Mary Robson

Constitution Hill

Tuesday August 21st 2007

The Guide Book says:

The ramparts of the Old Fort were built by Paul Kruger in 1896-99 to protect the ZAR (Zuid Afrikaanse Republiek) from the threat of British invasion. and to keep watch on the miners flocking to find gold in the village below. Reverting to a jail after the South African War, all male prisoners passed through the foreboding tunnel beneath the ramparts, but only whites were held in the Old Fort itself.

I went there on a hot, bright morning. It is near Hillbrow, so not a place you can stroll to, so Charlotte dropped me there. I ended up in a Guided Tour with three white, German-speaking women who pointedly announced that they were from North Johannesburg. I was curious about this and asked Charlotte about it later. She thought that perhaps they had come from Namibia.

Our guide was called Precious (later, she told me her preferred Xhosa name, but said that no one used it). She told us that the tour takes at least an hour and a half, whereupon the ladies asked if we could do it in an hour. I politely pointed out that I was in no hurry and negotiated that I could return to some exhibits to better appreciate them.

We headed for the Women's Prison. I thought two of the ladies were au fait with The Struggle, and supportive of it, given their positive reactions to the names of some of the white political prisoners written on glass at the entrance. But it soon became apparent that none of them were particularly interested in the prison element of the tour.

In what was the prison yard, Precious asked us to each select a white stone from a dish in memory of those who had been falsely imprisoned and those who had lost their lives fighting for the freedom of their country. We were to walk to another bowl, stand around it together and place our chosen stones amongst those already there and spend a moment in silence. Starting the tour with such a ritual seemed spot on to me. Not only for those who had gone before but also in communion with my fellow travellers. Only one of the ladies picked up a stone. The tallest of the ladies declined to take part at all, and the third said she would 'stand by' as we did it. I was now really curious about their behaviour.

Built in 1910, the women's prison has an oval atrium at its centre. A deceptive space, seemingly airy and congenial but in fact the scene of many indignities meted out to black and white women. This was designated as a 'holy place' where the prisoners could come and pray together but in reality they were asked to line the walls, forbidden to occupy the central space in case they communicated in any way. They were further discouraged by the white warders, who told them that there was someone buried under the floor at the heart of the atrium. Not true, of course...

I couldn't help but think back to our conversations about congenial space. Here was somewhere seemingly with all the physical attributes -natural light streaming in from the arched windows around the balcony; an airy communal space at its centre - but that was utterly tainted by what had happened in it. Any work done here would have to be of a deep, difficult and hopefully healing nature. I imagined one of the Sangoma’s child figures from the Stirring Waters exhibition at its centre.

One exhibit on the balcony was a pair of women’s pants. Precious told us that women were not allowed underwear or sanitary protection until a Norwegian charity provided them. (I'm not sure when, but presumably late in the day. The prison was operational until the mid eighties.) The taller of the three women spoke to me, sotto voce, as the others moved on

“But it is a prison!" she said, clearly implying that this order of hardship should be the rule of the day.

“But there is such a thing as humanity.” I replied.

“So are you telling me that all prisons in Europe weren't like this?” she hissed and strode off. Oh dear. I noticed that she had little metal-tipped bows on the heels of her patent court shoes and that they clicked as she walked.

She was obviously unsettled by the whole experience, tutting one moment and the next telling us

“I am too weak to go in there” when we reached the isolation cells.

The site is a combination of new architecture and the original buildings. The stairwells of the Awaiting Trial blocks have been preserved. Two have been incorporated into the Court building and a further two stand sentinel in the space left by the demolition of the rest of the building. The original yard, where the men were fed and strip searched, is still there. When we reached it, one of the ladies stopped at the top of the steps.

“When are we going to get to the Court? We have another appointment.”

“But this lady” (me, of course) “wants to see everything” said the most conciliatory of the trio. Precious said she would bring me back later, so we trooped back the way we had come, heading for the Constitutional Court. And I buttoned my mouth.

On the way, Precious told us how her own mother had been twice imprisoned here. The first time for trying to go to a shop after curfew, the second for brewing beer during Jo’Burg’s White by Night era – from the late 60s to the early 70s. Precious’s grandmother came to the prison to find her, only to be told that she had been sold as a farm labourer. Her family were oblivious of her eventual release and so she walked the 25-30 kilometres back home to Soweto.

