Independent on Saturday

Home is Where My Shack Is

By TASH REDDY

Driving past the numerous squatter camps I do on my way to and from work
everyday, I couldn’t help but wonder what it looked like inside or what it
must be like to live in such conditions.

My curiosity got the better of me and although some thought it might kill
me, I decided to brave the objections and see for myself.

What did the other side of the breadline – the poorest side – what did it
look like and more importantly how did they survive?

I visited 135 Foreman Road, the address given to a cluster of shacks in
Clare Estate.

While parking on the dirt road near the shacks, I couldn’t help but feel
frightened.

I didn’t know what to expect and a sense of dread came over me as I locked
the car, looked over my shoulders and checked again that the car was locked
and alarm on.

I walked slowly towards what seemed like an endless number of “jondols”, as
we call it and the sight of naked children roaming around, men sitting
under make-shift shelters trying to ward off the heat and piles of filth
strewn across dirt, greeted me first.

I wanted to take a deep breath in just to calm down but decided against it,
just in case I passed out from the stench of whatever it was that made
places like these earn their negative reputation.

My stomach turned and my hands trembled as I approached the men and told
them my reasons for being there.

They stood up with outstretched hands and introduced themselves to me.
Their manner astounded me and their enthusiasm to show me their homes and
take me into their lives was unbelievable. Never before in our
sophisticated, somewhat elitist society have I ever been made to feel so
welcome.

The first home I visited was that of Lunga Ndabankulu, 31.
Nestled in the center of numerous other “rooms”, his humble home as he
called it consisted of 2 rooms held together by wood, piece of iron and
sheets of plastic.

The sun lit up the rooms through the numerous holes in the roof and the walls.
He explained that it took him four hours to build his home, using waste
material from a nearby dumpsite.

“I’ve been living here for ten years. It’s my home,” he said.
Ndabankulu who is from the Eastern Cape, came to Durban in search of work
so he could support his child Xatyiswa, 9.

He sold plastic bags and carried parcels outside shopping centres to earn
enough money to open a small tuck shop that he now runs.
On average he earns R600 and sends R300 to his family in the Eastern Cape,
puts R200 in a bank accounts and survives on R100 a month.
His bedroom is a far cry from the comforts we are used to.

His bed is held by pieces of plank and a blanket covers a very worn out
sponge. He uses beer bottles as candle holders, a cardboard box as a table
and a car battery for his old tv and radio which entertains that entire
community.

An old fridge stores his food which is mostly rice, cans of beans and
mealie meal and when he wants to cook, he borrows a gas stove from the
neighbour.

I was amazed that while I stress about reaching higher rungs in society’s
imaginary ladder, there was someone who was so content with his lot and
making the best of what he had, the only way he could.

I asked him about using the bathroom and how that works and he pointed to
the bathing facilities that were provided by the municipality.

“They are broken so we have man made toilets and showers. Everyday there
are long queues to use the toilets and the showers. There is no such thing
as using the toilet when you need to – you have to wait,” he said.
He jokes with me about the holes in the walls as I tell him that I can’t
handle the blistering heat.

“Look at all my ventilation,” he said, pointing to the holes and laughing.
But then I asked him what he did when it rained and he said: “I just pull
my mattress and all my things back into a drier place in my room and wait
for the rain to stop,” he said.

My next stop was the room of Mputhumi Bandezi. I was amazed at how small it
was and realised that most of us have bathrooms that are bigger.
Bandezi is a contract worker at Independent Newspapers and sells newspapers
on street corners.

Immediately I asked him why he was living in a squatter camp if he was working.
“Rent is too expensive. With the same money, I can live here and feed my
family,” he said.

I was shocked to learn that he didn’t live in that little room alone.
He was infact married and had three children aged 7, 5 and 1 and I was
horrified.

“How do you all live in here,” I asked.

His room was so small and had only a small bed, a cardboard box as a table,
a vegetable rack, a paraffin stove and a cooler box.

“My wife and I sleep on the floor and the children sleep on the bed. We
keep our clothes in suitcases and with our food in a cooler box,” he said.
Then I was taken for a walk down a flight of stairs, to the next “phase” of
the camp.

There were 10 men sitting in the shade listening to Ndabankulu’s radio and
they were surrounded by empty bottles, plastic bags, waste and absolute
filth. There were also broken trolleys lying in the pathways and burned
drums used as stools.

