NGO’s in Soweto - Persevering until something happens

“The problem with South Africa today is that everyone knows their rights, but no-one is willing to live up to their responsibilities,” proclaims Lorna Fisher, the larger-than-life founder of PUSH, a Soweto based NGO. Her exclamation both celebrates the dynamism of a liberated and strong civil society, whilst decrying what she perceives as an open-hand mentality fostered by too many lofty governmental pledges.

This theory could be applied to so many issues in contemporary South African society and politics, from housing and jobs to education and healthcare. The disparity between what the ANC has pledged and what it can realistically deliver is enormous, and subsequent societal expectations have led to many cases where people rely on handouts instead of working.

In this case the context is HIV and AIDS, the well-documented scourge of pandemic proportion in this region. After a rocky road of denial, conspiracy theories and advocating bizarre treatments, the true extent of HIV and AIDS and its’ correct medical care has been officially recognised. In coming to its senses however, South Africa’s leadership has opened an epic can of worms. The government has limited resources to address the problem, and society needs to break the stigma attached to the virus and help take responsibility to contain it.

It is estimated that up to 6 million South Africans are living with HIV with many more affected by it. The prevalence is much higher in the destitute townships where a lack of awareness of and knowledge about HIV, cultural attitudes, condom derision and the stigma of being HIV+ are all contributing factors to its rampancy.

This is where PUSH steps into the breach. Since Lorna set it up nine years ago, it has grown into a lifeline for many of the most vulnerable in Kliptown, a decaying suburb in the heart of Soweto. Part funded by the government after the initiation of a more robust policy of HIV counselling and testing, PUSH is capitalising on this official drive to provide a much-needed service to the local population in the absence of governmental structures.

The most visible of its’ services is an on-site feeding scheme, where hundreds of OVC’s (Orphans and Vulnerable Children) who are either infected with or affected by HIV, can shade themselves from the relentless sun and be provided with at least one nutritious meal a day. An on-site VCT (Voluntary Counselling and Testing) centre employs counsellors and nurses who can test for HIV in 15 minutes. It refers HIV+ patients to clinics that supply medicinal treatments and provides much needed support and information on living with HIV. For those too sick to access the services, PUSH offers outreach assistance where community support officers visit the needy in their homes.

I joined those officers for a morning of visits deep into the informal settlement area of Kliptown.

Kliptown is a suburb proud of its’ contribution towards the struggle against apartheid. Several locals informed me that numerous homes we passed had been used to hide anti-apartheid leading lights from the authorities. It is easy to see how enemies of the State could keep their heads down in this maze of basic dwellings and muddy walkways.

The stench from the raw sewage seeping into alleyways of informal settlements can be overpowering. It is always surreal and unsettling sitting in a tiny shack, built with corrugated iron sheets conversing with the occupant. Kliptown however has a vibrancy caused by hawkers selling wares on the streets, men pumping hip-hop beats through open doors and women washing clothes under the sun. This energy comes at a price though, with a local unemployment rate estimated at 90% Kliptown is a busy place during the day, but undoubtedly would trade that street spirit for an increased income.

Lillian Lekgare, a PUSH community support officer, was delivering care packages donated by private benefactors to the house bound and acted as guide and protector. She later informed me that it would have been foolhardy to enter the settlement alone, as I would be an irresistible target to thieves who would not dare steal from her.

We visited several shacks, all of which were tiny but differing in conditions ranging from filthy squalor to spotlessly clean. The first recipient was Alina, a mother of four young children, three of whom shared her HIV+ status. A proud woman with two snotty babies hanging off her, Alina received the much needed gifts with dignity. Without PUSH, it would be difficult for her to access the government supplied HIV restraining drugs for her and her children.

At a later dwelling 27-year-old Juliette, a migrant from neighbouring Mozambique, sat in the corner sick with HIV and TB. Shy and unable to converse in English, Juliette let her uncle and head of the family do the talking. Almon, gracious and hospitable, explained that none of his family provided an income for the household and they had to rely on the meagre earnings of a hole in the wall ‘tuck shop’ selling basic provisions, to feed the family. To compound the pressing circumstances, as Juliette has no South African ID, she cannot access free medicine.

The issue of different nationals not receiving government-subsidised drugs was highlighted again during our final visit. Dora, a recent widow and elderly native of Lesotho, had lived in Kliptown for over twenty-five years. Her children were South African nationals, but she had never registered, despite losing all ties with Lesotho. Reliant on PUSH for support, Dora was understandably and visibly distressed with her situation.

There is clearly a long and arduous road that still lies ahead for organisations like PUSH. Currently they are well supported by the government and private donations, but fearing a whimsical change in policy, PUSH are well aware that money and support could be cut at any time. Regardless, they carry on by targeting those most vulnerable and at risk, whilst promoting their services to the general public.

PUSH’s strategy is in its name: ‘Persevere Until Something Happens’. I am confident that PUSH will continue to do so regardless of what obstacles stand in its way. For one, the founder and driving force Lorna, is certainly aware of her responsibilities.

Soweto Bicycle Tour - Daily Star 14.02.2011

What is your image of Soweto?

Is it a grainy film reel of soldiers firing at crowds as their armoured vehicle lumbers through clouds of teargas?

Perhaps a black and white photo of a distraught man clad in dungarees and gumboots, carrying a bloodied and limp body in his arms, with a screaming girl in tow?

Do you conjure a sprawling den of violent crime and corrugated iron, inhospitable to all but the rats wallowing in open sewers and mountains of trash?

Whatever your mind evokes when contemplating Soweto, unless familiar with this fascinating and infamous South African township, it is likely to be wildly inaccurate.


Opening up

Two recent events have started to scratch away at the walls of misconception and historical burden that shield the true Soweto from travellers.

The 2010 Soccer World Cup opened the South Western Township to the world, and in return she spread her arms to embrace 32 nations. Fans of all creed and colour partied safely in the streets for a month, culminating with 11 Spaniards ecstatically hoisting the coveted trophy in Soweto’s Soccer City.

A few weeks prior, thousands of hot-blooded rugby followers descended upon the heart of Soweto, Orlando, to watch the Pretoria based Blue Bulls triumph in a vital match. Not since the potent days of the 1980’s had an army of white South Africans entered the area. This time they swapped totting guns for waving flags and were greeted by bottles filled with cold beer instead of flaming gasoline.

For domestic and international tourists, Soweto is shedding its gnarly reputation and revealing a soft underbelly. A trip to this hip, iconic and welcoming metropolis will reveal its true image and provide an incisive glimpse at the soul of a resurgent South Africa.


Four wheels or two?

The best way to tour Soweto is by two wheels. A bicycle delivers unfettered access to tarred roads and muddy alleyways alike, leaving no area of the township out of bounds.

Soweto Backpackers have been running guided bicycle tours from their steps for five years. Established in 2003 at local lad Lebo’s family home in Orlando West, it has steadily grown into a safe, comfortable, award winning and funky place to stay.