The doors of the Constitutional Court are hand carved with the essential tenets of the new constitution, in all eleven official languages of the country plus sign and Braille. Through them is a foyer supported by slanting pillars and hung with branches of beaded leaves, representing the trees under which village ancestors sat to solve their community’s problems.

The Court itself has a wall built of the bricks salvaged from the demolition of the prison buildings, with a narrow strip of window running through it representing transparency. The new flag is there, as if it were flowing in a breeze. Look again. It is made of beads and wire. The carpet has been woven through with shadows as if from the trees overhead. The eleven judges sit on a bench faced with eleven cow hides, all from the same herd but with different markings, representing the different minds and opinions of the justices. One of those judges is Albie Sach, victim of an assassination attempt when he was in exile in Mozambique and in which he lost an arm. The Court is an intimate space, redolent with meaning.

“So, if I were to come here with a problem, who would pay for it?” asked my tall friend.

“You might have to pay for a lawyer, or if you were poor it would be free”, said Precious, never losing her composure. “Remember this is only for Constitutional cases. So, for example the Tsonga women who want equal rights to their men, because they have to have a king and never a queen. Or that same-sex marriage one, that was decided here.”

“What I don’t understand” said my tall friend, “is how the same-sex marriage got through when most of the judges disagreed with it.”

“Ah well,” said Precious, “the problem is that everyone has rights here.”

“And we should all know what those rights are.”

“I will get you a book about it” said Precious.

“Will I have to pay for it?”

“Of course not. It is free.”

Precious returned to present us with copies of the full Constitution, published in small paperback format.

And then they were gone, off to their appointment. I am glad to have experienced their complex responses. It kept me on my toes, mindful of stereotyping people. I am also glad that I then had some time with Precious. It was something of a treat to have a guide all to myself and we got talking about all manner of things. But everything is pertinent.

Precious had been back to Lesotho, where she was born and had been baptised the day before. She is married with two children

“…girls. I will try for a boy. But I am going to stop at three. I won’t go for number four.”

We talked about relationships and how they have to be worked at. She and her husband have been married for eleven years.

“My church, this church I am with, says I should be watching for a husband. But I have a husband. What do you think?”

“Mmmm. I think you should be wary of people telling you what they think you should do. Do you want to deny your husband? Your children their father?”

‘No, I do not.”

So here we were, two very different women, talking as we strolled back to the men’s yard. She has been a guide for six months and wants to improve her lot, do some office work, get something on her CV. We stayed for a while in what had been the Visitors’ Centre at the prison and is now devoted to Ghandi who was held there in the early 1900s.

“It is Women’s Month, you know… …When I am back visiting home, the older women expect me to do everything, get the water. They use the water for frivolous things. When visitors come to the house, they just make a look and I am expected to do everything. Because I am the wife of the brother.”

Beyond the yard and the Visitors’ block were more cells, communal and others for isolation. Number Four. Ex prisoners have been back to the prison and participated in arts workshops there. The men have made sculptures out of the grey blankets. One of a tank, another of a sofa. I found these deeply moving, that the men had returned to the same cell and created such images of violence and relaxation; of struggle and domesticity, from the blankets that had been the currency of depravation.

These communal cells had been the stomping ground of the bosses – those prisoners who had been there longest were top of the heap. They got the most blankets. They slept the farthest from the toilets. They procured sexual favours. They might get some food that was worth eating.

The rotten system that prevailed in the communal cells of Number Four was the making of the authorities that ran the prison. Precious and I talked of how it mattered not what people had done but that they were treated with dignity. Of course, the majority of prisoners under apartheid shouldn’t have been there at all. When Mandela visited, he declared

It is said that no one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones and South Africa treated its imprisoned African citizens like animals.

Prisoners weren’t allowed to look up. They were forced to walk with heads bowed, hands clasped behind. Mandela’s quote is placed over a walkway. You have to look up to read it.

A Week in Johannesburg

Sunday August 19th, 2007

A week in Johannesburg…

Here we are, a week after we arrived, pulling our thoughts together after an extraordinary time. The last few days have felt more like a year and have been stuffed full of experiences, with barely a moment of conscious time to write a jot. So, we have made it to an internet café to log on and post a mega-entry to the blog.

