Township Tuesday

I expected my first tour with AWOL would be a learning experience.  What I did not know was where or how this learning would take place.  My questions were answered when the Harvey family from Colorado booked our award winning bicycle tour through Masiphumelele Township.  Their keen and empathetic aura put me at ease behind my desk as I confirmed my first booking, lining us all up for a Township Tuesday.

I expected my first tour with AWOL would be a learning experience.  What I did not know was where or how this learning would take place.  My questions were answered when the Harvey family from Colorado booked our award winning bicycle tour through Masiphumelele Township.  Their keen and empathetic aura put me at ease behind my desk as I confirmed my first booking, lining us all up for a Township Tuesday.

With Leonard behind the wheel we set off from the uniform surrounds of the Westin Grand with mother Stephanie, father Edward and daughter Jessica.  I immerse myself into the Q&A session sparked by the curious consciousness of the Harvey’s as we wind through traffic.  It’s a five way exchange of stories, information, ideas and jokes which anticipate the tone of the day.  A magnificent Cape Town morning is so often the common ground over which we all slip into the beginning of a story.

A long time admirer of township life will inevitably become skeptical of township tours.  The authenticity of the “arranged” experience is always under the microscope.  I feel this same skepticism as we turn right through the entrance of Masi.  “Passing through here without meeting some intense bittersweet flavour would be tragically normal”, I silently suspect.

We meet our township guide Zwai, who has our bikes ready.  He is polite as he emerges from the shipping container which hosts the BEN Bike Shop, introducing himself with an easy smile.  “He takes over from now”, Leonard reminds me as the Harvey’s take a test ride on their OV Fietse.

Zwai maps out the activities which take place in each of the many containers in the yard.  After school art, dancing and sewing classes, bicycle mechanics, and the Zion Christian Church office.  He shares a short history of “success”, alluding to the name of the township and the prosperous movements of its people.

Zwai swings onto his fiets and leads the Harvey’s into the street, followed closely by myself and Leonard.  Common sense and tour guide training agree that we form this trailing human-bicycle buffer.  Our first stop en route is the crèche.

This is new for me.  The little inhabitants of the township glow with energy and independence.  We meet the founder of the crèche, Sophia, a warm lady with a smile so wide and fixed it seems to broadcast a loving persistence.  Kids are already popping out from the door of the first classroom, and Sophia shoos them back inside.  We follow one another into the classroom where the youngest kids are waiting in anticipation.  “Teacher, teacher!” many of them exclaim with their arms stretched out wide.  Are we all teachers?

The kids are all over us with hugs and the Harvey’s seem thrilled.  The perpetual older brother in me takes over and every kid gets a turn to be raised up to the ceiling and brought down fast like a mini-drop on a rollercoaster.  I try to look over to the others but everyone is surrounded by kids, each playing their own game.

Sophia restores order with a firm voice.  She opens a song and suddenly the kids join in irregular formation.  Early careless memories of being a kid in South Africa pierce my thoughts as Nkosi Sikelele i’Afrika escapes from two dozen adorable faces.

We leave through a few last farewell hugs and make our way to the older kids.  Their classroom feels smaller.  We are greeted with the same eagerness as before and soon I am helplessly coerced onto my knees as tens of tiny arms wrap around me and pull me down.  I feel like a small overloaded pony and the kids turn my efforts to get back on my feet into a game.  And it’s fun!  The Harvey’s are all smiles and funny faces and hand gestures and hugs.  Everyone in the room is happy.  Nobody wants anybody to leave.  This is about as real as it gets.

Eventually we did leave, but not before Stephanie Harvey offered to make a donation of books to the school.  The family had visited a school in Zambia on the first leg of their Southern African trip.  Having the foresight to pack new school supplies for the occasion is a testament to their kind and philanthropic nature.

It was time to enter a “different” township.  We meander down the paved road for a few more blocks passing livestock, pets, food, retail, services, workers, loafers, jokers.  With every turn the path becomes thinner, the buildings more like impromptu shapes and the people fewer.  We dismount as the route to the traditional healer’s house becomes a maze of narrow, muddy avenues, making cycling impossible.

The empty seats invite more kids to join the ride.  A few more turns and Stephanie and I are trying to squeeze through an impossible gap with our bikes and little silent passengers.

