Memories of a trip to Madiba's village

After flying to East London from Cape Town, we drove north along the N2 for three hours, through the Wild Coast, formerly the Transkei, a homeland during the apartheid years and the Xhosa heartland. It rained steadily, the heavy grey skies contrasting sharply with bright green foliage and ochre-coloured earth. To our right was a rugged coastline pock-marked with secluded beaches, to the left forests, mountains and rivers. The national road cut straight through the CBD of small towns. In Butterworth, pedestrians, hawkers, obnoxious taxis and speeding traffic clashed in the chaotic main road. It was two days before Christmas and queues of people snaked around corners, waiting to withdraw hard-earned cash. 

I was surprised by how undeveloped the area was. In his autobiography, A Long Walk to Freedom, Mandela speaks fondly of his childhood in Qunu – swimming in the river, stick-fighting with his friends, tending sheep and drinking milk straight from cows’ udders. I was sure not much had changed since then. Qunu, where the family took refuge after Mandela’s father was deposed as chief, is right next door to his birthplace, Mvezo. 

The number of potholes in the road seemed to be in direct proportion to how rural the surrounding countryside was. Cows grazed along the roadside while goats risked their lives, and ours, by running across the tarmac with little regard for traffic. Our driver was forced to slow down to negotiate the obstacle course, and pointed to scatterings of thatch-roofed mud huts, sprinkled on the slopes of hills. Small cultivated patches of soil produced the vegetables to be cooked in black pots hung over open fires. Women, their faces and bodies decorated with white clay, collected water in pots from the river and carried them home, balanced on turbaned heads.

 

A few rondavels with stable doors were strung out in a semi-circle and a number of white and brown cows were enclosed in a low-walled kraal. A fire was spluttering in a clearing where black three-legged pots stood next to a stack of wood protected from the rain with plastic. Mongrels, perhaps anticipating a feast, sniffed at the pots.

Old men, wearing gumboots, blue and orange overalls and battered felt hats, were sitting on the wall of the kraal. 

As we traversed the treacherous terrain, we imagined what a difficult journey it must’ve been for Madiba from herd-boy to president. Little wonder he advocated education as the single most powerful weapon to change the world. The site for the planned Nelson Mandela School of Science and Technology, sponsored by Siemens, had been marked out. It struck me as almost more important a landmark than the small open-air museum nearby. It would serve many future generations of leaders. 

[The Nelson Mandela School of Science and Technology opened in July 2014]

You may also like Tea with Madiba in this blog and Thank you, Madiba, and Happy Birthday

Hamba Kahle, Madiba

Kruger Park July 2013

We sat quietly, each one with their own thoughts, watching the sun sink down into the land which stretched before us. The silence of the bush seemed appropriately reverent. Far from the city lights and noise, we said goodbye and thank you to Madiba.

It was the first week in July and Madiba had been very ill. Everyone thought that his death was imminent. We were in the Kruger for three days and were out of cell phone range. We asked our game ranger to please inform us if he heard any news. We had just stopped at this spot when he told us that he had a radio message that Nelson Mandela had died. This piece of land, which belonged to all of us, thanks to the sacrifice and forgiveness of Nelson Mandela and others who had strived for freedom alongside him, seemed the best place to say farewell. 

When we returned to camp, it was a very apologetic ranger who confessed that there had been confused messages heard on the radio. In light of the seriousness of his condition, though, we all felt at peace with the time we had spent saying goodbye. In the months that followed, when there were rumours about his condition, news of fighting over his legacy and speculations over whether he was still alive, I felt fortunate to have had that opportunity to meditate on what he had meant to us. 

Last night I was sad to hear the news of his death, but this afternoon when I stood on the Jammie steps at UCT, the sadness was mixed with pride and a deep gratitude that I was able to stand on those steps as a free South African. Hamba Kahle, Madiba. Thank you for your sacrifice, your ability to forgive, your inspiration and the wisdom with which you guided us to democracy. May we never forget. 

Who even lives there?

Changing the names of streets, airports and places always stirs up controversy. But it is more than opinion or personal preference that should make us rid our country of reminders of the oppression or honouring of the heroes of the old regime. Sometimes it is more than necessary and we need to just get on with it and get used to it.

It may just be a nod in the right direction, like calling the food court at UCT The Cissie Gool Plaza – the students just call it "the food court", but it is nice to think that a great champion for equal rights has been honoured.

Over the last 18 years we have had more than one change in local government in the Western Cape. There have been many discussions about name changes, and we now proudly show off a Nelson Mandela and a Helen Suzman Boulevard and have honoured people like Dr Chris Barnard. All great – we should remember our heroes.

I was disturbed to find, on a recent visit behind the Boerewors curtain though, that there still exists a Hendrik Verwoerd Drive. Hendrik Verwoerd was undoubtedly the architect of the evil system of apartheid, responsible for the legalisation of the misery and suffering that was part of our country for so many years, and from which we are still recovering. I am intrigued by who lives there: by who would have no qualms about giving their address and saying that name. It’s as bad as having Adolf Hitler Boulevard in Germany. I am sure that if all the residents who live in that road had vociferously objected, they could have changed it years ago, since local government seems to be occupied with more important things. Clearly they don’t mind.

Anyone keen on a midnight raid...?

Tea with Madiba

“Let the beautiful ladies step forward,” he says as we quietly enter the room behind my husband. It breaks the ice a little. I had been so looking forward to this but too scared to jinx it by getting excited or even telling too many people. Right up to the last minute I had thought it was not going to happen. What if he wasn’t feeling well? One hears so many different stories. But yes, we were being ushered in to see Madiba, and my daughter and I were the beautiful ladies he was talking about.

