Shweshwe. The word captures the rustle of the vibrantly colourful fabric as a woman models a blue maxi dress with signature white markings in Bongiwe Walaza’s design studio on Pritchard Street in Johannesburg. Standing with her hands in her pockets and wearing a matching head wrap, she embodies poise and beams with pride. The flowing material pools from her waist to the floor as she sways from side to side, evoking the fabric’s name.
Named after 19th Century Sotho King, Moshoeshoe 1,which also gave rise to its name, shweshwe is the quintessential fabric of South Africa, synonymous with South African textiles and traditional wear. Colonialists gifted the king with this ‘indigo cloth’, with traces to India and Holland. Shweshwe has since become the product of assimilation, speaking to both the South African fashion industry and society at large.
Johannesburg’s fashion district spans 26 blocks in the CBD between End, Jeppe, Market and Von Wielligh streets. It forms a multi-cultural hub within the city, populated by over 1000 businesses in all aspects of the fashion supply chain: sourcing, manufacturing and retail. Stepping onto the bustling streets of the inner city, one can find shweshwe in rolls, lining the shelves of fabric stores or as ready-to-wear garments hanging in one of the many shops you may wonder into.
A few floors up from the streets, shweshwe can also be found, being cut and fed through sewing machines. Shweshwe has a wax-like texture that is sturdy but soft to touch. A defining feature is the all-over prints, featuring different designs that range from simple to intricate geometric patterns.
Wendy Larsen, a textiles expert with a Masters in Sustainable Fashion Design and Textiles, explains that the fabric is crafted using “plain 100% cotton calico”. The cotton is woven and then finished with a printing process. The printing process is an acid discharge, creating the “typical black and white prints on a plain base colour, usually blue, red or brown”, Larsen says. The fabric’s intricate patterns are permanently imprinted onto the material, allowing it to weather wears and washes.
Making a garment using shweshwe can be costly. The blue dress in Bongiwe Walaza’s studio, situated on the second floor of a well-kept building in Prichard Street (the heart of the district), required about 13 metres of fabric to create. The material costs R55 a metre at Fashion Distribution Wholesalers situated a floor below. Walaza is a designer renowned for her shweshwe creations, says Tumi Modiba who oversees the studio. The consultation room inside the studio is spacious, with runway photographs of Walaza’s designs on the wall, some garments hanging in the corner and a dressed mannequin that looks out of the window. Following her gaze, you see the Fashion Kapitol, a centre that sets out to revitalise the ailing industry and support African culture and business. It received substantive investments and is still functional, despite not yet yielding the desired results.
Modiba, explains that clients select the fabric which they then source. Other costs include the design, patterns and labour involved in the manufacturing process. This makes up the R3500 all inclusive cost of the blue dress modelled before me. The manufacturing process takes place in another spacious, well-lit room. A row of tables hold sewing machines, one of which is being used by a woman who feeds the fabric through it. The sound of the machine hammering down can be heard clearly. Opposite her is a large table where material is being cut. There are two rails overflowing with patterns, which are large brown cut-out plans that detail how the material needs to be cut and sewn. At the end of the room, someone presses an old steel iron onto a finished garment.
The original copper rollers used to print the fabric were brought to South Africa, says Larsen, allowing for its authentic local production. The original fabric makes its way to the streets of Johannesburg CBD’s from the Eastern Cape, where it is produced by the only original makers of shweshwe (since 1992), Da Gama Textiles, founded in 1948.
The material makeup of textiles determines not only how they feel, but also how they function. Shweshwe is a versatile fabric, used to make dresses, pants and shirts. Once purchased, the stiff texture is softened when washed of its starch, which contributes to the fabric’s distinct smell (similar to freshly-cut potatoes). Washing also shrinks the material by a few centimetres. Traditionally, the starch was used as a means of preservation. Shweshwe fabric needed to be preserved historically as it reached South African shores by ship. The material, formerly known as ‘indigo cloth’, was brought to South Africa in the 1800s by European settlers.
“It found popularity and became synonymous with Sotho attire,” Larsen says. Xhosa women then incorporated the material into their traditional wear. This was the start of the traditional shweshwe colours being brown, blue and red. The colours have since expanded to include vivid shades of gold, pink, green and turquoise. Although traditionally used by Sotho and Xhosa people, the material’s reach has broadened.