“The bicycle tours mean tourists can really contribute to Soweto and experience the area in a more authentic way” explains Lebo, before we set off. He also sees it as a cog in the constant re-conciliation process; “vitally it lowers cultural and racial boundaries by bringing blacks and whites together. If not for these tours, the only time local kids would see whites is on TV.”

More concerned with avoiding speeding mini-buses than de-sensitizing children to the colour of my skin, I saddled up and donned a garish helmet. Thankfully our certified guide Nkululeko, anticipated my anxiety and started with a comprehensive safety briefing, outlining various cycling hand gestures and procedures.

The first test was climbing a small hill, wheezing in the wake of an indefatigable Swedish couple, for a panoramic view of Orlando. Whilst recovering from our exertions we took in the urban vista, quickly banishing illusions that Soweto is a township reserved exclusively for the impoverished. Swathes of cosy suburbia unfolded complete with tarmac, two-storey homes and BMW’s parked behind electric gates.

Nkululeko explained the early history of Soweto, established a century ago as a labour reserve for its booming neighbour Johannesburg. It has grown and evolved into Africa’s largest township with 38 suburbs and a vibrant population of 4.5 million. The journey has taken twists and turns from segregation to protest via suppression, establishing itself along the way as the heart of the anti-apartheid struggle.

Our journey continued with a manageable pattern of cycling, resting, teaching and questioning. Unlike many sanitised tours, interaction wasn’t limited between tourist and guide. The bicycle trip encourages contact with locals by the intimate nature of biking through their lives. As part of the tour, Nkululeko versed us in ‘Soweto Survival 101’, a crash course in greetings from the Zulu “sani bonani” to the street lingo “heita”.

Soweto prides itself on being a welcoming community. Notions of ‘Wild West’ style lawlessness were flushed as small children, passing businessman and grandmothers hanging out washing, all greeted us. In a country where beggars congregate at every suburban traffic light, not once were we asked for money.

Of course crime, poverty, homelessness and vagrancy are all very real and salient issues here. It would be easy to blinker these troubles and head solely to Vilakazi Street, labelled the ‘millionaires row’ of Soweto and ‘the only street with the homes of two Nobel laureates – Mandela and Tutu’.

Our tour refused to gloss over the bad and headed deep into Meadowlands, a seriously disadvantaged neighbourhood built on the pillars of inter-racial segregation. Meadowlands was established as a Zulu stronghold by the apartheid government, fomenting ‘divide and rule’ by rooting Inkhata Freedom Party supporters within a traditional ANC area.

What exists now is a warren of bleak corrugated iron shacks, divided by mattress spring fences, muddy walkways and shared port-a-loos. Barely navigable by bike, never mind cars, it is a sobering reminder of the developmental challenge South Africa faces.

The no-frills excursion is cemented by the choice of refreshment pit stops. To quench our thirst, we were ushered into a dank, smoky, windowless Shebeen (drinking den) replete with ubiquitous drunks. We shared our calabash of umqombothi, a maize beer tasting of off cider with a consistency of vomit, with our new friends whilst Nkululeko explained the cultural customs of how to swig and pass.

For lunch we shunned the monochrome menus of newly terraced restaurants, and patronised the ‘No1 Restaurant’ off Vilakazi Street. A Kota, or ‘township burger’, consisting of half a loaf of white bread stuffed with cheese, egg and salami threatened to ground us instead of providing a timely energy boost.

One image that encapsulates the era of struggle is that of dying schoolboy Hector Peterson. Shot whilst demonstrating against Afrikaans becoming the language of school instruction in 1976, Peterson became the posthumous pin up of the anti-apartheid movement. His memorial honours all those who died in that tumultuous time, and is a pertinent spot for reflection.

A Soweto bicycle tour is an authentic journey through a nation defining area of major cultural and historical relevance. Testaments to what was and should no longer be, such as Robben Island and the Apartheid Museum, are national treasures and tourism Mecca’s. As a living organism that chronicles what was, what is, and what can be, Soweto should be viewed in the same way.


Places to stay and getting there

More information on Soweto Bicycle Tours can be found at: www.sowetobicycletours.com

Soweto Backpackers offers budget accommodation. For more information go to: www.sowetobackpackers.com

The Soweto Hotel on Freedom Square, in the nearby Sowetan suburb of Kliptown is a great higher end alternative. Jazz themed boutique accommodation, restaurant and bar nestled between the vacuous Freedom Square and the Kliptown informal settlements. www.sowetohotel.co.za

If staying in Soweto doesn’t appeal, Orlando is easily reachable by car and public transport from Johannesburg. The Rea Vaya bus service from Johannesburg city centre takes 1-2 hours depending on traffic. If travelling by private car or taxi, halve that.

Bicycle tours are not for everyone. There are plenty of alternate options to see Soweto by car, bus or foot so check with local tour operators to see what is available.

Feel it ... it is here

I was convinced that the vuvezela was going to ruin the World Cup. In exasperation I have tried to embrace this poor cousin of the trumpet, fully aware that whether I like it or not, it is going to be a defining feature of this competition. My half-hearted support didn’t last long. Whilst watching countless Bafana Bafana warm-up matches, I was struck at how badly the stadium mood was reflected on screen. The affect of thousands of plastic horns being blown ceaselessly for 90 minutes, in my eyes and ears, killed the atmosphere. The drone doesn’t reflect the ebb and flow of the beautiful game, groans of ‘oooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ are non-existent with near misses on the field, tribal chanting can’t be heard, and players aren’t publicly judged for a timely tackle or bad pass. Crucially, when a goal is scored, instead of a roar that embodies the unbridled joy of your team going 1-0 up, the same interminable buzz fills your ears. It feels as if nothing special has occurred. Well, that was until this morning.

For days, the South African nation has been primed by a media initiative to ‘Unite behind Bafana Bafana’. What was initially a scheme to build support for the national team by urging companies in the smart Johannesburg business district of Sandton to release employees from their desk at midday, two days before the start of the World Cup, and blow their vuvezela’s on the street, has snowballed. Soon the South African FA had capitalised on the idea, by organising an open top bus for the football squad, so the public can give them a send off. What transpired was a carnival atmosphere, as tens of thousands donned their football shirts and makarapa helmets, and blew their vuvezela’s as the team bus edged through the thronging sea of yellow and green.

Throughout the country, for those that couldn’t make it to Sandton, spilling onto the streets in front of their workplaces for an impromptu street party had to suffice. The very sensible city centre of Pretoria, the capital city and seat of government, briefly lost itself in World Cup euphoria. For 30 minutes the pavement outside the austere office of the South African Revenue Service became awash with colour and sound as government accountants went absolutely bananas. You can imagine the ‘tax-man’ minimising his excel spreadsheet, swapping shirt and tie for a football jersey, donning comedy afro-wigs in national colours, picking up his vuvezela and calmly heading to the door in anticipation.

