Omamas Abathengisa Inthloko - The Mothers That Sell Sheep Heads

Her name is Patricia and I remember the first time I saw her very well. It was a warm day and I was driving pass all the leaning shacks and shebeens when I saw smoke columns on the blue township sky. The road turned and behind the corner appeared a most remarkable sight; in a pile of raffle next to burning fires sat six women with hats, painted faces and what appears to be swords in their hands. I couldn't believe my eyes, a squad of amazon warriors from a post-apocalyptic movie in the middle of Langa - what was going on? I asked my friend behind the steering-wheel; “who are these women and what are they doing?” He smiled at me and said; “that my man, that is the omamas abathengisa intloko - the mothers that sell sheep heads”.

When I return to the spot a few weeks later, there are only three women left in the raffle. Patricia is telling me that the rest went for holidays to the Eastern Cape, the rural area many people in Langa root from and where many people still have friends and family living. This is where Patricia was born and raised herself, but in the 70's she moved to Langa with her mom that wanted a better job and education possibilities for her children. In fact, her mom was also an omama abathengisa intloko until 10 years ago when Patricia decided to take over and let her mom rest and take care of her children. At first Patricia worked as a domestic worker, and I ask her what made her change occupation. She throws a sheep head into the fire and explains that employers started to demand more qualifications and a lot of paperwork in the 90's, and she didn't have any of those two. I nod my head to signalize that I understand but I'm not as sure that I actually do. This story is far more complex than a meal.

Every morning at seven Patricia is at the butcher to purchase the heads. At ten she arrives to the stump that is her working chair and starts the process required in order to prepare the perfect sheep head. The first step is to dry the head from blood. After that all the wool and hair needs to be burned away by using a glowing metal tool. She's showing me how this is done, the smoke is rising, and I am looking into the dead sheep eyes that appears to be so alive, its like I expect some kind of complaining sound, a cry of sorrow, a sheep's lament, even though I know it's just a head without a body. Nothing wailing is coming out, at least not from the mouth. When all the hair is gone it's time to wash the smooth face clean from burned particles. This is the first time I've seen a newly shaved sheep face in my whole life and it looks even more polite and humble than it did with all the facial hair. But Patricia doesn't have any sympathy and I can understand her. It's the sheep or her. The next step is brutal; first she slices the head open with an axe and then she removes the brain that most people don't like to eat. After that the remaining parts have to boil for two hours without any spices, and then it's finally ready to be served. Bon appetite! Patricia says that her favourite part is the ears or the eyes, the parts that consists of most fat, but she's advising me to try the tongue – the part that most people think is most delicious. My mouth goes dry and my tongue roll up in the palate in an instinctive manoeuvre of self-defence. It takes a second or two for me two convince it that everything's fine, it uncoils slowly and I'm able to ask my next question. In 2 hours she's able to prepare 10 heads, and if everything goes as planned every head comes with a profit of 20 rands each. The price for a whole head is 40 rands and for half of a head you have to pay 20. I realize that I actually have to buy something,  but I am bit careful and decide to be fine with just one half. There are already prepared ones wrapped in the Daily Sun and I open the paper. I'm actually too young for festivities such as these, in Xhosa culture it's only the elders that are allowed to eat from the head. This is part of Patricia's business idea and most customers are younger boys that wants to find out what's so special with the ntloko yegusha - the ceremonial sheep head. I am not so sure I am one of them so I grab a tiny bite with a lot of barbecue spice. Chew, chew, chew. Swallow and smile. I decide to ask for take-away. 

Work in the Township

The official unemployment rate of South Africa is 25%. This means that one person in four is jobless, something that has to be considered a huge catastrophe for any state.

The celebrated growth of the South African economy has been highly unequal in distribution and this is easy to observe when entering the township of Langa that is crowded with unsatisfied people not participating in the economic mainstream and that lack any prospect of getting a formal job in any future. Here, ANC has failed providing jobs for ten thousands of its citizens, and the unemployment rate is more likely to land around sixty, or even seventy percentage. The gap between poor and rich remains enormous in the country with the socio-economic increase in the townships since the end of the apartheid era being minimal, if any at all. Many people here have given up the search for work, and Langa is left poor and crowded with people of different ages drifting around without any stimulation or inspiration.