Saturday August 11th, and Sunday August 12th, 2007

Dawn and I are staying in a house in Melville, a buzzy , touristy and relatively safe area. Having said that, we were visited by Saba, our friendly neighbourhood armed response guard, at 10.30pm on Friday, our first night here. He wrote our names on a chitty, gave us his number and told us to ring him if anyone came through the windows. We slept soundly in the knowledge that he and his colleagues would come running.

Charlotte Schaer, the director of CDP and our host, suggested that we visit Johannesburg Art Gallery (JAG). The gallery is situated next to Joubert Park, one of the relatively few open public spaces in Johannesburg, but considered to be one of the most dangerous, a centre of drug dealing and worse…to view Dungamanzi (Stirring Waters), an exhibition of Tsonga and Sangaan art. It was an array of mid to late twentieth century headrests, staffs, figures, puppets, medicine gourds, Sangomas’ attire and snuff containers; ritual objects and large beaded objects and cloths of contemporary scenes. There was a spectacular cloth depicting Mandela which from a distance looked like antique gold metal embroidery. On closer inspection it was ‘drawn’ with rows of safety pins.

What made ithe exhibition different was that it held and explained the use of the objects, largely because of a link with Billy Makhubele, and his family. Many of the diviner’s objects and beaded clothes were collected by him, and the more contemporary cloths made by his family. Here was their history giving personal and political context to the bigger history of Southern Africa.

Billy was born in 1947, the year before the Nationalist Party took charge and implemented its policy of apartheid. He survived countless difficulties and survived by becoming a sculptor, making wire bicycles. He originated the style of wire sculpture that can be seen everywhere today.

He began to make a living by collecting and sourcing traditional objects and selling them to museums and collectors, saving the heritage that he loved.

It was an inspirational exhibition, plunging us in to the history and cultures of this place. It is great to have seen it right at the very start of our time here. The exhibits were made in community as ritual and ceremonial objects, or as personal responses to political issues. They haven’t lost their real meanings because of the testimony of the Makhubele family, all the more remarkable given the era of apartheid.

Heather Cranston and Susan Richmond, the King Edwards’ School teachers, arrived late on Saturday and joined us for coffee on Sunday morning to begin to plan our week. We didn’t know how many participants to expect, but came up with a serviceable scheme for Monday.

The afternoon was given over to a tour of his beloved Johannesburg by Joseph Gaylard, a local artist who runs The Drill Hall arts project.

The Drill Hall

We ascended fifty floors of the Carlton Tower and saw Jo’burg all around us. It affords one of those rooftop panoramas of a city, like the Eiffel Tower. But this one is different. Carlton Tower is a high rise building in Hillbrow, a rough, edgy, over populated inner city neighbourhood. You learn pretty quickly to keep the car doors locked and your bags on the floor, out of sight. Never wear your camera around your neck and avoid using your cell phone in the street.

Joseph has lived in Jo’burg for 5-6 years, not far from Hillbrow, and is unashamedly besotted with it. He gave an informed, unsentimental view of the place that perfectly accompanied the sights laid out before us. This city is only one hundred and twenty years old. Buildings have been built and razed and built again at an alarming pace and for all sorts of reasons. We could see that there were very few open public spaces. We could see the reef of gold that had given birth to Johannesburg and that runs through it like a scar. We could see the great wealth of the gated communities to the North. We could see the small box like houses of Soweto in the distance. It was impossible to separate what we were seeing from the history of the place.

You pretty quickly start sponging up enormous amounts of information from what you see, hear and read. Everything is pertinent:
The men and boys selling bin bags, coat hangers, children’s toys at road junctions are inevitably from Zimbabwe. There are perhaps 4 million refugees from Mugabe’s regime in South Africa. Some have swum crocodile infested rivers to get here. Some didn’t make it.

“People get eaten trying to get to our country” said Charlotte.

Joseph continued the tour, taking us to the Hector Pietersen Memorial Museum in Soweto. It is a beautifully designed building, housing a terrible story told in simple, unflinching black and white detail. About half way round, there is a small cinema showing a 1980 film of the poet Ingoapele Madingoane illegally reading his poem “Africa is my Beginning” to an audience at the Soweto YMCA. An astonishing hand held film of an assured almost conversational performance that left me breathless.