The build-up to midday on the streets in Pretoria wasn’t palpable, but one could sense that something was going to kick off. A few misplaced car horns being beeped, the distant sound of a vuvezela being blown, and the streets becoming busier. As midday ticked over, the party began. A symphony of tooting as the beeps of vehicle’s and vuvezela’s combined to create a festive feel. Flag waving and unified dancing as a troop of similarly clad professors from a nearby University of South Africa building conga’d into the throng. The ubiquitous lunchtime traffic jams joined the party, and transformed their honks of frustration into honks of jubilation.

As quickly as it started, it ended. By 12.31 only two bewigged accountants were lingering by the metal detectors at the door, abandoned by their colleagues who had diligently returned to tax-returns and calculators. One of them, a middle aged and elated gentleman named Nbako insisted that Bafana Bafana would be raising the World Cup on July 11th. It is unlikely that his optimism will be realised, but with only hours to go till the opening match, South Africa’s World Cup build up has reached fever pitch. Buoyed by a strong win against Denmark last Saturday, the nation seems more inclined to stand behind a previously unrated team.

The Vuvezela was integral to the party atmosphere. Instead of isolating football purists, the Vuvezela encourages a collective inclusiveness by creating an orchestra that anyone can join. All you need is a cheap plastic trumpet and Dizzy Gillespie’s lungs. Walking through the streets, horn in hand, it is easy to break down the natural barriers that exist between strangers. Tooting in response to a blast from a passer-by has become a primal method of communication and identification, a form of saying ‘welcome to our country’.

The national broadcaster SABC’s tag line for the World Cup is ‘feel it, it is here’. The tremors of the blaring Vuvezela’s mean that you can feel it, as it most definitely is here.

The Soweto Bull Run

With the vision of Nelson Mandela, the leadership of Francois Pienaar and the boot of Joel Stransky, the Springbok Rugby World Cup victory of 1995 helped the unification process of a deeply fractured host nation. Fifteen years on, the likelihood of a Bafana Bafana World Cup victory on turf spitting distance from Ellis Park, is nigh impossible. Last Saturday however, a new offensive of the pre-World Cup attempt at South African public unity took place, as the Blue Bulls rugby team beat the Christchurch Crusaders in the heart of football land; Orlando Stadium in Soweto.

Make no mistake; this was not simply a PR exercise. The Pretoria based club faced their confident New Zealand rivals in the semi-final of the Super 14 competition. Super 14, for those un-initiated, is the Champions League equivalent for Southern hemisphere rugby clubs, which only the cream of South African, Australian and New Zealand teams get to compete in. After winning the right to a semi-final home match, the Bulls vacationed from their fortress at Loftus Versfeld, which has inconveniently been requisitioned by FIFA in it’s preparations for the start of the World Cup finals.

What was remarkable about this game wasn’t just the result of the event, but the event itself. As shown in a local Sunday broadsheet the fact that the Bulls stylishly won, securing a chance of defending their Super 14 crown, was rewarded by a two lined mention on the back-pages. Whilst the event of Blue Bulls fans entering the near universally black populated township of Soweto secured a full feature.

South African Rugby and South African Football are racially defined by their supporters and players; rugby is white and football is black. Even soccer loving whites generally dismiss their domestic football league as an irrelevance, preferring to wear the colours of Chelsea or Liverpool over the Sundowns or Amazulu. Despite the iconic symbolism of Mandela’s rugby jersey at the birth of this new nation, with its short history and long memory, Rugby is still seen by the masses as a representation of apartheid oppression.

No club embodies this more than the Blue Bulls. Based a couple of kilometres from the former bastion of political apartheid, the Union Buildings, the Bulls are unquestionably an Afrikaans team heralding from the Afrikaaner capital.

As the Bulls fans entered Soweto to set up their ubiquitous pre-match ‘braai’ at the tailgates of their ‘bakkies’, they couldn’t have failed to notice the vastly different surroundings through the hazy familiarity of blue flags and face paint. Soweto, in contrast to white suburban Loftus, is a hive of black South African flavours both good and bad. The vibrant energy of Soweto is infectious, yet you don’t have to scratch deep to find huge swathes of corrugated iron dominated ‘informal settlements’ seeped in poverty and ensuing crime.

The ‘South Western Township’, set up on the outskirts of Johannesburg, as a sprawling and neglected black neighbourhood is immortalised in the struggle against apartheid. In 1955 the historic ANC freedom charter was adopted a stones throw from the Orlando Stadium in the Sowetan suburb of Kliptown. The iconic image that defined the 1976 Soweto uprising, of the body of 12 year old Hector Pieterson after being gunned down by the riot police, was taken close by in Orlando West.

In spite of pre-match statements by the organisers of this being a historic opportunity for Soweto to welcome such an alien sport from a neighbouring City, a sense of nervousness surrounded the build-up as 35,000 Bulls fans crossed into the unknown. This was the largest contingent of white Afrikaaner South Africans to ever enter Soweto, the second largest probably being the bulk of riot police sent in to break up anti-apartheid riots not so long ago.

Some suggested that the visiting fans would roll up the windows of their 4x4’s, peering out at Soweto as if they were on a game drive at nearby Kruger National game reserve. Others predicted that the stadium would be half empty, with most fans preferring to watch from the familiar safety of their cosy homes. It was said that Sowetans would view the Bulls fans with confusion at best, and open conflict at worst.

What unfolded was a triumph for South African sport, Sowetan hospitality and the Bulls travelling fans. In a country where simmering issues over race relations frequently threatens to boil over, last Saturday was a potential cauldron. Instead, Bulls fans embraced local food and fare, and even the vuvuzela’s that will no doubt define next months World Cup. In response, Soweto threw open it’s arms and welcomed the visiting fans with handfuls of Bunny Chow and Castle beer. Local media this week has been full of positive reflections on the event, from all perspectives.

The four way clash of Black, White, Rugby and Football collided to create a festive occasion that the architects of this ‘Rainbow Nation’ would be proud of. As the build up to the World Cup progresses, a step has been taken in bridging racial barriers and stereotypes that have been characterised by ingrained sporting tribalism.

The Bull-run into Soweto showed an increase in mutual respect of sporting preferences. Much of the South African nation is standing firmly behind Bafana Bafana regardless of their race or sport allegiance. Flags are adorning cars and fluttering from bars, and national football shirts are flying out of shops. ‘Football Friday’ has been a roaring success as everyone from taxi drivers, to bank clerks to President Zuma adorn the Bafana Bafana shirt in support of the national team at the end of each working week.

This Saturday, Soweto has the chance to shine again as it plays host to Rugby for a second time and helps play a role in increasing racial cohesion. The all South African Super 14 final gives the Cape Town based Stormers a chance to sample new frontiers, but the home advantage has to be with the Bulls playing in the now familiar Orlando Stadium.

