A mother and her son

This week has been dramatic and emotional in many ways, just as I thought my focus would have been purely on Luke’s impending arrival, I have found my week full of action to keep me busy.

On Monday morning, following a disagreement about oversleeping and a punishment of dishwashing, one of the teenage boys decided to runaway...it happened to be one I’m very close to, my friend who I bought trainers for and collected the money from overseas...let’s call him Mikey today.

I didn’t find out about Mikey’s disappearance until Tuesday evening, I guess I had just been out and about so hadn’t visited the boys’ cottage. I was so shocked that he had done this as I had thought he was happy here, and I didn’t know the story about his ‘unfair’ punishment. I thought it was something serious to do with missing in his family, though I’m sure this must have also played a part. I went straight to the Director to ask if I could go the next morning to look for him. We also had planned to continue the search for some land for the family so that we can start building them a house. He was very happy for me to go and to also combine the trip with researching about some land for them, so it was agreed that I could go on Wednesday morning with the Reunification Officer - Mlondi.

Before we left, we tried to find out if Mikey had actually gone home. The family has no phone so we contacted their neighbour and asked her if she’d seen Mikey. She had, and she said that he had arrived on Monday evening. The family were aware that he had runaway. It was a relief to know that he had got home safely, and within one day, so he hadn’t slept out overnight at least. We also contacted Mikey’s social worker, whose job it is to return children who runaway. They promised us they would go and look for him and call us...but we weren’t going to hold our breath. I wanted to fetch him anyway so we weren’t going to leave it up to them.

By the time everything was sorted, we were finally on the road to Ladysmith after 11am. Ladysmith is 100km drive and from there, Winterton is about another 50km. As I drove it I couldn’t believe that Mikey had managed to make this journey with no money, hitching all the way. It is so dangerous, but everyone seems to do it! You are expected to pay your driver something but I don’t think Mikey had any money at all. Hopefully they let him off because he’s just a child.

It was after 1pm when we arrived at the RDP township at Winterton where Mikey lives. You take the road out of Ladysmith towards the Drakensberg mountains, a popular tourist destination. The landscape changes as you enter the area of White farms. The land is well managed and all the fields are full of crops, unlike around Newcastle where the land is just left to grow as it will, only with a few cows and goats grazing it. Suddenly the landscape becomes well managed and productive, as is seen by the large, attractive farm houses which nestle in the occasional field, the white farmer’s homestead. I have been here with Fr. Peter and we went to a very nice cafe and craft shop which had been created as a sideline business by a white farmer and was full of white families and tourists.

Just 10min drive from here is the RDP housing estate where Mikey lives, the family struggling day to day to put food on the table. You turn off the main road and cross a railway track, as you come over the crest of the hill I am all given a jolt of surprise at the sudden appearance of hundreds of identically shaped but different coloured houses, laid out in lines...like pieces of Lego from a distance. From the main road it was completely invisible, you could have drive by and never known that thousands of people were living here.

RDP housing, sorry if I’ve told you before, stands for ‘Rural Development Programme’ housing, and is the government initiative to build houses for the poor rural communities. There are many things wrong with this scheme, other than that it has appeared to make some people dependent on handouts and cultivated the mentality that the country owes them a house and they can just sit around waiting for one...there is also a lot of corruption going on. People get on the list for a house when they already have one...or they acquire one but remain on the list. Then when they are given their RDP house they start renting it to some poor family who are the ones who really need it! So you end up with all these landlords/ladies, making a living off of the back of the government! Whilst families like Mikey’s have nowhere to live and are struggling to find a job to pay rent on a place.

We arrived in the township and wound our way through the grid-like streets to the house where the family was staying just 2weeks before [it had belonged to the eldest daughter’s boyfriend and he let them stay there when they were evicted for not paying rent on their last house]. We pulled up beside the one room house but were unhopeful as the place looked deserted. We tried the door and it was locked. We tried ringing the neighbour who had told us Mikey was at home but there was no answer. We resorted to asking a woman outside a nearby house but she didn’t know the family. Instead she pointed across the road to a house where she said the grandmother had been here for years and knew everyone.

Clambering up the rocky and sandy slope to the house she indicated we found a man sitting outside on an upturned bucket. He was typical of the people in this township. At first glance you would have guessed he was a granddad, in his 60s. Then as you look at him properly you realise, with some anguish, that he cannot be much above 30. And the cause? Alcoholism. The skin on his face is sagging and almost swollen, his teeth are completely yellow and decaying, and he mumbles and slurs every word, his eyes unable to focus. His body was shrunken, the blue overalls he wore seemed to dwarf his thin frame, which has been fed only on locally produced alcohol every day for years.

Mlondi asked this old/young man if he knew Mikey and with the mention of that name he called over a young child. A little toddler walked over to us, dressed in a pink kind of kid’s boiler suit, with bare feet, and I immediately recognised them. It was Mikey’s youngest brother, and his little face showed a flicker of recognition when it looked at me. After a brief conversation Mlondi told me that we were going to follow this little child and he would show us where Mikey’s mother was staying. It turned out they had been evicted from the second house and were now staying in various houses with different relatives. Mikey was not around, the man did not know where he had gone.

