Holding Up the Sky (55 page)

I asked the nurses once more for some pain relief for her, but continued to be told she had to wait until the doctor came to check her. She was now not progressing and I suspected they wanted to review options. By ten o'clock that evening, the doctor had been and agreed that if she still failed to progress, they would do a caesarean section. Tashia had been in labour for twenty-four hours.

At five the following morning, we were entering the operating theatre. They had taken some convincing, but given I was her aunt they let me come with her. I stripped down and put on the hospital greens and was soon waiting with Tashia in theatre as the contractions kept rolling in. She was back in my arms, exhausted with the labour, hysterical with pain. I told her she only had one or two more contractions before she was finished, as the anaesthetist was preparing the epidural. The greatest difficulty at that point was to extract her from my arms so he could do the procedure. But once that was done, the operation was extremely fast. Within five minutes of the first cut, the baby was out and being held up for Tashia and me to see–a boy. Tashia didn't tell me until much later, but when she looked at her son all she saw were white spots from looking into the theatre lights, so she thought he was albino–not an easy life for a child in Africa. She was so horrified by what she saw that she hardly spoke for hours.

After showing us the baby, the nurses took him across the room to be checked and then down to intensive care for six hours, as was routine. I felt that Tashia needed to have the baby with her. Given the trauma of the whole event, I was concerned about bonding. I repeatedly asked for the baby to be brought to her and was repeatedly told that this was procedure. When they finally brought the baby through and gave him to Tashia, she had managed some sleep and I had been home for a shower and change of clothes and brought Mama and Teboho back with me. When Tashia saw her son, she burst into tears. I asked her what was the matter and she told me about the white spots. I assured her that the baby was perfectly normal as I lifted him into her cautious arms. Despite the joy and relief of that moment, she lay back on her pillow and told me she was never having sex again. I was sure Caleb would be relieved to hear that.

After visiting with Tashia and the baby for a while, we left her to sleep. I was in need of a nap myself, so we headed back home. I left the rest of the family downstairs and dragged myself up to bed. I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Back downstairs, there was a furry of happy phone calls to the family. Ousi and Caleb were both thrilled with the news of a grandson and promised to bring the rest of the family to see her in the morning.

Mama and I went back for the evening visiting hour and as we entered the ward, Tashia appeared to be doing much better, sitting up in bed, new baby on her lap. We told her that the family all sent their love and would be in to see her tomorrow. When the hour was up, we left Tashia attempting to breastfeed her new son.

That night I slept long and hard and was the last to wake up in the morning. When I did, the house was unusually quiet. I came downstairs and Teboho caught my eye and asked me to join him on the couch. He held my hand and told me that Caleb had phoned to say Ousi had died during the night. She appeared to have had some kind of epileptic ft in her sleep, chocked on her tongue and suffocated. Caleb, who was in the bed next to her, didn't even hear her. It was a terrible shock for all of us. Ousi was in her early forties. But it was her daughter Tashia I was most concerned about. Teboho told me that Caleb had requested I tell Tashia only the next day, to give her time to recover from the birth. He asked the family that I be the only one to visit her in the meantime. I wasn't sure this was a burden I was ready for.

When I went to visit Tashia that day, she looked well and happy. She was up and dressed and had lost that haunted look from the days before. The baby was there beside her bed, fast asleep. Tashia asked me where her parents were. I lied and said that they couldn't get transport but were trying everything they could to come later. As they didn't have a car and it was fifty minutes to the hospital from Mohlakeng, I think Tashia accepted this excuse. She stared down at her son and asked me if I thought he was beautiful. I did. She then told me she had decided to call him Lesego, meaning lucky. I smiled and told her that was a wonderful name for him.

The next morning, I went to tell her what had happened to her mother. When I entered the ward, her eyes told me she was anxious as no one else had been to visit. I sat down on the bed next her and took a deep breath, faltering before I could finally get the words out. It was one of the hardest things I had ever had to say. I tried to tell her how Ousi had died, but quickly realised that my long-winded, nervous explanations were falling on deaf ears. She turned to the wall and was silent until, slowly and quietly, she began to cry. I sat on the bed next to her feeling useless, wondering what one does in circumstances like this. After a time, with Tashia still weeping and moaning, rocking herself backwards and forwards, I got up to go and speak to the doctor to explain what had happened, asking if I could take her home. It was agreed that I could take her home that afternoon. In the meantime, Teboho had arranged for Nooi to come and stay at our house for a while to be with Tashia.

