Township Chic – Breaking Bread, not a Birthday – Boy Scout Knots – Cowboy in Khayelitsha – Views on The World 

I shared his birthday with Qaba Mbola. I spent the weekend in Khayelitsha, Cape Town. Scrapping and scraping coins together we went to buy the ingredients for our traditional sharing ritual… Coffee! 

Walking to the shops Qaba, despite the heat, hid under the hood of his “hoodie”. He said people would be confused by the contradiction of him walking with a Whitey, when he is renowned to claim “Africa for the Africans, Europe for the Europeans!”

Walking to the shops I had a guided tour of the squalor and litter of the open spaces and the streets of Khayelitsha. Black smoke on a Sunday morning in sacrifice to the gods of commerce. An old man was burning mattresses to salvage the metal springs to sell for scrap. Pollution for profit. May he never have sleepless nights over his choice. Is it his choice? Is it conditioning? Is it capitalism? The gains, the greed, the game.

I had a guided tour of the queues of the local Super Markets. Super Markets with signage in colours so garish and graphic design so bold that like bared teeth they ate into my eyes and made me dizzy. Next, an immersive experience of that guided tour of the queues was waiting in line at the bank. With the enlightening awareness in contrast of a calm that came over me looking up at the signage of the bank. The clean lines, the military blue, and what I was used to salute to. The sensibility of my class of culture, judges everybody whose comply as uncivilised. It was understood clearly in black and white. I experienced the conditioned response of design targeted to different target market. Other and different. No subtlety. No understated. No minimalism. No austerity. No “the new black.” But bludgeoned into buying in bulk, bullied into buying no-name-brands, brainwashed into buying into this bruised economy. 

Broken bags of bread flour going, going, gone to the most thrifty buyer. Bruised fruit going to the most deserving of the most desperate. 

I had a guided tour down the isles of the local Super Markets. The cheaper versions of national Super Markets aimed way down low to the low income bracket, bracketed between the working class, the class rooms, the unemployed, the disused railway tracks going nowhere, and the disenfranchised people going nowhere, except to transport, to work, and back to their homes. 

Homes? Tin shacks in a shantytown on the outskirts of Cape Town… but well out of sight of Cape Town proper. 

The hideously coloured Super Markets were all open on a Sunday. The colourful African markets were closed. The open spaces their stores left vacant with lots of dry, drab, dusty shelves and signs and shelters from the wind. All goods packed up and packed away, away from these fruitful spaces. Wood. Everything Wood. Wood from everywhere. Nailed. Nailed into place. Nailed in a random pattern serving only to fulfil a purpose. Display shelf. Lower shelf. Higher shelf. Random sizes of wood. Various sizes and diameters just nailed into whatever size and order they arrive. Would that they shalt be any pattern of rhythm or repeat or chorus in this cacophony. No. Nailed. That is a recurring baseline. And everything added on top of that… layered over and beaten down… is pure JAZZ. Free form jazz.  No form. African jazz. No format. At no point can you rest assured that you have hooked Familia line. At no point is there a rest. There is no rest. You are kept on your toes. I’m kept listening, watching. In awe that my expectations of equally sized planks of the same pine arranged in parallel lives, in perpendicular intersections… are dashed. Are my expectations exceeded? At no point. What is the point? Is there any point? To ponder? To wonder? Walk on bye. Living a living movie. 

The movie started on the day before. To get to Khayelitsha, I resorted to my usual mode of transport. Hitchhiking. I have eventually accepted that hitchhiking is dead. In fair spirits I had walked to the National Road. Fair weather with moderate winds blowing through my fair hair. I hitch-hiked for hours. Fair devolved into furious. Just before giving up completely I had a premonition “just one more car”. Thank you spirit. My one and only lift with a family with the freedom of choice. A sincere and concerned black African family. I climbed into the back of a “bakkie” and tried to make conversation with the children. Their huge luminous white eyes in contrast to dark faces that appeared almost polished with their cleanliness and glowing faces of youth. I felt warmed inside to share a short while with their wide eyed innocence. 

The National Road, N2, heads straight to the foot of Table Mountain. From Somerset West on the N2 the second turnoff is to Baden Powell Drive. This road threads its way along a coastal road to Muizenberg and then to Cape Point which is the Southern most tip of the Cape Peninsular. But before you as a driver get to freedom… you are forced to negotiate the actual road. The strong South East winds are renowned for blowing heaps of white beach sand onto the road which narrow the width and increase the risk of dangerous swerving from other cars and your own car getting stuck! Most of the cars get backyard maintenance or not… most of the cars are third of fourth hand hand me downs or stolen vehicles… but most of them are unlicensed and illegal… Most drivers are driving without a drivers licence… and many are drunken driving. The vehicles, wether crawling along at a snails pace in front or hurtling by with the charge of an elephant… all of them are at risk of breaking down and blocking the road for hours. 