No human society can exist without work. Work structures the way people live and make contact with social reality and affects the individual's social status and mind. Without work it’s impossible to satisfy our cultural and material needs, but we have to “do something” to earn our living, something that requires some kind of effort. However, being unemployed is more than being without an income, work is also important for the psychological health and can help developing faculties of the human mind like consciousness, reasoning and perception. Mental accomplishment is fundamental for everyone and the lack of achievement can lead to depression and loss of self-esteem which often spurs social problems such as crime and xenophobia. Unemployment is therefore causing both physical and mental poverty.

In most developed countries there is only one economy. This is the so called formal economy which consists of businesses that are monitored by a government, that pay taxes and can adhere to union regulations. South Africa has two economies, one formal and one informal, and in Langa, it is the informal sector that rules. Working in the informal sector means that you’re self-employed and supervising yourself; you decide when to start work and when to go home for the day. This might sound nice for some ears, many people dream of being independent and self-made and many workers within the informal economy would never want to change their jobs for something in the formal sector. However, there are downsides with working in the informal sector as well, for example the lack of safety and reliability that you get from a monthly pay check.

As in most developing and developed countries, economic opportunities in South Africa lies in the urban areas, and this is the big reason for the rapid urbanisation and progressive migration to the townships outside of the bigger cities. Even though Langa is considered to be “full” and without any space for new arrivals, more shackles still pop up every week meaning that more people need to find jobs. In order to make a living here, innovation and creativity is most likely necessary and everything has to be seen as an opportunity. I find this fascinating and I want to give the reader the chance to get to know some of these people that through self-entrepreneurship and desperation managed to pull through and turn nothing into something. 

Cell photos from the past few weeks

The boys were dancing before the football game between 
Chippa and Pirates at Athlone Stadium

Santa Claus came to Langa

and all the children at Project Playground received christmas presents! 

The staff had a christmas closing where we exchanged gifts

 It was very warm that day...

Instead of christmas ham and herring it was grilled chicken and sausage
that was served (this would be an amazing cover photo for any hip-hop album)

Home Affairs : The Trilogy

Home Affairs became a trilogy. A breathtaking story about love and desperation, time and frustration. I won the battle against bureaucracy in the end and henceforth have the legal right to continue my beautiful visit in South Africa. However, the fight was long and tiring and I have to admit that I was down on my knees, close to surrender, begging them to please, please spare be from getting home affaired.

Let us start from the beginning. Home Affairs is South Africa's immigration service, and it is located in a boring and run down business district in downtown Cape Town. It is a grey fortress, built in straight lines, strategically designed to send the message that you're now entering enemy land, nothing is free here so you better make an effort. Immediately after entering the main gates it's time for queue number one; in order to know were to go you first have to explain your errand for one of the two heavy weight champions with rolling eyes saying “what in Gods name are you doing here young man, get that look of your face, how dare you showing up here at my door smiling, I'm going to show you what life is all about!” that are stuffed behind the transparent glass desk. It's always important to get a good start – especially when the battle is long - but many newcomers actually loose here on first level, right in front of the desk. The trick is to stay cold, and never ever look them in the eyes, focus on your own task, say the words, and wait until they tell you where to go.

If you pass the first test, then you can continue through the door to the right where a security guard is going to control that you're not bringing any weapons or explosives. This is understandable, the threat towards Home Affairs is indeed existing and there are many potential revengers strolling around under the bridges thinking “one day, one day I'll be back”. However, if this is not your mission, you can take the stairs up to the first floor and enter what many people refer to as the battlefield. Home Affairs is built like one long and narrow corridor filled with lines of hanging eyes, snoring noses and driveling mouths creating a human labyrinth. No signs. No directions to follow. Flesh everywhere and ten different counters and two employees that are walking around like street cops telling people to be patient and not lean against the walls. In order to apply for a visa you first have to queue for an application form. This line took me one hour. After that I was told to fill everything in, and then return again with double copies of my bank statement, motivational letter, flight ticket, insurance papers and passport. Outside the building there are copy stores and ID photo experts everywhere – Home Affairs is their golden mine. Once back, you have to queue in the same line downstairs in order to get what could be seen as an ordinary piece of paper. It is not, actually it's very very far away from being just an ordinary piece of paper - this is your golden ticket, your judgment and your destiny, your only way to get out of hell. Finally I thought, let's get down to business and get this thing done. I crawled my way through the labyrinth, and found a good place to stand where I didn't lean against the wall, where I followed all the rules and felt safe. I looked down at my ticket to control that everything was in order; I couldn't believe what I saw; my eyes were reading “estimated waiting time 971 minutes – please sit down and wait for your turn”.