When we arrived home, Tashia was still looking stricken. She didn't say a word, just handed Lesego to Mama and went to her room with Nooi, not resurfacing until after dark. We made her eat something for the baby's sake. Tashia struggled through the next few days, oscillating between sobbing and silence. Thankfully, taking care of Lesego was a welcome distraction but also a reminder of life. Mama and I made sure we took him after his feed, allowing Tashia to sleep. Nooi kept her company and they spent hours together with Nooi catching Tashia up on what her friends had been doing in her absence.

Nooi stayed with us until the funeral the following Saturday. Hundreds of people turned out at the church in Mohlakeng that morning. There were prayers of thanksgiving, songs, a few words were spoken of her life, her children, her new grandson whom she had not ceased telling the neighbours about on the day of his birth. I was glad that she had died after hearing he and Tashia were both healthy, that she had died so very happy.

After the church service, people formed a procession of cars and kombis, following the hearse to the graveyard on the other side of the township. Phuti, Teboho's father, was also buried here. Each vehicle turned its headlights on as the procession snaked its way through the dusty streets. Other cars pulled over as we passed, children stopped playing and waited respectfully by the side of the road. We arrived at the gate of the cemetery and parked the car. I walked with Teboho, Mama and the children to join the growing circle of people at the graveside. A marquee had been set up to provide some shade from the hot mid-morning sun. There were perhaps 500 people there by the time the minister addressed the crowd. Once he had finished, he gave the nod for the funeral attendants to begin lowering Ousi's casket into the freshly dug grave.

During the minister's brief words, Tashia had been deeply upset and was held up by Nooi as her heartbroken sobbing made it hard for her to stand. Now, she moved slowly and calmly to the graveside and said her final farewell. We each stepped forward in turn, gathered a handful of dirt and flung it into the grave with a prayer. I always found this part of a funeral distressing in its finality and as I stood looking down at Ousi's casket, now partially covered with dirt, tears streamed down my face. I cried for Ousi, gone so suddenly; I cried for Caleb, now with five children to raise on his own; but mostly I cried for Tashia. I was aware of the many pairs of eyes on me but had ceased to care.

Tashia stayed with us for another six weeks after the birth, before finally returning home to Mohlakeng. I saw Lesego recently, now nine years old. I paid a visit to Caleb's house and found Nooi taking a pair of clippers to Lesego's head, with a few of the other cousins watching, waiting their turn. As I looked at him, I thought it strange that I was the first one to see him when he was born and now I could barely recognise him.

But life had moved on in many ways. Nooi now had a baby of her own, yet still seemed responsible for all the children of her father's house. Caleb had remarried–his third wife–and she came with five children of her own, the youngest being about Lesego's age. Katie was still there, now a young woman of twenty. She also had a child, Lerato, three years old, but told me that the father had passed away of TB a year ago, having died in prison. I battled to imagine Katie falling for someone whose life would end this way. I also wondered if it was AIDS that killed him, but decided not to ask.

I asked Katie where Tashia was, but she looked sideways at Nooi before replying, ‘She doesn't really stay here anymore. She's running around now and we don't see much of her. She pops in from time to time to see Lesego but she sleeps wherever a friend will give her a bed'. My mind cast back to that frightened little girl who clung to me with each contraction, afraid that the force of this new life wanting to be born would swallow her whole. I struggled to picture her now. Perhaps she would be as unrecognisable to me as Lesego had been.

The township can be a vortex of complacency into which the majority of its young people disappear. The most pervasive form of poverty there is not financial: it is a poverty of aspiration and desire. Most young people fail to imagine a future beyond the borders of the township and if they do, lack the desire to drive through the many barriers that stand in their way. Most of them give up well before they are able to create a life for themselves; the kind of life their parents were prevented from having.

