iafrica.com reader Susan Pletts, after reading Bruce Wademan's White boy in Soweto, shares her own positive South African story.

Mnqobokazi is an area in Northern Zululand en route to Mozambique. It's one of the many areas I have visited in my quest to assist emergent Zulu farmers, training them in many different agricultural and business skills. It's a place where you feel the need for a giant dentist fluid extractor to suction the perspiration off your flesh as you teach and it's a place where toilets, as we know them, are simply non-existent.

I distinctly remember my first visit there. It was a matter of exploring land that the GPS had not recorded, where no signboard seduced me into the training venue and where I was to spend a week training HIV/Aids TB Clinic patients in how to farm with poultry.

With great apprehension I packed my little VW Caddy panelvan — with training manuals (English and Zulu), boxes of stationery, fold-up tables, computer, projector (if we are fortunate enough to have electricity), and cloths and curtains — as I contemplated what risk I was placing myself under in committing to train people with HIV and TB!

Did I wear a mask in case someone coughed on me? What would happen when we shared eating utensils or drinking glasses? How ignorant I felt in this self-inflicted dilemma.

Hazards of the job

A frantically-waving Zulu lady finally caught my attention when I was cruising past the venue hall for the sixth time. Possibly the sixth time due to the cattle, goats, chickens and multitudes of little school children requiring the utmost concentration to avoid the plastering of a new emblem on the bonnet of the caddy; which incidentally did (in another area) have a cow thud on the front, roll up the bonnet, stop at the windscreen, roll back down again and then get up, run off and leave me with a concertina car! A natural hazard in my line of work — of course — I am told.

Asking for the toilet after a long drive brought no response — only eyes looking down at the floor! Now, anyone who understands Zululand, knows the meaning of that downcast look — not only does it denote respect in the Zulu culture (positive), it also confirms the lack of a conventional toilet (not so positive). It thereafter also causes you to very quickly sum up the situation to bring relief in the least painful way and in this place I could not find that relief.

The hall is planted about twenty metres from the main road to Mozambique, which attracts continuous traffic — big trucks, taxis and the fishermen who all speed through the area. Adjacent to this building is a row of makeshift roadside stalls — where beer is available but no water. Round the back is a school, about fifty metres away, with hundreds of little children who are so fascinated with this lady with the white skin that they sneak up to touch it. The absence of a spade is not the only deterring factor to the open-air ablution facility in the midst of knee-high foliage!

'You are mad to do this work!'

"You are mad to do this work, Susan!" I am told by my friends and associates.
"How do you leave your beautiful home and garden — your family — and subject yourself to these situations?"

Well, I have asked myself that same question many times and always arrive at the same conclusion. It's because of the people — those humble and gracious Zulu people who have been so forgiving despite their circumstances. The lack of infrastructure; network communications; education; and access to markets — their legacy from the apartheid years. None of this has inhibited their deep desire to combat illiteracy and make something of themselves and it is I who hold the key to this fulfilment at this time.

The Mnqobokazi group is a mirror of countless other groups from all corners of our beautiful province KwaZulu Natal, but this group owned a little more of my heart than the others as I saw these HIV/Aids TB clinic patients planning their futures, engrossing themselves in learning, caring for and loving their children and grandchildren, and, most inspiringly, demonstrating a sense of humour!

An exercise in poultry-costings — should the enterprise be constructed and managed according to the book — demonstrated that a broiler chicken would have to be sold for R550 to cover input costs. This is mainly due to the remoteness of the area. How do our rural people survive against these odds? When will the relevant government departments take note and build agricultural "drop-in centres" where rural people are able to have access to their input supplies? No one hears my voice.

A catalyst for community cohesion

I returned to Mnqobokazi four times, teaching them business skills, marketing and co-operative management — all that they needed to know for their business to be successful. We compromised on stipulated necessities and adapted — as we always do for survival.

Most importantly, I was inspired by the change in the group as they began to believe in themselves, build their self-esteem and wake up each morning with hope in their hearts. The only male member in the group had been a committed imbiber of alcohol, and had been so ill with a septic leg that I had to fetch him for training each morning. But he was so intellectually bright that he excelled in business studies, being the most proficient at handling the calculator. My last trip there had him walking briskly, having given up his alcohol consumption and taken over the business leadership of the project. He was so inspired that he was leaving for university to complete his diploma in conservation — sponsored by an enterprise that recognised his potential.

Finally, this group had become a catalyst for community cohesion, with the local Induna (headman) even sharing his poultry accommodation with them. This was, however, solicited by a somewhat gentle prodding from me.

My time in Mnqobokazi culminated in me being showered with locally made gifts — baskets, Zulu beadwork, mats and vegetables — the most humbling experience, which consistently occurs despite the local poverty and strictures.

Am I safe? What a question! White, older lady travelling alone in the remote rural areas — a recipe for disaster according to media statistics and dinner party conversations, and yet I am probably the most loved, respected and accepted person in our country — or so it feels.

If only travellers would realise that our country does not consist of ribbons of road, N1, N2 or N3 but of areas beyond these roads where unassuming, gentle, caring and hard-working people are striving to make a better life for their children and grandchildren. Old-fashioned prejudice, hatred and suspicion need to be replaced with compassion, empathy and respect for a different way of living and doing things and together we will build a community united in struggle to combat corruption, crime and mistrust.

Most of all, we all need to learn that HIV/Aids and TB Clinic patients are real people, needing real love and care and we are safe interacting with them without a mask on!

Can you relate to Susan's story? Do you have a South African story of your own? Mail us and, if we like it, we'll publish it!

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