The famous photograph of Hector being carried is, as you would expect, blown up to wall size. In front of it, looking very small, are replicas of the models of machine gun and pistol that the police used to fire on children. Apparently Mbuyisa Makhubo, the boy carrying Hector, left for Nigeria and was never seen again.

Soweto is seemingly endless and felt like a sleepy suburb and a lot safer after having travelled through Hillbrow. People were strolling, Sunday-afternoon visiting each others’ homes. The sense of community forged during the struggle is still palpable.

Monday 13th August

Our first day of work. An early start, with a driver arriving at 7.10 to take us to CDP headquarters in Bertrams. Some lady driver bumped us, waved and drove on. Eagle-eyed Susan took her number and for a while we thought we wouldn’t get to work for 8.00… Happily the car wasn’t damaged so we gave up the chase.

Charlotte had gone to Lusaka to mount an exhibition of the company’s work and to campaign for action against Mugabe’s Zimbabwe, all as part of the Southern African Leaders’ summit. We met Deyana Thomas at the centre who was to be guide and host for our time there.

Nineteen women turned up for the workshop. Some were teachers, some ran their own crèches, a couple were local artists. It wasn’t easy to discern who did what and who knew who – early years education here is very different from the UK model.

The morning started with an urn of Rooibos tea followed by us forming a circle for a call and response song led by Gertie. It was completely natural for everyone to join in. The wave of harmony hit us with a tremendous emotional force. In the space that followed, Doreen said a prayer for the success of the group’s time together.

We began the workshop with introductions, but nothing as threatening as having to talk to the whole group. In pairs and then fours, conversations began. Much laughter ensued, as we swapped lone words of Zulu, Africaans and Geordie. By the time we got to everyone drawing with their eyes closed, hysteria was in the air. Shrieks of laughter set the tone for the week.

Heather and Susan showed their wares. They had got together and brought two wonderful story sacks. They explained the concept of all learning emanating from the story. So, the Old Woman who Swallowed a Fly (great performance by Heather in a mob cap) included plenty of potential cross-curricular activities, eg a matching game, a numeracy game, a song, role play etc.

The task was then for three groups to each make a sack that would be left at the centre and to take away the makings of one for themselves. Not a lot for two and a bit days, then! What we hadn’t bargained for were participants without a shred of cynicism. So passionate and committed to the cause of helping young pre-school children that nothing was too much effort. Everything offered was grasped and learned from and within hours applied back at their bases.

Tuesday August 14th, 2007

Another day, another song. This time we went out of doors in the sunshine. D led an action song. S, the Principal of a Muslim pre-school, said a prayer.

Confusion reigned at one point re who was making what but order appeared out of chaos. It was an interesting dynamic because we very much worked alongside the participants. No one led what was going on. Advice was given and sought. Lashings of praise criss crossed the room. The three groups operated in very different ways. One had a natural leader who delegated the tasks. One was composed of individuals who worked separately. The last eventually discovered democracy.

The atmosphere made for the beginnings of deeper conversations. We could talk as we worked next to each other. We began to learn more of the structures of pre-school education here. D runs a school out of her home. And a crèche in her church. Anyone can set up a crèche – social workers will come to check up on you a couple of months in, but it is a way for women to make money, to feed their own families. The irony is, of course, that it is their equally poor neighbours who are paying for the service, so it is poverty that is fed.

We talked to Di and B, the local artists, about potential outlets for their work. There is no precedent for artists to work in the schools, so we cooked up notions of story-times in the bookshop where Di works, of a mobile art van that would tour shack schools, of a recycled objects centre for play inspired by The House of Children’s Objects back in North Tyneside.

We finished the day with what Deyana termed “The Prawn Thing”. A restaurant curiously named Tsunami does “The Prawn Thing”, but only on a Tuesday. As many prawns as you like for a nominal fee. It was finger-licking delicious.

Wednesday August 15th, 2007

Our taxi driver, Thabo, slept in this morning so we were a little late. He has a cracking sense of humour and can cope very well with us mouthy women making jokes at his expense. He gets us back by constantly pretending to go the wrong way. We laugh a lot.

While we were eating prawns, the women were beavering away at home, making things for their story sacks, involving their children. Some reported working by the light of a candle in a power cut. We were very impressed by the volume and quality of what they had done.