Greenskin

Magnolia Dell, as it sounds, is a picturesque corner of Pretoria’s old east suburbs. A sliver of beautifully landscaped park uncomfortably nestled between two busy arteries leading into the City Centre, complete with pond, children’s playground and quaint café. It was here, on an unseasonably wet, cold and overcast Saturday afternoon, that the inaugural gathering of the Greenskin Initiative took place. This embryonic movement has sprung up, and snowballed, as a direct response to rising racial tension in Guateng Province and beyond. It’s aim? To garner existing support and further develop a ‘middle way’ between the racially polarised, headline grabbing extremities that have further exasperated South African society of late. An obvious yet bold initiative in a land tainted by the racial prejudices that have defined its history.

Race is at the forefront of the Rainbow Nation’s consciousness. Solid attempts of trying to steer this bulky ship on the tightrope of uniformed nationhood are starting to wobble. Repressed racial tension is bubbling from all sides and starting to spill over the surface. For the majority of the black population, the elation and hope of 1994 has slid to despair and exasperation as the ageing government fails to deliver on its early promises of economic empowerment and increased standards of living. Much of the remaining white population live locked away in their electric fenced castles in constant fear, real and imagined, of what lurks beyond.

Recent times have seen two main figureheads become the rallying points of the polarised inhabitants’ fears and anger, one a rising firebrand and the other a once diminished relic of a recent nightmare.

Julius Malema, head of the powerful ANC Youth League, has been making the headlines for his outspoken and provocative actions. At 29 he has shaken the political establishment and fuelled the fears of a portion of the white minority that don’t need much convincing that South Africa is heading the way of its northern neighbour. On a recent visit to Harare, Malema cemented his image as a Mugabe sycophant by publicly praising the Zimbabwean leaderships land reclamation policies and stating South Africa should promptly follow suit. A brazen populist, he openly sings an anti-apartheid era song with the line ‘kill the boer’ despite directives from the ANC leadership that he shouldn’t. In doing so, Malema whips up much of the aggravated black population whilst partially corroborating the alarm of the whites.

Planted on the other side of the coin is the legacy of the late Eugene Terre’Blanche. Notorious in the 90’s as the leader of the racist Boer nationalist movement Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging [AWB], his violent death allegedly at the hands of two farm workers earlier this month, has propelled his cause from obscurity into the limelight. The new AWB leadership boasts record membership enquiries and are buoyed by renewed media interest in the ensuing frenzy. The disturbing swastika inspired AWB flag along with taboo apartheid era flags have been given front page prominence, as well as talk of a homeland for the ‘Boervolk’ and a firm dose of unashamed anti-black racism.

Fuelled by the media frenzy these opposites have ballooned, and in doing so had seemingly squeezed out any moderate opinion. Enter into the fray the Greenskin Initiative. Starting online soon after the death of Terre’Blanche, its facebook membership grew rapidly into tens of thousands over the next few days. The outpouring of support clearly an indication of the unease that many South Africans felt at the recent hijacking of racial discourse by the extremities. Through an outwardly fluffy strategy of regional actions culminating in proposed large gatherings in major South African cities, the Initiative hopes to claim the middle ground of the race issue for the unheard sensible majority.

How successful the Greenskin initiative will be is to be seen. Despite the honourable values it certainly has it’s detractors who feel it brushes over painful issues instead of addressing them head on, and no doubt it will soon be dismissed by some conspiracists as a communist/ANC/right-wing/alien plot to undermine a semblance of a status quo.

On a micro level, beyond the rain and cold, other challenges presented themselves at the Pretoria gathering. A black couple galvanised enough to show up, viewed the other participants and quickly turned around. Explaining their actions on facebook shortly afterwards by stating they were the only two black people, so clearly the event wasn’t right for them. Certainly symptomatic of the racial chasm where blacks turning up to a green event are discouraged, by being a minority to attending whites.

Despite the many problems that the Initiative will face in building a broad based consensus, it has the potential to become a formidable and exciting social movement. The Greenskin Initiative offers another platform for a true cross racial/social/economic collective to challenge the current divisive South African zeitgeist. It may not incisively tackle the deep roots of racial division, but by providing an association where all people can come together in common cause against extremists on both sides, can be no bad thing. Good luck I say.

Bongs and Bazookas - World Cup Edition

Football hooligans beware, you may get more than what you bargained for during the World Cup. Instead of preparing ‘Chelsea Bricks’ with the weekly edition of the Mail and Guardian or organising fisticuffs with opposition fans in a dark corner of Soccer City, perhaps consider retiring to your hotels for a quiet drink whilst watching the highlights of the day’s games.

On our first Sunday together in Pretoria, World Cup host city and our new home for the next year, a friend recommended a visit to a weekly outdoor flea market in the student suburb of Hatfield. Passing through a throng of student hippies, armed with faux dreadlocks and real digeridoos, we stopped by the first market stall. Expecting to be handed an incense stick by a Rastafarian, I was surprised to see a table manned by a stern looking man in military fatigues. He seemed nonchalant as I picked up one of his wares to inspect, a lethal looking Shaolin style sword clearly not designed to peel potatoes. Eager for a sale, the paramilitary stallholder demonstrated how to use a concealable extendable metal truncheon whilst I browsed his collection of combat knives, ninja stars, nunchuks, and most terrifying of all, high voltage tazers designed to look like mobile phones. Camden Market this isn’t, welcome to South Africa.

Security is the primary concern here. We are currently staying in a well off residential suburb, with large plots adorned by beautiful homes, all organised in an orderly grid of wide tree lined boulevards. Being a five minute walk from the Loftus Versfeld Stadium, it is brimming with expectant guesthouse as well as pretty churches on block corners, schools and pools on others, plenty of open space dotted with bird sanctuaries and play parks. A suburban dream lined with fences, all of it, and not of the picket type. Commercial and Residential properties are rung by tall walls, electric gates and high voltage wire more akin to Guantanamo Bay than a realtors paradise. Threatening posters showing armed commandos restraining rabid looking dogs are bolted to fences, advertising the private security company responsible, and warning prospective thieves of the method of their demise if they attempt to break-in. Walking after dark in all suburbs is an absolute no no, a suicide mission. Cars are self-locking, and official advice in the case of a carjacking is to crash the vehicle in the hope that this will stop the carjackers take you to their final destination. Crime in South Africa isn’t just prolific, it can also have a sadistic taste. Stories abound that ‘Tsotsis’, not content with simply stealing your wallet, phone or vehicle, may mercilessly rape and kill.

In response, mob rule isn’t uncommon. A recent edition of the local paper, reports that a petty thief was beaten to death by a baying crowd of up to 200 after being caught trying to steal a basic fruit machine from a small shop. This sadism and mob rule seems to have pervaded sections of South Africa’s strong civil society too. A current high profile story in the papers is documenting the fallout from a ‘drag racing incident’ where a well known Hip Hop artist, Molemo ‘Jub Jub’ Maarohanye, is in the courts for allegedly ploughing his Mini Cooper into a group of children whilst drunkenly racing the streets of Soweto, killing four. Clearly if found guilty, Jub Jub and his co-accused deserve everything the law throws at them, but school children protesting outside the courthouse want more. They have been threatening to kill the accused, and just in case that isn’t enough, to burn the homes of their relatives too. In a country where civil society is vibrant, demanding and unforgiving, a slide into crowds baying for blood is a worrying prospect.