I often wondered what was different about those who managed to pull themselves out of the vortex. I knew Khumo had. Though she and Moss still lived in the township, they were able to operate on a bigger stage. Her upbringing had mirrored that of so many around her so I could only guess that it was something inherent, an intelligence both intellectual and emotional, that had given her wings. But perhaps this was also combined with the sense of purpose that her faith and her values gave her, allowing her to rise above the life that the government predestined for her and her kin.

Whatever these rare qualities were, I wondered if Teboho possessed them as well, so that we could find a place to be that didn't compromise us both out of existence.

THE
FIRST PHASE OF THE SOLAR COOKER PROJECT HAD COME TO AN END AND PHASE TWO WAS BEING PLANNED. FROM OUR TWO YEARS OF RESEARCH WE HAD LEARNT SOME FASCINATING THINGS THAT WOULD BE INVALUABLE IN THE SECOND PHASE, THE PRIMARY PURPOSE OF WHICH WAS TO MANUFACTURE SOLAR COOKERS FOR COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION IN SOUTH AFRICA AND POSSIBLY THE REGION.

We were not surprised to find that families had preferences for one cooker over another, but our western upbringings had not prepared us for their reasons. Overall, there was a strong preference for the smaller more manageable cookers, as it was often women who were responsible for cooking. Though the introduction of solar cookers had resulted in more men and boys taking an initial interest in cooking, this had soon waned. It was the women–from teenage girls to grandmothers–who were carrying the cookers out into the sun each day.

We were fascinated by the unfavourable response to what was, technically, the most efficient cooker. This was the one with a perspex lid that came down directly onto the pot, aluminium wings outstretched, allowing for a tight seal and direct sunlight on the food. This cooker was large enough to hold a number of pots but still light, with its aluminium frame. The families explained that if the contents of their pots were on show to the neighbours, they soon found that there were more visitors on the day they cooked meat than on the days without. Culturally, it was impossible to refuse visitors a plate of food if they arrived at mealtimes and so this had created a very awkward dynamic in the community, putting unwanted stress on the important social networks that poor communities used to sustain themselves.

We knew that families borrowed when times were tough, not from banks but from other families. These families were happy to oblige, as it created a social insurance policy for them when the tables were turned. In this way, families within communities wove a sophisticated web of indebtedness that somehow managed to sustain them all. Our project had added a variable into that fragile web, causing it to strain and groan. The number of times a week a family could afford meat was an indicator of relative wealth in many poor communities and to place this on show for any passer-by to see was not desirable for families and simply too tempting for their poorer neighbours. We were fascinated by this dynamic and reluctantly put a black mark against that model of cooker, despite its superior technical performance.

Despite all the sophisticated German technology and inventiveness, it was the simple South African design that the majority of families– including my own–preferred. It was light, easy to use and had no complex parts that would be difficult to source and repair. Unbeknown to the families, it would also be the cheapest to manufacture and distribute. The fact that it took a little longer to cook the food did not outweigh its other benefits in the minds of its users. Although they were time poor in terms of tasks that required their daily attention, preparing food an hour or two earlier than normal was no burden, especially in light of the saving in time and money.

Richard and I few out to Frankfurt armed with this information and our bulging reports to work with the Germans to plan phase two. We few economy class to Europe knowing, as the large man on my right who had already colonised the armrest and half of my seat began snoring, that the Germans had flown out to Africa business class.

When we arrived bleary-eyed after the overnight fight, our two German colleagues were there to meet us, waving enthusiastically at the gate. I wished for nothing more that a shower and a bed, but was told with great excitement that they had managed to secure a visit to the Solar Research Centre only a two-hour drive from here and we would be able to visit a large open cut mine on the way back. Richard, who appeared to be able to sleep standing up, responded with the required enthusiasm while I slipped in behind him out of view of our hosts, knowing my face was an open book and likely to betray me.

When we were finally dropped off at our hotel nine hours later I dragged myself sulkily to my room, only to discover that it was so small that if I wanted to unpack, I would virtually have to take my bag into the hallway to open it. I had cruel and ungrateful flashbacks to searching the hotels of Pretoria for the most comfortable accommodation for our funders just over two years before. I grudgingly reminded myself that they had flown us out here at the project's expense to allow us to influence its next phase and I should be glad for the opportunity. While this was all true, I still found the politics of aid an eye-opener.