“estimated waiting time 971 minutes"

After one hour I found a seat where I could sit down. The street police guy passed and I asked him if something maybe was wrong with the machine today, maybe it was 97 minutes or something, “aaaha not at all” he said and smiled with all his teeth and told me that they might have to close before it's my turn, and that I then needed to come back the day after and do everything again. The only thing I could do was to sit down and wait.

Time passed and I tried to read my book (My Traitor's Heart by Rian Malan) but couldn't focus since I was constantly disturbed by all the people, and affected by all the emotions and stories that always exist within the walls of an immigration office. I also felt a bit weird sitting where I sat, and assume that it was because of the chauvinistic and nonchalant mentality that exists within EU boarders – we're so used travelling everywhere in the world without any problems and also used to read and talk about immigration politics with people from other countries coming to us, and not the other way around. This is something that has negative effect on many Swedes minds, people become narrow-minded, and fail to understand that most people don't immigrate because they want to do. People that come to Sweden don't leave their homes and families because they feel like doing it, but most times because they have to. We are all migrants in our nature, and since the birth of mankind human beings had a tendency to move to places where we could live a better life, and create a better future for our children and upcoming generations. Surviving is a basic human instinct, and that is exactly why unequal and unfair societies always will dissolve, most times with the help of violence and other cruelties. It is indeed sad to see how bad we threat each other sometimes.

While my mind was spinning around people around me actually started to move. They had been waiting for hours, but when the TV-screen showed their numbers and asked them to go to the counter they just stood up without a single facial move, without any signs of excitement, not even relief, and slowly dragged themselves over the floor in the same way as one would drag oneself from the couch to the fridge on a sunday afternoon in order to refill some coke in the break of a Nollywood soap opera. The level of energy was zero. 

After 3 hours, half of the numbers had passed, and I realized that many had given up. This was not going to happen to me. Never. Was there still life outside? My memories of something else slowly fainted away and I could only remember small fragments of my past and even less about what I was going to do after this. The future was unimportant in this moment, everything that mattered was that voice and that screen that all of a sudden started give away numbers in much higher tempo than before – I couldn't believe my ears – there were only 10 numbers left before it was my turn. 10 tiny numbers. Ten. There was still hope for me. 

The last numbers were very slow but I didn't matter because I was caught up in fantasises. I was daydreaming of how I was cartwheeling out through the main gates to the tunes of Abdullah Ibrahim and how people outside would throw flowers in the air and hug me. Then it happened. "Ticket number 3092 go to counter number 25." That was me! I flew up from the chair and searched for happy faces, someone to celebrate with, someone to hug. Nobody. I didn't care and bounced over the floor, up to counter number 25, where I smiled at the girl behind the desk with all my teeth, who responded by looking at my chest with tired eyes. "Papers" she yawned and I gave her my application. Three minutes later everything was over. The papers were handed in and I was told to wait for a text message. The first mission was accomplished! 

One and a half month later I woke up to the following message; Home Affairs – Your application has been finalised, please collect the outcome after 5 working days. Excellent I thought, I just have to go there and pick everything up, I know the place by now and the queue can't be so bad for collecting applications. So I waited and on the sixth working day I decided to go there again. I arrived around 9 in the morning and to my surprise there was no queue at all down by the entrance – this was a good sign. I told the lady that I was here to collect my visa and she printed my ticket; estimated waiting time 220 minutes - please sit down and wait for your turn”. A wave of regardlessness washed over my mind when the security guard scanned my front pockets. Three and a half hours. I walked up the stairs and dragged myself over the floor. The same seat was available in the corner. Cozy. I sat down. The first hour passed even though someone shut down the concept of time – I was searching across the room for Sisyphus. I felt even more annoyed than the first time, mostly because I thought that this was going to be the easy mission. Suddenly something changed,, voices were lowered and some kind of vacuum emerged - just as if everyone in the whole building had inhaled at the same time. People were braking laws, leaned against walls, because in the middle of the aisle comes a bride with a white long wedding dress dragged along the dirty floor. She's shining, she's beautiful, it's the best day of her life and she's at Home Affairs. She's getting married and she's walking towards me with a big smile. I'm trying to smile back but realize that I look ridiculous with my long face – I couldn't believe my eyes, a wedding, here....in Satan’s own stronghold?

