On the Township Lollipop
We drive by in the little white bus the rows and rows and rows of colorful shacks, sheds, pieces of tin somehow stuck together to make some sort of a room, a house. But I still cannot comprehend that this, this tiny building, all of these tiny buildings, if you can even call them buildings, are where people live. Real people live there. Children play there. There are cows along the road. They must eat those cows, they must just kill these cows and just eat them, I think. The colors, the many, lots of colors flash by as we sit in the little white bus. All of us white Americans. We are looking at the bright blues and reds, greens and greys of the shacks. I must remember to use these colors more at my house. Mine would be a choice. Not a necessity.
The night before the Township Tour, I looked at a book called Shack Chic. That is where I first noticed the beautiful greens, blues, reds and pinks that the shacks were decorated in. I should try that at home. Only this is what they have, what they find. It is not for fun. It is not because the bright colors look nice. It is because the food labels they use to paper the walls are all they have. But that looks so neat, I want to use that.
We get out at Langa. We did not get out at Khayelitsha. They tell us that the children will gather around us. The children gather around us. They are barefoot and dirty. One girl has a pink cap with a fake blond ponytail attached to the back. She takes off the cap and her hair is as so close to her head you can only barely see the kink. The girl grabs my hand. Is it okay to take it? How dirty is her hand? Can I get some disease from this? How can I think this, though? Do these thoughts make me racist, careless? Other children come up. They tell me their names. I cannot remember them. One little boy he is so tiny takes my hand. He then reaches for Caroline’s hand too. I know what this means. This is not just holding hands. I pull up with my hand and make him come off the ground. Caroline follows my lead. He does not want to put his feet back on the ground after we have swung him. He does not put his feet on the ground. My arm tires. Please, let me put you down. As I look down at him I notice his head is odd shaped. Does he have a disease? Does he have cancer? Is he going to die? He has walked so far with us; will he know the way back to where he came from?
Our guide leads us to a shack. It is grey on the outside. It is a shebeen. The guide tells us what it is what it means, who goes there, who makes the beer, that the beer, sorghum beer is bitter and sour tasting. A woman brings in a paint can full of tannish colored foam. It looks like she just milked a brown cow. She places it in the middle of the shebeen. She pulls out a dishrag to wipe the side. How clean is that rag? It can’t be clean. Nothing is clean here. We are all supposed to drink out of the paint can. We are supposed to share. Share as in commune. Commune as in community. I am the third or fourth person to take the paint can, I can’t remember which. Turn it just a little, but not so anyone notices to get a place where no one has put their mouths yet. It is cool. It is sour, but not as sour and bitter as I had prepared myself for. Yeasty.
It is time now for lunch. We go to Lalapa. Sheila is the older woman who owns it. It is her house. It is her house that she built on and built on until she could have a restaurant for visitors. The food is good. This is almost exactly like southern food. Comfort food. Almost. I mention to the guide outside waiting for the group to get to the vans that I liked the food, that it was good, but he says it wasn’t how they normally would make the food it isn’t authentic. Authentic. He says they change it for the tourists, for the Americans, British, Australians. The township lollipop.
There is no more time for anything else. We must get back to the bus. We must get back to Rondebosch, to class. We must get back. We must get back to write about this. Write about it instead of really experiencing it. We don’t have time to experience it. We have to get back to our lives. Back to why we are here. Why are we here?
The night before the Township Tour, I looked at a book called Shack Chic. That is where I first noticed the beautiful greens, blues, reds and pinks that the shacks were decorated in. I should try that at home. Only this is what they have, what they find. It is not for fun. It is not because the bright colors look nice. It is because the food labels they use to paper the walls are all they have. But that looks so neat, I want to use that.
We get out at Langa. We did not get out at Khayelitsha. They tell us that the children will gather around us. The children gather around us. They are barefoot and dirty. One girl has a pink cap with a fake blond ponytail attached to the back. She takes off the cap and her hair is as so close to her head you can only barely see the kink. The girl grabs my hand. Is it okay to take it? How dirty is her hand? Can I get some disease from this? How can I think this, though? Do these thoughts make me racist, careless? Other children come up. They tell me their names. I cannot remember them. One little boy he is so tiny takes my hand. He then reaches for Caroline’s hand too. I know what this means. This is not just holding hands. I pull up with my hand and make him come off the ground. Caroline follows my lead. He does not want to put his feet back on the ground after we have swung him. He does not put his feet on the ground. My arm tires. Please, let me put you down. As I look down at him I notice his head is odd shaped. Does he have a disease? Does he have cancer? Is he going to die? He has walked so far with us; will he know the way back to where he came from?
Our guide leads us to a shack. It is grey on the outside. It is a shebeen. The guide tells us what it is what it means, who goes there, who makes the beer, that the beer, sorghum beer is bitter and sour tasting. A woman brings in a paint can full of tannish colored foam. It looks like she just milked a brown cow. She places it in the middle of the shebeen. She pulls out a dishrag to wipe the side. How clean is that rag? It can’t be clean. Nothing is clean here. We are all supposed to drink out of the paint can. We are supposed to share. Share as in commune. Commune as in community. I am the third or fourth person to take the paint can, I can’t remember which. Turn it just a little, but not so anyone notices to get a place where no one has put their mouths yet. It is cool. It is sour, but not as sour and bitter as I had prepared myself for. Yeasty.
It is time now for lunch. We go to Lalapa. Sheila is the older woman who owns it. It is her house. It is her house that she built on and built on until she could have a restaurant for visitors. The food is good. This is almost exactly like southern food. Comfort food. Almost. I mention to the guide outside waiting for the group to get to the vans that I liked the food, that it was good, but he says it wasn’t how they normally would make the food it isn’t authentic. Authentic. He says they change it for the tourists, for the Americans, British, Australians. The township lollipop.
There is no more time for anything else. We must get back to the bus. We must get back to Rondebosch, to class. We must get back. We must get back to write about this. Write about it instead of really experiencing it. We don’t have time to experience it. We have to get back to our lives. Back to why we are here. Why are we here?