Two Worlds, One Week: World 2 Amasango

Walk down High Street, past the cathedral, past the traffic circle and you come to Grahamstown’s now closed rail station. Past the old stone station and the one engine of an antique train sitting in front of it, down the unused tracks is a small building with a barbed wire fence around it. The Amasango School looks like any of the other slightly ramshackle houses in the area. The only distinguishing feature is the small white van with “Amasango Career School” printed on it.

This Monday was the second time Alice and I had visited Amasango. The first time, last week, had been a bit of a bust. Not realizing the school day ended at 2:00 we came too late in the afternoon, as school was ending. We still met some of the kids and walked around a little bit, but it had obviously been an incredibly stressful day and everyone there looked exhausted.

We arrived at 12:30 and were fairly randomly directed to a third year classroom. The year which a child is placed in is determined by education level, not age, so it was not exactly the typical age group of third grade students. Their ages ranged from 10 to maybe 14 or 15, maybe older. It was their “playtime.” The teacher had finished lessons for the day and the students were free to play in the classroom. Some of them were drawing, on scraps of paper with pencils or writing pens. Others were playing cards with a deck that seemed to have six black eights. The older students sat in the back talking and laughing like most students everywhere do when given the chance. Some children just sat, their exercise books still sitting in front of them. Two were asleep, with their heads on their desks. Alice and I didn’t really know what we were doing, so we just plunged in.

I sat with two of the smaller boys as they showed me what they were drawing. One of them was very interested in drawing houses. Or one house, really. A square with a flat top and sloped sides with a door in the middle. Inside he drew one bed and cupboards, outside a waterspout and a long row of steps leading to the door. I asked where he lived, and he told me the Eluxolweni shelter, the other boy got up and led me to the door to point out the brown brick building on a hill across from us. The shelter for street children is where most of the children who come to Amasango live.

I met many other students, tried, (and mostly failed) to remember and pronounce their names. I’m not going to attempt to spell any of them. The older students were amazed I didn’t know Xhosa, and I told them they would just have to teach me. I don’t think I am going to be a very good student, although I do know ‘molo’ means hello and ‘unjani’ means how are you?

It was as I attempted to explain where England was to one of the older boys, while simultaneously trying to think of the right thing to say to the girl who looked at my wavy hair with jealousy and asked why it was so soft, and right after trying to help one of the younger ones with a math problem, that I realized how inadequate I was for this job. What these kids really need are ten more teachers, counseling, and school rooms stocked with school supplies. Instead they get some college students.

I am out of my depth, but so is everyone who works here. Jane, the teachers, the staff, the security guard who sits all day in the doorway of the school office. Thursday we will be coming at 8:30 in the morning. I plan to bring some books, and a map, to show everyone where England is.

Weekday Things

Since its been a while I’ve split this into two posts- but if you just want to know about the elephants just skip this one!

I’ve been in South Africa for four weeks now. A routine is starting to come together of usually morning classes, walking into town to do whatever errand I need to do, and sometimes to have lunch with someone and in the evening either doing work or going back out for a drink or ice-cream or whatever.

Thursday Alice and I met with Jane Bradshaw, the woman in charge of the Amasango School, the place where we will be volunteering. I was incredibly impressed by her. I know what liberals aren’t always received happily here but you could tell Jane was the real thing. The kind of person you can’t believe can possibly be able to do what she’s doing, but you’re so glad she does. The kind of woman who started this branch of the Amasango school pretty much on her own and has been running it ever since, dealing with stories of homelessness, drug addiction and teenage pregnancy. Who no matter what she does often sees kids immediately drop out when they go back to mainstream school. But who still couldn’t help choking up when talking about her worry for one of her volunteers who had gotten very sick that day and had to be hospitalized. She cheered up after talking about it though, and after a piece of the Madhatter’s carrot cake, and Alice and I arranged a time to go down to the school next week just to see the place and figure out where we would best fit.

Thursday night a group of us went to the Old Gaol for open mic night. As the name suggests the Old Gaol was converted from a jail- its now a backpackers lodge and bar. Through two big double doors there is a large front room with tables and to the side a smaller room with couches and the bar. A side door in the large room leads to the large stone courtyard. The wind rustled between the stone and I looked up and there were stars coming out behind the clouds. Its was still early, Nouria planned to sing and wasn’t sure when to come, so there was no crowd yet. Just a group sitting around a hookah and a few others leaning over guitars. The only light was the few lit lamps on the set up stage and the cigarettes hanging from most people’s mouths. Stairs up the side of the courtyard led to a balcony in front of a row of cells that have been converted into little bedrooms. Some of the students from the Netherlands are staying in them and one of the students, Milou, let us see her cell. It was much nicer than you would imagine, with a large bed and bright orange walls. Not much in the way of windows though… I sadly forgot my camera but I am definitely going back some time and taking some pictures.

In Pursuit of Peace and Reconciliation

Saturday morning we all managed to get up in time for the tour of the townships that the international office had arranged for us and any other international students. Our tour guide’s name was Mbuleli Mpokela. I remember this because I got his card- not really a card- just squares of paper with “Mbuleli Tours” printed on them. Mbuleli came from the townships himself and seemed to have worked his way up, creating this tour business by himself. Dressed in a leather jacket with a little engraved nametag, he had an obvious pride in his Xhosa heritage and history.

