Jonathan Field - Maker of Random Stuff

Easter, unlike the other holidays that have passed since I got here, is celebrated by most. In the past day or two we’ve noticed the town clearing out as people go on vacation. When we meet folks they ask us about our Easter plans, which it turns out are not many. But we are going to a little non-Easter party today at a Hindu family’s house.

I walk over to the trailer at around 1PM, and instead of taking the normal street route, I try to take a footpath that leads behind their yard. From the trailer you can often see people crossing beyond the fence near the railroad tracks, and I search out that route. But the path I take only leads down a gravel street to a dead end. I do get to the edge of the yard, and I can see the trailer, but there’s an electric fence, so I just walk back and use the street.

I sit and chat with Alan & Donna for a while, about a depressed local kid they know, about how people justify theft when they’re poor.

The depressed kid is an anomaly here. As I’ve mentioned before, despite the difficulties, people here seem reasonably happy. This kid has a dark outlook, though. He’s convinced himself that his family hates him and though he lives in an attached room, he avoids them as much as possible. It’s not possible to really know if his family is as bad as he says, or if it is all in his head. Alan knows the kid because as a student he stole one of the computers and Alan retrieved it.

Theft is so common here it is easy to just shake one’s head in disdain. But I know from my own experience that otherwise good people can adapt and justify their morality as circumstances change. There was a point in the distant past where I felt financially hopeless. Though I was still living well thanks to the generosity of those around me, I felt like I might never be self sufficient. During that time I made justifications for a brief foray into shoplifting. I told myself that the items were small, and that I would only do it at big stores that could handle a small loss. So I convinced myself that it wasn’t really that bad. I only did it a handful of times, and later as my fortunes improved I regained my healthier sense and stopped.

Though I would preach that one should not be degraded by one’s environment, I admit it’s not always easy. I’m not trying to justify theft or anything like that, but rather remind myself that just because someone does something wrong doesn’t mean they’ll always do it, or that they are fundamentally flawed. All this is just to say that I think Alan’s general attitude of tolerance and forgiveness with people, tempered with good judgement of course, is the right way to handle it.

I borrow a CD of choral folk harmony that I’ve heard Alan playing. I find it interesting, appealing, and different than anything I’ve heard in a long time. It reminds me of singing madrigals back in high school. I rip the CD… which some might call stealing.

Then for the first time, we head over to the Indian portion of town. The Indian township is called Peacevale, and has a substantially more upscale feel to it than Sibongile. It doesn’t look much different than the white portion of town. A few Zulus have moved into the area too. We spot some black kids playing soccer in their yard, and down a ways further we interrupt a game of street cricket being played by some Indian kids.

We pull up to a two story white stucco house, the garage is open and a handful of men are in there talking. We park in the large driveway and approach. Alan and Donna introduce me to a couple people, then head up the front stairs to greet some more folks they know. I head over to the garage.

Inside I say hello to the fellows; there’s probably about six of them, in their forties and fifties I would imagine. I explain my relation to Alan and tell them a bit about what we’re doing here. I am offered a scotch and water, which I take. A spicy deep fried whole fish is on a nearby folding table, and I am encouraged to have some. I break a bit off with my hands and eat; it is delicious… reminiscent of both Cajun and Indian food. The scotch and water isn’t bad either.

A few of the guys tell me they work in construction. They obviously work in the sun a lot; they are darker in complexion than many of the Zulus I meet. They quickly turn the topic to politics and the troubles in the country. They seem fairly pointed about their complaints and when I try to be optimistic they eye me with some suspicion. Alan comes over a bit later and the topic turns to local construction methods.

After a bit I head upstairs and inside. There is much family around; the men were mostly out in the garage but the ladies are mostly up here. The younger ones are chatting and watching television, the older ones are working in the kitchen. Apparently they are having a party today in remembrance of a relative that died last year. Despite the sad occasion, everyone seems happy.

I sit down with Donna and Malini, the lady of the house. It seems most of the others have eaten already, but they are bringing food out for us. Within a few minutes they lay out an absolutely huge dinner: lamb curry, chicken curry, sausages, rice, roti. Like the Zulus they also eat with their hands. At first they bring out a bit of silverware for the whiteys, but we refuse and instead join them in eating with our hands.

One of the construction guys comes up and sits down to eat as well. He is a Indian man in his forties, blackened by the sun, with thick black hair and a full moustache. His eyes are yellowed and he speaks with passion about everything as we eat.

The food is wonderful: home cooked, spicy and rich. I eat far too much, and after I’m done, I fall under the first food coma that I’ve had since I got here. I slouch down in my chair and listen to folks talking.

Alan has described the project to the construction guy. The construction guy asks how we make money. Alan explains that we don’t make any money; that in fact it costs money. The construction guy is incredulous, “but how do you get paid?” Alan explains that they are retired and that they do it for fun, but the construction guy seems to think it is crazy. Alan says, “well, just think of it this way: we could either buy ourselves a Mercedes, or we could do this for ten years. I think this is a better deal.”