Two hours later of intense sitting I started to feel hope. I was almost there now, just call me up, so we all can go home. She did, the robot lady told me to go to counter number 26, and I knew that I only had seconds left before I was completely free. I gave her my ticket and my reference number and she clicked everything in on the computer. I was excited. She wasn't. “Your application is still in Pretoria, come back in another three days.” What!? I showed her my text and gave her my biggest protest face – “so you're telling me that I have to come back and do everything again? Don't you understand that I took a day of work in order to be here? What shall I do?” She rolled her eyes and said “well, that's what happens” before she pressed the button – someone else walked up to counter 26 and I walked out completely devastated.

I waited another 10 days just to be on the safe side. It was a very warm day and I walked decisively into the building for a third time. I told the lady that I was here to collect my visa and she nodded her head and gave me my ticket; estimated waiting time 187 minutes - please sit down and wait for your turn”. Not bad I thought and took the steeps up to, less crowded, but someone else had taken my seat. Typical. I spotted another one that looked comfortable, and sat down. This time I was prepared with bringing my laptop. Two hours passed like nothing thanks to “Under African Skies”, a brilliant documentary about Paul Simon's visit in South Africa and his recording of the celebrated album Graceland. I felt like the bride. I was enjoying my time at Home Affairs. The big lady next to me peeked at the screen and gave me a warm smile. Everything was great. The last hour - my eleventh at Home Affairs - worked as a nice epilogue and then I was called up by the robot voice that in my ears sounded sweet as Miriam Makeba. I walked to counter number 27. “Is it here? Is it approved?”.“Yes it is” she said and smiled (!). It was almost like I had forgotten why I was spending all this time here, but when she handed over the visa to me everything became clear again; I was allowed to stay in this beautiful country for another two months, this was an amazing feeling and I danced my way out from Home Affairs. 

Hopefully for the last time in quite some time. 

We die only once, and for such a long time!

Every morning when I drive into Langa the head line posters from The Daily Sun are flashed in front of my eyes. They're attached to trees and street lamps and the message is always the same; death, death, death; “Teen girl's dead body found in bag” “Pupil guns down alleged bully” “Baby infant chopped to pieces”. This newspaper is indeed one of the noisiest in South Africa and like any other bill with head lines the purpose is to draw attention. Still, I can tell that I'm raised in another culture where death more or less has been put aside.

When I first came to Project Playground, one of our employees just survived a gun attack. I was chocked. One month later a man that used to help us with transportation was killed on the street. No motives, no questions. The week after a baby was found in a trash can with a chopped head, and yesterday it was time again. A boy that attended one of our classes in the past was stabbed to death by a working college in Langa. They had an argument and a fist fight over something. But that wasn't enough. When the boy was walking home afterwards he was attacked from behind by his college and stabbed deadly in his 19 year old heart.

I'm not used to this confrontation with death. Not at all. Most people that I know are terrified of dying, and I guess I am too. Thinking about death is for me similar as to looking at the sun; I can only do it for a couple of seconds and then I have to turn my eyes away. I get confused and then I have to think about something different. Everything else than short moments is unbearable. I have learned to always focus on life and leave the rest to the future, but I realize that this is something that not everyone can do. In fact, this might as well be very dangerous, because sooner or later we will all be confronted, and then we might stand or lie there without any idea how to handle it, because death is unpredictable and something that we all can count on. For me it's still something unimaginable. I can't imagine not existing. The thought. The void. The silence. How come it's so hard to accept a world without me in the future, when I can understand the world existing without me before I was born?

I believe that death more or less has been put aside by the Swedish society. At least for my generation that no longer have an institution or sacred place where it's possible to get exposed to existential thoughts and anxiety. Most people have probably attended a funeral once, but it was most likely an old relative that died a natural death because of age or any of our modern diseases. But here, in Langa, death is more than that. Death is normal and something that you can't deny. Some people from home and even in South Africa tell me that life has a different meaning and a different value here than in Sweden, but for me, every life serves the same purpose no matter where and who you are. We get born and then we die. That's it. This is all we know and the rest is only speculations. We are all given one life and the intrinsic value of that is to be alive. That boy had one life yesterday and today he has none. Just like Moliere said it; “On ne meurt qu'une fois; et c'est pour si longtemps! - We die only once, and for such a long time!”

