The Graveyards of Hope

While driving out of Johannesburg, South Africa, I observed people standing along the roadside. As I sped past, I noticed that they were selling woodcarvings. Every mile or so I passed by groups of men selling small animal carvings along with huge wooden giraffes standing over five feet tall. Several of the artists took a more abstract approach by sculpting six-foot tall crane-like birds from car mufflers found along the road. Set behind these salesman were small villages with "homes" made from metal sheets, cardboard, paper bags, and plastic. I use the word homes because none could be truly classified as a house. These villages are considered the "Graveyards of Hope".

The residents leave their native villages and migrate to the city seeking a better life. Unfortunately, the city does not have enough jobs to accommodate them upon their arrival. Penniless and hungry, they build these villages and wait for something better to come along. It seldom arrives. Most of these slums are illegal and the police, equipped with bulldozers, occasionally doze the village over.

The very clever squatters make their homes from folded cardboard and sticks, disassembling them every morning. At the first rumble of a bulldozer, they grab their homes and run. Yet it never disrupts the Africans' will to survive because several days later the sun will rise over a newly constructed village built in its place. Intrigued by these shantytowns, I decided to invite myself into the next one I discovered. About five minutes later I saw three dark human silhouettes standing on the horizon. Assuming they were near their village, I slowed down as I approached. Talking with them may give me an opportunity to enter their village as a new friend and not a strange intruder.

Throughout history the white man has brought many Africans turmoil and death, so I was extremely careful to respect their space and gain their trust before I imposed on their territory. While pulling off to the side of the road, I gazed into a small grassy valley sloping off to my right. At the bottom, about 20 feet below road level, was a small village no bigger than a football field.

I parked next to the three men and stepped out of the truck to greet them. Two of them smiled then looked toward the third man expecting him to be the spokesperson. Many of these villagers speak English but not to any great degree.

The tall man replied,.We fine boss, and you? After years of rule by the white minority, many South African blacks are still programmed to believe they are less than whites, or at least fake it in a white mans presence. I responded,.No need to call me boss, we are equal.

We all firmly shook hands and they told me their names. I could not understand what they said but I got the impression that they were all brothers. Immediately after the introductions, they proceeded to try and sell me anything that was not rooted to the earth or had the ability to run.

I would have loved to buy many of their creations but had over 10,000 more miles to travel and I did not want to carry anything that was not necessary. Then I realized that if I purchased a carving, it might benefit us in two ways: One, it would help put food on their table, and two, they may be more inclined to allow me into their village. There were so many pieces to choose from- carved elephants, giraffes, baboons, and rhinos. Some were made from a dark glossy black wood, several were light tan with a wandering grain through them.

I purchased a two-foot tall carved elephant for 60 Rand (about $20.00 U.S.) It was of museum quality made from light toned wood, showing a grain pattern that was a masterpiece in itself. Five-inch long tusks carved from cow bone protruded below its raised trunk. While I paid for the carving, I heard a rumbling sound and then saw a beast of a truck abruptly pull up next to us skidding to a stop. It was a Land Rover, so new I looked for a colored chalk price tag on the window. The man driving shut the engine off and clumsily climbed out of the rig. A woman stepped out of the passenger door and the three brothers swarmed over to them to try for another sale.

As I browsed through the rest of their inventory, I noticed the man and woman seemed very arrogant and talked down to the natives. The man was of short build, pale, and significantly overweight. Having only a small handful of hairs matted to the back of his head, I would say he was legally bald. He was sweating profusely and his clothes seemed uncomfortably tight. His pants made an annoying whisping sound as he walked and when he laughed at his own crude remarks, his body gave a constricted jiggle while his straining, over-tight belt looked like a python making a kill. In addition, the belt gave his body the illusion that he was smuggling a motorcycle tire around his waist. His lady friend was a tall, stunning, light skinned black woman with long braided hair and dramatically defined cheekbones. I have seen unmatched pairs like this throughout Africa.

Many of these beautiful women grow up penniless and will seek a wealthy man regardless of his looks or how he treats her. Beauty is skin deep but starvation is to the bone. With a thick Dutch accent, the man began to bargain with the three brothers. He just drove up in a $60,000 vehicle, yet he was trying to haggle for the equivalent of two or three dollars. Unfortunately, this is a typical scenario in these parts. Knowing well these natives only make a few dollars a month, the Dutchman still convinced them to sell a carving for half its price. The brother's body language told me that they did not want to settle for such an unreasonably low price but they needed to feed their families. Then the Dutchman really pushed his luck; he tempted the brothers with food. He showed them a can of chicken soup and tried to barter for more carvings. The man chose a baboon carving that would normally sell for 30 Rand. Even through a can of soup could never satisfy the hunger they feel everyday, they still considered the trade. It was almost a done deal until one of the brothers noticed a supermarket price tag still on the can; it read Price 5 Rand.

