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Cato Manor

Cato Manor from the Outside-In

October 20, 2018 By Admin

Some of its houses are meager in size, tin-roofed dwellings that seem claustrophobic to the outside eye. Other homes look more sophisticated  – orange, yellow, and tan mud structures, accentuated by tall gates with barbed wire and sharp glass on top. Here you might at one moment catch the infectious scent of meat grilling, but soon after sniff a strange mixture of smoke and decomposing refuse. This is Cato Manor.

Cato Manor is located 7 kilometers from Durban’s city centre. Although Indian gardeners originally settled there, it has since been dominated the black working class. Photo: Aaliyah Wells-Samci

The homes of this Durban suburb may not be imposing, but its people present a striking contrast. In the early hours of morning, black African women bustle on the sidewalks on their way to work, their dresses well-ironed, their hair impeccably arranged, and thick handbags giving off a final stylish touch. “Sawubona!” they greet each other as they go their separate ways. Now and then uniform-clad children run to the sidewalk, their small backpacks hanging around their shoulders, as some carry a couple of rands for the mini-bus taxi. Men rise early too, some beginning their daily Taxify and Uber rounds, while others descend the streets to the city on foot, their meager clothing in sharp contrast to their female counterparts.   

Outsiders are wary of Cato Manor, with its reputation as a dangerous place, but with the sunrise, danger is not yet on the horizon. Come evening the suburb becomes a different place. The distant city lights, combined with glow from street and home lamps, prevent total darkness from engulfing the area, illuminating men and women who walk alone or isolated groups of young men venturing into the unknown. At the nightlife heart of Cato Manor, Mojo’s Car Wash hosts a DJ and serves cheap shisanyama, pap, and drinks through the wee hours of night. Young people sit, chat, and occasionally get up to dance to old-school western beats.

Although Cato Manor’s informal settlements have scared many upperclass South Africans from the area, the settlements’ residents go to the city everyday for work. Photo: Kate Irwin

Come Sunday morning, Cato Manor transforms again. Neighbours are to be found greeting each other, this time as they make their way to church. The work outfits of the week are replaced by lavish, colorful dresses and heels, ironed suits and polished dress shoes. Those from the poorest of homes mingle freely with those from the most sophisticated homes as they all praise the same God together. This is Cato Manor.

 

Francine Barchett Tagged With: Cato Manor, Durban, South Africa

It’s okay to be a kid

September 17, 2018 By Admin

By Francine Barchett

 

Sthembeka is a 9-year-old studying in fourth grade at Mayvillage Primary School in Cato Manor.

The round of Uno has been going on a good 10 minutes but neither Sthembeka nor her Gogo are closer to winning than when the game started. As they take turns drawing in pursuit of the next playable card, their hands grow fatter and fatter. “Sthembeka, no!” Gogo moans, half laughing. I peer over at Sthembeka’s hand. Pleasantly surprised at what I see, I point at her rainbow card and whisper, “You can play that. Let’s end this quickly and beat Gogo.” Sthembeka snickers. “No,” she whispers back, returning to her routine of cheerily drawing, concealing, and drawing again. Meanwhile, poor Gogo takes another card, hoping that it can wrap up the round. “Don’t you see?” Gogo explains. “Sthembeka knows what she’s doing. She just wants to keep playing.”

Uno is Sthembeka’s new favorite game, and before playing she likes to practice her card-dealing skills.

As I watch Sthembeka fixate on Uno night after night, I begin to understand that the nine-year-old girl doesn’t care about winning. She is determined to enjoy herself, even when others — like me — have long forgotten what being a kid means. If Gogo, whose eyes often cannot recognise the numbers written on the cards, plays incorrectly, Sthembeka immediately catches it like a cop in action. “Gogo, you can’t do that!” she bellows, handing Gogo’s card back to her. On the other hand, Sthembeka’s shout turns victorious if she decides to — and succeeds — in running out of cards before Gogo and I. “Checkmate!” she celebrates, soon after asking which of us would like her help as we vie for last place. I used to tell Sthembeka that “checkmate is only for chess” and “Uno is just a game of luck,” but I later realised how politically correct I sounded. Maybe Sthembeka’s stubbornness has more to offer than my ingrained political correctness.

Sthembeka and I modeled our pink dresses on the first day of spring following our church service at Embassy Church in Cato Manor.

“Let’s do something special for our birthdays.” When our favourite soapie breaks for a commercial, Sthembeka keenly brings this up. Since discovering our birthdays are one day apart, the idea of a special activity has been on her mind. “What do you want to do? Do you like cake?” I reply. “Hmmm…” Sthembeka seems puzzled, but only for a few seconds. “Let’s have a treasure hunt,” she beams. “You buy me a present, I’ll buy you a present, and then we’ll hide them in the house.” She adds, “And we have to write 10 clues to help us find them.” Why did I not think of that? Perhaps I had spent too many years stooped in my studies to recall how adventurous and exhilarating treasure hunts are!

“Good morning, Francis.” Every morning as I finish my last bites of porridge, Sthembeka emerges from her room in her green uniform, greeting me with a name I have never identified with. My name is Francine and she knows it. My first instinct is to correct her, but as I watch her pour herself some cornflakes and add a hearty portion of sugar, I smile. “Let her call me whatever she wants,” I think to myself. “It’s okay to be a kid.”