Death is something extremely mysterious for me, and is something that in contrast to life can be taken for granted. Life is not working without death, they're part of the same circle, the same phenomena, and if I choose to deny death, then I also choose to deny life. I understand that death is a fundamental condition for the existence of life, but at the same time there is a paradox existing that I can't seem to solve in this age and at this stage, and that is that life is also driven by death. Death drives us to create love and belonging, and this is why it's so much harder to die. I have to die from everything that I once created and be separated from everything I love.

This thought is making me very vulnerable. 

Friendly game in Bonteheuwel

Project Playground has four different football classes - the under-11, under-13, under-15 and under-17/19. The teams consist of almost 90 players all together and we practice four times a week. Yesterday our oldest boys played a friendly in Bonteheuwel against a senior team with players way older than they. It was a tough game against a good opponent with a constant annoying wind blowing over a bumpy pitch. We lost 2-1 but played good football. The future is looking good.

Before the game in our new A.C.  Milan track-suits 

Smiling faces even though we lost

The Power of Football

When I came to Langa I was told that Project Playground had its own football team, and this made me very happy and excited. I stopped playing football in 2009 and I really missed it. When I then found out that the football team was in need of assistance, I became even happier, because I knew what this meant. It happened so many times before. Football is the ultimate chance to get to know new people. 

I started to play football when I was 7 years old, not really early, not really late. Some people are said to be born with the ball at their feet. I was not one of them. It’s hard to remember what kept me busy before that age, but it was apparently not football. I guess I was just busy being a kid. Free from anxiety and doubt about the future, happy to exist for the moment and live for the day.

My first real football memory is from the hectic summer of 1994. For most Swedes, this summer is something that is very precious and associated with joy and happiness. The Swedish football team flew to the United States of America without any bigger plans of success, unaware that they would become immortal heroes and holy icons for Swedish nostalgia. People were camping, grilling hot dogs, wearing funny hats and listening to the radio while Sweden played amazing football and won a bronze medal that in my tiny eyes shined like purest gold. I was blessed and blissful by the show. Not only by the graceful pirouettes of Tomas Brolin, and the long fingers of Kenneth Andersson, even though they were my biggest heroes. There was also something else there. Something that seemed to exist in another dimension and was bigger than words. Something sacred that not necessarily was painted in the Swedish colors of yellow and blue. What mesmerized me existed in every team that competed and sweated together in the World Cup that warm summer, and I felt how a holy force hit me all the way from Los Angeles, Dallas and Washington D.C. straight through my parents thick TV-screen and into my little body.

Two years later I felt it again. I was once again touched by the force, and this time it was so strong that I wanted to change my hairstyle, all because of the charismatic footballer Karel Poborský, that on his own almost managed to win the Euro 1996 for the Czech Republic. What a player! Two years later I felt it again, and this time it made me paint my face in red and white checkers, so I could show my devotion for the Croatian striker Davor Šuker that with his amazing skills managed to become the top scorer in the 1998 World Cup in France. In 2000 it hit me again and I refused to wear anything else but my Portuguese football shirt with Luis Figo's name on the back - no smell in the world could change my duty and obligation that I now owed him after his magical goal against England in the Euro 2000. After that it happened again. And again and again. It never stopped. Last time it happened was this week when Sweden played against England in Stockholm and Zlatan Ibrahimovic scored four goals, and even though it was a friendly the goals meant so much for Sweden - both on and off the pitch. 

Football is more than a sport. It possesses a power that can build bridges between different cultures and language barriers. It consists of a force, strong enough to unite the poor with the rich, the friend with the enemy and the stranger with the local. This force exists in every football team on the planet - in F.C. Barcelona, ​​in Kaizer Chiefs and in IFK Arvidsjaur. It unites people from all around the world, everywhere in the world, of all ages, classes, genders and nationalities, on the stadium, in the changing room, in the pub, on the street and in front of TV. 

