THE OLLYDAY

Into the Township

Over the last two weeks, the word “township” has basically been code fore “the part of the city where the poor, black people live”. I was warned that they were dangerous places for anyone to go, but as a result of me being pale white (almost transparent) and ginger, I would stick out like a sore thumb and get robbed/hijacked/stabbed in minutes.

These were fair warnings, the crime statistics in South Africa are astronomically high, especially in townships, and being a blatant tourist, I was more attractive to opportunists than anyone. But I couldn’t escape the idea, while visiting sprawled, unemotional urban centres, that there was a glamourous side to townships, one involving community, collectiveness and a damn good vibe, that I wanted to explore and see for myself.

Every hostel I’ve stayed in has offered a ‘Township Tour’. I had done a one of Soweto in Johannesburg. But sitting in a minibus with Canadians khaki-ed to the max, gawping at the poor people wasn’t my idea of a proper experience. The only way I could safely explore one was through a local.

In Jeffrey’s Bay I got my wish. An English guy I met on the Baz Bus had been living and volunteering an hour away for the last 5 months. He knew some local shop owners, Chancy & Charles, who he introduced me to almost as soon as we arrived. They owned an African craft store, and showed us where we could get a £2 fry up and the best biltong in town.

After a day in J’Bay, I earned myself an invite to Charles’ flat for some ‘pap’. Chancy guided me through the township from the shop. It was apparent as soon as you arrived, because the houses where all of a sudden not made of brick, not two storeys and not organised in streets - and the people were staring. But there were also a lot of people in the street, boys playing football in a park and grown ups socialising on corners. Already, the area seemed to have more activity than I had seen in the big cities.

After buying some cheap beer from an old women serving in a caged bar, we arrived at the flat. It was one room. There was a bed, some ripped up Lino on the floor and a massive TV. A fridge, a table and a camping stove completed the furniture line up. It was certainly liveable, but not comfortable.

The community aspect of the area was already prevalent. We had greeted many people on our way in, and Chancy had many conversations with some of Charles’ neighbours. Later, we were joined by 3 school girls from the neighbourhood who just liked to come and visit (they didn’t like me and didn’t really want to talk to me, but Chancy told me later that it was probably to do with the fact that they didn’t go to school often so their English was bad. “They just smoke.”). It was a little disconcerting when one of the girls was introduced to me as Charles’ “girlfriend” because a) she was a school girl and b) this was the third girl to be introduced to me as his “girlfriend”, one of the others being the land lady upstairs.

The food was something I had been looking forward to. Rushing through South Africa by bus, it is hard to avoid the fast food and filling stations as your source of cuisine. Some local food was gratefully received. And it was delicious. ‘Pap’ is ground and boiled maize. If done right, it turns into a dough-like substance. Eaten all over Africa, albeit with varying names, the cutlery is forgotten and your right hand is washed and used to roll pap and feed yourself.

With a pork and salad accompaniment, I was absolutely stuffed to the brim by the end and hadn’t made too much mess. Two of the school girls shared plates with Chancy & Charles. The third one chose not to eat (I told you they didn’t like me). All the while, South African house music was playing from the TV. I went back, knowing that I had had a glimpse off the tourist trail and into the culture of real South Africa.