Today began with songs and hilarity. We were out in the yard again, being interrupted by cars as we were between the main gate and the car park. Deyana brought the boogie box out, determined to lead us all in a stirring Chicken Dance. We know it as the Birdy Song. Technology temporarily stopped play, so Dawn taught us all Nisa Nisa, an Inuit lullaby. Just to add to the languages pot. Then we did the Birdy Song anyway. Hysterical.
K led us in a prayer.

Singing featured throughout the day. The ghost of Nisa Nisa kept appearing, sung softly as someone was working. Someone started singing Frere Jacque and then the challenge was on. French, English, Africaans and Zulu versions ensued. And then, a heart stopping moment. N was sitting with her chin in her hand and began to sing Nkosi Sikele Africa. Without a pause and whilst still working, the whole room joined in. Then songs were tumbling out from all sides of the room. Songs we had in common, some we’d never heard but seemed familiar. Unforgettable.

There is something about this singing. It is, in the moment, pure community. Some sing along, some harmonise. Some, like us, hum along as best they know. It is magnetic, pulling everyone into a space that can be intensely emotional and yet boundaried by the song itself. N must have had a reason, a thought, a notion to sing that song then. It most certainly wasn’t to impress us. It wasn’t performance. It is part of the fabric of life.

There was a women’s group working in another room. We could hear them singing. Dawn described the sound as “effortless harmonies soaring skywards”. K told her that it was a prayer:

God has given us a little bit of time
God has given us a little bit of time
God has given us a little bit of time
For we are precious.

We all worked our socks off, sewing, sticking, song writing, laminating, dough making, embellishing, photocopying. And somehow, from somewhere, getting it all together. Relationships were being nurtured. We seemed to move a huge emotional distance in a few hours.

At close to 1.00, we were all ready. The contents of the story sacks were laid out on tables. In turn, Handa’s Surprise, The Hungry Caterpillar and Clever Sticks were told as never before. With trust and gusto and very little rehearsal.

When we were telling Charlotte of the power of those last couple of hours, she commented that it was because we had created the space in which it could flourish. This echoed our long-held belief that congenial space is a vital characteristic of the way we work.

After the tales had been told, we all made a circle around the sound gear and held a focussed conversation. Everyone spoke in turn of something they remembered. The testimony developed a rhythm of its own:

“ I remember playing games with ladies and singing with them”
“ I remember seeing ladies very busy. All of them”
“ I remember the involvement. And the smiles”
“ I remember lots of laughing.”
“ I remember closing my eyes and drawing.”
“ I remember doing the birdy song very very fast”
“ I remember how our teachers were so patient with us.”
“ I remember the resources. I made a lot and I learned a lot.”
“ I remember I was so busy I didn’t even get a biscuit.”
“ I remember to see the end product. This I will never forget.”
“ I remember when I came here. I was sick. I was so impressed because in this workshop we do teamwork.”
“ I remember working together so easy. It was like we know each other for a long time.”
“ I remember the spirit of unity. Thank you to the four ladies who feel at home.”
“ I remember the spirit was so good.”

What feelings were there in the room?

“ I’m crying because I’m happy”
“ Although I delegated, I was so nervous but I was eager to learn”
“ Everyone was so enthusiastic. Very eager and so committed”
“ Brave. From lots of different perspectives.”
“ I was so happy because I learned a lot.”
“ There was lots of confidence in the room”
“I want to mention pride. When I walked in here, the pride on everyone’s faces was wonderful”
“ The sense of unity. In the last twenty minutes we pulled everything together.”
“ I had a panic. I withdrew myself to have a panic attack. Anxious But then I came back.”

What did you learn?

“What I have learned… Since I came here I know that I can make stories interesting for all children. I can even go tomorrow and do it.”

“I have learned that out of one story that you can plan for the whole week. There will be focus. They will be outspoken.”

“I learned that through the story, you can teach the child holistically.”

Why do you do what you do?

“I was sick yesterday and I wanted to be here. Something was driving me to be here. Because it is my love and passion for children and their lives.”

“ and also fulfillment. The money isn’t great. Even for me as a facilitator. But, you know what, I look forward to getting up in the morning and when I come back home I’ve done something… So, you know, money isn’t everything. Fulfilled.”

“And here is a song for that. For our children. Can we do it?

We are here together
We are here for the children
We are here for their future
We are family
We are one

You can’t follow that…

Deyana scooped us up and took us to her home. On the way, provisions were bought and we all cooked a feast together. The feeling of sisterhood continued.