We are spotted by a woman and her hand gesture suggests that we are heading in the wrong direction.  Another motion points us to the house of the Sangoma where the rest of the group is waiting. We are in the township as I know it.  The same one I never thought we would see on this day.  Infrequent streams of trash and dark mud without a single instance of waste.  Houses share makeshift walls and entrances, sheltering life from the lingering visual decay.  I am content and happy for the Harvey’s.

The banging of tight drums initiates singing and stirs nearby residents.  The furniture stacked around the inner walls of the room fills quickly with neighbours arriving in small groups, some alone.  United voices and feet praise the ancestors, a few sing or dance whilst the rest watch contently.  I catch myself staring at a small space on the floor in a daydream.  The atmosphere is light but hypnotic.

Edward Harvey’s voice brings me back to reality.  The ceremony has ended and an understudy places it all in context.  “You have relatives who passed away?”  Zwai translates, “and you visit their graves?” he asks.  “Yes.  We visit the grave once a year and think about the person”, says Edward.  “And you believe they can hear you?” probes the student.  “Yes, we believe that although the body is no more the spirit lives on”, explains Stephanie Harvey.

The apparent overlap in belief systems puts a comfortable grin on everyone’s faces and Jess Harvey leaves the Sangoma’s house with one of those tangible gifts which outgrows its physical form to make room for sincere personal meaning.

Lunch proves to satisfy lingering hunger pangs and a two-liter Coke allows time for discussion.  As we snack on chops and pink wors and chat freely Edward Harvey stumbles upon a phrase that speaks to every South African.  “Cape Town is a place of contradiction” he affirms.  He gives voice to the many contrasts we know so well as citizens.  The vivid differences followed closely by the hard fellowship.  An everlasting balancing act which never tires of the stage, a melting pot with unpredictable flavours stirring away.  Optimism and pessimism, releasing and embracing, a world of learning – a.k.a.

Cape Town.

Thank you to the Harvey family, Leonard, Zwai, and the people of Masi.  I hope to see you all soon.

I expected my first tour with AWOL would be a learning experience.  What I did not know was where or how this learning would take place.  My questions were answered when the Harvey family from Colorado booked our award winning bicycle tour through Masiphumelele Township.  Their keen and empathetic aura put me at ease behind my desk as I confirmed my first booking, lining us all up for a Township Tuesday.

With Leonard behind the wheel we set off from the uniform surrounds of the Westin Grand with mother Stephanie, father Edward and daughter Jessica.  I immerse myself into the Q&A session sparked by the curious consciousness of the Harvey’s as we wind through traffic.  It’s a five way exchange of stories, information, ideas and jokes which anticipate the tone of the day.  A magnificent Cape Town morning is so often the common ground over which we all slip into the beginning of a story.

A long time admirer of township life will inevitably become skeptical of township tours.  The authenticity of the “arranged” experience is always under the microscope.  I feel this same skepticism as we turn right through the entrance of Masi.  “Passing through here without meeting some intense bittersweet flavour would be tragically normal”, I silently suspect.

We meet our township guide Zwai, who has our bikes ready.  He is polite as he emerges from the shipping container which hosts the BEN Bike Shop, introducing himself with an easy smile.  “He takes over from now”, Leonard reminds me as the Harvey’s take a test ride on their OV Fietse.

Zwai maps out the activities which take place in each of the many containers in the yard.  After school art, dancing and sewing classes, bicycle mechanics, and the Zion Christian Church office.  He shares a short history of “success”, alluding to the name of the township and the prosperous movements of its people.

Zwai swings onto his fiets and leads the Harvey’s into the street, followed closely by myself and Leonard.  Common sense and tour guide training agree that we form this trailing human-bicycle buffer.  Our first stop en route is the crèche.

This is new for me.  The little inhabitants of the township glow with energy and independence.  We meet the founder of the crèche, Sophia, a warm lady with a smile so wide and fixed it seems to broadcast a loving persistence.  Kids are already popping out from the door of the first classroom, and Sophia shoos them back inside.  We follow one another into the classroom where the youngest kids are waiting in anticipation.  “Teacher, teacher!” many of them exclaim with their arms stretched out wide.  Are we all teachers?

The kids are all over us with hugs and the Harvey’s seem thrilled.  The perpetual older brother in me takes over and every kid gets a turn to be raised up to the ceiling and brought down fast like a mini-drop on a rollercoaster.  I try to look over to the others but everyone is surrounded by kids, each playing their own game.

Sophia restores order with a firm voice.  She opens a song and suddenly the kids join in irregular formation.  Early careless memories of being a kid in South Africa pierce my thoughts as Nkosi Sikelele i’Afrika escapes from two dozen adorable faces.

