Date: March 15, 2008 6:10:34 AM HST

Tuesday, March 11, 2998 – Port Shepstone

Pauline invited me to spend another day with her and of course I jumped at the chance. “We’ve been to Nyandezulu; today we will go beyond.” She meant that we would go deeper into the rural areas west of Port Shepstone; in fact this trip to one of the rural schools would be her first as well. She brought along a map that she had pinched from the Department of Education which located all of the schools in the province as well as the back roads which led to them. “Just in case,” she said, as she threw the rolled-up map onto the back seat.

But first we needed pay another visit to Sfiso, as Pauline had another photo to give him. He greeted us both warmly, but didn’t invite us in – my guess is that he was not yet dressed, as it was still pretty early in the morning. I have a great photo of him which I hadn’t been able to get printed in time, but I will send it to him via Pauline. I am amazed at the delight that people with so little receive from small pleasures like a photo of themselves.

Since we were close to Bhobhoyi, an area I had not yet seen, Pauline decided to take me through it, giving me a history lesson as she drove. Though it went underreported by the western press, a great deal of black-on-black violence plagued South Africa from the late 1980s through the mid-90s, as rival black groups fought each other for power. Ironically, though the groups had a common anti-apartheid goal, they engaged in some of the most vicious fighting among themselves. (For example, the “necktie,” a tire which was draped over the neck of a bound victim, doused with gasoline, then set on fire, was only used in black-on-black violence.)

Bhobhoyi had been one of the most dangerous areas in one of the most dangerous provinces (Kwazulu Natal) during those violent years, as newcomers from the African National Congress (the party of Nelson Mandela) challenged the traditional influence and leadership of the Inkatha Freedom Party. The night frequently brought terror to members of one party or the other – or their families, depending on who had decided to retaliate for the most recent act of violence. The violence continued even after apartheid ended in 1994, culminating in the Christmas Massacre of 1996, in which IFP followers slaughtered outnumbered ANC followers and their families.

I don’t remember how many men, women and children Pauline said were killed or badly wounded on that day (it was difficult to take notes on the bumpy dirt roads we traveled), but the number was significant enough to be called a massacre. Pauline was mayor of Port Shepstone at the time, and because most people – black and white – feared setting foot in Bhobhoyi, she was called on Christmas day to go there to arrange aid and shelter for the survivors, who were so shell-shocked that they were literally speechless.

As poor today as it was back then, what has changed in Bhobhoyi is the agent of death, as AIDS has become the region’s most prolific killer. I could – and probably should – write at least one entry on AIDS and how the leaders and people have dealt with it, but for now I’ll mention that I’ve learned that whenever I see a thin or gaunt-looking person, it’s usually accurate to assume that she or he is infected. Undertakers, say both Pauline and Yunus, are becoming rich. I think it was Nafessa, Mood’s wife who is a physician in Ixopo, who said to me, “I used to go to weddings; now I go to funerals.” Or maybe it was Pauline; or maybe they both said it.

Though it’s the most isolated school I’ve yet visited (the nearest named settlement is Paddock, about ten kilometers away), the dirt roads that lead to Mambhogweni Primary School are in good shape – unless it rains. (Deb and I have been on far worse roads in the American West.) Local women built many of these roads by hand (i.e., with no power equipment, no architectural plans) and continue to maintain them this way. We again met up with a crew of three, who were delighted to have us snap pictures of them.

By the way, I need to correct an error in a previous entry in which I understated the pay that the women earn. The state pays them fifty dollars per month for eight days’ work maintaining the roads. (I think I claimed that they receive five dollars.) And if one dies or becomes incapacitated, her job passes to someone else in their family so that the income continues, a significant benefit in a country with a forty per cent unemployment rate.

We did reach a point at which we decided to consult the map, having come to a fork in the road. A perfect moment for a Yogi-ism, so I explained to Pauline who Yogi Berra was and then quoted him: “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” It cracked her up, and we both laughed a few minutes later when the fork we took came to a dead end.

Despite the initial wrong choice of road, we reached Mambhogweni School rather easily. It struck Both Pauline and me that its eighty-nine students (in grades K through four), against all odds, seemed to be doing well despite dismal physical facilities. The school has two feeding programs for the kids, they are neatly dressed (an achievement, given the amounts of dust they encounter each day), and they appeared to be concentrating deeply on whatever they were studying.

Knowing the principal, Pauline attributed the school’s progress to her strong leadership. The garden that she has planted, for example, takes one’s attention away from the fact that the classrooms, furniture and learning materials leave much to be desired. Ironically, the school appears to be doing so well that Pauline regretfully told the principal that in all good conscience she could not recommend that the school be eligible for a prize of winter meals for students which a private company is offering, given that there are so many children who more urgently need to be fed. (These “well-off” children, I’m sure you all must know by now, are in fact very poor. They are simply not desperate – at least not during school hours.)

We were able to be of some service, however. When we asked the principal for permission to take photos of the school and the children, she not only agreed, she asked us to be the official school photographers so that they could have photos of each class. So as we took photos of each class and of individual students, she went on ahead to get the kids all lined up and ready. I wish I could have photographed the smiles of delight on the children’s faces as they looked into the viewfinder of my camera to view the pictures of themselves.

Remember the Saturday Night Live “Wayne’s World” skit in which Arrowsmith pays a surprise visit to Wayne and Garth’s show? When they realize who has surprised them, they immediately prostrate themselves and chant, “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!” Well that’s kinda like I feel when I’m with Pauline, except that I figure that there must be a nugget of something worthy in my core because I know that she has enjoyed our time together. We have had meaningful conversations, both personal and political, and we enjoy each other’s sense of humor. She knows that I have a deep respect and affection for her.

So as we drove back to Port Shepstone together, I finally felt OK about asking her about her health, and she didn’t brush me off. “Not good,” she said. She explained that she has emphysema, and added, “I should have died years ago.” She’s OK as long as she doesn’t get sick, but she has low resistance to illness, so she tries to stay away from people with colds or the flu. I inconspicuously wiped away a tear as she talked, and again as I said goodbye to this remarkable person. And I have tears in my eyes now as I type this, not only for the sense of loss that I will feel, but for how deeply her absence will affect the lives of so many people who desperately need the help and comfort she provides.