We talked about community and freedom since 1994, how D and her husband felt the first time they voted. The queues were long and it took hours to get to the polling booth. Old and young were there together. No one complained.
Then, neighbours helped neighbours. Where they live now, people are more isolated.

“That was one thing about the townships. Community. We’ve lost that sense of community”

Thursday August 16th, 2007

The Apartheid Museum

We met Deyana at the museum; she was taking the opportunity to make her first visit.
At the ticket office you are issued with a white or non-white card. To enter the museum, you must go through the corresponding door. Deyana remembered and made sense of experiences from her early life as we toured the exhibits. We were there for well over the recommended two and a half hours and left feeling that we hadn’t absorbed everything.

After the clear experience of the Hector Pietersen museum, this felt almost inpenetrably dense. Lots of text, all written in English and often at a neck-cricking height. We couldn’t help but think of this as a nation with eleven official languages – there was little or no interpretation here. So if you couldn’t read English…

The beginning was great – we walked up a ramp peopled by life sized images of contemporary South Africans mounted on mirrored blocks. In niches were images of Bushman wall paintings from the earliest times, reminding us that we are all Africans, through to 18th and 19th century ones showing the coming of the white man chasing gold. Then, a series of memory boxes containing objects charting the personal histories of those same South Africans, descendents of people from all points of the political compass. Their stories were subsequently lost in the maze of information that followed.

There wasn’t a flow through the building. On more than one occasion, we found ourselves in a cul de sac, having to retrace our steps to find the next piece of the puzzle. We were touring in the company of parties of high school children, all born free, since 1994. It would be interesting to know how they found it. We felt saturated with information by the time we got to the 1980s. As Deyana said

“The joy came too late”.

Having said that, this can’t have been an easy task and is perceived as a work in progress. We are going to email our constructive feedback to the museum.

In the early evening, we went for coffee to Nelson Mandela Square. It is one of the few open public spaces in the city, surrounded by an up-market shopping mall and dominated by a huge statue of Mandela. This week it was filled with a temporary structure for some event or other.

We sat in one of the Italian coffee shops that edge it, feeling unsettled by the curiously upper class atmosphere. This was the world of the North of the city and served to remind us of the huge and ever-widening inequality of society here.

Friday August 17th, 2007

The Land of Joy and the Shack School

Nancy, one of the workshop participants, is Principal of The Land of Joy pre-school in Soweto. She began her school in her home, piling up the beds to make room for children to play. We arrived for a visit to a set of low, brick buildings surrounding a courtyard with a covered walkway. The walkway held three hundred children aged between 1 and 6, the whole school, and their teachers. The minute we got out of the car, they erupted in joyous song. We stood there, glued to the spot, and drank it in. Fantastic.

Little boy,
Where are you?
Little girl,
Where are you?
Land of Joy in Soweto,
Come and join us today

This is colour. Yellow!
This is colour. Red!
Colour. Blue!
Colour. Green!
Come and join us today!

Keep up
The good work
And shine!

After they dispersed, Nancy took us on a tour of the classes. In some, 60 happy, confident, nurtured children to a room and not a chair or a table in sight. Heather commented:

“I will never complain again about the lack of resources in my classroom”

Every room was drenched in song. The little ones, standing amongst their cots, danced and sand a bumblebee song.
Older children marched and balanced to
“This is the way to London Town”

The eldest children recited:

“Do you know that children have rights and needs?’

and then proceeded to list their declaration. And to the tune of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”:

In the township, the dusty township, a child is born is born somewhere.
In the township, the dusty township, a child is born is born somewhere.
But whooooooooooooooo will take care of them?

We met the cook and her assistant, cooking fish and rice for lunch. Small flower beds with irises and succulents were being carefully tended by a gardener. Everywhere you looked, something was being nurtured.

And on Nancy’s office wall,

This year I will grow
This year I will focus
This year I will surprise myself
This year I will build
This year I will try something new
This year I will be free
This year I will make changes
This year I will dare and do

We had tea in the walkway. China teacups full of Rooibos with yummy buns on the side. Delicious. Nancy showed us photographs of the school’s progress from her home to the present, pointing out the teachers who have passed away and the elders who take care of their sadly parentless grandchildren. She arranges trips for the elders to recognise their contribution to the community.