Considering that everyone we have met, from differing points on the vastly disparate economic, social and racial spectrums, has been absolutely charming, I wondered if there was a hint of security paranoia. Maybe a little, but we would be fools to neglect the principal advice coming from all corners and the brutal crime statistics in black and white. Whilst looking for a more permanent place to live, electric gates, burglar bars and secure parking have become our defining search criteria over outside space, proximity to town and home furnishings. In order to avoid becoming nocturnal prisoners in our own mini Alcatraz, we will have to invest in a vehicle to ferry us to and from the all-consuming all-catering monstrous malls that dominate each suburb. Soulless and sanitary they may be, but safe too.

The countdown to the World Cup is ticking relentlessly, and the rest of the world is unsure about South Africa’s readiness. My initial impression isn’t to worry about the infrastructure, but the crime. The expected euphoria of a football mad continent hosting the pinnacle of competitions may sweep fears away. The advent of celebrating fans thronging city centres in jubilation may overwhelm many crooks. But, there must be several gangsters rubbing their hands and licking their lips at the prospects of rich pickings ahead.

Bongs and Bazookas

On our first Sunday together in Pretoria, our new home for the next year, a friend recommended a visit to a weekly outdoor flea market in the student suburb of Hatfield. Passing through a throng of student hippies, armed with faux dreadlocks and real digeridoos, we stopped by the first market stall. Expecting to be handed an incense stick by a Rastafarian, I was surprised to see a table manned by a stern looking man in military fatigues. He seemed nonchalant as I picked up one of his wares to inspect, a lethal looking Shaolin style sword clearly not designed to peel potatoes. Eager for a sale, the paramilitary stallholder demonstrated how to use a concealable extendable metal truncheon whilst I browsed his collection of combat knives, ninja stars, nunchuks, and most terrifying of all, high voltage tazers designed to look like mobile phones. Camden Market this isn’t, welcome to South Africa.

Security is the primary concern here. We are currently staying in a well off residential suburb, with large plots adorned by beautiful homes, all organised in an orderly grid of wide tree lined boulevards. Churches on block corners, schools and pools on others, plenty of open space dotted with bird sanctuaries and play parks. A suburban dream lined with fences, all of it, and not of the picket type. Commercial and Residential properties are rung by tall walls, electric gates and high voltage wire more akin to Guantanamo Bay than a realtors paradise. Threatening posters showing armed commandos restraining rabid looking dogs are bolted to fences, advertising the private security company responsible for that property, and warning prospective thieves of the method of their demise if they attempt to break-in. Walking after dark in all suburbs is an absolute no no, a suicide mission. Cars are self-locking, and official advice in the case of a carjacking is to crash the vehicle in the hope that this will stop the carjackers take you to their final destination. Crime in South Africa isn’t just prolific, it can also have a sadistic taste. Stories abound that ‘Tsotsis’, not content with simply stealing your wallet, phone or vehicle, may mercilessly rape and kill.

In response, mob rule isn’t uncommon. Today’s local paper, reports that a petty thief was beaten to death by a baying crowd of up to 200 after being caught trying to steal a basic fruit machine from a small shop. This sadism and mob rule seems to have pervaded sections of South Africa’s strong civil society too. A current high profile story in the papers is documenting the fallout from a ‘drag racing incident’ where a well known Hip Hop artist, Molemo ‘Jub Jub’ Maarohanye, is in the courts for allegedly ploughing his Mini Cooper into a group of children whilst drunkenly racing the streets of Soweto, killing four. Clearly if found guilty, Jub Jub and his co-accused deserve everything the law throws at them, but school children protesting outside the courthouse want more. They have been threatening to kill the accused, and just in case that isn’t enough, to burn the homes of their relatives too. In a country where civil society is vibrant, demanding and unforgiving, a slide into crowds baying for blood is a worrying prospect.

Considering that everyone we have met, from differing points on the vastly disparate economic, social and racial spectrums, has been absolutely charming, I wondered if there was a hint of security paranoia. Maybe a little, but we would be fools to neglect the principal advice coming from all corners and the brutal crime statistics in black and white. Whilst looking for a more permanent place to live, electric gates, burglar bars and secure parking have become our defining search criteria over outside space, proximity to town and home furnishings. In order to avoid becoming nocturnal prisoners in our own mini Alcatraz, we will have to invest in a vehicle to ferry us to and from the all-consuming all-catering monstrous malls that dominate each suburb. Soulless and sanitary they may be, but safe too.

The countdown to the World Cup is ticking relentlessly, and the rest of the world is unsure about South Africa’s readiness. My initial impression isn’t to worry about the infrastructure, but the crime. The expected euphoria of a football mad continent hosting the pinnacle of competitions may sweep fears away. The advent of celebrating fans thronging city centres in jubilation may overwhelm many crooks. But, there must be several gangsters rubbing their hands and licking their lips at the prospects ahead. My advice for excited supporters is the same as given to me. Just be aware, careful and sensible by following official security advice, and everything will hopefully be fine. No need to invest in those nunchuks just yet.

Divestyle Article

Freshwater Diving … no thanks, not for me. Just the thought of it used to bring back haunting memories of freezing my toes off on an overcast morning in some dank quarry. Visibility zero, water temperature 6 degrees and air temperature not much better. If I remember correctly, the highlight of one particular dive was bumping into discarded shopping trolleys from three different supermarkets! As an unashamed ‘fair-weather diver’ I had no inclination to drop back into any type of desalinated underwater environment. That of course all changed when I stumbled upon Lake Malawi.

Malawi is known for … well, to be honest, beyond Madonna it is known for very little. A small landlocked nation in Central Africa, sandwiched between the equator and the Tropic of Cancer and overshadowed by its’ larger and better known neighbours Zambia, Tanzania and Mozambique. What Malawi does have is a reputation as the ‘Warm Heart of Africa’, which despite being a moniker incessantly pushed by its’ tourism industry, is for once, quite apt. When crossing into Malawi via any of its overland borders, there is a tangible sense of being able to drop your guard and not worry about being hassled by the multitude of hawkers who pop up at any tourist destination. Malawi has more of a chilled out Caribbean feel, which is only enhanced when any visitor inevitably reaches the shores of its’ eponymous Lake.