Agnes Madi is a sales assistant at a fabric store on Pritchard Street where a large section near the window has two aisles of shweshwe under a banner that reads “African Print Fabrics”. She says people in Lesotho still wear shweshwe on an everyday basis. South Africans, however, “use it mostly for special occasions”. Modiba echoes this, stating that shweshwe is also used to make wedding dresses at the studio. The fabric is used throughout South Africa.
Modiba believes that South African’s embrace culture, hence the multi-cultural adoption of the material. International clients from France, Germany, Swaziland, Uganda and Botswana frequent the studio in search of garments made using shweshwe.
The Johannesburg CBD is host to an “eclectic and cosmopolitain mix of people” keeping the fabric in use, explains Larsen.
On the streets of the fashion district, you see some people sitting outside of their storefronts, whilst others navigate through the urban jungle, either in vehicles or by foot. The cityscape is bustling with the sounds of chatter and cars on the littered roads. Everyone seemingly has a purpose and destination to get to. The clothing worn is casual and Western in silhouette, although there are African elements that are incorporated into the looks. These range from the items made from African materials to African-inspired prints. The people in town and the clothing they wear has changed since the 1980s, when coming to town was an occasion to dress up for. Practicality and functionality are the primary focus of the people who now populate the area, unlike those historically whose socio-economic positions afforded them the opportunity to think about fashion.
Through the diversity of nationalities and cultures, as well as the rise in black consciousness, traditional clothing has re-emerged in contemporary styles. Distinctly African fashion in both design and material are becoming increasingly popular. Modiba explains that clients seek fashion with an ‘African feel’ that is not only a means of dress but as something that is an indicator who the wearer is. This emerging identity is thus also inclusive of Western-inspired silhouettes that were introduced some years ago. It includes jackets, bags and hats which are a deviation from traditional uses.
“There aren’t really any other iconic types of fabrics that are really associated in the way shweshwe is,” says Larsen. It has become synonymous with South African culture and heritage. Larsen adds that, “Although still worn as traditional/cultural attire by the Xhosa and Sotho, many people of varied cultural groups and races wear it in many different ways.” Larsen believes that one of the reasons for the adoption of shweshwe as a widely used traditional fabric is that it is “less virtually symbolic of a particular culture”, as people are more willing to wear something that carries “subtle meaning”. There is an appreciation for the quality and style that shweshwe holds.
Now used multi-culturally, there is no apparent fear or anger of how one uses the material. Shweshwe is a commodity in all aspects of the fashion industry. Whether used in its traditional sense by retailers, made-to-order garments by individuals or in conceptual ways by designers, there is no apparent concern of appropriation by the people who work in Johannesburg’s fashion district. Appropriation is when a culture is misrepresented through the process of assimilation, often by a dominant culture. Shweshwe has a complex history, and thus does not truly belonging to any one person or group.
Although styles have become more contemporary, the looks created with shweshwe are largely still conservative, which may explain its ease of use. Modern silhouettes remain respectful, however, shweshwe remains fashionable and is increasingly so with the youth, especially in African style sub-cultures. The fabric has the transformative power of being applicable to high fashion on the runway, commercial in everyday clothing and also traditional wear. New styles of prints and colours of shweshwe are introduced, although they are kept to minor variations of the original designs. This ensures that it remains classic and distinct, yet still commercially viable.
South Africa once boasted a booming textile industry, producing “types of fabrics produced locally which were exported as high quality products”, says Larsen. The industry suffered a downturn towards the late 1980s, resulting in a collapse of the industry. Johannesburg’s fashion district now operates on a much smaller scale and almost completely informally, with the majority of workers being immigrants from other African countries.
Wandering into one of the buildings, the dilapidation is clear to see. The lifts have not been upgraded and there is still marble lining the walls. A lady sits idly at the reception, which is grand with its high ceilings, asking no questions upon entry. Stopping at each of the nine floors, you discover an enclave of fashion manufacturing. Several spaces still remain empty, with locked gates and the glass storefronts sealed off with newspapers dating back to the 1990s. Others are secluded, housing the manufacturers of leather, decor items, clothing and furniture. Navigating through the areas involves guesswork with connections to someone on the inside being a valuable asset as it becomes apparent that prodding questions are not welcomed. The buildings that stood empty have since been taken over or left empty. Walking into buildings that are still in operation, one can see abandoned rooms within them with only the remnants of what once was. The collapse was, in part, due to the emergence of cheap Asian imports.
