Slowly I drive into the Township, following the last few paces of the Youth Day procession which marched through Swellendam earlier, making a start to todays events. I have arranged to meet with Aldo here, to show our faces and thus our support.
Parking up, I make my way to the Rugby field where the throng of people seem to be congregating. There is a good turn out considering the weather, we are now in the throws of a South African winter, which by all accounts is fairly mild but today is what my Mother would describe as 'dreek' - grey filled sky with light precipitation.
Feeling a little of a spare fart at a party, I scan the group in search for Aldo. Errrr no joy, OK try and look inconspicuous. Again a little hard as only white woman in a sea of colour. Thankfully I am befriended by a little English speaking chap from the local hotel, but as soon as a conversation is struck he has to leave for the start of his shift. Still no Aldo to be found, and no answer from cell.
Meanwhile the proceedings started, with soft drinks and a bakkie load of oranges being distributed amongst the children, whom huddle around the dustbins peeling and sucking at their dose of Vitamin C. Had oranges been picked to supply a small country or had a larger number of attendees been expected, I don't know, but either way there was a massive surplus of oranges. With delight, the children made the most of opportunity, oranges were collected by the armful, outer garments removed and packed, even trousers, the owner still in them, were bulging with the fruits until the very last orange was gone.
Moving onto the community hall, everyone is packed into the rows of seats already assembled for presentations from speakers on the dangers of drugs. Like a troublesome teenage, I position myself right at the back of the room listening to the excitable debate in 'Afrikaans', praying I would not be asked to participate. Seated, I become aware of a figure stood over me, looking to my left I see a traditional elderly coloured woman, weathered skin, her clothes worn, an ununiformed mix of colour and pattern. Being the good citizen that I am, I stand up and insist in over exaggerated signs that she should sit. Reluctantly she sits, patting my arm with gratitude, and then promptly orders some of the youths congregating the back to find me a chair.
Nearly two hours of debates in a foreign language ensued, concluded by each attendee been given a dish of pasta and meat served in a small polystyrene pot.
Finishing my food, I take the empty container, and that of my newly found friend (we are now trying to communicate with her English at zero and my broken Afrikaans, extremely limited) and move to the front to the existing pile of empties, weaving through the children which are now racing around the hall, the chairs stacked to the sides. I feel a tug at my shirt and turn to find a small distraught boy, tears flowing, he dramatically covers his face with one arm and points the other to a group of larger boys. One of the boys is hitting the others with a rolled newsletter which has been distributed earlier.
Have they been hitting him with the offending newsletter or stolen his copy, it was difficult to deduce. I take his hand, dispose of my empties on the table in front of me and lift him onto my hip, returning to the back of the room. There I find another copy of the newsletter, I give it to my new companion, who peruses it as if it were the morning newspaper, gently I settle him down on the floor and he is off........ seemingly quite happy. I turn to find myself in an emotional embrace with the elderly lady, her jesturing and excitably speaking in Afrikaans between hugs, and then she is gone.
Telling the tale to Ben at Marloth later that day, the events, although in a sense are trivial and circumstantial, leave me feeling a little warm and fuzzy, and although obviously disappointed to be left in the lurch by Aldo, I am also grateful for his absence for it lead me to experience so much more.