Lake Malawi is a continuation of the Great Rift Valley that originates in Syria before diving into the Red Sea on its way south, and eventually settling on Malawi’s eastern border. A freshwater body the size of Wales, it acts as breadbasket to the country by providing water, fish, tourism and life. Like its geological cousin a few thousand kilometres north, the Scuba Diving is excellent. Though, at an altitude of 470 metres special precautions have to be taken. Switching your computer to its correct altitude setting will do, otherwise it’s a case of adding 10% to your depth whilst working out Nitrogen levels and ascending twice as slow than at sea level. Unlike most altitude diving, there is certainly no need for gloves and a hoodie with a water temperature varying from a balmy 24 degrees in June to a scorching 30 degrees in December! In the Bays of the Northern lakeshore visibility is consistently good and can peak at 20 metres in May. The freshwater together with the tropical water temperature means that with 3-5mm wetsuits, many can forgo cumbersome weight systems. Quarry diving this certainly is not!

What makes Malawi diving beautiful, isn’t just the stunning rock formations that are an underwater continuation of the escarpment as it plunges into the Lake, but also the endemic Cichlids. Popular as freshwater aquarium fish around the world, Cichlids have an incredible diversity. As a fish that develops remarkably quickly, combined with being fiercely territorial, different species have evolved to produce a Lake more diverse in fish life than any other. Over a thousand different types have been accounted for, with more being discovered all the time. In Africa, Cichlids can also be found in Lake Tanganyika, and were once prevalent in Lake Victoria until hungry Nile Perch with a taste for Cichlid flesh were introduced as an ill-fated fishing enterprise. If you want to see the African Cichlid in its’ habitat, then Lake Malawi is your best bet. With several Dive schools stretched from Nkhata Bay in the North to Cape Maclear in the South, via both islands of Chizimulu and Likoma, accessibility and equipment hire certainly isn’t a problem. Neither is accommodation, with all dive spots being in the vicinity of rooms to suit all tastes and budgets.

Cichlid species vary remarkably between different locations, and in many dive spots you can be safe in the knowledge that some of the fish you are swimming with cannot be found anywhere else in the world. This has led to some aquarium enthusiasts paying hundreds of dollars for one rare specimen. To Cichlid laymen however, they all simply look small and pretty! A multitude of different tropical colours on show, as various Cichlids graze on rock algae, each species developing different lip formations as not to compete over the same food source. Fish of deep blue and purple shimmering through the translucent waters, complemented by others of bright yellows and whites. These optical pleasures aren’t limited to above rocks, many Cichlids feed from the water column and some have even evolved to spend their entire existence upside down in order to monopolise the underside of vast subterranean slabs.

The only time prior to diving Lake Malawi that I had witnessed mouthbreeders was on the big screen when watching Finding Nemo. In the Lake, I couldn’t go on a dive without seeing it several times. I don’t think anyone could get bored of viewing this instinctual phenomenon. Females lay their eggs and then scoop them in their mouths for protection, where they are fertilised and born. Once on safe ground, they will release their brood of up to 100 and keep a watchful eye for predators whilst they feed and the young take their first tentative fins. If they feel threatened they swim up to the brood, open their mouths, and in two or three sweeps all the young form a tight clump and swim into their mothers beckoning mouth. Nearby the male will be tidying his crater in order to attract another egg laying female to it. The mating craters can occupy any area of fine sand, are built mouthful by mouthful, can reach up to 1 metre deep and are individually shaped into perfect concentric forms.

The unique diving experiences don’t stop when the sun goes down. Aqua Africa in Nkhata Bay, a longstanding Dive School with a great reputation for high teaching and safety standards, has built up an exceptional relationship with the nocturnal predators of the Lake. The resident Dolphin fish have learnt to utilize the regular night divers by using their torchlight to make their hunts more effective. I was fortunate enough to join them.

Leaving the Aqua Africa jetty at sundown, we leisurely motored the 5 minutes to ‘Playground Point’, situated off the end of the peninsula that splits the bay in two. The shrill of cicadas on land, being strangely complemented by the cacophony of dubious African pop filtering from various drinking dens in town. Replacing the sounds of dusk with the sounds of bubbles, we followed the anchor line to a large sandy patch surrounded by red rocks. As if on cue, 10 to 12 Dolphin fish with no sense of personal space were ducking and diving between us, seemingly revving themselves up at the promise of a good feed. Dolphin fish certainly aren’t the most beautiful of creatures, with their name being somewhat a misnomer. If it had been my decision, I’d have probably settled on ‘Eel-like-ugly Fish’ instead of naming them after the most graceful and intelligent of marine mammals. Reaching up to a metre in length with small eyes and a snarly snout, the Dolphin Fish rely heavily on electric sensors to track their prey, unless of course there is a torch-wielding diver at hand. Following the dive group like a pack of hungry dogs for the entire forty minutes, the predators would sidle up to any unfortunate Cichlid mesmerised by the artificial light. Arching their spines in preparation for a quick lunge and snap before audibly clamping their jaws on dinner.

Once you get bored of, or are feeling guilty about playing god, there are plenty more night diving delights to watch out for. The elusive Kampango catfish with its shark like dorsal fin often makes an appearance, as do a multitude of fresh water crabs scavenging the floor for any morsel they can find. Wiser Cichlids shelter in the deep cracks of imposing boulders and tiny freshwater shrimp in shallower fissures. Back at the sandy patch for our safety stop, the red larvae of Lake flies are drawn in multitudes to our beams and bounce off glass as they try to edge closer to the bulb. And then we turn our torches off. Silence but for our breaths, as we stare at the clean night sky from 5 metres down.

Kate, manager and one of the resident PADI instructors at Aqua Africa, becomes coy when later over a cold beer I relay the complements that I’d heard about the great level of instruction at her Dive school. She explains that a lot of it has to do with the Lake itself. I figure that she is being a little too modest, but can certainly see her point about the conditions. With no saltwater to irritate your eyes or dry your mouth, minimal current, little surge and decent visibility, Lake Malawi is an entry-level divers dream. A perfect environment to hone diving skills before heading to spectacular higher-octane dive sites in the less predictable and unforgiving waters of the nearby Indian Ocean. With a floor of rock and sand, students with buoyancy issues can lay their fins or bums on the lake floor without fear of destroying a swathe of coral or being stung by any anti-social organisms. Most clientele are backpackers, attracted to the cheap Open Water courses and the laid back lifestyle of dusty Nkhata Bay.

Diving in the North of the Lake isn’t as seasonal as in the South. As it is sheltered by a natural harbour, there is usually protection from the easterly August winds. Tropical rains usually start by mid-November and continue with a range of intensity till April, though never enough to stop a dive!

Lake Malawi has made me re-evaluate Freshwater diving. Enough to get me back in that quarry? I don’t think so! But I’ve heard the Cenotes in Mexico are nice this time of year.

2 Sides

Surely no country, however bland, can be boiled down to having just two faces. By virtue of being a ‘country’, any national identity would be based on a multitude of factors, spanning from religion to culture to economy to natural resources. Malawi is no different, an impossible place to break down to such a simplified equation. This morning however, I saw two obvious faces of this country … one which can make me cry, and the other smile.