Among the Asian imports available, is imitation shweshwe. The cost of this fabric is 20% cheaper than the original. Buyers of shweshwe often look for the original as they are brand loyal and knowledgable about the differences that set the material apart. Imitation shweshwe has a width of 150cm whereas the original’s is 90cm. It lacks the vibrancy of colour and signature starchy feel. Furthermore, the original is marked with the Da Gama “Three Cats” logo that is printed on the back and is made up of 100% cotton. The imitation variety is often composed of cotton blends, such as polycotton.
In Bongiwe Walaza’s studio, the woman in the blue dress looks at herself in a mirror, removing her hands from her pockets to adjust her head wrap. She smiles as she eyes her silhouette before turning to leave the room. The fabric follows the rhythm of her strides, creating a trail of whispers: shweshwe.
FEATURED IMAGE: A picture of untouched fabric. Photo: Supplied
The streets of Johannesburg are bustling with activity, an intrinsic characteristic of the CBD. Women selling fresh produce sit in the sun all day, with green spinach, blood-red tomatoes and ripe cabbage enticing walkers-by. A colourful array of people can be seen lying face down on the grass in Joubert Park, the biggest public park in the CBD, an arrangement reminiscent of an artwork made of humans. Standing beside the still bodies, unaffected street photographers stand idly in the park, waiting for customers to ask them to take the perfect ID photo. And in the centre of this scene lies the Greenhouse Project, a quiet sanctuary filled with the smell of fresh herbs.
The Greenhouse Project has stood on the corner of Klein and Wolmarans streets since 1993. The space flourishes with organic vegetables, herbs and plants, and many have walked through it – from volunteers to customers who thrive on organic living. Known as the Victorian Hothouse, a conservatory stands decrepit amongst towering trees that have stood the test of time.
Below the ancient trees, their yellow flowers are scattered all around the tarred ground of the Greenhouse Project. Thabisile Mchunu, director and administrator of the GreenHouse, points out how beautiful they look. Mchunu, who is in her 60s, looks like she dressed according to the theme. She wears a lime green blouse paired with yellow loafers, a style that matches effortlessly with her dyed blonde natural ‘do.
It’s clear to see that Mchunu fits in perfectly with the surroundings, which drew her permanently in soon after her first visit in 2011. The GreenHouse Project first caught her eye while she was a co-opted board member at CBU Hub, an organisation that specialises in community projects. The corporate world veteran swapped her high heels for gardening gloves and despite the shrinking of the initial CBU Hub members that visited on a regular basis, she developed a connection with the space, which eventually got her the role as director.
“We’re [Mabule Mokhine, the executive director and Mchunu] are running this place with almost no income. We just do volunteer work and the little we get does not justify the amount of work we do,” says Mchunu. “But we’re trying to keep the space alive.”
GREEN CITY: The City of Johannesburg’s Greenhouse Project in Joubert Park. YELLOW SEASON: Fever tree flowers sprinkle the grounds of the Greenhouse Project.
Mchunu has worked hard to keep the space open, which has almost been swallowed up by the ‘concrete jungle’ characteristics of the inner city. Joubert Park and the Greenhouse Project in its entirety almost became a part of the nearby MTN taxi rank which would have seen the green pastures being exchanged for tons of concrete and blaring greenhouse gas emitters in the form of taxis.
Behind the tall trees, an abandoned grey building stands. The lack of life within it is emphasised by the pane-less windows gaping at street walkers on every floor. Hope of life is restored by the trees that unexpectedly peak off the rooftop of the building, a pleasant surprise for the onlooker. Proof that Johannesburg truly is a man-made forest, its nature making its home not only on the ground, but also on the city’s tallest buildings.
However, between the building and the trees at the Greenhouse Project stand two large fences, one with elaborate electric fencing. To have a peaceful space in one of the most dangerous areas of Johannesburg means that, unfortunately, people have to be kept out and heavy screening by 24-hour security guards must take place when any person wishes to enter.
“We would have vagrants that would come through every part of this space,” says Mchunu. “Every moment they find they would jump in and rip things apart. Three months ago we had a burglary at 3am. We’re in the middle of Hillbrow here.”
But not all the people that the Greenhouse Project attracts have a desire to destroy the space. Beyond the big metal gates designed in the form of a vine complete with flowers, a group of workers armed with sunhats and gardening tools, are responsible for keeping the garden fresh and the vegetables growing.
One pair of these green-fingered hands belongs to Sizwe Mazibuko, a volunteer hailing from the hills of KwaZulu-Natal. Mazibuko visits the Greenhouse four times a week, a requirement that forms part of the 18 months of practical work he has to do for his Farming Management Diploma at Umfolozi College in Richard’s Bay.
