Chilumna Village

The police commander of Chilumna is not in the least impressed by me or my mission. ‘I am a busy man. We have to look after the safety of our community, which consists of people from over twenty surrounding settlements. And now I have to add you to my list of people to worry about!’

I understand his disenchantment – he and his men see and experience much. He makes a call and speaks with Mama Nontando. He knows her through the Neighbourhood Community Policing programme, a crime prevention initiative between the police and local inhabitants.

Nontando and her family are my hosts for the next two nights. The best way to describe Nontando is to tell you that, before showing me to a room in her house, she sits me down in the lounge, gives me some tea and a sandwich and then confides that her husband drinks. ‘Is that okay with you?’

During my nights there, Nontando leaves her husband’s bed to move into the room where I am staying. It is Xhosa custom, after all. All girls in one room together. This is the first time that I have to pee in a bucket at night. And, of course, listen to someone else pee in the bucket, which has been placed right next to my bed for convenience. During the day, we use the longdrop outside.

Nontando introduces me to everybody in the village. She takes me to meet her educated friend who has the only degree in the village. It is clear that she is held in very high regard. The friend feeds and ‘teas’ us and gives me one of her academic Further Reading notes on uBuntu. When we leave, Nontando remarks that her friend is better than other people. I stop in the middle of the cow dung-studded two-track road, hug Nontando and explain that I believe what makes people good is how they treat each other. Education can’t teach us that. ‘So, Mama Nontando, you are the best person.’

She takes the time to explain traditional Xhosa life to me and is sad that there are no celebrations, coming of age ceremonies or weddings for me to experience. It’s also not asking too much of her to treat me to the customary chicken dish. Even if it means taking a taxi to East London, at who knows what cost, Mama Nontando returns with chicken for the pot.

After three days in Chilumna I feel that it is time to go. This isn’t planned as much as it is an instinctive urge. When I tell Nontando, she says that she will phone the police to come and fetch me. I shake my head. ‘But it is not safe for you to hitchhike. The police will look after you.’

‘The police are not a travel agency, Mama.’

We laugh. I explain that my journey is about reconnecting with people and that it’s time to cut the umbilical cord of this easy delivery and find the embrace of our people. She understood this from the beginning, but is still concerned. She walks me to the road that leads to Port Alfred, but some 50m from the tarmac she suddenly turns to me and says that she’s not going any farther.

Ah no, did I do or say something to offend her? She reads my silent question. ‘You know, if I stand by the side of the road with you, the cars, they will not stop. Because they will look inside their car and not find enough space. Because, you know, I am a mafuta! They will not stop.’

This brings tears to my eyes. She begs me to SMS her as soon as someone picks me up so that she can stop worrying. Then she leaves and I am really left to my own devices for the first time on this journey. I make my way to the road – gingerly on the inside but with confident strides to the casual observer. This is Day Five and I have been spoilt up to now.

When I get to the road, images of my thumb flood my head. How do I point it? Up? Down? It must be obvious to a group of youths standing nearby that I have not done this before. We greet with brief nods.

I decide to move about 20m away, even at the risk of offending them. My strategy will be simply to put my hand out. I see a truck approaching and extend my arm. One of the young guys looks over and indicates with a shake of his head that this is not a good choice. I drop my arm. Next is a normal sedan and this time the youth nods. My arm shoots out pick-me-pick-me fashion, but the car passes. The next vehicle stops for another hitchhiker. And so it goes for about 15 minutes until a Mercedes pulls up just ahead of me. Wait, it passed here a few minutes before so the driver must have made a U-turn.

I lift my backpack, wave at the youths and start walking towards the vehicle. When it comes to a halt, all of its doors fly open and four people hop out – two men and two women – looking at me expectantly. I smile and greet them.

‘What are you doing?’ asks the driver.

‘If you give me a lift to Port Alfred, I’ll tell you,’ I answer cheekily, and this is how I meet the Cox family from East London. They’re headed to Port Elizabeth for the day and are happy to give me a lift to Port Alfred and insist on paying for a night’s accommodation at a backpackers’ lodge.

This first hitchhiking experience was the symbolic cutting of the cord. It was me stepping out onto a ledge, vertigo and all! It was the start of a weaving together of many invisible lines in the days and months that were to follow. Lines that would keep me connected to the many people I met along my way.