Driving in Lilongwe in our new Toyota Sprinter, I was pulled over by the police. The speed traps were out, and as in London, the Lilongwe Traffic Police were taking great glee in subsidising the government with on-the-spot fines from craftily placed cameras. I was doing 73 in a 50 kph zone, and was dutifully informed so by a very officious police officer. Hoping to get away with it, I turned down the radio, but not enough that the policeman wouldn’t hear that I was listening to a morning Christian sermon. He didn’t have to know that ‘Bible FM’ was the only station the radio would tune, and in a god fearing country such as Malawi, maybe any illusion that I too followed the words of the good lord would stand my pleas for clemency in good stead. Over the clean American tones of some preacher exuding the virtues of Isiah 15, I waved my plane ticket in his face explaining that I was flying in the afternoon and therefore had no Kwacha to pay the fine. I handed over my International Drivers License, replaceable for £6 at the Post Office, smug in the knowledge that my real license was stashed away … ho ho ho I thought, keep that worthless piece of paper you idiot and I’ll jettison out of this bureaucratic sinkhole in a couple of hours. His riposte was firmly delivered and lethally executed … “If you don’t pay, i have the authority to impound your vehicle, go and get some money and return to pay your fine, if not I will contact the airport authorities and you will not get on that flight” … touché you crafty bugger. Check-mated I swiftly reviewed my options, for the sake of £20 and a slightly damaged ego based on the dubious and arrogant premise that I could get away with a legitimate traffic offence, a quick dollar change and fine wasn’t too bad. “OK” I mumbled, head bowed as I was outmanoeuvred and shamed into submission “I’ll get some cash and be back in 5”, then reverting to my lingering ‘fuck you authority’ sentiments I drove off whilst he was still talking to me and tucking my license into his top pocket. Yeah … no one can tell me what to do, whatever authority they may have … sucker.

Or maybe not.

As promised I returned 5 minutes later, cash in hand, ready to pay. They had vanished. No longer was there a troop of white capped and neon jacketed traffic police, flanked by a mobile speed gun and a mobile cashier. Must have been teatime. Who was the sucker now? Decisions decisions … do I ignore the threat, give up my license and turn up at the airport hoping I’m not pulled off the plane? Or do I give up my planned morning of sunning by the pool, drinking coffee and catching a few early Malawian summer rays before dealing with two weeks of late English summer drabness, and replace that with what would obviously be a nightmare of tracking down my license which maybe may have turned up at the local police station and running the gauntlet of inefficient Malawian bureaucracy? This one face of Malawi that can drive you mad … an army of jobsworth civil servants, seemingly incapable of helping you efficiently or tracking down what you need. I have been into countless government offices, whether immigration, police or local government. All of them look like a teenagers bedroom. Piles of official documents pouring out of 1970’s style filing cabinets or stacked on the floor. The occasional computer sitting on a desk, invariably with solitaire minimised in the corner. The only method of copying being carbon paper. No printers, photocopiers, internet, intranet, broadband, networks, landlines, in-trays, out-trays. Unsurprisingly, it is not uncommon for important documents to get lost in government facilities, or for someone to be far down a bureaucratic process just to get asked to re-provide some documents that initially sent of two years earlier, because they had gone missing.

It wasn’t worth me underestimating what was probably an idle threat and missing my flight. So, I saddled up and drove to the cop shop, in anticipation of what would inevitably be a waste of my time and a test of my patience. Once in, I was greeted at reception by three officers. After explaining the problem, I was shunted to the Traffic department, and greeted by an orange neon jacketed young policeman. I recounted my problem. “What colour is your car?” he asked, “silver, though I don’t understand why that is relevant” I replied. “Have you got the officers phone number?” was the next carefully worded question, “no, why would I have his number?”. I was raising my voice a little, infuriated at the absurdity of the questioning, and not helped by the fact that I had to shout over the ridiculous volume of the CB radio sitting on the desk. “So, it was a speed trap” he exclaimed, biting my tongue and my temper I explained that it was a speed trap, as I had told him 5 minutes earlier. “Well, if it is a speed trap, then you need to go to the speed trap office in a different building on the other side of the compound”. My prediction of playing a pointless game of bureaucratic ping-pong was being realised. I shrugged my shoulders, sighed and sidled out of the office in the direction of where he pointed me.

I was greeted at the office by three jolly, fat and badly wigged female police officers sitting in a line and wiling away their morning sipping canned Redbull in a small and shambolic looking office. Just the sight of them immediately cheered me up and we traded pleasantries before I recanted the reason for my visit, and derided Redbull as being a caffeine and sugar bomb good only for mixing with Vodka and getting messed up on. Before I finished my well rehearsed tale, fatty on the left interrupted me and asked if I wanted to pay. I was a bit put out, being interrupted in full flow and not having the chance to finish my recollection of events, so I started to continue the telling of the tale. “Listen … do you want to pay?” she rather impatiently jettisoned. Hit in my stride I said yes, and then noticed that fatty on the right was fingering a white envelope with my grey license poking out the top. Middle fatty was much more interested in her Redbull. Quality … a stroke of either luck, or some sensible work on behalf of the disappearing policeman. Pulling a roll of Kwacha out of my pocket, I started counting out 5000. “Are you paying?” left fatty asked again, I thought that the counting of money might have made that intent obvious, but clearly not and clearly it wasn’t going to be that straight forward. Right fatty wrote out a ticket whilst left fatty pointed me in the direction of the cashiers’ office in an adjoining building. I found him, or he found me, only after following the fatties directions into a badly lit corridor and then into the precipice of a brightly lit room with 3 plain clothes policeman and an AK47 on a table. I was quickly harried out and told the cashier would find me … no idea what was going on there.

Gabriel the cashier had three stripes on his lapel and a breezy disposition. We chatted a little, and I handed over the cash. “Ah … you are from Nkhata Bay, my home” Gabriel said as he was filling in the triple carbon papered receipt form. “Whereabouts in the district?” I enquired, “Usisya” … no shit, I know it well. He seemed pleased at me showing some knowledge of his home area, and I took the opportunity to pass on my condolences after the death of the Chief in Usisya a couple of weeks back. We smiled, shook hands and I walked out. Not before popping into the three fatties to pick up my license and wave a cheery goodbye.

You see, that is the great thing about Malawi. Despite the relentless muddle that one can get caught in, you’re never far from a smile and a giggle. It can be easy to breakdown barriers with authority. A few months ago I was pulled off the road by a platoon of fully kitted out Malawian soldiers. I think they were either on an exercise or looking for drugs, and in the process some heavily armed and bandoliered chaps searched me. Despite the severity of the situation, it wasn’t long till a young soldier took the opportunity to ask my name and business whilst the truck bonnet was being rifled through. I left 5 minutes later with a new best friend eager to visit me when he was next in Nkhata Bay.