At some point we talk about how much people get paid for things in the area. We are told that the house help are generally paid 20 rand a day, or about 3 dollars. I am surprised that it is that low, and I say that we have been paying a fellow who works with us (Zenzo) about 50 rand a day. The construction guy is shocked by this, “You should pay him 20 rand. Skilled workers maybe get 30 rand, but unskilled he should get 20.” “But he knows how to work the computers,” I offer. “No. Only 20 rand,” he says firmly.

I tell him that Zenzo has applied for a job cleaning at the hospital and that if he gets it he’ll be getting around 100 rand a day. The construction guy scoffs at this. “If he could get 100 rand a day at the hospital, then I should quit my job now and go work at the hospital too!” I decide I’d best not go down that road. I tend to think that Zenzo is right about the salary, but what do I know. And I certainly don’t want to tell this guy he’s been working for lousy pay for the past twenty years.

Amal, the head of the house comes in. He’s a friendly looking older fellow; thinning hair with glasses. He worked at a car parts supplier for nearly his whole adult life, until they let him go a couple years ago. In fact, the last time Alan & Donna saw him, he was terribly depressed and they were worried for him. But today he is in good spirits. He tells me that getting laid off turned out to be the best thing that ever happened. His family has risen to the occasion and now he is retired and really enjoying life.

“I never had trouble with the white managers,” he tells me, “but when the Indians took over they let me go so they could hire their own family members.”

He seems very happy, though. He says he prayed a lot, and that he eventually came to be at peace with it all. He offers to let me look into the prayer room. It is a doorway off the dining room with a little bell hanging from the frame. I don’t step inside, but I look and see the clean tiled floor and the shrine in the corner with statues of the Hindu gods. “I would meditate and pray in here, sometimes for hours, to find peace and serenity,” he says.

Almost as quickly as when talking to whites, the conversation gets onto politics; corruption in the government, denial over crime and HIV, affirmative action problems, things not getting done right. Always trying to be an optimist, I point out that it takes time, and that there is a lot of work to be done. I mention that America wasn’t stable 15 years after the revolution, and how the civil war probably looked to outsiders like we were falling apart. I don’t know if my sentiments are soothing or annoying or totally irrelevant. Probably the latter.

There is talk about there being too much solidarity in politics, with blacks not being critical enough of other blacks. I give the example that in Zimbabwe many blacks were rising up in rebellion against their corrupt black government.

But it is true that there could be higher standards. I agree too much solidarity is a bad thing; like when some Zulus back Jacob Zuma because he is Zulu, regardless of the questionable things he’s done. Or like when some Christians back Bush because he professes to be Christian, regardless of the questionable things he’s done. I want to believe that merit is more important than group membership.

Malini brings out some wonderful desert treats as we talk. Though I’m really too full already, I can’t resist trying some. They are unique little homemade cookie creations; my favorite is a soft chocolate coconut ball.

There is some talk about taxis, and how they are going to outlaw the little sixteen seater combis they use now, and mandate larger buses with, I believe, twenty two seats. Ostensibly this will improve road safety, but there is some questioning of this logic.

Alan tells us an amusing story about taking a taxi in Kenya. This was many years ago when his sister, my aunt Alison, was staying there. He turned down a ride offer and instead decided to take a taxi into Nairobi to see what it was like. The taxi was so crowded that he literally had to crouch forward against the seat in front of him, right above but not quite sitting in some lady’s lap. As they drove along he could tell there were some people making comments about him, as if they found it amusing. Finally someone said in English “so, how does it feel to have your ass in her face?” and the other passengers laughed. Alan shrunk a bit in embarrassment, and they teased him a bit more, about how he wanted to see what it was like with the locals and how did he like it now? He felt fairly uncomfortable and embarrassed by the time they got where they were going, with the locals having a bit of fun at his expense. After they all disembarked however, he went to the driver to pay his share. The driver told him that there was no need to pay: one of the other passengers had already covered his fare.

At this point Guru comes back. Guru is a Hindu guru. I’m not sure if it is just his title, or also his name, but they use it as his name. “Excuse me Guru, could you pass the salt?” I saw him briefly when I was coming in and he was going out, but now he is back and he sits down with us. He has a bright young face, though I imagine he’s in his forties. His head is shaved to very short, like my own. He is wearing a full length light pink robe with a colorful sash. He smiles almost constantly and speaks with great animation. I learn that he is not only a religious leader, but also a dance instructor.

He joins in the political talk. He says that the Indians in South Africa are always caught in the middle: before they were not white enough, now they are not black enough. Despite his jovial presence, he seems downright pessimistic about how things are going and has some strong criticism of the national administration.

He is such an amusing contrast to what I would expect from a guru: he tells us how he goes to the HIV centers to console people and give them some hope, but then says with a cringe that he feels like he’s lying to them when he tells them things will be alright.

He was born in South Africa. He is negative about the future of things here, but he says that it is his home and he will never leave. He tells me of visiting India for the first time, and how when he got there he thought it was all terrible and backwards. He tells me of how he was bathing in the Ganges river and he saw a human forearm and hand float by… the unburnt remains from a cremation upstream. The sight made him ill, yet he saw others drinking from the water not far away.

