So, about a month ago...

It has been a very long time since we posted anything on this blog. Shame. Here is what’s been occupying our time:

Near the end of March, Kim and I took a long walk down one of the dirt roads that lead into the forest surrounding our township; although, “forest” is certainly too romantic of a term. It’s actually a commercial plantation, free of undergrowth and full of identical trees in efficient rows. We had heard that somewhere down this road, among the orderly gum trees, was a small graveyard. Perhaps not the most interesting way to pass an afternoon, but it would only cost us sunscreen, so why not, and we set out in search. Eventually, we came upon it.

The small graveyard was quite a bit larger than we had expected. There was a prominent brick entrance, but no actual gate, and no fence of any kind surrounding the sprawl of headstones. The grass was wild and patchy. Shade trees or stumps were left here and there. At the far end of the property, two men in bright blue work suits sat with their shovels under a white canopy next to a pile of dusty earth.

We spent about half an hour respectfully navigating the uneven plots, reading names and dates. Kim and I were both born in 1978, which, we soon realized, is earlier than or only shortly after a majority of the engraved birth dates that surrounded us. Locally, almost half of an entire generation – our generation – is testing positive for the three-letter plague. The ones that have already succumbed are buried here. Assaulted by the reality of those statistics we grew silent and decided to walk back down the dirt road, through the orderly gum trees.

Just then, we heard singing, followed by the sound of several tires slowly rolling up the dirt road. There are two things that a great many South African’s do every weekend: on Sunday, they attend church; and on Saturday, they attend a funeral. At the far end of the property, the men in the bright blue work suits stood up. It was Saturday, again.

As passengers from more than two-dozen cars and three large busses emptied into the graveyard, Kim and I quietly walked the other way. On our way out, we noticed that the headstones and memorials in this part of the graveyard were a bit larger, nicer, the plots more orderly, the birth dates a lot older, and the names no longer Zulu. Apartheid is alive in that graveyard.

Rather than go straight home, Kim and I decided to take a fork in the dirt road to extend our walk and clear our heads a bit. We had no idea what might be down this other road, as the only thing we knew was that there was a graveyard in this area and that was behind us. As we walked further we noticed that litter was steadily increasing along the sides of the road and Kim remembered that someone had once told her there was also a garbage dump somewhere around here. A skinny man in ragged clothes greeted us in Zulu as he rode past on his bicycle.

Just a little further down the road the smell of burning garbage was noticeable; just a little further, the smell of rotting food; then, a large dump began to come into view. At the edge of the dump, the man on the bicycle was parked, talking to a second skinny man in equally ragged clothes. They stared at us uncomfortably, stopping their conversation as we approached, and I greeted them both in Zulu – the man on the bike for the second time – because I didn’t know what else to do. Beyond the two men, we could see four or five women sifting through the mountains of rubbish. Two of the women stopped what they were doing and began walking towards us, which was when we noticed they were actually young girls. We kept walking. They followed behind us.

Up ahead, amidst the piles of forgotten waste, we noticed several small shacks built of wood and tin and discarded plastic. A handful of other people, young and old, were picking through the colourful manmade mountains. One of the young girls that had been walking behind us asked us a question in Zulu. I didn’t understand what she asked, but her voice broke our trance and we stopped walking. “Niyaphi?” she said - where are you going? “Angazi,” I said, after a pause - I don’t know. Then she asked if we had any food or money.

A few meters from where we were now standing, there was a spoiled oasis of inky water and litter filled grass. An old washing machine sat half submerged in the black pool. Around the edges, wet clothing was carefully draped over the branches of the few surviving bushes. There were no clouds in the midday sky. About a dozen children, most of them naked, were waste deep in the filthy water, splashing and laughing, enjoying themselves and ignoring us.

In front of us, the road curved a bit and we couldn’t see where it led. We turned around and walked home.

Later that evening, when looking at our calendar, I noticed that it had been a South African holiday. It was Human Rights Day.