It was apt that I had a taste of both experiences this morning. It’s been a year since I was in the UK and I feel it. I am looking forward to a bit of perspective on my life, and have been feeling a bit ‘Malawianed out’ of late. The occasional officiousness, deference and ineptness can get at you after a while, so it was good to be reminded of some of the nice bits of living here.

The Ballad of Yellow Man

Travelling to Rumphi a couple of weeks ago on the M1 [think a potholed Totteridge Lane with no pavement] I witnessed, possibly, the most brutal scene of my relatively visually gentle life. I was sitting next to the driver of my Toyota mini-bus, speeding along, hawk-eyes on the road. The car in front slowed down for no obvious reason, so did we, I saw a man in a yellow T-shirt dawdling across our path sucking at the remnants of a mango or maize cob. My peripheral vision saw another mini-bus quickly overtake us as we changed speed to a crawl. Yellow man, minibus, minibus, yellow man. I anticipated it. I even had time to think ‘that bloke in the yellow t-shirt isn’t going to make it across the road’. I think I knew before he did, I’m not even sure he saw the white Toyota at all. What I saw, 5 metres to the front and right, was the conclusion to my anticipation, and worse. Minibus hits man at bone crunchingly high speed. Yellow man goes flying, maybe 15 metres into the bush growing from the bank below the far side of the road, limbs twisted in swastika fashion. Followed by the minibus that hit him.

Oh fuck

‘Could have easily been us’ is my first thought, ‘thank fuck it wasn’t us’ … selfish? Self-preservation? Human nature? Who knows?

Girl sitting next to me clasps her head in her hands in her lap. Sobbing ‘oh my god, oh my god’. I pat her back like an awkward paedophile … ‘there, there ... it’s ok, we’re fine’. Not really sure whether it’s socially acceptable to pat the back of a twenty something anonymous girl. ‘Could have easily been us’. Silence … then the wailing starts.

Our minibus pulls over. All the passengers quickly abandon their chitenji covered wares, possibly dried fish or ground maize, alight the bus and run over the road to get a better view. I have never felt like such an outsider. Alone on the side of the road under the hot sun, a little shaky, smoking a cigarette. Then comes the dilemma … I’m first aid trained, certainly not a paramedic, but capable and licensed to give mouth-to-mouth and CPR. The American DVD and book that I learnt from consistently espoused the importance of ‘barriers’, pocket masks and rubber gloves when administering first aid, imperative to stop the transmission of disease. There isn’t much risk of contracting an illness this way, but what a shit way to get AIDS … no fun in it at all. Maybe that is just an excuse, maybe I just don’t care enough. A body has been pulled up to the side of the road, a man in a grey t-shirt. A tearful woman, clearly in shock, staggers up the bank helped by others, falls down, stands up and falls down again. Petrified, I resist the urge to have a peek with the enthralled crowd, scared of the future nightmares that may be impregnated. My guilt is increased when I realise my only motivation to wander over is to take photos … I don’t have my camera with me. I may be able to save one, or help a few, but probably won’t be able to do anything. Am I being sensible? A coward? A man walks past me, escaping the wailing, head in hands, grieving someone or haunted by what he has experienced. A young girl follows him, spluttering and crying intermittently. It is as if she is trying to force the emotion out, as if she knows that this is how she should react, but she isn’t feeling how she should. Like a person crying at a funeral because that is what is expected.

I text Lucie, something quite clinical, something like: ‘Just witnessed a horrific crash. Definite fatalities. I’m ok. Will be running late.’ Still a bit shaken, but ok.

The passengers start returning to the bus, take their places, and move on. I look back for the final time and see an ambulance pull over in our place. 100 metres down the road we are flagged down by an expectant traveller, pull over again, pick up more people and continue our journey. I wonder how many buses I have been on whilst the other passengers have just witnessed a fatal crash. Business as usual, life goes on, driver slows down a little. Every time I board a minibus I think that this maybe the one that I never get off. An awful way to travel, similar to getting on a Jerusalem bus in 2003 … is this the one that will never reach its’ destination?

Thinking about yellow man crossing the road, dawdling without a care in the world, possibly pissed, possibly not, reminded me of a thought process I had a few months back. As I travelled on Malawi’s roads I used to get infuriated at the complete lack of traffic awareness by pedestrians. Kids jumping out of the way of vehicles, cyclists constantly veering into the middle of the road, people crossing at ridiculous times. Like many thing in Malawi, it is easy to get wound up by the apparent senselessness of it all, and shrug your shoulders and remark something like ‘ah, but this is Malawi’. It took me a while to realise this is simply lazy thinking, reasoning that the un-reasonable was caused by a blanket response that in fact didn’t address any core issues at all. I thought about it.

In the late 70’s and 80’s the UK government initiated, funded and continued a massive ‘road crossing’ campaign. Every schoolchild could recite parrot fashion the mantra of the green cross code man … ‘stop, look both ways, look again and cross’. I hazily remember adverts with ‘Green Cross Code man’ [useless trivia: He was played by the bloke who played Darth Vader] and being taught about it at school. This must have been a response by the government to a pressing need. There must have been loads of kids being knocked down on their way to school every year, enough to cause some sparky MP to do something about it. In a country where the principal motorway looks like a country track and government money is frugal, I imagine that spending money on road crossing awareness campaigns at the expense of ‘child abuse’ campaigns is well down the agenda.

About 95% of Malawi’s population live in rural areas, with one relevant factor to this rant being no tarmac and minimal vehicles. Many Malawians may never walk on a road, with the fastest moving thing being the local shepherds’ ambling cows or maybe even a rattling Chinese made bicycle. Road sense isn’t something that automatically becomes second nature to a country bumpkin, ask someone from a farm in Wiltshire what it’s like walking in London … terrifying I imagine. If you aren’t used to roads, you aren’t used to speeding cars, probably don’t know how dangerous they can be, and probably are not particularly good at judging speed.

Another factor may be child rearing. I have heard a theory that many black Africans have good peripheral vision, but bad spatial awareness and distance judgement. The reason being that many kids spend the first few years of their lives strapped to their mums backs, lessening the development of touching and judging distance as all they can see is a brightly coloured top 3 inches from their face. At the same time honing peripheral awareness and being more aware about what is happening at the extremities of their lateral vision. I use this excuse to try and explain why I am crap at football, and known as ‘malco’ at school as I’ve got awful co-ordination. I reckon that because I never crawled as a baby, I skipped an integral part of my limb-eye coordination process … though, I may just be shit at football. Hence, possibly many Malawians are just awful at judging speed and distance, due to the way they were carried as a kid.

Then again, maybe yellow man was just hammered after an afternoon drinking with his pals.

I arrived in Rumphi safe and sound. Lucie, a little concerned for my mental health, asked me what I thought the reason was for yellow man crossing the road. I think she was trying to get me to personify yellow man. Give him an existence, a reason, a personality. I answered the obvious ‘to get to the other side’ chuckling at my wit.

Well Yellow Man. Maybe this is your eulogy.