The beautiful views and beaches are never touched by more cultured citizens and seldom walked by local inhabitants because of gangsterism. Even the local fishermen venture out only in groups of ten or more, and only when they themselves are armed and dangerous. 

Adventurers who drive Baden Powell Drive are brave or ignorant. On one side feasting on the views of False Bay and the surrounding mountains. On the other side is a view across the Cape Flats and the townships built on sand dunes. Wise men engineered these settlements and desperate men extended it… 

Lord Baden Powell is solely responsible for starting the Boy Scout movement. After his military experience he began this movement to make a man out of post war boys. As a youngster I relished the tracking skills, mountain hiking and rubber ringing down the river. After that it went downhill. I resisted the camping on the now dirty grey sand dunes in what was once the Food Basket of The Cape. Camping was a military operation. Early morning Scout uniform inspections. Every afternoon broad brimmed felt hats and Badges. Every evening the briefing of scheduled activities for every minute of the week. My spontaneous nature revolted against the schedule. My whole being longed for the timelessness of nature. The whole of concept being roped into this military routine camp during a sunny summer holiday had me tied up in knots… inescapable Boy Scout knots. However Baden Powell and his extended scout leaders are possibly solely responsible for waking up my horror of humanity who is  forced to actually live in homes out on these desolate sand dunes. 

Today in my present situation, in the heat of the day, I stood at an intersection of roads. Behind me is leading into the dodgy turf of the 28’s and 26’ers gangster gang. In prison the are branded like cattle with the tattoo marking their allegiance. Initiation demands a few atrocities to tick off the list. Murdering an identified rival gang member. Tick! Raping a virgin. Tick! Experiencing homosexual rape oneself. Tick! The gang’s respectively are nicknamed by their sexually position of superiority or preference. Who is on top, and who is below. Who sends. And who bends. The “Son-op” or the “Son-af”. 

The “Sun-up” or the “Sun-down”. Now rescue your imagination before you go down a rabbit hole. 

So my Boy Scout initiation into manhood of arising from slumber to a glorious sunny morning before cocks crow , earning a badge for building a fire, and being able to distinguish a granny knot from a reef knot, is somewhat tame… especially in comparison to the hangman’s noose of a young gangsters requirement’s to become a fully fledged member… or the Xhosa tradition of circumcision. 

Life in South Africa is bound to many dangers. I have been exposed to a mere handful. This afternoon the most dangerous… is the traffic!  Chaotic and lawless, raging on the road in front of me leading into Khayelitsha! 

I wait on baited breath with no lift for an hour. A police van eventually stops and perceiving my predicament delivers me to my destination. As a white person I represent money. As a white person I am highly at risk. As a white person I am a target. The police would not have stopped and never have helped me if I was a black person. The police constable driving calls himself and all other police “a moving target”. He speaks from personal experience… very personal. He himself has witnessed his fellow colleagues and his friends gunned down in front of own eyes. 

Just before sunset I arrived at Qaba’s home. I was relieved to make it before the dark night fell over these black townships. Qaba comes outside laughing and joking and jibing with the police. He turns to me any reminds me “White privilege.”

Welcome inside. Qaba’s birthday party. Qaba insisted “This is Breaking Bread, not a Birthday. I do not celebrate one day. Every day is a celebration of life. I do not celebrate myself in isolation from others. There are still many many people in this life.” 

An intimate evening shared with activists and artists, challenging brainwashing and beliefs, of boxes of blackness… Breaking bread baked by the birthday “boy” himself. Bread, Pizza, Scones, Unleavened Bread, and a Birthday Cake! All shared. Each voice, each concept and challenge, each opinion, was uninterrupted. All shared. Each had a turn to speak, a turn to be heard. 

Activists each one, spoke of strategy to keep people proactive and working productively without becoming disillusioned, or burning out. 

The international scale of The System permeating and predominant in every facet of society… Building hospital clinics to provide chemicals to communities. Building trust in little white men in little white coats to prove that healthy eating and healing rest can be replaced by a little white pill. Building schools to brainwash children’s behaviour while they are still innocent and impressionable. Building shopping malls to funnel the work woman’s wage. Building gymnasium to build mens biceps and a man’s belief  their one life is only a mortal. Building churches to promise penance for the immoral, and a better life next time for the 

immortal. 