Feeling that this whole situation was rather surreal, I found myself being lead through this RDP township by a toddler, on foot – mine were clad in leather boots whilst the toddler I followed was barefoot – on a mission to locate a runaway teenage boy. We had to seriously adjust our pace to that of this tiny boy’s who walked even slower because he kept staring up at us, clearly just as dumbfounded as I felt. He kept hesitating and looking back at where we had come from, with Mlondi continually reassuring him in Zulu and taking his little hand in his.

Just as I was thinking the boy must be leading us the wrong way, a cry to my right brought my attention and I recognised Mikey’s mother, sitting outside a house with a number of other adults and her baby girl on her lap. She was obviously surprised to see us and came straight out to meet us on the road. I was relieved to realise that this time she was sober and she even had a worker’s jacket on. She had found some temporary work and so at least has been able to get some form of income, a much more positive impression from the last two times I had seen her. She confirmed that Mikey had come home on Monday but that she thought he had gone to town as the bicycle that he sometimes borrowed from his sister’s boyfriend was missing. His oldest sister, who is the real backbone of the family and the one with her feet firmly on the ground, was also in town. This was a shame as we had been hoping to take her with us on the hunt for land.

Mlondi communicated our plan to her go to the nearby township at Estcourst where the family have relatives and may be able to find land, and so she followed us back down to where we had left the car. As we walked back down the hill however, we managed to gather a small band of followers...a drunken old lady who I think is Mikey’s great-aunt, and a trio of very grubby children, all under the age of 5 years. The good thing about this is the fact that the ones over 5 were attending school as it was still before 3pm. We all piled into the car and first we drove to meet the family’s Pastor who we were told, had some plan to help the family find land in that township. Unfortunately Mikey’s mother seemed to be expressing a changed view of leaving the township, perhaps because she knows lots of people in this township and is also comfortable with the drinking culture – which we are trying to remove them from for the children’s sakes.

Just over the other side of the township we came to a brightly painted crèche where Mikey’s mum told us her pastor stayed. We drove in and were met by a middle aged man, clean and smartly dressed with a kind face, and his wife. They led us into the far end of the crèche and as I entered the room I found myself in a tiny chapel. The walls were painted bright white, at the far end was a small altar with an appliquéd banner reading ‘Jesus loves you’ and in one corner a nicely kept, small piano.
We were invited to sit down on benches and the Pastor greeted us warmly. The contrast between his clean, composed, gentle manner and the drunken, dirty, dishevelled behaviour of the great-aunt was too large to not draw my attention. He listened calmly and his kind eyes evaluated the situation without any hint of judgement, whilst the great-aunt huffed and puffed and eventually spoke almost as if in a temper, without control or humility. I don’t know what she was saying but it was with a tone I had heard so often from people who were down and out, that they are in need and are owed help.

The outcome of the meeting was that the land spoken about by the Pastor is owned by the church and can only be lent to the family on a temporary basis whilst they look for a house or land of their own. The idea is that they can put a tent on this land and live their temporarily, not the permanent solution I had been hoping for! We thanked the Pastor and he gave us his contact details, left with the difficulty of whether or not to pursue the plan for land in a different area, even though Mikey’s mother now appeared opposed to moving. But the fact of the matter is, there is no land or houses available in this township in the foreseeable future [we’re talking a 2year waiting list]. Besides which, if there was, the township is a terrible place to raise children with alcoholism and crime out of control.

It was decided that we would pursue the search for land somewhere else, as there was not really any other option, and we may still be able to talk the mother round to the move. We had to politely ask the great-aunt and extra children to leave the car – which didn’t go down too well with her and Mlondi was worried he had caused her offense. The emotional relief we felt when she left was matched by physical relief at the removal of the unsavoury smell her presence had also brought to the confined air of the car. Mlondi pointed this out to me saying, ‘no offense to her, but I couldn’t have stomached that smell all the way to Estcourt and back!’ He also mentioned that he suspected the great-aunt was participant in persuading Mikey’s mum to stay at Winterton rather than move to Estcourt.

And so we made the 30km drive to the rural settlement near Estcourt where Mikey’s mother’s other aunt lives and where she sometimes visits for weekends. It was Mlondi and I, Mikey’s mother, her baby girl and the toddler boy whom we had found first. As we arrived in the new area it was to a very different sight and atmosphere than the RDP ‘housing estate’ style of township. Here, the layout was much more rural and in keeping with the culture and society of Zulus. It is not part of their culture to live in tightly packed identical dwellings, but to live more spread out, each family building their own style of homestead with separate rooms and round houses dotted on the plot with space to grow some vegetables or keep cows and goats. The feel of the place was much more homely and it appeared to be a healthier place to raise a family. I can see why Mikey’s mother may be reluctant to move there however. This rural community may be less lively and alcohol infused than what she has become accustomed to. I can’t help thinking she enjoys the type of socialising and drinking which takes place at Winterton and this community at Estcourt seems too quiet and remote – although it is only a few kilometres from the town and work on farms is also nearby.