Despite the variety of farms that can be found in KwaZulu-Natal, Mazibuko has found himself deep in the city of Johannesburg, where he has lived for eight months. Dressed in black from head to toe, and armed with a smile that exposes his two front gold teeth, Mazibuko’s face has several scars, evidence of a difficult life lived in his 28 years.
LUSH SPACES: The green spaces of the Greenhouse Project are looked after by a dedicated team of volunteers.
However, a year-and-a-half of volunteering work in Johannesburg will not cover his rent for the place he is staying at, close by to Joubert Park. Mazibuko works part time delivering bread around the city. “It is to survive. Life is expensive. At the same time, I don’t earn anything here,” he says.
Although he is new to Johannesburg, Mazibuko has taken on the qualities of the typical city dweller: he is hardworking and determined. Goals are what are important to him, starting with the acquirement of his diploma once he has finished his practical segment. Thereafter, he would like to complete a Postgraduate Certificate in Education so he is able to teach people about his love for agriculture and organic farming.
Living in Johannesburg isn’t easy for Mazibuko. “It’s hard when you still have dreams of achieving your objectives,” he says. “I still have things to reach.”
But for him, the GreenHouse Project is a sanctuary in the rat race of a city. “I love this place. It’s a good environment for a human. It makes your mind work. I love each and everything you see here. It’s good for me because I’ve been through some times,” says Mazibuko, who grew up in the small KwaZulu-Natal town of Mtubatuba.
A stroll further into the space reveals a small building donated by the Norwegian Church Aid, complete with a finished kitchen made up of wooden cabinets and marble counters – all recycled material.
There you can find Dineo Tsoabi, a partner of the Greenhouse Project, cooking a fragrant pot of fresh spinach using the nifty biodigester, which Mchunu explains “uses food waste to generate gas that can be used for cooking, making hand creams, cough mixtures and hair products”.
Tsoabi could easily be mistaken for a teenager if one had to judge her by her height, but she has lived for a total of 37 years. “As partners with Greenhouse, we [she and a few other women] develop the space, making sure the space is green,” she says.
Like Mchunu, the Greenhouse Project first caught Tsoabi’s eye when she used to attend monthly CBU Hub meetings once a month at the space. “We came to the agreement that if the Greenhouse Project deals with admin and funding, we will train students from university and the community to start food gardens,” says the partner, who hails from Vanderbjilpark, but now lives in the township of Sebokeng, which is also close to the Vaal River.
Educating the community on organic farming is something that Tsoabi holds close to her heart. She can be found taking people on educational tours, both in the Vaal and at the Greenhouse Project and sometimes as part of the Edu Tours organisation, which specialises in school tours.
The love of organic farming is something that flows through her bloodline. “I learnt organic farming from my parents,” says Tsoabi. “My father bought the plot which my parents live on to utilise the space.”
Her 13-year-old daughter, who lives with Tsoabi’s parents, is also learning the benefits of farming. “I want to show her how important it is to grow food. Sometimes kids don’t know where things like cabbage and spinach come from, so I hope that she will pass on these lessons to the other kids,” she says.
Dressed comfortably in blue gender-neutral overalls, Tsoabi comes to Johannesburg every day to work in the gardens. However, since the Greenhouse Project struggles with funding, Tsoabi and the others like her do not get paid on a regular basis, which means they must find other ways to make money.
The streets of Johannesburg thrive with entrepreneurs on every corner, such as the women who can be seen day in and day out behind their own vegetable-selling stalls. The Greenhouse Project has embraced the entrepreneurship ways of the city, lessons that have provided Tsoabi with innovative ways to make money.
“We sell produce to informal restaurants and the ladies who sell it on the street,” said Tsoabi, who also spends her time fighting the consequences of climate change by freely educating people of its dangers on trains. She also makes and sells skincare, medicinal and hair care products made only of the natural elements found in the gardens.
Ingredients for these products include plants such as the fascinating stinging nettle with its rather contradictory characteristics. Needle-like edges of the freshly-picked plant leave a stinging sensation that lasts a few minutes if struck on the skin. However, it can also treat wounds and arthritis either by ingestion or direct application to the skin.
Tsoabi says the people of Johannesburg have shown a keen interest in the Greenhouse Project, especially those from other countries.
