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How the Sun Rises

October 18, 2018 By Admin

By Corey D. Smith

The sun sets in beautiful rays of reds, blues and yellows. In the distance the cars pass on the highway. Tail lights bright red, the headlights showing white. It is evening and from atop the hill at my Cato manor homestay, peace abounds.

As the crickets begin to chirp, the other animals—the likes of dogs, monkeys, chickens and goats—retreat to their resting places, only to be heard again in the morning, making way for the moonlight. Rest arrives, starlight blankets the sky.

When the doors open and shut and conversations start , you know it is time for the daily hustle and bustle. Instantly the township bursts into life. I get up, take a bite of breakfast and relax with Abongile, my homestay niece, who enjoys cartoons. They envelop me as she practices her English.

Half past seven. I head to the bus stop: immediately the honking of minibus taxis alarms me. Confused, I look down the wrong side of the street.

“Sawubona.” “Howszit.” “Awe.” “Sharp.” All said as you walk by. It is a community of love you are introduced to, all as I leave for school. These interactions continue as I make my way to the main road. I can only imagine what the day will bring for the community of Blinkbonnie.

The afternoon brings new energy as we head back into Blinkbonnie. Men and women are returning from work as the children return from school. Everyone’s tired from a busy day and ready to unwind.

Laughter fills the air, mixed with music, the aroma of food—ujeqe kanye noshukela ubhontshisi, or maybe chicken and rice—and conversation. Kids play kickball to pass the time, mothers chat with friends, fathers recline in their favorite chair, Soon, everyone will be called for dinner.

“Dinner is ready,” my host moms says in Zulu. We wash our hands, plates are dished; it is time to chow and watch soapies. Everyone has their favourite; from Uzalo to Generations. This is family time. It is not a very social hour, as we each sit captivated by the latest drama between shows. Warmness is still very much present.

We sit like this for an hour or so, before we feel it’s time to wind down. Soon sleep will come barging in. The credits roll, we say goodnight and prepare for the day ahead of us.

The sun rises in beautiful rays of reds, blues and yellows, in the distance the cars pass on the highway. Tail lights bright red, the headlights showing white. It is morning and from atop the hill at my Cato manor homestay, the night’s peaceful energy is preparing to burst into a new day.

7 am in Cato Manor. Photo by Corey D. Smith

A Town Within A City

October 18, 2018 By Admin

By Natalie Elliott

At the edge of my vision is the start of the township. Small shacks made of aluminum dot the landscape. If you were to walk there, your feet would kick trash at every step. These are the informal settlements. Take the first right, and you will arrive on my street, Blinkbonnie.

Waves of people walk home from work in the 5 o’clock setting sun, and school children in plaid uniforms run in between them. Small bare feet kick soccer balls in a car park to the left. On the right, a hair salon operates out of a concrete block with no windows and a gap in the wall for a doorway. Up ahead, the street steadily climbs a hill. At the top is my host family’s home.

Turn left into the car park you find there, and walk back down the hill a bit. A dirt path takes you past the car full of boys playing house music. They are brothers and cousins of the people who live here. Go down past Keira’s house, my sweet twelve-year-old neighbour who loves to play with my hair and my phone. Walk past the house with Hindu statues, blasting out Indian music, and onto the house with the red car. This is where I’m standing.

Behind me, a humble home sits with its door open, but gate closed. Inside, my sister Zama watches soapies while my mama cooks dinner. The smell of carrots steaming with chilli powder and potatoes wafts through the gate, and out to where I am standing.

In front of me, tall grass with glimpses of wildflowers reveals only the roofs of houses perched on the hill below. Above these houses, a clothesline holds onto long pink nightshirts, blue polka-dot pyjama shorts and an orange beach towel.

The wind feels like a soft touch, gently wrapping my body in its arms. Winter has turned into Spring and if I look far enough, I can see the ocean. Perhaps, this is where the cool air comes from. The waves crash into sand, and from there, skyscrapers erupt from the earth. A freeway snakes in between these buildings, and cars look like ants making their way home.

Out there is the city of Durban, but right in front of me is the township of Cato Manor, my home for now.

An Outsider Inside Cato Manor

October 18, 2018 By Admin

Cato Manor can be chaotic. Houses undulate on uneven ground with rainbows of laundry drying on the line. On weekdays, dogs bark the neighborhood to sleep. On weekends, electronic music reverberates to the beat of flashing lights and honking minibus taxis filled with people. I’ve never seen them with open seats.

Before entering this Cato Manor home, dwellers must unlock the gate.

Last year, a man in the community died tragically. His family slaughters a cow and rents a tent to celebrate the anniversary.

My host sister sings all the time. Cooking hot dogs for breakfast, mopping the floor, fidgeting on her phone, there’s Sisi singing Christian gospel.

Inside the family home, there are no closed doors. They’re seen as rude, against the Zulu tradition of an honest and transparent way of life, I am told. There’s no hiding here—especially from my Zulu mama.

Most of the time she sits on the sofa engrossed in South African soapies. She prefers to speak isiZulu so she barely speaks to me. She’s not afraid to show her frustration when I don’t finish dinner, come home late, forget to unplug the toaster. Electricity is something to save. However, I see her smile for the first time when I show her a portrait I have drawn. Then she commands, “Draw me.” After a week living on Deeside Drive, this brutal honesty isn’t offensive anymore—it’s genuine.

In Cato Manor, I can go for a run down the street and return having made five new friends. I join a soccer game on the street. A neighbour comes out to complement my sneakers.

One night there is a birthday party—a massive barbeque event. Cow (inkomo), chicken, and sausage are grilled over flaming coals until well-done and, well, burnt. I take a bite of the sausage. Coriander and clove explode on my palate. Wait, I wonder, could that be nutmeg?

I say it’s the most delicious thing I’ve eaten in South Africa so far. “That’s the only thing us black people love about Afrikaaners,” a guest says in reference to the boerewors.

Despite moments of feeling welcome, Cato Manor is not my home, however much I try to make it so. A man at a coffee shop warns me, “It isn’t safe there. Bad things happen.” One Uber driver dumps me out of the car before we reach my stop in fear of getting shot. My friend gets drugged at a combination car wash-club and we swerve through late-night traffic to save her life. Locals show their kindness in concern, coming to the silly foreigners’ aid.

This place is somewhere in between feeling safe and scared every day.