Much as I try to represent myself as a human-phobe, I find that, without fail, I am enriched in some way by meeting people whom I’ve not met before.
Two encounters deserve to be explicated here: one with two street people--known locally as ‘strollers’--and the other with what the English would call ‘rag and bone men’.
Encounter One: The Strollers
These gentlemen of the night audit the rubbish bins of the residents in a suburb the night before the Council refuse collectors come to empty the said bins. The strollers rely for their existence upon the remnants left in the bins of the wealthy (relatively speaking; remember, in Africa, if you can afford to own a car—of whatever vintage—and don’t actually live in it, you are considered inordinately wealthy). There is a kind of symbiotic relationship between the residents and the strollers. Caring householders pay more attention to separating food and things of value for the strollers than they do to recycling for the good of the planet.
One of the few advantages of my widowment (a term coined by Sarah Outen—thanks, Sarah, I like it) is that I have become far more observant of the state of affairs within my suburban milieu. I know that these people have always been around, but I didn’t notice them much when Linny was here to take care of them. As I have cleared out the various impedimenta that a family acquires when staying in one place for ten years (a record for the Weir family, by the way), I have become acutely conscious of the wisdom behind the cruel-sounding saying: “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure”, and have taken over the Linny-job of providing for “my” strollers.
I offer “my” people sandwiches, which they gratefully accept, albeit with obvious surprise on their faces. They are, at least, trilingual—responding sentiently to my overtures to them, whether I speak English, Afrikaans, or isiXhosa—and do not appear to have a “bum” mentality. They have never asked me for money, or even for food. I think they are somewhat puzzled by this barefoot mlungu who sits on the grass in the dark and asks about their lives—oh, the joys of being eccentric! (Mlungu = white man)
As moving day looms ever-nearer, my clearing-out efforts crescendo to blitzkrieg dimensions and the value of the re-usable trash in my bin increases proportionately. I try to keep what I perceive as “another man’s treasure” separate and put it in a bag, in order to save the strollers the need to delve into my smelly trash. However, I consistently fail to see my refuse through the eyes of a stroller, so, what I see as valueless, they often welcome as treasure. As a result, in a clear vote of no-confidence in my discernment, they audit my trash anyway.
By the light of the moon, street-lights, and—in the case of one highly advanced techno-stroller—an LED headlamp, they empty my entire bin onto the front lawn and go through it with the attention to detail of an OCD financial auditor sorting his sock drawer, putting all the treasure into a separate pile. Towards midnight, when all the world is still, if I listen carefully, I can hear the distinctive rattley sound of a “borrowed” supermarket trolley coming down the road to fetch the treasure.
Now, the amazing bit; when I go outside in the morning, I cannot detect a trace of there having been a visit from the strollers. Every item of my discarded refuse has been returned to the bin, leaving a pristine front lawn, ready for the official refuse collectors to mess it up with their carelessness.
Encounter Two: The R & B Men
This morning, I noticed the R & B (that’s “Rag and Bone”, not “Rhythm and Blues”) men passing my house on their horse-drawn wagon. I needed their services in one of those “one hand washes the other” symbiotic arrangements, where they helped me dispose of stuff I didn't need whilst I provided them with stuff that they could use or sell.
For the sake of those who are unfamiliar with Afrikaans, I include a fairly liberal parallel translation of our conversation. Warning: do not use it as a guide to improve your Afrikaans! I have reproduced the conversation in an effort to demonstrate the pronunciations used, and the translation has been done more in a spirit of dynamic equivalence than scholarly accuracy.