The “System is the vampire sucking the…” * personal energy and the personal willpower of any who preach against it. Emotional breakdown is the devil in the hell hole of the lives of social activists. How do we overcome this disease? Celebrate each little victory. 

Artist’s talked about their various forms of art. 

Photography exhibited on a wine farm. Ooh’s and Aaaah’s  and animated smiles from an audience. Patronising suggestions without solicitation of how she should market her art and could become internationally famous. Limited sales… 

Performing on stages, in shopping malls, and on the streets. A woman’s Hip-Hop collective to be heard loud by everyone. Challenging the prejudice in a male dominated music genre. Shooting straight from the Hip. Challenging the role of female hip-hop artists that they are performers as individuals, with a way bigger platform than just the “tits and arse” and the sultry voices of seduction. No sell-outs…

Painting in a personal sanctum of a private studio open to no other to view… and then an exhibition for the selective few. As an Artist I listened and identified with them relating to my own struggle. Creativity is not a problem… but it comes at a cost. Yes, like these fellow and gender fluid artists, I definitely do need the financial recognition of my time, efforts, and costs of artwork materials. 

As an Artist I listed the reality of reproducing on canvas the suffering of others, with whom I identify, but considering my upbringing, I am not one. I identify with The Struggle, but in post-Apartheid years, it is I who is still a privileged one. 

My privilege partly is presenting on exhibition my personal passion to a selection of my so-called peers who give me the stiff upper lip. My pet hate is revealing my vulnerability to those who advocate supporting the Arts. Supporting this starving artist would be what I in my personal capacity would advocate. Surely tonight I will make a sale? Surely one art piece will pierce the heart of one perspective investor. I have explored many mediums and expanded exponentially the spectrum of my art forms. Illustration. Black and White Photography. Miniature handmade frames with Colour Photographs. Painting in Acrylic and Oils. Sculpture. Photography of Sculpture… any takers? Two for the price of one? Dog Portraits… anyone?  

A considered arty world audience claims “Mr Wright we have all seen the images of the starving African. We are witness to The Vulture and the Little Girl, in Ayod, Sudan, by Kevin Carter. 

We have seen the scars on a face in the Hutu death camp in Rwanda, by James Nachtwey. We know well the paintings of benevolent Joan of Arc burning at the stake. We are intimate with the painting of a busty Liberty Leading the People in the French Revolution, by Eugene Delacroix. But you, Mr Wright are not exactly hanging in The Louvre, that symbol of success. You are not exactly awaiting of The Guillotine, but definitely watching and entertained by this “people’s avenger”, this pre-eminent symbol of violence in  the Reign of Terror. “But daaaahling! Our jaws dropped, our hearts opened, but we are not exactly going to open our wallets to you. Your artistic budget may be stretched on the torture rack,  but this your own plight, young man.” Young Man??? Hrmph, I prefer Old Soul. 

Yes, I definitely need to be acknowledged. Jee whiskers, you are a genius! Ohhh My God, give me your bank details. Here’s the keys to my apartment in Manhattan. Here’s the hand of my daughter in marriage. 

As the Archetype of the Artist, my greater need is to be understood. To have feedback and interaction with the audience. To, with conversation build bridges, with communication understand more of a strangers life, and most importantly to feed our mutual humanity in deeper connection. Connection. 

A suggestion was made to host a gallery exhibition in The Barn at my family farm. I gladly accepted. 

We talk Recycling. uRasta says “There is a metal dealer in the suburbs and he buys all the collectors scrap metal. All the railway lines. That steel stolen by thieves. All the copper stripped from the telephone lines and the electric powerlines. But the Police can not get a warrant to search the premises for stolen goods, neither private  nor public goods. This theft and illegal sale has disastrous impact especially on the lower income workers in our society. All the essential services for people. Transport. Telecommunications. Electricity. All  government property. But the Police have have no authority to access this private company. As above, so below…” 

Excitedly I tell “Qaba, I actually found an old business card from when you were working for Peoples Health Movement. Can I share it on the social activist group as a memento of part of the journey we have all come from?” 

“No. Do not. At that time I was an NGO slave!” 

Qaba: “We need to take a sabbatical. We no longer have a quiet place to reflect. We long for a silent space to regain our soul.” 

Later we laugh at life. A slight at The State of the Nation… there was a social media photo shared. It was claimed not to be staged, but genuinely taken on a overcrowded train on a Sunday morning in 2015. 

There is a man reading a book on Biko. A child reading The Bible. And a character who has lies sleeping off his intoxication whose T-shirt reads “Believe in Beer.” 

The caption for the photo reads: 

“Look at the Black contradictions. We are drunk with Biko, the Bible, and Beer.”