I purposefully didn’t bring camera, even though most people on the tour did. I was just a little uncomfortable taking pictures of poverty like it’s a tourist attraction. We already were on a tour though, so guess I was already treating the townships somewhat as a tourist attraction, so that might have been kind of hypocritical of me.

We started at a building called Settlers Monument. On top of a hill overlooking Grahamstown, we had already been inside the monument a few times for orientation events. The monument was built in the 70s to honor the achievements of the English speaking settlers in Grahamstown. We didn’t go in, instead Mbuleli pointed us to the remains of a fort still standing in front of the monument. In 1819, he told us, the Xhosa people gathered to fight the English who had settled on their land. Many English were killed but eventually many more Xhosa were. The remains of the fort, 3 cannons that were used to fire on the attacking Xhosa, had been left as a memorial to the English who died in what was called the battle of Grahamstown.

We drove into one of the townships only a little ways before we stopped at a hill again, this one overlooked the brightly colored tiny houses and shacks of the townships. In the center was a small circular monument, stairs going up the front and the back. This place, our guide told us is called Egazini, where most of the battle took place and most of the Xhosa lost their lives. We climbed the stairs to the top of the monument. It had been raining and a pool of water lay over most of the words etched into the stone on the floor, In Pursuit of Peace and Reconciliation the people of Grahamstown united to build this memorial to the warriors and soldiers who died on 22 April 1819. It looked sad all alone on the hill in the morning mist, especially compared to the huge building and “living” monument (as the settlers building is called) we had just left. I wondered how many people know what the monument commemorates or that it even exists.

We got back in the van and kept driving. We passed tiny houses and dirt roads. Cows and dogs eyed the van from the side of the road. A man in a suit, holding a briefcase in one hand and his tie in the other walked slowly along one of the paths, past the kids playing in the dirt, toward one of the tin roofed houses. Mbuleli says these tin roofed houses are much better than the old ones made much of mud but he points out many of the longer thinner houses that have been neatly divided in two by different colors of paint. Houses that are painted two different colors, he explains, are houses where the two families living there do not get along. Most people, seemed glad to see us waving as the van passed.

We passed the hospital, dedicated to the treatment of tuberculosis and AIDS. On one of its walls is painted, “We Care, Do You? United In The Fight Against AIDS and TB.” We passed piles of trash along the street. We passed a huge billboard that says “If You Don’t Register You Can’t Vote.” We pass churches, many of them full of people. Because everyone who can find a job only has time for work all week, Mbuleli explained, Saturdays have been dedicated as funeral days.

We drove up a hill on which many of the houses were built on top of old graves. We stopped for a moment and Mbuleli took us to the home of an old women who has lived there for a very long time. She spoke a little English, but we really only had to say one word to communicate- Obama.

We stopped at a building that used to be a prison and is now an art studio for local artists. The word Egazini is painted on the front above a mural showing the Xhosa and the Battle of Grahamstown. We walked around and looked at the works, many of which were prints made by cutting intricate designs into pieces of wood and using a large printing press to transfer the design to paper. While we were there Mbuleli also introduced us to two women from the ANC who had been holding a rally for the women of the township nearby There is a lot of talk about the elections in Grahamstown but after hearing Mbuleli and these women speak there seems to be a split between the poor and more wealthy parts of Grahamstown. Most of the people at the university are really disgusted by the corruption in the ANC and are planning to vote for COPE or “anything but the ANC.” The people in the townships don’t seem to see it quite that way though. Throughout our tour Mbuleli described how the ANC had built homes, and helped get water and electricity and indoor plumbing to a lot of the townships. There is still incredible poverty and the ANC may be corrupt but a lot of people still remember when it was worse.

Our last stop was at another house in the township, where we served a traditional Xhosa meal by a middle-aged lady with white dots painted around her eyes. The meal was simple and very good, and there was plenty of it, it must have taken her all day to prepare that much food. I don’t remember the Xhosa names of any of the foods, many of them pronounced with the impossible click sounds, but there were dumplings and a spinach/broccoli cheese thing and beans.

It was a strange, sad, warm place to visit. When we left for the twenty minute trip back to campus it was raining hard, but at Rhodes is was only cloudy.

Déjà vu

The next morning we walked into town. Like Chestertown, and perhaps every small town around the world, Grahamstown has pretty much one main street called High Street on which almost all the shops and restaurants are located. Everything seems more colorful, though, lots of light pink brick and white paint and green everything. Grahamstown is much busier too, especially at night. We stopped at the local supermarket chain called Checkers, and I was pleasantly surprised at how well stocked with American products it was, including shelves of American shampoo and conditioners and even Heinz ketchup! And of course everything is extremely cheap. At ten rands to a dollar a 300R cell phone costs 30 dollars. I have a feeling this could be dangerous. Even if everything always seems like a bargain, eventually those bargains add up! We ate lunch at another rather strangely decorated restaurant- this one had an, as Nouria described it “tastefully racist,” American cowboy and Indian theme. The burgers were great though.



Sunday night was, well… weird. A jazz night had been organized as one of the orientation events but before we went our RAs or ‘wardens’ as they’re called here told us to dress up and all meet in the common room early. Then all the boys from another residence came over and we randomly paired up. My ‘date’ was nice enough but a first year like all the students that aren’t international right now and more interested in talking with old highschool friends. It was a strange déjà vu like experience, like going through freshman orientation all over again except this time with alcohol. I went home early deciding that once was enough for awkward first year mingling, but of course most of this week is going to be these orientation type activities so I’ll just have to see how it goes…