We spent the next five days in intense discussions with the Germans, developing a plan for phase two. Their government favoured a planning tool called the logical framework, a template that required the intellect of a laser physicist and the patience of a saint to implement it. I remember having to take deep and purposeful breaths on more than one occasion when I ended up in a cul-de-sac of an argument with a German member of the team over the semantics of an English word. I wanted to scream, ‘I've been speaking English for thirty-three years; I think I can judge the appropriateness of that word with more authority than you'. Richard, seeing I was about to blow, would often step in to negotiate an alternative wording lest I destroy the funding relationship altogether.

We ate lunch every day in the nearby cafeteria which was a large, standard affair with seating for a couple of hundred bureaucrats. On our fourth day, I queued up to select my meal as I had every other day, before making my way, full tray in hand, to the table where our party sat. On this day, whether there was water on the floor or whether my shoes were at fault I don't know, but I felt myself suspended momentarily above the hard tile floor, each ingredient of my meal airborne, with all eyes upon me. A heartbeat later, I lay sprawled across the floor, my food scattered about like a Salvador Dali painting. After a few seconds, the silence that had hung about me like a cloak disappeared and everyone went back to their lunchtime conversations without really skipping a beat. I lay there for a moment, trying to take in what had happened. Then my dear Kurt suddenly appeared at my elbow and helped me gingerly to my feet. My hip and elbow stung as if they were on fire, but it was the humiliation that really burnt me. If it weren't for the reaction of those around me, I would have laughed after falling fat on my face in a crowded cafeteria. But I saw that everyone was wishing the embarrassment away, ignoring both me and my misadventure as if we did not exist.

In that moment, I wanted to go home. I felt that in Africa such a thing would never have happened, that I would have been surrounded by a thousand helpful hands ready to lift me to my feet, apologising that such an event had occurred, whether it was their fault or not. As I pondered this, Kurt reappeared with a replacement of the meal I had so inelegantly lost and led me to the table with my other colleagues.

After a week in Germany, I was very glad to be home. We had finally agreed to the structure and funding for the next phase of the project and a contract engaging our services for phase two would follow shortly.

Richard and I had other projects that also needed attention. We had been working together for several months to evaluate a water and sanitation project in rural schools out near Kruger National Park. The test schools had only pit toilets for their students and relied on water delivered by government trucks sent from the provincial capital, Nelspruit. The problem was that the drivers often sold their load to households on the road to the schools for a few extra rands, leaving the schools at a distance from Nelspruit without water, sometimes for months on end. We were evaluating a project that sought to address this problem by installing rain water tanks. We were also testing a pit toilet design with improved ventilation in these schools.

I had another water project, this one run by a non-government organisation called Mvula Trust. We were experimenting with incorporating ‘rural participatory methodologies' into the design and implementation of water projects; the solar cooker project had taught me the importance of accurately mapping the complex relationships between families, communities and natural resources.

I was also delighted to be working with Colleen again. She had made a huge impact on me with her coaching work during the solar cooker project and a strong friendship had emerged between us. I realised she was becoming the mentor Fiona had been when I lived in 'Maritzburg–a clear and steady voice on whom I could rely for both wisdom and the hard truth. Colleen had also become a sounding board as I thought through the issues in my marriage. A few years earlier, she had divorced a man who was well known and loved in the development community in southern Africa, causing everyone to question her actions. But of course, marriages are private and complex affairs and those on the outside of them can never really know what happens behind closed doors. Colleen and I talked a great deal about the dynamics between husbands and wives: what we give, what we take and why we stay. Not surprisingly, we saw similar patterns play out in the communities whose dynamics we were being asked to study.

Richard had also given me another project from the Department of Minerals and Energy. They wanted to understand the value chain from manufacture through to point of sale of all non-electric stoves in the country. This project saw me visiting factories and remote retail outlets in every corner of South Africa, noting down prices, mark-ups and distribution mechanisms of paraffin, coal and gas cookers. It was with some pride that I said I knew more about this topic than any other person alive; the obvious question from my colleagues was: ‘Who, outside policy makers, would want to?' This project won the ‘short straw' award in the office for two years running and was, as Richard liked to point out, designed to keep me humble.