“Djy”, I shouted as they rode past, “Stel djulle belang inna ou wasmasjien wattie langer wêkie”? It had been standing in our back yard for about three years. The wagon stopped and R & B Man #1 (the driver) hopped off, and approached me cap-in-hand, eyes respectfully downcast. “Sieker, my Laaanie, os kannit vat”, he replied. “Djy, dink djy os kannit oppie wa pas?”—this addressed to R & B Man #2. “Ja, os kannie goeters ranskik”. Turning to me again, he asked: “Oubaas, kanossie pêt innie driveway in reverse?” (Oubaas? Pasop djy!) “Sieker”, I replied in fluent Cape Flats Afrikaans, complete with “plat” accent. I learnt my Afrikaans in the army, but it came alive for me when I worked on construction sites in the Cape. As a result, I sound very indigenous—which I am—and I'm proud of it. The horse having been duly reversed into my driveway and now snacking on my front lawn, its masters fetched the washing machine, and an old steel desk as a bonus. Once again, I cringed as the contents of the wagon were emptied onto the grass to facilitate some very impressive re-packing. Once again, when they had finished, my lawn looked cleaner than when they had arrived. Once again, they did not ask for money or food. It actually sounded as if they felt that they were helping me (which they were). I gave them fifty bucks each for their trouble, which they gratefully accepted, but with raised eyebrows. Clearly, it was not expected. In my usual failed human-phobe way, I questioned them about their lives. They live in an informal settlement about twenty kilometres from where I live. “Djilles sieker bly die winters amper klaar”, I venture, making light conversation. “Djy wietmos, my laaanie”, comes the reply. “Is net dier die ganade van ons Himmelse Vader dat on deurgekom’t” he says, reverently. He’s under no duress to impress me with his piety; this is straight from his heart. This is how he makes sense of a hard life which I—privileged though I am—claim is unfair. This is his faith. He tells me of life in a squatter camp (he’s not p.c., so he doesn’t say “informal settlement”— he tells it like it is; he says “plakkerskamp”). Without being overly dramatic, he tells me how the rain comes through the roof onto their beds; how, with the Cape’s traditional wind, the rain even comes through the walls; of water running into the shack, but having no route by which to exit; of living in a crime-ridden area; of cold and damp and misery, of standing in a queue to get water from the only tap in the area. And he speaks of God’s mercy... I am humbled. I think I moan too much about so many things that are insignificant. The horse is watered and has consumed some of my lawn, so it’s time to go. Handshakes all round, and a commitment “om weer ‘n draai te ko’maak, anstaande wiek, my Laaanie”. “Ry versigtig, my broers. Mag die Here julle seën”, I call as they head off down the road. | You, are you interested in an old washing machine that no longer works? Certainly, we can take it. (I have chickened out of translating “my lanie”; it approximates to "m'lord" and connotes “high-born, upper-crust, leadership-type”—all titles that I reject). You, do you think we can fit it on the wagon? Yes, we can rearrange the stuff. Old boss, may we reverse the horse up the driveway? “Oubaas”? You watch your step. (I didn’t say this; I just thought it. The first time I was called “oubaas” I was in my very early twenties—it’s more an honorific than a comment on one’s age. Certainly. “Plat” refers to the distinctive sound of the Cape Afrikaans accent, which I have acquired, although not a mother-tongue speaker. You must be glad that the winter’s almost finished. That’s for sure; It’s only by the mercy of the heavenly Father that we got through it. Squatter camp. To drop in again next week. Drive carefully, my brothers. May God bless you. |
What have I learnt?
I am impressed with their professionalism. They do their job well and with pride. I wonder if some of our members of parliament might have as professional an approach to their work. Perhaps the strollers should run the country and the MPs should go through my refuse. No, then there’d be a mess on my front lawn.
To quote that great philosopher, Mary Poppins; “In everything that must be done, there is an element of fun”—l could even enjoy clearing out the house today, and I got to talk to someone. Someone encouraging. Two survivors.
But, more importantly, the dignity of humanity comes to the fore. These men have a sense of self-worth—something which I can either reinforce or break down by my attitude. They don’t want my sympathy. They just want to be treated with dignity. They have a different job to mine, but they are not ashamed of it. They do it well.
I’m challenged by their faith in God. I can afford to say that God is my provider. My comfortable bank account makes it easy. I have more than I need. They live off my trash. Who’s got the bigger faith?
I still lament having grown up under a political system that denied us the chance of becoming friends sooner, but I am thankful that I have survived to sample the true spirit of this country and of this continent; to encounter the nobility of the human race, made in the image of God.
Hosi katekisa Afrika! [God bless Africa (Xitsonga)]