My work together together with the Project Playground football team has only started, but I can already feel that something magical is about to happen. Something from another dimension. Something sacred.

Heroes

Attention! It's the Tuesday after the first Monday in November...

Every four years something very important happens on this day. It's election day, and I'm extremely excited finding out if Barack Obama is getting a second term as President, or if the American population decides for Mitt Romney. In order to highlight this huge political happening, that has an impact on people living in Ohio, South Dakota, Cape Town and Stockholm, I decided to give a small lecture about U.S. politics to the Project Playground debate class. I told them a bit about the American history; how they also were colonized by the British, how Lincoln abolished slavery and about the American dream. After that I tried to explain how the U.S. electoral system is structured without making things too complicated, however I realized quick that this was close to impossible and that it get's tricky no matter how much I twisted and turned. Anyways, here we go; 50 states, 1 President, 100 Senators, 435 Representatives and 538 electoral votes!

The children listened carefully and asked interesting questions, and this was a great feeling for someone that never gave a lecture to a class before. It also made me realize how precious, important and skilled the teaching occupation is, and that we (at least in Sweden) don't pay enough attention and gratitude towards our teachers. It can be so hard to make an impression, and children can be so hard to charm sometimes! Luckily, the children of Langa are the most charming in the world, and I felt respected all the time. No cell phones rang, no one fell asleep and no one started to talk when I was speaking.

After one hour of republicans and democrats I packed my American map together and finished class. I asked about their opinion regarding South African politics, about what was good and what was bad. This is such a political country, and most people have an opinion or at least a clue about the contemporary situation. This class was surely not an exception. All of a sudden ten mouths spoke at the same time, first calm and slow, and the faster and faster and faster, until a huge debate with passionate opinions about ANC and South Africa's future broke loose turning our little classroom into a parliament. Some of the participants truly know how to argue, and I was very impressed, even though some moments brought us closer to the Polish parliament (I hope that's a universal saying).

Politics are so much fun and I promised to return to class soon with a similar lecture about Sweden.
Time to make another coffee. I don't want to miss when history is written!

Monday Morning, Praise the Dawning

We’re back in Langa after a funny and relaxing weekend in Noordhoek, a thirty minutes scenic drive away from Cape Town CBD. As a reward for hard and good work the whole staff was invited to spend one night together at the splendid Noordhoek Hotel, and we had a great time together in the sun. It was very nice, but also a bit unusual, to spend time with everybody outside our base in Langa, where each person has its own secure territory and routines to follow. In Noordhoek, we were all free to do whatever we wanted, and we were not tied together by work. So, we chilled and we ate, and this brought us even closer than we were before.

The morning after the loud rooster forced me up way too early, and I was lying in bed unable to sleep for a long time hoping that they would serve chicken at breakfast. They didn’t however, but that didn't mean that meat lovers were left disappointed. Not at all. I was served the strangest sandwich ever; ciabatta bread with two layers of thick bacon topped with pork meatballs, two fried eggs and a brown warm sauce. What a light and fresh start of the morning! After that we checked out and walked to the grass fields were we played some funny games in the picturesque nature. 

it's bloody serious.....

Anniversary!

Last night was a night full of emotions and joy. Last night was a night full of laughter and tears. 

Last night was our two years anniversary, and it was a very important night for Project Playground. 

For me – who only spend a week at PPG – it was a moment to realize and understand that this successful project that only ran for two years still has a very long and broad history filled with ups and downs. There are so many persons behind this organization that I never heard of or met before and so much work behind every single part of this organization that I wasn’t aware of. Yesterday’s celebrations were therefore the perfect opportunity for me to catch up, ask questions and just sit back and enjoy an amazing party!

Roro, Xoliswa and Malunga

Nicky and the boys

Manini and Sofia

The whole staff looked completely stunning. The girls had fantastic hair and dresses, and the guys showed up in smooth and elegant suits and tuxedos. I felt kind of underdressed in my black worn-out shirt and basic school shoes, but stopped to worry when John (the chef of the evening) started to serve the first rounds of lamb and chicken. He left no one disappointed and I was stuffed to my ears.

During the evening the drama class performed a great piece of modern theatre that was followed with a beautiful xhosa dance show. These kids really know what they’re doing, and they left the crowd overwhelmed. In the end of the night my hands were bleeding, and I had a light cramp in my jaw from smiling. The love and devotion that exist within Project Playground is beyond what I could ever imagine and I am very happy and proud to be part of it.  