 

 

 

 

Francine Barchett Tagged With: Cato Manor, childhood, Uno

White Girl Walks into a Shebeen

February 28, 2017 By Admin

People keep making me feel like I should be afraid. It began five months ago in North America when I decided to study in Durban, a place I barely knew besides some shallow knowledge of Apartheid. As a documentarian and student journalist, I tend to be drawn to the unknown. I have always been impulsively curious; in fifth grade my teacher even told me to stop asking questions.

So I yearned to learn more, outside of the required readings. I engaged everyone around me, even my dentist originally from Cape Town, to hear their perceptions of SA. Some were convinced I was entering a death trap and most farewells were tagged with an emphasized “Be careful.” One friend only said “You know Johannesburg has the highest murder rate in the world, right?” Fortunately, I listened through a filter. Most of these people had never set foot in SA and as Tequila Johnny, an employee at the hostel we stayed in during our first nights in Durban, explains, “People can be gullible if they’ve never been anywhere else.”

South Africa was in turmoil during Apartheid. The country was governed by a system of white supremacy and drenched in egregious violence and extremely high death tolls. But while this is an important part of SA’s history and racial oppression is still prevalent, Apartheid’s violence is in fact history, and SA is arguably moving forward. When I finally spoke to my fellow black African and black South African friends at my college before I left for Durban, the extremity of the opinions held by mostly white Americans came to light. I felt like I would be accepted into Durban’s warm community. One friend coolly replied to my fervent questions, “You will love it and they will welcome you.” These opposing perceptions are not surprising. People tend to be socialized to believe stereotypes of people and places outside of their bubbles. But what I am most surprised about is that perceptions about violence within USA and South Africa vary greatly. On a micro level, perspectives of the safety of Cato Manor, where I now live, fluctuate among black South Africans.

View of Cato Manor.

From the 1950s to the 1990s, Cato Manor was a center of political unrest. In the mid 1950s Chief Luthuli, the first African to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize and president of the ANC, linked the struggles in Cato with the struggles against Apartheid. But Cato is much more than the violence, for it has a vibrant history. The trade unionist George W. Champion saw Cato as a “place where Durban natives (Africans) could breathe the air of freedom.” Today, I can see these inhalations, and I breathe it myself. Cato Manor is full of life, with primary schools, a market, a clinic, a multi-purpose center, and more developments underway. In my area, Masxha, children run up and down the street, everyone knows each other, young adults party in the bar around the corner from my home, and the people laugh from the bottoms of their souls. I take frequent walks with my neighbors and every few seconds there is a wave, an aunty or uncle walking by, or a hug and a friend wondering where they have been the past two days.

My first night on Florida Road I met a group of wealthy young black South African men. When I told them I was staying in Cato Manor, they were confused. One inquired, “Why is a white girl in Cato?” Another told me that I would soon be robbed by drug addicts. I pushed back and explained that the majority of the community knows and respects my homestay grandmother, Nana, and would never do such a thing. He replied, “It doesn’t matter. Eventually when they get desparate they will come. And grandmothers get raped all the time in Cato.” Just like with my white family members back home, I did not accept these extreme views. I may take them into account, but do not let them determine my behavior. Nana has told me that she feels safe in Cato. She sometimes leaves the house with the doors wide open and always hangs our laundry to dry in the front yard.

Bryan Stevenson, author of “Just Mercy,” believes that the key to mercy and understanding is proximity. These young men are not from Cato, but from more wealthier suburban neighborhoods, and are out of touch with the realities of Masxha. It seems that they are hung up on its past. I took a walk with my neighbor Tarry and told him about these young men. He was also in shock that they were black and held these perceptions. He shook his head and replied, “The robberies don’t happen here,” and explained how this community looks out for its own. He said, “Someone is always watching you.” Someone is always looking out for me in Cato. I can feel it. And the more time I spend here, the more I sit down and talk to the people around me, the more I feel at home. So people tell me I should be afraid of the shebeen (a local bar around the corner), the men, and Cato. But I am not afraid. I have found the more I push myself into discomfort, or into the places people tell me to be afraid of, the less afraid I am.

Two nights ago I walked into a shebeen with some local friends and sat down for a while. I relaxed with a circle of older Zulu men. They said I was the first white student to do so. The night turned out to be one of the best times I have had in Durban. We laughed, danced, and shared political views. In the midst of our conversation, one of them grabbed my wrist, held it next to his, and said, “Same blood.”

The shebeen around the corner from my house.

I now pass by the shebeen and look forward to greeting my new friends. This was a place I was terrified to walk past my first night in Cato. So why do the young men I met on Florida Road still hold their negative perceptions? Maybe they have just not actually spent enough time in Masxha. Although they are from Durban, they perpetuate the oppressive stereotypes of South African men. While it is important to recognize history and possible dangers, we cannot be afraid to live. I do not know much about where I am, but I do know that in order to disrupt my own fears and prejudices, and to take advantage of my time here, I will continue to close the distance, walk into my discomfort (definitely some more bars), and continue to find and revel in the truth.

A carving outside my house and my sneakers.

Featured Tagged With: Cato Manor

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