URBAN JUNGLE: The Greenhouse Project is the ultimate definition of the “urban jungle” with buildings peeking from the greenery.
She is often approached to cure the sicknesses of others using herbal remedies. “I can make a general herbal mix for those people because I respect people’s privacy,” says Tsoabi.
One of the go-to herbs for such a mix can be spotted in the garden in the form of blooming flowers named nasturium which acts as an antibiotic for a variety of infections.
“They [Tsoabi and the other ladies] know the herbs, they know what they cure,” says Mchunu. “Now they’re going to harvest comfrey for me because I have a friend who suffers from continuous hip pain, so I thought I should ask the ladies to give me some comfrey leaves which he can soak and consume and see if the pain goes away.”
Tsoabi’s group is not the only set of healing hands at the Greenhouse Project. A wellness centre named Conlinea Health and Wellness is visited twice a month by a homeopathic doctor, Dr James Motaung. On the days he visits, the patient waiting room is packed with a variety of patients, mostly elderly, but the odd young person can be spotted in the throng.
Masefako Matjie is at the doctor’s rooms for the first time, dressed in an attire worthy of a church Sunday – a floral dress with a pink blazer. Although the queues were disappointing for her, after she had travelled from her Alexandra home, she says she prefers herbal medicine over normal pharmaceuticals because “they lack chemicals”, she says.
In the city of Johannesburg, where concrete, skyscrapers and cars can be the only thing in sight, the Greenhouse Project is a vision for sore eyes. The fresh vegetables and plants provide an aesthetic sanctuary but with them, the ancient practice of healing can be utilised across the city.
A beautiful intersection between the economic powerhouse of South Africa and the biggest man-made forest in the world is created by the Greenhouse Project, which will hopefully remain for the benefit of Johannesburg’s urban dwellers for many years to come.
FEATURED IMAGE: A plant inside a tire. Photo: Tendani Mulaudzi
The sun is not even casting shadows yet and the streets are buzzing with taxis hooting for late passengers to hurry up, shopkeepers are sweeping the pavement in front of their shops and children are making their way to school.
Many people are on their way to their jobs while many others come here, to the Central Business District (CBD) of Johannesburg, to make a living in the informal sector. Job opportunities are scarce so many have resorted to creating their jobs through selling goods and services on the sidewalks – from brooms to fruit, to traditional beaded jewellery, and even a new hairstyle, if you have the time.
The streets are a hub for entrepreneurs and opportunists looking to make money.
Corner Plein and Harrison Street
One such hub is the Home Affairs office at the corner of Plein and Harrison streets. It is a fertile gathering place for opportunists as it is one of the busiest places in town, making it good for business.
Long lines of people spill out from its doors, and unofficial-official gatekeepers hustle queuers for a bribe to help them obtain what they need. Most queuers are reluctant as a man dressed in jeans and a black shirt with handcuffs hanging from his belt gives them a warning look and eventually scolds, “Take the straight path!”
Among the vendors crowding the sidewalk outside the Home Affairs Office, is a beautiful young woman, Dikhabiso, right, (meaning decoration) Moiloa, 21, who is selling packets of chips, dishcloths and costume jewellery. She is with her two-and-a-half-year-old son, Tlotla (happiness). She says that she has been selling goods on this sidewalk only for a short while.
Moiloa was 19 and living with her uncle when she unexpectedly fell pregnant. She was still in high school at the time trying to complete her Grade 11. The first time she realised she might be pregnant, she was already three months pregnant and at four months she confirmed the pregnancy at a government clinic.
When she went to the clinic for the first time, the nurses gave her a pregnancy test as well as an HIV test. While waiting for the results the nursing sister placed a stethoscope on her stomach to find the first sign of life – a heartbeat, as this is the first organ that develops in a foetus. After confirming that she was pregnant, the sisters then prescribed her medication to encourage her appetite, folic acid, which helps prevent neural tube defects in the baby and iron. After that she went for monthly check-ups. If it was not for government clinics Moiloa says she would not have had access to proper prenatal care.
Her boyfriend and family were very displeased with her pregnancy.
She tells how her boyfriend and uncle’s wife plotted against the pregnancy by crushing an abortion pill and spiking her tea. “I felt like cramps in my womb. I went to the hospital, I was bleeding. They said I took the wrong pill,” says Moiloa. At the hospital her boyfriend and aunt soon arrived and admitted to spiking her tea with an abortion pill that they had obtained illegally – which could have cost them not only her baby son’s life but hers as well.