We leave through a few last farewell hugs and make our way to the older kids.  Their classroom feels smaller.  We are greeted with the same eagerness as before and soon I am helplessly coerced onto my knees as tens of tiny arms wrap around me and pull me down.  I feel like a small overloaded pony and the kids turn my efforts to get back on my feet into a game.  And it’s fun!  The Harvey’s are all smiles and funny faces and hand gestures and hugs.  Everyone in the room is happy.  Nobody wants anybody to leave.  This is about as real as it gets.

Eventually we did leave, but not before Stephanie Harvey offered to make a donation of books to the school.  The family had visited a school in Zambia on the first leg of their Southern African trip.  Having the foresight to pack new school supplies for the occasion is a testament to their kind and philanthropic nature.

It was time to enter a “different” township.  We meander down the paved road for a few more blocks passing livestock, pets, food, retail, services, workers, loafers, jokers.  With every turn the path becomes thinner, the buildings more like impromptu shapes and the people fewer.  We dismount as the route to the traditional healer’s house becomes a maze of narrow, muddy avenues, making cycling impossible.

The empty seats invite more kids to join the ride.  A few more turns and Stephanie and I are trying to squeeze through an impossible gap with our bikes and little silent passengers.

We are spotted by a woman and her hand gesture suggests that we are heading in the wrong direction.  Another motion points us to the house of the Sangoma where the rest of the group is waiting. We are in the township as I know it.  The same one I never thought we would see on this day.  Infrequent streams of trash and dark mud without a single instance of waste.  Houses share makeshift walls and entrances, sheltering life from the lingering visual decay.  I am content and happy for the Harvey’s.

The banging of tight drums initiates singing and stirs nearby residents.  The furniture stacked around the inner walls of the room fills quickly with neighbours arriving in small groups, some alone.  United voices and feet praise the ancestors, a few sing or dance whilst the rest watch contently.  I catch myself staring at a small space on the floor in a daydream.  The atmosphere is light but hypnotic.

Edward Harvey’s voice brings me back to reality.  The ceremony has ended and an understudy places it all in context.  “You have relatives who passed away?”  Zwai translates, “and you visit their graves?” he asks.  “Yes.  We visit the grave once a year and think about the person”, says Edward.  “And you believe they can hear you?” probes the student.  “Yes, we believe that although the body is no more the spirit lives on”, explains Stephanie Harvey.

The apparent overlap in belief systems puts a comfortable grin on everyone’s faces and Jess Harvey leaves the Sangoma’s house with one of those tangible gifts which outgrows its physical form to make room for sincere personal meaning.

Lunch proves to satisfy lingering hunger pangs and a two-liter Coke allows time for discussion.  As we snack on chops and pink wors and chat freely Edward Harvey stumbles upon a phrase that speaks to every South African.  “Cape Town is a place of contradiction” he affirms.  He gives voice to the many contrasts we know so well as citizens.  The vivid differences followed closely by the hard fellowship.  An everlasting balancing act which never tires of the stage, a melting pot with unpredictable flavours stirring away.  Optimism and pessimism, releasing and embracing, a world of learning – a.k.a.

Cape Town.

Thank you to the Harvey family, Leonard, Zwai, and the people of Masi.  I hope to see you all soon.

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With Leonard behind the wheel we set off from the uniform surrounds of the Westin Grand with mother Stephanie, father Edward and daughter Jessica.  I immerse myself into the Q&A session sparked by the curious consciousness of the Harvey’s as we wind through traffic.  It’s a five way exchange of stories, information, ideas and jokes which anticipate the tone of the day.  A magnificent Cape Town morning is so often the common ground over which we all slip into the beginning of a story.

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A long time admirer of township life will inevitably become skeptical of township tours.  The authenticity of the “arranged” experience is always under the microscope.  I feel this same skepticism as we turn right through the entrance of Masi.  “Passing through here without meeting some intense bittersweet flavour would be tragically normal”, I silently suspect.

We meet our township guide Zwai, who has our bikes ready.  He is polite as he emerges from the shipping container which hosts the BEN Bike Shop, introducing himself with an easy smile.  “He takes over from now”, Leonard reminds me as the Harvey’s take a test ride on their OV Fietse.

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Zwai maps out the activities which take place in each of the many containers in the yard.  After school art, dancing and sewing classes, bicycle mechanics, and the Zion Christian Church office.  He shares a short history of “success”, alluding to the name of the township and the prosperous movements of its people.

