Day 22: The long and short of it

The long and short of it

Now it’s longs. Now it’s shorts. The kids swarming around my backpack are of all ages. Some are long, some short. But there are no long faces here. All eyes are ablaze with wonder at what comes out of my yellow backpack here in Ella’s lounge in Concordia, a township on the outskirts of Knysna.

I love how I ended up here. I asked some guys at the Knysna taxi rank (who may or may not have been trying to sell me drugs) which taxi I needed to take to get to Judah Square. It looked as if I knew what I was doing and where I was going, but I almost got into the wrong one. By the time I found the right minibus, I had attracted some attention. Something to do with being white and almost absurdly redheaded.

It was then that I met Ella from Concordia. She asked me what I was doing and insisted that I sit next to her in the taxi – she even offered to pay my fare – so that I could tell her about the people I’d met and how I got to Knysna. She also invited me to come and stay with her in Concordia after I’d been to Judah Square, the famous Rastafarian community established in 1993. We exchanged numbers and I had to promise that I would spend time with her and her family.

Sista Kerri, recommended to me by three youngsters I met on my way to the taxi rank, is my caretaker during my stay in Judah Square. Upon my arrival she takes me on a tour so that I get to meet some of the locals and learn about Rastafarian culture. One of the first things I pick up is that there is no place for the word ‘we’ in this community. They use the term ‘I and I’ instead, which immediately speaks to my uBuntu heart. I also learn that it is customary for Rastafarian women to dress modestly and make sure their bodies are covered. Luckily, I have that sarong strapped to the outside of my backpack.

I spend an interesting few days with Kerri and her friends and on the morning of my departure I attend a class she runs to teach the youth about the Rastafarian way. The morning’s lesson is about informal employment and the children, all pre-teens, are learning about reflexology. There are five of them practising on me, their lucky guinea pig!

Back in Concordia I meet Ella halfway to her house – she sees me first. Her family includes her boyfriend and her daughter, and her house is one of the smallest, but with the biggest heart. She explains that it is partially sponsored, so she doesn’t view it as her home. It’s everyone’s home. Many people come to her door looking for help. Or a meal. Like the neighbours’ son. There is often alcohol in his home, very seldom food. He comes for a meal every day (though today he comes to laugh at my singing).

On the second night some friends come over for a dinner of chicken and tomato stew with pap. The adults are amused by my stories of fellow South Africans, while the children are entertained by some of the items in my backpack. Like the long pants that can unzip, shedding their bottom part to become shorts. They love that idea! Longs – shorts – magic pants.

The next morning begins early: rise and shine, and off to school I go with all the neighbourhood children. They want me to meet their teachers and vice versa.

When we arrive back home in the afternoon, I realise with embarrassment that I left my room untidy in the morning rush. And this after my bed has been neatly turned down for me every night! I pack my things away and notice the bottoms of my magic trousers lying on the floor. No top part in sight. I search high and low. Eventually I reach the conclusion that one of the children must have taken it. Well, now what? After some contemplation I decide that it is not worth getting angry. I’ll be the better person. I’ll just leave the bottoms behind when I go and then whoever has taken the top can at least enjoy the pants in all seasons.

As evening falls and we listen to the hour’s sounds, spectacular in these magical forest surroundings, Ella says, ‘Oh, I forgot. I washed your pants earlier today. I hope you don’t mind.’

I just sit and stare at her. Words jump up and down in my mouth. I’m too ashamed to speak. Better person, huh?

Eventually, my thanks stumble out. The vision of Ella in my messy room, pants in hand, deciding to spare the bottom part a washing as I hadn’t worn it yesterday, floods my mind. This experience, these trousers, unzip in me a new kind of awareness. I see that I have to erase certain outdated notions that have built up over time.

Ella is a partner in a business called Emzini Tours that offers township excursions. This morning Portia Mahange and her young daughter have booked onto a tour. South Africans seldom show interest and it’s a first for Ella to have a black and a white South African together on one of them. We have coffee at Ella’s house afterwards and I learn more about Portia. She’s a chartered accountant, self-published poet, wonderful mom to Nathi and loves travelling. Beside the last point we have very little in common. I feel slightly intimidated by this talented woman, so I try to make myself appear more intelligent and accomplished. A tall order. I search for politically astute statements to explain my mission. ‘There are places in South Africa I won’t go to . . . like Orania.’ I spit the name out. I feel more sophisticated already.

‘Oh, but you’re wrong,’ says Portia. ‘You’ve decided to be on this journey so you have to keep an open mind. The people of Orania are people of our country. Plus, if you are looking for a sense of community and a sense of uBuntu, you’ll surely find it there, too.’

I am stunned. In reminding me to keep an open mind Portia influences my journey. There are few towns that I visit intentionally – I do not follow a planned route – but Orania is added to my list in memory of Portia’s lesson.