The school is open from 6.00am until 5.00pm with transport provided to get the children there. If there are any children left at the end of the day, she takes them to her home until they are collected.

We left with children’s farewells ringing in our ears. Deyana drove us to Freedom Park, one of the settlements created pre 1994 to court voters. It is made up of shacks made from old containers, thin wood, canvas. There is electricity but all water has to be collected from trucks that tour the streets.

We waited in the car whilst Deyana asked Margaret if we could come in and visit her Shack Pre-School. A shipping container with a couple of small windows had been divided into two rooms. The outside was painted with cartoon characters and there was a small climbing frame. We thought the ramp made of a section of drain pipe leading into a bucket in a corner of the yard was water-play but was actually an ingenious junior boys’ toilet.

We were invited in and heard the children recite their numbers and alphabet and days of the week and months of the year, all in English. They sang us songs in Zulu, prompted by a five year old boy in a beany hat.

Dawn and I were last to leave and I told Margaret that she was doing a great job.

“But it is a very hard job”, she said “teaching them a few words of English”

Deyana was brilliant, making warm, non-judgemental connections with Margaret and her assistants. She left determined to provide training, resources and support for her little school.

And all this by midday. Charlotte returned from Lusaka and whisked us off to a late lunch after we helped Deyana set up for her Saturday training workshop.

We ended the week at CDP tired and emotional. Dawn heads for home on Sunday evening. Heather and Susan fly to Cape Town on Monday. We have had reflective conversations over the weekend and begun to plan the next stages of our burgeoning relationship with CDP. Fingers crossed, they will come to the UK in March 2008.

I was going to Port Elizabeth but have changed my plans. There are conversations to be had here – with Charlotte, Deyana, Joseph, Nancy and others which are required listening. So I’m staying here until Thursday, then off to Durban for a couple of days.

Mary and Dawn

A Visit to South Africa...

Nikolai Gogol wrote a letter to his great friend and benefactor Count A.P. Tolstoy. In it there is this nugget of advice:

This is how you should make your voyage: first of all get out of your head all your opinions on Russia, whatever they may be: repudiate the conclusions that you have already drawn; present yourself knowing exactly nothing and travel as though in a new land hitherto unknown to you. In the same way that a Russian traveller arriving in some celebrated European city hurries to see all its antiquities and famous sites, in the same way, with even greater curiosity, after you have arrived in the chief town of a district or province, strive to get to know the sights. They are not in architectural works and antiquities but in people. I swear to you that a man is worth being considered with greater curiosity than a factory or a ruin. Only endeavour to look for him with a drop of brotherly love and you will not be able to tear yourself away from him, he will appear so interesting to you.

In a few days I will be heading to South Africa and I am taking Gogol's advice. Whilst some of my time there is accounted for, activities are sketched in to allow for the unknown, unexpected journeys and new challenges in situations and relationships. I am excited and a bit scared at the prospect.

This Blog will record our experiences there.

I will spend the first 8-10 days with CDP (Curriculum Development Project for Arts and Culture, Education and Training) in Johannesburg, helping to share a skills resource with invited participants - namely, schoolteachers, pre-school practitioners and librarians. It will hopefully prove to be a valuable mutual learning experience as well as relevant to the training needs of the participants. This part of the trip is an informal, exploratory project to compare and share approaches to achieving meaningful practice in arts in health and education, and it may also be the basis for future collaborations.

I won't be alone for the Johannesburg leg of the trip. Dawn Williams, co-ordinator of a national co-mentoring programme from The Sage, Gateshead, and Heather Cranston and Susan Richmond, two specialist early-years teachers in creative arts from St. Edward's School in North Shields are also coming out for the CDP week.

Aside from Nesta, the visit is supported by CAHHM and Arts Council England's Creative Partnerships initiative. CAHHM is also commissioning me to produce an assessment report on the residency to assist the Centre's ongoing research into the health benefits of arts education projects that aim to develop emotional literacy.

I will move to Durban for the final part of the trip, visiting colleagues at the University there and participating in a field trip to the Siyazama project in KwaZulu-Natal, developed through the Department of Design Studies at the Durban Institute of Technology. Set up by Kate Wells in 1997, Siyazama (roughly translated as ‘making a positive difference’) interweaves the health education, life skills and economic development of rural women through the regeneration of traditional bead crafts.




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