Suddenly, one of the brothers became outraged upon discovering he had almost been had. He began throwing his arms about, screaming in a mysterious language unknown to any of us, even to his brothers from the looks on their faces.

The couple became so terrified at this dramatic display of rage, the Dutchman quickly leaned over and dropped the carving in the dirt, and both he and his woman scampered back into their rig and sped off. As the Land Rover faded in the distance, the three brothers burst out laughing, folding over, and holding their stomachs as they fell to the ground. With no care of getting dirty, they rolled on the earth laughing as the dust collected in the tears streaming down their faces. I suddenly became infected with the hilarity of the situation and the ground, too, drew me like a magnet. Before I knew it, I became part of this comical scene as if I was their long lost albino brother.

A few moments passed and we gained our composure and wiped the tears from our eyes. After I caught my breath, I decided to ask if I could visit their village. But as if they knew what I was about to ask, they invited me themselves. I helped them gather their carvings in old canvas bags and followed them towards the village. In broken English the tall brother says, "The secret to a happy life is to get at least one good laugh in a day". He could not be truer. Little would I guess that I would find one of the secrets to a happy life while rolling and laughing in a ditch along an African roadside.

I followed the brothers down a goat trail leading into the village. As they walked ahead of me, they continued to speak to me in an incomprehensible form of English. I had a terrible time understanding them but could make out a few words and understood questions and statements by the pitch of their voices. Half-listening, I began to absorb the dry desert-like environment.

It was about 12:30 and the day was hot. At first the village seemed to be abandoned. No sounds or movements could be detected. I saw that the shelters were typical of most squatter villages I have visited; scrap wood, sheet metal, and plastic molded the architecture.

We walked into the village by squeezing between two metal shacks. I became slightly startled when I noticed that every home contained people. Sitting in the dark shadows to keep cool from the hot sun, they began to emerge from their boxes. As many as 10 people crawled out from each shelter of less than 15 feet by 15 feet. People appeared endlessly from everywhere and slowly walked toward us. As if I were an alien, the entire village gathered around me and stared. Many of the younger children had never seen a white man before and approached me with caution and curiosity.

An older man with a baritone voice said,.Good afternoon.. Before I could respond, one of the brothers told everyone what he did to the fat Dutchman, and the group roared with laughter. Not really knowing what to say, I smiled nervously and said, "Hello" until the man with the baritone voice struck up a conversation with me.

"My name is Bakari, please relax and feel at home. We don't have much but you are welcome to all of it".

Thanking him for his hospitality, I mentioned that I just stopped to take a rest from driving and I would be very grateful if he would show me around the village. He was delighted to do so. I noticed during our conversation that most of the villagers followed me around and stared, many with big smiles, some with unsure expressions. The children were simply puzzled.

Bakari began the tour with his home; it was made from three sheets of rusted metal with jagged sharp edges. I could see several white scars on his right shoulder that matched the burred metal edge of one wall; he must occasionally cut himself when he exited his home. His floor was nothing more than packed dirt with a mixture of canvas and plastic bags sewn into a bed mat and blanket. Next to the mat was a small jury-rigged cooking stove made from a rusted out bucket and a 6. by 6. piece of metal fence. In the corner opposite his bed mat was a bag that looked like it previously held grain or animal feed. It was modified with a drawstring cord and laid open exposing some of his more personal belongings, old faded pictures of his many wives and children, and various identification and tribal papers.

He then took me down a rough, muddy path scarred with hundreds of dried bare footprints. A thunderstorm the night before had flooded most of the low-lying areas. Hacked up slabs of wood bridged deep puddles of stagnant bacteria-ridden water where babies played together naked.

There was no electricity, running water or bathrooms. Towards the back end of the village, a small ditch was considered the bathroom for the whole community. I did my best to stay away from that area. It was rather easy because even if one could not see it, one would know it was there. The older children ran through the paths kicking a homemade soccer ball constructed from plastic bags and string while wearing out-dated American clothes, most likely donated by a foreign church group. Bakari continued the tour while six or seven villagers followed us like a celebrity entourage. Several children became rather comfortable with my presence and began to grab my pant legs and hold my hands. Within one shelter, a large group of elderly natives sat perfectly still ignoring my presence. They only expended enough energy to occasionally swat flies away from their faces, until one elderly man turned his head and stared at me with his piercing cataract clouded eyes. His dark wrinkled face showed years of bitter anger, while his eyes expressed a distrust that I have never before seen in a human.