We arrived and found the other great-aunt and her husband, both elderly and the husband was using an asthma inhaler. They stayed in a very basic and poor looking house but it had an outdoor toilet, water and electricity. They told us that the Mayor of the area [or a kind of Chief], lived opposite them and they pointed out his house, a collection of buildings newly painted a cheerful yellow. Mlondi, the mother and I crossed over to the Mayor’s house and approached somewhat cautiously – I was nervous about how this kind of informal meeting would go – literally turning up on their doorstep!

The contrast of this doorstep to the others we had seen that day was also enough to make me nervous – a large platform and steps of very slippery looking marble-esque tiles, led up to the front door. We were greeted by a middle-aged lady, rather plump, wearing a skirt and baggy t-shirt with a scarf wound round her head. Her face showed a mixture of confusion and intrigue as we came to the front door and she politely invited us in. We did make a motley crew...Mlondi, a tall, young Zulu man, Mikey’s mother, a clearly poor woman with a mud mask on her face to protect her whilst working in the sun, and her baby at her breast with flies circling round them, and me, a young, blonde, white lady with a bewildered look on her face.

The interior of the house was similar to that of a number of well-off Zulu houses I had been to. Marble-like tiles on the floor, a number of large pieces of furniture, large sofa and chairs and ofcourse...a widscreen TV. Sitting down, I couldn’t take my eyes of their coffee table, the stand of which was a manufactured over-sized shell with a fake pearl inside it the size of a small football, on top of which balanced a large oval of glass. I was fixated by this bizarre piece of furniture, at the status symbol it was intended to be, at what this Mayor’s wife was thinking when she bought it, how it is meant to make visitors to her house feel...and how it was making Mikey’s mother feel, sitting there in her overalls and mud mask, breast feeding her whimpering, sick baby.

I don’t mean to be judgemental of anyone, or how they choose to spend their money, but I am merely recording what I have observed, for you to understand some of the complex emotions and thoughts that I experience on a daily basis here. That a family would choose to stay living in a rural community where those around them stay in shack-like accommodation, and instead spend their money on expensive cars, furniture and electrical equipment. They themselves have marble floors and yet go to the toilet outside in a pit-toilet. The contrast of modern and traditional, urban and rural, wealth and poverty...can be staggering. It is the combining of two ways of life. Many aspects of the lives of their parents and grandparents are retained and are not considered at all undesirable – such as having a pit-toilet, whilst the attractions of the modern, westernised lifestyle also begin to work themselves in, but only very specifically chosen features – the decor and cars. It reminds me of that example of colonisation I hear repeated quite often...something about the white man giving the native Americans the common cold and causing hundreds of deaths. I feel like the materialistic aspect of our society has kind of ‘polluted’ zulu society. The huge proportion of Africans buying on credit and opening store accounts is another example of how the desire to have things – which you cannot afford – has gone out of control. All these widescreen tvs and fridge freezers are being paid for in monthly instalments, sometimes spreading over 2 or 3 years. The attitude of saving up for something and buying it when you have enough funds, appears to be completely alien.

Anyway, sorry for that tangent! So the Mayor was still in the office and instead we spoke to his wife, but as they say, if you want something from a man, just persuade his wife...she will do the rest for you. Mlondi told the story of Mikey’s mother and their family, how they have been evicted and are looking for land. That I have raised money from England to start a project to build them a 3 room house and that we just need the land to build it on. Her reaction was good and sympathetic, exactly what we needed. She told us that currently there are no spaces but that spaces have been allocated to people who never showed up to claim them, so maybe one of those can be reassigned. We exchanged contact details and will hopefully here more from them next week.

After this, we drove back to Winterton and were relieved to find Mikey standing in the doorway of his relative’s house when we got back. I had been worried that he would hear we had come and stay away to prevent us taking him back with us. The look on his face showed he wasn’t too happy to see us, but mainly I think because he was afraid we were angry with him. Mlondi negotiated with him and convinced him that he should come back. The eldest sister was also back from town, looking very nice, well-dressed and together, giving me a surge of hope that if she is on board with this project, we can really get this family back on their feet.

It had been a dramatic day, experiencing life in a very poor community, searching for a solution for a homeless family who have been evicted twice in 2 months, worrying about the safety of Mikey and the fate of his mother and siblings left behind. As we got Mikey in the car to take him back, his mother leaned in and took his hand, tenderly kissing it and saying something to him in Zulu. I don’t know what she said but the tears that welled up in Mikey’s eyes were enough to tell me they were words of love from a desperate mother, trying to do the best for her son and sending him away from her in the hope that he will have a better life than she can give him.

As we drove away I felt a surge of desire to do the very best I can for this mother and her children. I have the power in my hands to change their lives...by helping them to help themselves to turn their own lives around. This day has given new urgency to my project and my love for Mikey will help to keep me focused over the next few months towards giving them a new life as a family.