremely comfortable on many a couch in many a shack in Kwano. I was
touched by the drunk woman who aggressively demanded I giver her my clothes. I
was touched by the man who insisted I come live with him, because he had no
wife. I was touched by the woman who told me she was an example of living with
AIDS. I was touched by the lady who told
me, “You make me strong.”, after praying for her medical issues. My heart is
truly overwhelmed by all I have had the privilege of experiencing in
Kwanokuthula.
Sitting on this silk comforter beside a man whom I do not
know, in a room filled with a patient’s family, I am grateful. Nurse Cindy
carefully describes that this eighty-one year old man is overcome with cancer
of many types. His sister explains that he has refused treatment. And I wonder
what it takes for Nurse Cindy and Poppy to remind themselves why they do this
job every day.