Oh, speaking of corpses in the water: Donna pointed out in the local paper that despite what the rumors said, there was no corpse found in the reservoir the first week I was here. The funny taste that week was caused by a broken pump: they had to use a backup water source to meet demand and it required extra chlorine.

Guru tells us the story of how he was saved by an elephant once. He had helped heal an injury on the elephant’s trunk. Later when he was fasting, he had not had enough water and had passed out from dehydration. The same elephant brought him some water.

He mentions the movie “Water”, which is about the horrible treatment of widows in India. I remember the film, and thought it was great. I ask him if he feels it was accurate. “Yes,” he says, “very accurate. It is terrible what they do to the widows.” I wonder if this dissent from the general Hindu practice is common among gurus.

Guru asks Alan about South Africa: “Where do you see us in 10 years?” Alan says that his biggest concern is the high birth rate, and how he sees a population bubble coming up stream through the schools. The schools and the job market are already overloaded, and he wonders what will become of all these kids that are coming up now. Then Alan asks Guru, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

“I will be in the streets, with an AK-47″ replies Guru. We laugh, and he says he is joking, but then says that he really does think that the country is on a downward spiral towards chaos.

Guru is a friendly and talkative fellow. He homes in on me. He asks what I think of South Africa. I tell him I think it is exciting and great, that there are so many challenges but so much to love. “You will only remember the bad things about South Africa,” he tells me with a laugh. I disagree, and tell him so, “I’m actually a pretty optimistic person. I tend to remember the good things.”

“Are you religious?” he asks. “No,” I reply. “Are you an atheist?” he asks. Alan laughs at this. He and I often wonder how forthcoming we should be with our beliefs here. We don’t want to be spoilsports, but we don’t want to be dishonest either. Usually we just try to avoid the topic.

“Well,” I say, “I don’t really like the term atheist because it only tells you what someone doesn’t believe, not what they do believe. And I do believe a great many things.” “Do you believe we were made in God’s image or anything like that?” Guru asks. “No,” I reply. He smiles, “so you’re an atheist.”

Guru tells me that he thinks atheists believe in the self. He says that he knows many atheists who exhibit the positive traits that religious people try to exhibit.

I tell a story about how even as an atheist I was able to relate on topics of religion with my grandfather, Anthony Freni, a pentecostal minister. I started realizing I was becoming an atheist around the age of 18 or so, and I wanted to be honest with people close to me about my beliefs, but at the same time I realized it would probably hurt some of them. So I drew a line between my parents’ and my grandparents’ generation: for example, I figured that with my mom we had a long time to talk about it and work things out so I would be honest with her. But my grandfather was so old I felt that telling him something like that would just be hurtful and couldn’t possibly bring about anything good before he passed on (which he did in 2001).

So when I would talk with my grandfather, and he would bring up God, I would just go along with it. But I did a little translation in my head: whenever he said “God”, I would replace it with “my ideal self”. “God loves you”, he would say. “Yes,” I would say, and think, “my ideal self loves me.”. “God knows what is right for you, and wants you to follow him” he would say. “Yes,” I would say, and think, “my ideal self knows what is right for me and wants me to follow”. It worked very well, and helped me to understand how others might see God and how I could relate.

Guru seemed to like the story, and tells me that it is a very Hindu way of looking at things, as the Hindus don’t see a separation between God and self. He says that believing as I do, he imagines that I believe strongly in self-reliance.

I agree that I do, but then I follow up that I also think that we underestimate our debt to the community: that we all contribute to the team, and that the whole is much greater than the sum of the parts. We are what we are only because of the larger network of which we are part.

I later learn that the African concept of “ubuntu” lines up closely with this philosophy of mine. The Zulu describe it nicely as “A person is a person because of other persons”.

Alan talks about his beliefs too. About how he sees himself as just being a part of this amazing ongoing thing called life. And even though he will die, life, which he contributes to, will go on. And it gives him a sense of peace in accepting his own death.

Guru tells us “there is no conversion in Hinduism. No evangelism. You could come to a Hindu church as an atheist, and be welcome, and we would not try to change your mind or your beliefs.” “That’s probably why there are fewer Hindus than Christians or Muslims,” Alan offers. A bit later Guru tells us, “the Hindus never went to war against anyone.”

It is Easter, children back home are eating candy eggs, and I am having a light discussion of philosophy and religion with a Hindu guru. I don’t remember when, but at some point during the after-dinner talks I zoned out a bit. As I zoned out the Jesus Jones song “Right Here, Right Now” played through my head. And I felt very connected to those words: “…there is no other place I’d rather be”. I do feel lucky, terrifically lucky, to be alive and aware here and now, at this time and place.

Another phrase comes through my mind, “handfuls of joy”. We’re all going to die. This is all we get. I just want to believe that each person gets a few handfuls of joy before they go.

I’m driving to Joburg tomorrow, to pick up Sophie.