He bitterly snapped a comment at me in his native tongue. As Bakari returned a scolding comment in my defense, I smiled the comment off and respectfully continued on. "Bitterness and despair run deep in these slums," Bakari said, "Many minds are wasted here. Every soul in this walking cemetery could succeed in the modern world if given the respect, education and opportunity".

He pointed to a young girl several yards away. She is a cute child about twelve years old playing tag with her sisters, using an old goat as a shield. She circled around the animal keeping just out of reach. Her name is Shakir,. Bakari said,.which means child born in the grace of God. Her family migrated from Nigeria in hope for work. Her mother brags all day how smart her daughter is. She says Shakir is always the smartest in the class, someday she will be a rich doctor and our whole family will live in a beautiful home by the city and have a big pool. Well, for two years now Shakir has not attended school because their family can not afford the annual tuition, the equivalent of twenty American dollars.

Unfortunately, just like her nine older sisters she will most likely never go back to school, become one of a man's many wives and bear as many as five children before the age of twenty.. As we continued on, I got the impression that if this village were a single tribe, Bakari would be the chief. He was clearly well respected and revered. Even the children were fond of him. He knew each one by name and it was obvious that he deeply cared for all of them.

One child yelled "Hey boss!" and kicked the soccer ball to me. Not realizing how much bounce a ball of plastic bags and string has, I booted the ball back to him, but it streaked over his head directly into a hedge of thorn bushes. The children yelped and chased after the ball. Two of the children had sticks and tried to beat the ball out of the bushes, only to knock it in further. With their efforts going nowhere, I walked over and carefully weaved my body between the thorny branches to retrieve their ball. The children yelled, "No, no, no, use de stick, use de stick, de snakes, de snakes!"

Snakes are a huge problem in these villages. When the village's garbage begins to pile up it attracts armies of rodents, and the rodents attract snakes, most of them poisonous. The black mamba, for example, can inject enough venom with a single bite to kill ten grown men. Ever since I was six years old, I loved and handled snakes so I was not concerned with the threat, but still remained cautious. While I attempted pulling the ball out of the brush, thin shreds of plastic bag snagged and hung from the needlelike thorns. I freed the ball after a couple firm tugs, then passed it to a child who began juggling it with his feet as well as any soccer pro.

"These tin shacks trap many talents and dreams," Bakari lamented. "Like caged lions, they wander in circles wearing down an endless path to nowhere." The height of the sun off the horizon reminded me that precious travel time was being lost. I said this to Bakari and he offered to walk me back to my truck. We back tracked through the village and I said my goodbyes to the brothers. On the way a young boy who had silently hung onto the back of my shirt since I arrived here began tugging harder until I almost had to drag him. I turned and smiled, "I have to go now."

As he shook his head no, his eyes begin to well with tears.

"You come back?" his squeaky voice asked.

"No, I am sorry, I can't". I replied.

"Why?" he whined.

"Because this is not my home".

"Can I come home with you?"

"I'm sorry you must stay here and help with the village".

Without a response, he just stared at me and began to cry. Each time a tear ran off his face, my heart sank lower. When we met, I was his only connection with the modern world and he felt a little closer to that world when I was near. I knelt down next to him and he hugged my neck. His bony little elbows dug into my shoulders and I asked him, "What is your name?"

"Atu".

"Well Atu, it's nice to meet you, my name is Rusty. I really must go now but I promise that when I return home I will send you a letter. I have many friends in the city, they will come out and give it to you. You have my word." I then gave him the carved elephant I had purchased from the brothers and told him to sell it and buy some food. Bakari said he would see to it and then walked me back to the truck.

"What does the future hold for you?" I asked Bakari.

"Ahh, a rough road far too dusty to see where it leads my friend, my name means "one who will succeed" so my day shall come if the gods wish it to be. Until then I will help my people and pray..

As I started up the truck, Bakari handed me a black carved rhino and said, "This is for you, I just finished it today, I hope it brings you luck." I thanked him for everything and promised I would keep in touch.

When I returned home I immediately wrote a letter to Bakari and Atu offering to pay for the children's school tuition. But unfortunately when my friend attempted to deliver the letter, he learned that their village was bulldozed and they were forced to relocate to an unknown area.