A Place Called Khayelitsha

Townships across South Africa are synonymous with poverty, and the implications that come with poverty (read: violence, rampant drug abuse, etc). When my friend Moses (pictured below) invited me on a personal tour to the largest township in the nation, Khayelitsha, I leapt at the opportunity — but with caution.

Below are a series of photos from a day spent in Khayelitsha. The photo essay begins following a one-hour train ride and a thirty-minute walk. We arrived to the home of Moses’s friend Mohapi. With the presence of these two individuals, it was established that it would be safe to begin taking photographs. Mohapi became my translator/goodwill ambassador, enabling me to take portraits of people and capture moments that I would have otherwise deemed too invasive.

: Mohapi invites me into his home, a one-room shack with a corrugated tin roof that he built for himself. It has no running water. I mistakenly think he has electricity because I see a microwave. Later, Moses sets me straight saying, “Bra, that’s just for decoration. There’s no electricity.” With pride, Mohapi presents and dons his tribal blanket (sitting to his left) that was given to him after completing a traditional initiation ceremony. In his Zulu culture he has successfully transitioned into manhood.

: After a short walk up a hill, we come to the home of Mohapi’s brother, who is busy preparing sausages. We stay only a matter of minutes, but I note the sentiment that he has chosen for his wall.

: Moses stands in front of the home where he lived for many months. He’s currently staying in the back room of a store (Seventies 80s) in the center of Cape Town, where he can avoid a daily time-consuming train ride from Khayelitsha.

: People of the neighborhood share plumbing. A tap such as this one will provide water to ten or more homes.

: Toilets are provided, and each family had a key to unlock a specific stall. I notice that many appear to be in disrepair.

: We pass many establishments that might go unnoticed to the untrained eye. This building serves as a local tavern of sorts, complete with a pool table.

: Sheep heads on the side of the road. They are called “smiley skop offal” because, as they are roasted over the open flame, the facial muscles contract, giving the impression that the sheep is actually smiling. Moses tells me it is quite delicious.

: Old shipping containers become places for businesses. A barbershop might also function as a cellphone repair shop. I sense resourcefulness.

: Mohapi suggests that we try some BBQ chicken feet, which he calls “manqena maotwana di runaway”. The women are slightly suspicious about my presence, but eventually giggle at my face when I eat the feet.

: The chicken feet are seasoned with a delicious, savory sauce. But I find it difficult to know what eat, as there is not much meat. Moses laughs at me, and says that I must throw the whole thing in my mouth and spit out the bones.

: Next we stop at a restaurant that has picnic tables, and we order a couple of steaks and three Coco-Colas. I jokingly pretend to open the soda bottle with my teeth, feigning manliness. But then I realize that this is the normal procedure. Mohapi and Moses open their bottles with ease. And, for the first time in my life, I successfully open a bottle with my teeth. I feel slightly proud. The steak is delicious, especially the crispy bits of fat around the bone.

: As we talk, Mohapi is honest and open with me about his life. He says, “This is the hand that God has given me. It is up to me to make the best of it.” I ask him if it’s okay that I share the photos of him with the world. He agrees. In reciprocation to his openness, I seek every opportunity to make him smile. Over the hours that we spend together, I think he becomes mildly amused by me and perhaps senses that my intentions are acceptable.

: We walk by a fenced cemetery. Mohapi expresses frustration in the amount of garbage on the roads, pointing to the children playing a few meters away, and stating that it is unacceptable.

: The children that we see become entertained by my presence. And when inquiring with Mohapi as to what might be running through the minds of the locals who see this white dude walking in Khayelitsha, he responds with a sentiment along the lines of, “What the fuck is he doing here?” I see only one other white person during the day; it’s a young woman who zips by me in the back of a van with a nonprofit organization logo stamped on the side.

: It’s becoming late in the afternoon and we begin walking back to the train station. We come across a large garden. I ask the boys if they wouldn’t mind if I go in and asked some questions.

: It turns out that we’ve stumbled across the Masikhanye Food Garden, a community organization that is utilizing organic farming principals, while fighting poverty and creating employment by working in conjunction with government and individuals. A fellow named Sydney gives us a quick history of the project, and then a five-minute tour of the grounds.

: The garden is using protective netting to keep the birds and insects away. They also plant much of the produce in little sacks, which enables greater control over the growing conditions, especially necessary with nutrient-lacking sandy soil.

: Back in the main office, we are offered a sample of the food that is being grown. It is delicious. I am enthralled. An organic garden was not on my pre-imagined itinerary of how the day might unfold.

: In the office, I notice a man sitting cross-legged. His name is Daya. He is an Indian man born in Durban who is devoting his life to serve the elderly. He is currently living at the garden in one of the large shipping containers. I am struck by the resolve in his voice, the compassion in his eyes, the light that radiated from him.

: As we head back to the train station, I’m advised to conceal my camera again. We say goodbye to Mohapi, and sit in silence as the train bounces back to Cape Town. And as we enter the city, Moses asks for my camera and clicks some shots of the sun sinking behind Signal Hill.

(This photo essay was first published in 2011.)

Up next: Riding a Camel in Morocco