Work was full of travel, laughter, challenges, friendships and hard work and I was still enjoying every moment of it. Teboho had left the Council of Churches and was employed as a sociologist in the same engineering company that had partnered with us on the solar cooker project. Paul, who often travelled with Marlett and I to the test sites, had now become a colleague and close friend of Teboho as well.

My favourite story from Teboho's social impact assessment work with his new company was about a housing project in the Northern Province. A mine had commissioned alternative housing to be built for a community in compensation for a new mining project on their land, yet they were refusing to take ownership of the homes. Teboho was sent in to help the company understand the issues and shift the gridlock. While it would obviously have been preferable to have made use of his skills prior to the building of the houses, he was quickly able to get to the bottom of the problem. He explained in a meeting with the project managers that the corridors weren't wide enough.

‘They don't want to accept brand new homes because the corridors aren't wide enough?' asked an exasperated executive.

‘That's right. They say that they were very clear about what they wanted, but the building contractor didn't meet the specifcations', Teboho replied calmly.

‘Why do they need such wide corridors anyway?'

‘For coffins. When a family holds a funeral, they have to be able to move the coffin in and out of the lounge room. Funerals are always held in people's homes, with the coffin there for the vigil the night before. It's an important part of community life and because the corridors are too narrow, they can't accept the houses.'

The development and reconstruction process in South Africa was going to take some time. It was a new phase in our country's history and everyone was learning, after generations of separation, how to get along.

One of the agreements Teboho and I had made with the move to the thatched house was to spend more time doing things together as a family. With this in mind, we bought a tent and took the kids to a few of the game reserves within a three-hour drive of Jo'burg.

My favourite trip was to Pilanesberg National Park, just next to Sun City. Camping is a popular pastime in the Afrikaans-speaking community and we knew we would be putting ourselves under the microscope again–but we were unwilling to let their attitudes stop us from enjoying the country. Nevertheless, we chose a camping spot in a secluded corner, far away from other campers and the amenities but providing us with a little shelter from staring eyes. As it was the first time we had pitched the tent, it took us well over an hour to work out which pole went where until the tent finally stood, resembling a new born antelope, as it quivered before finally finding its feet and deciding to stay up.

Chaba and Mello were incredibly excited, running in circles around our new campsite. Mello, keen to get the adventure started, was offering to set up our kitchen table and fetch sleeping bags, so Teboho channelled her energies into tasks that she could manage. Soon everyone had a job and the campsite took shape just as darkness fell. Not long after, the welcome smell of meat and onions on the
braai
swept across us as Teboho got supper going. We sat balancing plates on our laps while the last of the wood burnt away, and I felt cocooned by the night in one of the rare moments we had shared together as a family of four. Later, in the tent, with sleep escaping me in the humidity, I allowed the favour of contentment to roll around in my mouth like a favourite sweet, as the sounds of our sleeping children accompanying the crickets.

The next morning, we were up before dawn. We wanted to be the first through the gates at six, having been told this would allow us the best game viewing of the day. As we drove slowly down the road beyond the main gate, the park opened out, offering a dozen different directions to explore. We stayed on the main road, the only car in sight, having decided to head down to the lake in the hope that the game would make the same decision.

I was awestruck by what I saw–a scene surely akin to the garden of Eden. There were herds of zebra, buck, giraffes, warthog, rhino and, as we rounded the bend, elephants, all making their way down to drink. I have never before or since seen animals congregate in such numbers, as if this was how they behaved in the absence of humans. Wherever I turned my head, my vision was filled with animals on the move, the early morning light intensifying the richness of the browns, oranges and greens all around. Though it felt as if time was standing still, the moment didn't last and within twenty minutes, the animals had disappeared back into the bush. Even the colours returned to their normal hues as the sun rose higher and struck the valley below. This was the Africa I had dreamt of as a child and while the reality had proven to be much richer than my own imaginings, I was deeply grateful to have been given this moment in which my childhood fantasy came to life.