Lungisani Jama , 27 showed me to his house and I was surprised to see that
it was actually double storey. There was a very scary looking ladder going
upstairs and I quickly turned down the invitation, too scared that the
frailty of the ladder won’t carry my weight.

While I stood there contemplating my next move, I noticed a very sombre
looking woman go into one of the rooms.

Her name was Thoko Nellie Msweli, 44 and has been living there for 2 years.
“I used to live in a low cost housing outbuilding but I had to pay R250.00
rent and couldn’t afford it. Then my aunt called her here and the residents
helped me build it,” she said.

Her room was the neatest I had ever seen. She called me inside the very
small room and I sat on her extremely neat bed which I realised later was
big sheets of cardboard piled on crates. A big sheet and blanket covered it
to disguise what was underneath.

There were 2 tables against the wall, a gas stove, 2 buckets in which food
was kept under the table and her clothes were ironed and hung neatly on
nails in the wall.

Her iron was the bottom part of an ordinary iron and pieces of wire was
attached to it as the handle and she described to me how she irons her
three sets of clothes on the bed.

While sitting there I noticed that the brightly coloured walls were
actually opened up milk and juice cartons used as wall paper. I also
noticed that there were tiny holes in the roof and I wondered how she kept
the rain out.

“Simple, I just patch it with sunlight soap and the rain doesn’t come in,”
she said.

Msweli said she is never scared as everyone is close by and we all care for
and take care of each other.

“We all help each other and protect each other,” she said.
Like the rest, she also survives on a little more than R100 a month which
she earns from doing housekeeping jobs.

“Every month I buy 10 kilos rice, ice for little meat, mealie meal, beans,
tinned food and I eat the same thing for breakfast, lunch and supper,” she
said.

Next door to her, four cousins all lived together in a tiny, very dark
room. Nkosinathi Hlambelo, 19, Mzikayise Majekeni, 19, Kutele Bhekiswane,
22 and Simphile Maduna, 20 from Bizane, came to Durban also in search of
work. Their room is far from what can be considered hygienic or
satisfactory living conditions.

2 of the men sleep on bed on dirt floor covered only by fragments of
plastic and 2 sleep on the “bed”, also cardboard on crates.
They have a make shift table from pieces of wood, a gas stove, a broken
vegetable rack and an even more run down cupboard, all cramped together in
the small space. Nails on the walls hold their shoes, packets, hats, bags
and clothes.

They too live on rice, beans, pap, potato’s and sometimes meat.
While still talking to them I heard a laugh which seemed familiar. It could
only have come from a baby.

Immediately I went in the direction of the giggle and found 10 month old,
Qinisela Nzuza, playing in a dish of water with two other children
Siphesihle Sosiba, 4 and Asanda Sosiba, 2.

His mum Sibongile Ndlovu, 29 has been living there for 9 years.
The small room they lived in had a single bed, an old fridge to sit on and
shelves to keep things on.

But my only focus was the little boy playing so care free in the water.
I have a 12 month old son as well and I wondered how he would fit into the
place.

I realised that I spent so much of my time providing him with all the
comforts he could possibly need that I never gave a thought to the children
out there who had to live with very little.

I spend on average of R1200 every month for my son’s food, nappies and
other “essentials” and I wondered how this mum was surviving every month.
“I don’t have a problem. I breastfed him until he was six months old and
now he eats whatever we eat. I have 4 towelling nappies that I wash and dry
everytime it’s soiled so it ready for his next change. I don’t need wet
wipes and all the other things,” she said.

Wow, I was speechless as I watched the children play around the baby and
watched them laugh with such innocence.

By the time I had gone back up to the car, I saw the men come to me with a
litre of coke which they collected money to buy.

With a glass in their hand which they obviously tried their best to clean,
they poured me some and insisted I drink.

My cheeks were burning from the heat and actually was really parched.
I accepted gratefully and laughed with them as they told me jokes and funny
stories of what happens in their little community.

Driving back to the office I laughed at myself and all the preconceived,
negative ideas I had of squatter camps and people living in shacks. At the
end of the day they were only human and trying to make the best of
everything they had with very little complaint.

I saw something that we as the “upper class” really lack in our society. I
saw unity, humility and a true spirit of togetherness.