After timeless connection, an early night. Good night. After a deep rest, not really an early morning. Good morning. Sunday morning. Sounds of backyard dogs barking. Songs of hymns in harmony and loudspeaker sermons bark back. In the morning light dogs scavenging the streets. In the streets thongs of uniformed church members, each church identified by their designated dress code. Ladies in white mantles and black skirts. Crowned in white like a Catholic nun. Coloured in brilliant purple long jackets. Collars bejewelled with badges of church role and station. Ohhh my god, it is so unusual for me to see these tribes of unified Christianity in uniformed cultural dress in my hometown in Africa. I stopped and stared each time I saw them, but was respectfully aware that in their eyes their robes if worship are not a tourist attraction, and as such I sensed a personal growth in myself, that I can sacrifice the camera, and settle with the photos in my mind. 

Ohhh my goodness, I remember it was so astounding for me to see the tribes of Israel, the Orthodox Jews unified in their cultural uniform. The women dressed in styles that look like they stepped out of the previous century… 1940’s post war years. The children, and with contraception outlawed there are many, all dressed identically, on each day for each occasion dressed identically, from oldest brother to littlest brother, identical. Similar girls clad in clothes homemade, all in identical materials patterned so yesteryear that I doubt my old Grandmother would even recognise them. The men with long deliberated curly sideburns, long black coats, wide brimmed black hats, or oversized furry cake tin size hats. The uniform of the style maintained from the traditions of Eastern European Jews, but in specific suburbs of my recent hometown of London. Living a living movie. Each time I saw them I stopped and stared but with the eyes of a sleuth photograper, with the sacrifice of my camera, just the photos in my mind. 

In Khayelitsha, this Sunday Sabbath morning, Qaba showed me the food gardens he initiated in a dead-end down the road. The soil is dead in stark contrast to the dark rich soil of my family farm. Qaba encourages his neighbours to get involved to dig and plant their own herbs and vegetables. The health and healing of these natural home grown products is quintessential. His belief is that food is free. His statement is “Would you allow the enemy to provide your food?” 

Qaba has initiated the building of an amphitheatre for drama being the tool that speaks to the heart best, to raise community issues that need to be addressed, to provide a platform for performance of protest, for freedom of speech. 

The project is called Ujamaa. 

Khayelitsha, thousands of people living below the breadline. A living movie for me, we walked through the township. Khayelitsha, thousands of tin shacks in a shantytown on the outskirts of Cape Town… a township to, by design be out of sight of Cape Town tourist town, and hidden from the safe suburban homes on the steep slopes nestled on Table Mountain. Nettles in my eyes. Why they have to have a view, only to ignore it, and ignore the fact that the view gives them zero satisfaction. This view that adds zeros to the selling price and many zeros to the buying price of these prime properties. Perhaps these views are not that photogenic when framed between the 12 foot walls, the 16 inch barbed wire rolls, and the 12 strands of electrified fencing surrounding their safe suburban homes. Perhaps they cannot keep up to the Joneses no more because they can’t even see what version of Maserati the Jones’es are paying off to financial schemes these days. It’s not like the old days when you paid cash for your Cadillac and your Corvette, you couldn’t care less about import tax and you were not crippled by insurance costs. It’s not like the good all days when criminals stole cash from your pocket, not from your devoted stash in an offshore bank account. When criminals stole the gold and the diamonds from around your wife’s neck and wrists and fingers. Not like now when wifey is given the middle finger or raped, and all her jewellery never is seen and is never worn, but lives  permanently locked up in a safe somewhere. In the bad old days the criminals were caught and lived behind bars. Now it is, like it or not, it is The Lords and The Ladies living behind high security with hired security patrolling and volunteering neighbourhood watch ensuring safety, ensuring zero community with neighbours, insuring zero privacy and you can bet that who ever is on night watch is watching your every move, because it’s all caught on camera… it’s just another episode of NEIGHBOURS. 

Living a movie with my own social commentary narrating away in my head. I am very aware that of me being here. I have gratitude for the honour of being able to witness and interact lives so in contrast with my own. Inside I feel excited by the gift of this experience and my close friendship. The sun. The blue sky. The white sand. Inside I question my joy. I know that the contradiction is my momentary excitement in contrast to the surrounding people with daily struggle. I know too that deep deep inside my being, in a place of unknowing, is my sense which I trust. It is my momentarily being witness of that “dark hidden other” for which I have searched all my life. Hidden to those blinded by white lenses, blinded staring by the sun. I have deep joy of momentarily being part of that dark hidden other… Africa! 