Things are looking good

We have Swedish opticians here at Project Playground, and they’re really making an amazing contribution to Langa! Things are definitely going to look different when Helena, Johan, Gio and Emma from Optiker Branning in Lund are done with their work here. This lovely crew is offering all the kids free eye examinations, and thereafter free glasses to the ones with bad eyes, and apparently there are quite a lot of them! All of them have worked so hard the last week and I’m very honoured to have witnessed some of the wonders they managed to pull through. And I’m not exaggerating. We are absolutely talking about wonders here!

The children are waiting for their turn

The most impressive story is about a 20 year old boy who was put in special classes in school due to illiteracy. Everyone thought it was something with his intelligence. That he was unable to read because he was dyslectic or lacked competence. However, it also turned out that he more or less was unable to see his own finger, which is a very bad base if you want to read a book, or play football, or just get any chance to get somewhere and become something in this world. And then, in some seconds, everything changed completely; Helena examined his eyes, confirmed his defect and placed the right glasses in - and all of a sudden this boy was able to read the some of the small letters on the board! He wasn’t stupid or dyslectic at all – he just had bad eyes. Incredible. Absolutely incredible. I will always keep this story close to my heart. 

Welcome to my blog!

Hello, my name is Johan Mellström and I am 24 year old Swedish student being here, in Langa, to do a four month long internship at Project Playground. This internship will be part of my Masters Degree in Political Science and Development Studies at Uppsala University, from where I already have a Bachelors Degree. During this whole stay I’m going to run this blog where I will tell about my daily experiences in Langa and at Project Playground. But first, I would like to tell about my way down to Cape Town that was everything else than straight.

One of my biggest passions in life is to travel and get introduced to new people and cultures, and therefore I decided to turn my way to Cape Town into a real adventure. Instead of flying into Cape Town like most people do, I flew into Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, approximately 7000 km away from Langa. This big and polluted town which mostly serves as a hub for people going to either Zanzibar or to Arusha didn’t win my heart and I quickly decided to travel south across the country until arriving at the Malawian border where I entered the country they call “Africa’s heart”.

Malawi is a fascinating place filled with beautiful nature, lovely people, traditional culture and bad minibuses. Every single trip – no matter distance – can take more than a day to travel. Most buses don’t run after dark, which in Malawi means six o clock, and what at first glance on a map looks like hundred comfortable kilometres, can in fact put you on the side of the road in the end of the evening. Flexibility is essential. I stayed one week at Nkhata Bay, right by the Lake Malawi, which is the most beautiful and picturesque lake, I ever seen in my life. I couldn’t stop looking, and I didn’t want to leave. However, I had already decided that I wanted to climb Malawi’s highest mountain, Mount Mulanje, and therefore I had to say goodbye against my will. I threw a stone in the water and prayed to return one sunny day in the future.

The stunning beauty of Lake Malawi

Mount Mulanje, also nicked “the island in sky”, measures 3002 meter above sea level and in order to climb it I was in need of some warm clothes. I went to the flea market in Blantyre (where they ironically mostly sold old Swedish sport shirts) and found a purple ski jacket with gold details from the 90´s. Classy. I was ready and took a minibus to the small village by the foot of the mountain where I had to find myself a guide that could show me the way to the summit since climbing it alone is forbidden. The expedition took two days and was tougher than I had expected, and afterwards I needed one day in order to recover and gain strength for my next mission - a 18-hour bus ride from to Vilkankulos, Mozambique.

Mozambique’s modern history is very different from the one of Malawi – a country often referred as pacifistic. Mozambique that is a former Portuguese colony didn’t receive independence until 1975, and shortly after this the country fell into a destructive civil war that lasted until 1992. Even a backpacking tourist like me could feel that the wounds from this weren’t yet healed, and that Mozambique still is a very divided country. In some moments I felt like being trapped in a police state. As a tourist you always have to carry around your passport, and the underpaid policemen are more than happy to double-check that the required visa still is valid - especially in the capital city of Maputo where bribes has to be counted into the daily travel budget. This is extremely frustrating and something that harms Mozambique’s tourism a great deal. 

