Mango Farmers, Settling In.

Eta hola,

I have spent the last week chatting mostly with mango farmers. It seems that every farm I went to, whether they dealt with chickens or corn or bananas, also had mangos. I was accompanying a man named Zunaid as he conducted a survey on behalf of a government agency charged with helping black emerging farmers. The survey’s purpose was to assess the needs of black emerging farmers so that some sort of program can be set up to serve those needs. It was an interesting experience.

I know Zunaid through Peace Corps. During my first weeks in South Africa, Peace Corps set up what they called a ‘Diversity Panel’ which was composed of representatives from South Africa’s major racial groups. There was a black person, a coloured person (the accepted S.A. term for a person of mixed race. I still feel a little funny calling someone that…), an Afrikaner, and an Indian. Zunaid was the Indian on the panel and had an interesting story to tell. He had been very active in the struggle against Apartheid; even getting himself jailed for what he was told was “an indefinite period of time”. He eventually went into exile to Botswana, along with many other resistance fighters within the ANC. It was interesting to hear his perspectives on race relations as well.

So, when I ran into him at one of Tzaneen’s malls and was offered the chance to tag along as he interviewed farmers, I happily said yes. As with so many aspects of South African life, the legacy of Apartheid figures in prominently. Under Apartheid, whites owned almost all of the land. So, once Apartheid began to be dismantled in 1994, the question of how to right this historical wrong had to be addressed. The solution that South Africans found was a land claims process whereby black South Africans can apply for land currently in white control.

This stands in stark contrast to the way Zimbabwe went about solving the same problem. Zimbabwe and South Africa had similar land arrangements when under white control. At that time, Zimbabwe was known as Rhodesia. However, while South Africa was able to achieve democracy with a relatively small amount of violence, Zimbabwe had a bloody civil war and fell under a harsh dictatorship. Zimbabwe’s leader, Mugabe, opted for a far more radical approach to land redistribution than his southern neighbor. White farmers were simply kicked off of their farms with no pretension of making it a gradual process, as has been the case in South Africa. Whatever method is used, there is an inherent problem. The outgoing white farmers have the expertise, the equipment, and the experience-- even if the incoming black farmers are finally getting the land. This is roughly where Zunaid and I come in. The government is looking for effective ways to assist these relatively new farmers. Zunaid’s survey was created as one way to figure out what exactly black emerging farmers need.

We had with us a local fruit merchant by the name of Steven. He knows most of the black farmers in the area and provided us the ‘in’ we needed to conduct the survey. Overwhelmingly, the farmers we spoke with are short on cash. Without money, or access to it, you can’t invest in your farm. Water and electricity were two concerns that we found across the board as well. One thing that surprised me was the almost total reliance on word-of-mouth for their advertising. While white farmers in South Africa are exporting crops to Europe and America, many black farmers are struggling to sell crops in their immediate areas. Even though most farmers described themselves as struggling, they still said they’d rather be a farmer than anything else. When asked why they had chosen farming as a trade, most farmers cited the prospect of creating jobs for their community.

Even though I was essentially just an observer, my presence was keenly felt. At one farm, Zunaid went through his spiel about all the reasons for his visit with a farmer’s wife. When she called her husband to tell him they had a visitor, all she told him over the phone was “There is an American here who can speak Shangan!” At another farm an elderly woman offered me the last remaining chair, the one she had just been sitting on. Of course the prospect of making an elderly woman sit on the ground so I could sit in a chair was just short of horrifying for me. She explained that in the bible we are told to give our chair to guests. So, I guiltily sat down in the chair knowing I had little choice.

So now I am better acquainted with the rural area around Tzaneen. I am also feeling more at home in Tzaneen proper. I am finally to the point where I am being greeted by those that know me. Sometimes a person who I don’t recognize will approach me with a handshake and a greeting. Either I’ve greeted them before or they’ve heard about me. I have a whole bunch of people that I regularly see as I walk to work that now say hello to me of their own accord. One guy, who is the security guard at a local grocery store (there are lots of security guards here), even calls me “but” which is short for butti or brother. Isn’t that nice?

Once I introduce myself, people are often very keen to get my number. Sometimes they even call me at some later point. My marital status is a very common point of discussion. After finding out that I'm not married, many people take it upon themselves to find me a mate. Steven, our guide to the farmers around Tzaneen, told me I need to marry a Shangan girl. “Even a Sotho girl would be OK” he conceded judiciously. He told me he'll ask around, so that the next time we hang out he will have found me a date. We shall see. It is interesting how my particular relationship with black South African culture is a point of pride for people that until moments before were complete strangers. Every time I eat pap, say “Avuxeni”, or mention that I used to live with a Shangan family, the face of the person I’m speaking with lights up. I suppose that’s part of the reason people always tell me I should get a Shangan wife—it would be one more way that I could indicate my admiration for their culture.

Another trend I have noticed while I walk around Tzaneen is that people are constantly asking me for directions. Many times now, a car has seen me and pulled over to the side of the road just ahead of where I’m walking. Of course, I have no idea how to get anywhere in South Africa. I am a foreigner who isn’t allowed to drive. I think it’s funny that people zero in on the least qualified person in the whole city to give them directions. A few times, the person in the car pulling over was an Afrikaner. Each time the Afrikaner behind the wheel asked me incredulously (in Afrikaans) “What are you doing walking around here!? It’s dangerous.” After some explanation they would offer me a ride.

“No Thanks” I say with a big smile, “I like the walk”.

In Tzaneen there are an inordinate number of shops related to the death industry; caskets, tombstones, funerary decorations and the like. I can’t say for sure, but I’m fairly certain this is directly related to the ongoing AIDS pandemic. It is a tricky subject to bring up, but I have asked a handful of people why they thought there is so much commercial activity in Tzaneen that centred around death. Most hadn’t noticed the phenomena. I suppose it’s the sort of thing you get used to.

Lately, when I’m not chatting up farmers or having my love life planned out for me, I am reading Noam Chomskey. Jason and Virginia, two fellow PCVs living in a nearby township, gifted me with an extensive cache of his books and interviews. Even though he can sometimes be a bit of a downer, I am addicted to reading him. I also find the time to play guitar and go on early morning runs to the dam.

So, all is well for me here in South Africa. The xenophobic violence that is plaguing the area around Johannesburg has not been a problem here. One of the friends I have met in recent weeks, whose name is Gift, actually rooms with 5 Zimbabweans. You know there is a real problem when people are actually fleeing into Zimbabwe, as they have been recently.

At any rate, thanks for reading and will make sure to blog sometime soon. A month is too long.