First Impressions

I’m writing this by the light of a flickering candle on old-school notepaper to conserve laptop battery – ever so appropriate, since here also two realms collide.  There is a light here, but insufficient to see by and this emergency candle has to do.  My room is beautiful: all brick and stone and thatch, with a gorgeous be-mirrored bathroom big enough to waltz in.  Our little farm-compound lies in the midst of a shanty-town thudding with rave music, spiritist rites and barking dogs – and the night’s more peaceful chorus of crickets.  Here, I’m told, the village’s youth dance and carouse into the wee hours, drinking to forget that their chances of success are low in a micro-economy where 85% are unemployed.  “The jobs go to the whites,” they say, yet a friend’s 20-something year old son who’s white as any malungu recently committed suicide over the reverse plea.

Jesus offers hope: you see it plastered about, yet when hard times come, I’m told it’s back to the old ancestor worship.

I’ve met some lovely people: Jane, who always has a joke and story; Prity, who’s name describes her person and personality; Peter, a video-editor dating her; Harry & Joke, my Dutch hosts who are so warm and welcoming; “Jukes” who tells me he chases away ghosts and ancestral spirits with his hammer (I showed him a picture of Dad building our igloo home to pay back that yarn,) and little Anna who took my hand and pulled me to the table.

Yet the dangers one can’t see are spoken of and people do not leave their homes at night.  And here, in the midst of a community-smothering village, I feel a little isolated within this electric-fenced compound.  In this land of contrasts and fiercely national pride, first meets third world, progress leaves poverty, and it’s not all black and white.