In me “The Compartmentalist” had the  recurring challenge to keep things out of boxes… A kind of “do unto others” reminder of my own loathing to be compartmentalised. A reminder for me to leave my mind at rest, set my mind free… Of my recent writing, of my recent chapter, my friend Timothy Hewitt-Coleman commented: “Deep dude. But also spend some time thinking and caring for the other Geoff. The original Geoffrey. Geoff who is not English. Geoffrey who is not white. Geoff who is not a father. Geoffrey who is not a son or a brother. But Geoff who is the essence of Geoffrey who exists even when in those rare moments you hold no thoughts or memory in your mind of who you are have told you are.”  

Living a living movie. A Western. Lilting down a one horse town, down dusty streets. Four “Cowboys” walking side-by-side. Qaba, Cousin, Nephew and Me! Under the hostile gaze of “the Injuns”. Yeah, a Cowboy Western. Except I am the only Westerner here… the only European. Except that we are actually heading East. Actually Southeast towards the former Non-Whites Only beaches of Monwabisi. Except that my three Amigos are South Africans… and this is their land. 

As a Cowboy, I have purposefully left my camera at home to still my itchy trigger finger from temptation. As a Lone Ranger, I’m constantly wanting to capitalise on the awesome portraits of township chic. As a Coloniser I’m wondering what the British gentlemen and the German landlords would be willing to pay for this land with its gazillionaires  views. 

Andile is a painter. Andile’s home is impressive. Very vernacular and very angular. No revealed retro rust tin shack. All painted in a khaki beige with white trimmings. Andile is impressed with the homes of Europeans which he paints. He is meticulous preparation and he’s painting… As well as is observation of style end of lifestyle. Andile built every aspect of his house himself. He likes the whites because they write everything down. I say there is a balance between planning and spontaneity, between writing in the working days, and disciplining yourself that you to actually take time out. 

Andile likes the contrast between the the white and the charcoal blue of his walls. His interior has marble slabs, wooden blocks, and glass sheets. Andile cannot understand why the whites always build on steep mountain slopes or dangerously close to the rocky sea shores. Andile cannot understand why the whites always have to have a view when the view is always hidden by closed curtains so the thieves cannot see what possessions are inside to steal. Andile cannot understand why the whites always have to have a view when the view is always hidden by behind blinds because of some obsessive privacy issue. 

We are welcomed inside. Andile as a hospitable host has, so to say,  brought out the family silver. Traditionally, as in many world cultures we, as visitors, are entertained, and offered food and refreshments. Coffee in nice new white mugs and sliced white bread, all served on a tray. Water boiled on a “brushed aluminium” gas stove not, as I expected, a rusty metal gas canister balanced precariously on a rickety metal legged table. The stove sits flush within serving counter tops on an island in the middle of the kitchen. The counter tops are so cleaned that they reflect the sky through the open door. As much as the conversation is animated and continual, I zone out when Xhosa is spoken, enjoying the rhythmic sound of the language, the variation of clicks, and the bass rumble of men’s voices. Other senses entertain me. My left brain relaxes, and I reflect… 

I like Andile’s house. Andile’s is a home with a view. I stand on a hillside above Monwabisi Beach. The shores of False Bay are within minutes of walking distance. The warm waters are fed by the Mozambican Current. I sit with panoramic views of Table Mountain, across the Southern Suburbs down the mountains to the Cape Peninsula, across False Bay to Hangklip, North up the “Hottentots-Holland” mountain range to the Helderberg mountain above Somerset West, West across the world renowned wine lands of Stellenbosch to Simonsberg mountain. 

From one of the poorest, most overcrowded, most crime-ridden townships, without sewerage nor electricity, there are millionaire’s views of the natural wonders of this part of the world, and of the richest most isolated and disconnected city of suburbs on this planet… with everything that opens and shuts… including mouths and minds…

AUTHOR: 

Geoffrey Wright 

© 22nd September 2024 

Khayelitsha, Cape Town, South Africa 

DEDICATION : 

This work is dedicated to starving artists and the sufferers everywhere. 

PHOTOGRAPHY 

No photography was used in this chapter. No innocent or guilty people were reduced to images to illustrate my point of view. No amount of stress over missing out on a shot could keep me out of the moment. All images are available for private viewing, but seats are limited, because it is all in my head.  ALL PHOTOGRAPHY wether in my memory or my imagination © Geoffrey Wright, Cape Town 

SONG QUOTED: 

*

Babylon System  

Written and Performed by Bob Marley & The Wailers 

“Babylon System is the vampire, falling empire, sucking the blood of the Sufferers …”