The country’s biggest tourist attractions are its sandy beaches and turquoise water that are filled with humpback whales, giant rays and whale sharks. I spend some beautiful days along the coastline and enjoyed all the delicious seafood that the local fishermen sell for a reasonable amount of meticais. Unfortunately is my Portuguese vocabulary limited to “bom dia” (good day) and “obrigado” (thank you) and I noticed in an early stage how much connection I lost towards the local community when I no longer could communicate with the locals. On top, only a tiny percentage of the people understand any English, and this made the language barrier so thick that body language sometimes was the only way to order a meal on a restaurant. This is both charming and exhausting. After two weeks I decided to continue my trip and crossed the boarder into the Kingdom of Swaziland, the smallest country in the region of Southern Africa.

Swaziland is the last absolute monarchy in the world and King Mswati III is taking all the political decisions in the country. Travelling around here is easy since the Swazi roads are of good quality and distances always are short. I stayed no longer than two nights but experienced some amazing wildlife and got the chance to see elephants, rhinos, giraffes and ONE deeply sleeping lion. Way to go, king of the jungle! I also visited Lobamba, the country’s traditional and legislative capital, where I went to the national museum and learned about the Swazi traditions.

One of Swaziland's many elephants 

The day after it was raining and I went to the minibus station at eight o clock in the morning and found a half full bus going to Durban. At this stage I was aware of the fill-up system that dominates public transportation and rules out any kind of time schedule, and in Malawi and Mozambique I was sometimes unlucky enough to sit up to one hour waiting for the driver to start the engine. This time was however different. Hour after hour passed and people had breakfast (fried chicken with fries) and lunch (fried chicken with fries). The rain stopped, and started again. Still the bus didn’t move a single centimetre and no one, no one except me, seemed to care about getting to Durban before the end of the month. At eleven o clock there was just one seat free in the bus and I started to feel hope. One more. Common. How could people be so utterly relaxed and regardless when we were so close? I had no idea. Some guys went out to buy some more food for the trip (fried chicken with fries) and came back again. Had time stopped for real? Never in my life had I felt that bored. And then, at half past one - after five and half hours in the bus - the driver decided to ash his cigarette, put his cap on and crawl into the bus. I felt euphoria. I felt both excitement and relief. I felt like celebrating with a high-five or some kind of funky dance move, but no one else was in. I didn’t care, because I was on my way to South Africa.

I arrived late at the central station without any money and the guy sitting next to me in the bus told me to absolutely not walk around in downtown at that hour. I told him that I needed an ATM but he said that even that was a bad idea. He searched in his pocket and found fifty rand that he handed over saying; “if I ever get to your country, if that ever happens, then I expect to be treated in the same way.” I nodded my head and felt like giving him a big hug. He said it was fine and walked in the other direction. I grabbed a taxi and jumped in. My eyes were glowing of amazement – what a fantastic thing to do!

I stayed one night in Durban and didn’t have time to see much of the city. I wanted to go to Coffee Bay, a small fishing village in Eastern Cape, and the morning after I was back on the road on a SA Roadlink bus to Mthatha. At this time I was reading  “long walk to freedom” and I felt privileged of having the scenery of Nelson Mandela’s childhood around me when doing so. Green hills and colourful rondavelas; the beauty of Madiba´s homeland wasn’t exaggerated. It was magical.

I had four magnificent days in Coffee Bay and got introduced to the Xhosa culture for the first time in my life. I was invited to visit the home of Samkelo, a man that sometimes worked at the hostel, and he showed me around in his village and told me about his family’s rituals and traditions. He told me that he once worked in the mining industry close to Johannesburg but that he now decided to return and live the same life as his father did before him. He was now without both water and electricity but close to family and nature. I asked about his opinion regarding the mining strikes but he said he didn’t care. Politics wasn’t for him he said, even less now than before.

Samkelos wife was happy that he decided to come back to Coffee Bay

I left Coffee Bay and continued down the coast towards the famous Garden Route. Here, the nature was even more stunning and dramatic with a landscape somewhere in between Twin Peaks and Lord of the Rings, a terrible idea for a movie, but a beautiful mixture of nature. I stayed some days in Storms River and one night in Knysna before I jumped on the night bus to Cape Town. The Mother City was calling on me and I couldn’t resist her anymore.