There he was, the most famous grandpa in the world. He was having a good day and was happy to receive visitors. He was sitting up with a blanket around his knees, catching up with the newspapers. (Was that the Afrikaans newspaper I spied on his lap?)

We had travelled through green countryside under rainy skies past villages with vegetable patches and goats and sheep outside their little thatched huts. It was like we were travelling back in time. We had passed through busy towns like Butterworth, where people snaked around the corner waiting to withdraw their hard-earned money from the cash machines for Christmas. And then for the best Christmas present ever...tea with Madiba.

What a journey from Mvezo/Qunu to Johannesburg, to Robben Island and the world, from herd boy to President.  And now back in Qunu. Last year after being very sick he decided that it was time to go home. Home is Qunu, the village in the Eastern Cape where he grew up, right next door to Mvezo the very rural village where he was born. It’s a peaceful place, and after almost 93 years, he deserves it.

I was a little sad to see him so “old”. In my mind he is eternal, like a shining beacon to all of us, and to the world. But right next door is a little baby who long after Madiba is gone will be chief of the Thembu. When Madiba plays with him as he does every day he must think of the future and delight in the possibilities.

Everyone wants to know what it was like, what he said – but it was more about just being there. It was like sitting down with our grandpa who was worried about why it was taking so long for us to be served our tea and whether the table was close enough to my husband, and smiling to himself when he saw how much my son had grown since the last time he had seen him. And he is still very charming...

Building Gardens of Hope

I have just been reading an edited copy of the 8th Nelson Mandela lecture given by Ariel Dorfman in Johannesburg yesterday. Unfortunately I missed it on the radio - I managed to hear his last few sentences before his voice broke and the crowd roared. He spoke about the gardens of hope that people like Nelson Mandela and others living in conflict, created. Nelson Mandela's garden that he created while in prison, brought him much hope, joy and dignity. He urged us to remember that gardens grow like justice  and reconciliation should, and that we need to sing to the earth to forgive us and continue to give us hope.

I have been thinking that the people around us who do good, who help others, who share what they have, who do what they can to in some small way make the world a better place, are all growing gardens. Planting seeds, nurturing and willing them to yield beautiful products.

From the  NGO's down to the little Gogo who takes children into her care so that their parents can earn a living, the projects that aim to get children off the street, the people who make soup to feed the homeless or the musician who gives his time to build a jazz band with borrowed instruments in one of the poverty-stricken townships, we are all building and growing. We need to know what people are doing. We need to peek over the walls and admire and copy what is being done. My "favourite" function that I attend every year, is the Inyathelo Awards for philanthropy, that identifies and celebrates the people who are building the spirit of ubuntu in our communities.

We have a friend, Bobby Sager, who travels the world with his family, from Rwanda to Bhutan, Afghanistan to South Africa, India to Palestine, doing good. We are fortunate to see them regularly and hear of their adventures. In between visits, he keeps us updated with mostly black and white pictures that he has taken of the places they have visited. Many of the pictures are of children and my favourite picture is of 2 young girls standing with their arms around each other, having a good laugh.

The picture was taken in Afghanistan in the middle of conflict and I have framed it and put it on my desk. It reminds me that children, no matter that the world may be falling down around them, will always manage to find joy. This is why I am so passionate about being involved with the World Children's Prize. The fact that the organisation is powered by children who at the same time, are learning about democracy and human rights, gives me immense hope for a better future society.

Everyday we are bombarded with negative images and stories, we absorb them and they become part of the very fibre of our being. We start to believe everything that we read and hear. Whenever we have been out of the country for a while, I find that the news feels like a physical onslaught on our return. It is as if I build up some kind of immunity to all the negativity when I am away. It hits you in the face when you come back.

We need to build a culture of hope. We need to start changing the energy around us. We need to start building hope and excitement about the future. We each need to find a garden to work in - one person can make a difference. As Bobby says, "Hope isn't just nice; it's a game-changer."

Thank you, Madiba, and Happy Birthday

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, 

Or being hated don't give way to hating, 

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 

Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, 

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 

If all men count with you, but none too much: 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute 

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, 

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, 

And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son.

Yesterday Madiba turned 92 - every extra day that we have him seems like a blessing, since he has lived such a long and difficult life. He is the first person that I think about when I read Rudyard Kipling's poem. It seems like there are very few people who measure up to this standard and Madiba certainly is a living example of many of the sentiments expressed in the poem.

Qunu in the Eastern Cape, Madiba's birthplace

I have been fortunate to meet Madiba on more than one occasion and a few things stand out. One is his ability to make you feel like you are the most important person in the world. We have been at a conference where Madiba has kept international delegates waiting because the kitchen staff have been lined up for ages to catch a glimpse of him and he has not wanted to disappoint them.

Another is his love for children. When he accepted the tribute that the World's Children's Prize had bestowed on him, his message to the children was that he would support them whether he was "alive or in the grave" and I have no doubt that that will indeed be so.

But one of his greatest gifts to us is his ability to forgive. His ability to sit down to tea or share podiums and stages with his former oppressors and jailers, is something that I, as an ordinary human being, find hard to conceive of. 

Since time immemorial, humans have searched for heroes. But the power of the hero is not as an idol that is unreachable or untouchable but as an inspiration to us to be the best that we can be, to raise us up. I hope that Madiba's spirit will be around to guide us for a long time yet.