Zwai swings onto his fiets and leads the Harvey’s into the street, followed closely by myself and Leonard.  Common sense and tour guide training agree that we form this trailing human-bicycle buffer.  Our first stop en route is the crèche.

This is new for me.  The little inhabitants of the township glow with energy and independence.  We meet the founder of the crèche, Sophia, a warm lady with a smile so wide and fixed it seems to broadcast a loving persistence.  Kids are already popping out from the door of the first classroom, and Sophia shoos them back inside.  We follow one another into the classroom where the youngest kids are waiting in anticipation.  “Teacher, teacher!” many of them exclaim with their arms stretched out wide.  Are we all teachers?

The kids are all over us with hugs and the Harvey’s seem thrilled.  The perpetual older brother in me takes over and every kid gets a turn to be raised up to the ceiling and brought down fast like a mini-drop on a rollercoaster.  I try to look over to the others but everyone is surrounded by kids, each playing their own game.

Sophia restores order with a firm voice.  She opens a song and suddenly the kids join in irregular formation.  Early careless memories of being a kid in South Africa pierce my thoughts as Nkosi Sikelele i’Afrika escapes from two dozen adorable faces.

We leave through a few last farewell hugs and make our way to the older kids.  Their classroom feels smaller.  We are greeted with the same eagerness as before and soon I am helplessly coerced onto my knees as tens of tiny arms wrap around me and pull me down.  I feel like a small overloaded pony and the kids turn my efforts to get back on my feet into a game.  And it’s fun!  The Harvey’s are all smiles and funny faces and hand gestures and hugs.  Everyone in the room is happy.  Nobody wants anybody to leave.  This is about as real as it gets.

Eventually we did leave, but not before Stephanie Harvey offered to make a donation of books to the school.  The family had visited a school in Zambia on the first leg of their Southern African trip.  Having the foresight to pack new school supplies for the occasion is a testament to their kind and philanthropic nature.

It was time to enter a “different” township.  We meander down the paved road for a few more blocks passing livestock, pets, food, retail, services, workers, loafers, jokers.  With every turn the path becomes thinner, the buildings more like impromptu shapes and the people fewer.  We dismount as the route to the traditional healer’s house becomes a maze of narrow, muddy avenues, making cycling impossible.

The empty seats invite more kids to join the ride.  A few more turns and Stephanie and I are trying to squeeze through an impossible gap with our bikes and little silent passengers.

We are spotted by a woman and her hand gesture suggests that we are heading in the wrong direction.  Another motion points us to the house of the Sangoma where the rest of the group is waiting. We are in the township as I know it.  The same one I never thought we would see on this day.  Infrequent streams of trash and dark mud without a single instance of waste.  Houses share makeshift walls and entrances, sheltering life from the lingering visual decay.  I am content and happy for the Harvey’s.

The banging of tight drums initiates singing and stirs nearby residents.  The furniture stacked around the inner walls of the room fills quickly with neighbours arriving in small groups, some alone.  United voices and feet praise the ancestors, a few sing or dance whilst the rest watch contently.  I catch myself staring at a small space on the floor in a daydream.  The atmosphere is light but hypnotic.

Edward Harvey’s voice brings me back to reality.  The ceremony has ended and an understudy places it all in context.  “You have relatives who passed away?”  Zwai translates, “and you visit their graves?” he asks.  “Yes.  We visit the grave once a year and think about the person”, says Edward.  “And you believe they can hear you?” probes the student.  “Yes, we believe that although the body is no more the spirit lives on”, explains Stephanie Harvey.

The apparent overlap in belief systems puts a comfortable grin on everyone’s faces and Jess Harvey leaves the Sangoma’s house with one of those tangible gifts which outgrows its physical form to make room for sincere personal meaning.

Lunch proves to satisfy lingering hunger pangs and a two-liter Coke allows time for discussion.  As we snack on chops and pink wors and chat freely Edward Harvey stumbles upon a phrase that speaks to every South African.  “Cape Town is a place of contradiction” he affirms.  He gives voice to the many contrasts we know so well as citizens.  The vivid differences followed closely by the hard fellowship.  An everlasting balancing act which never tires of the stage, a melting pot with unpredictable flavours stirring away.  Optimism and pessimism, releasing and embracing, a world of learning – a.k.a.

Cape Town.

Thank you to the Harvey family, Leonard, Zwai, and the people of Masi.  I hope to see you all soon.

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