As she tells her story, a joyous couple, dancing as they come down the stairs of the Home Affairs Office, are followed by a short entourage of about seven people. The couple has just been married. The woman is wearing a large flower in her hair, a white dress up to her knees, with organza down to her ankles, but her black lycra pants are sticking out and shining through the organza. She is followed shortly by a man in a suit.
Moiloa continues her story, she is not distracted by the couple. This is not new to her and she sees it on a daily basis outside of Home Affairs. She is not emotional about her story as she does not see it as unique. Nor is it unique to be living in the CBD struggling to make just enough to get by on a day-to-day basis.
After the abortion pill incident, Moiloa was weak and feeling unsafe in her own home, so she packed her clothes and left home for good, she says. Having nowhere to go she lived in the streets of the CBD. She has not been in contact with any of her family since. “Because of what my family did, I no longer speak to them. Although I have their numbers.” She says that she did make short contact with her cousin last month on WhatsApp for the first time.
During labour, which lasted two days, Moiloa suffered further complications, possibly due to the abortion pill. The nurses said that as a result of the pill she had sustained burn wounds in her throat which caused her to vomit blood during child birth. She lost a lot of blood. Tlotla had also had an allergic reaction to the pill and he was bleeding from every fold in his skin on his hands, neck and torso. She describes how she would dress him but after 30 minutes his clothes would be full of blood stains.
“I stayed in street until July this year. He (Tlotla) grew up in street”, she says pointing at the toddler who is playing in the midst of passersby. She says she had to beg for food and stayed with other homeless people who were mainly men. People donated food and disposable nappies.
She speaks dearly of these men who never did anything to hurt her. “They weren’t harmful to me,” she says, and they adored Tlotla. She adds that “I haven’t sold myself. I haven’t take drugs, because I want a future.” The only thing she had to hide from other homeless people were her clothes as they would sometimes steal items to sell for money to buy nyaope (a drug which is smoked or inhaled and consists mainly of heroin and dagga mixed with other ingredients such as anti-retroviral drugs, pool cleaner, milk powder and rat poison).
Due to her circumstances, Moiloa says that if it was not for government clinics in the CBD, she would never have been able to afford antenatal or postnatal care. She says she makes R250 on an exceptionally good day.
She also turned to traditional medicine, drinking crushed ostrich egg shells which she says was to help shorten the labour process, but due to the abortion pill, she was in labour for two days. She also drank umchamo wemfene (baboon’s urine) for added nutrients. Turning to traditional medicine she says was a cheap alternative to stay healthy during her pregnancy.
Inkunz’ Emnyama
Gavin Dorasamy, is a middle-aged Indian man who owns a small 5m x 5m herbal shop, Inkunz’ Emnyama, on Joubert Street, around the corner from Moiloa’s sidewalk. He is neatly dressed, wears a small diamond earring in his left ear and is very well spoken.
He refers to himself as an inyanga, which is similar to a sangoma (a traditional healer), but who only works with herbal medicine. However, he is not an official inyanga as “I haven’t been initiated yet.” Not that he’s interested in being initated. “For me it’s learning the curative properties” of herbs and plants.
He says that he has been working in this specific shop for two years. His family owns four similar shops in Joburg and all the shops’ names start with Inkunz (the bull). His grandfather started the business in 1988. The oldest shop is in the train station and run by an initiated inyanga, who has been practicing traditional medicine since 1970.
Dorasamy says he regularly gets expecting mothers in the shop who specifically request ostrich egg shells and umchamo wemfene.
He buys the ostrich egg shells from an ostrich farm and resells them for R15 per tablespoon. He says the women crush the shells, boil the powder with water and drink mixture as “a source of calcium”.
Dorasamy says umchamo wemfene “is basically like dassie urine”. A dassie is the South African word for an African rodent, also known as a hyrax. It is a small, grey, furry animal that lives in rocky and mountainous areas. “What it [the urine] does, it is basically concentrated nutrients from the flowers that the dassies eat,” says Dorasamy.
He explains that, “They [dassies] have a den where they will all go and do their business. It [the urine] forms like a resin that mixes with the sand.” He says the urine is not a liquid but has more of a gel-like consistency. The dassie urine and sand mixture is sold in small packets packaged neatly into colourful boxes. He sells the 25gram boxes for R15.
He recommends using a tablespoon of umchamo wemfene to two litres of water, boiling the mixture, letting it cool, scooping out the sand and then drinking the liquid. He also recommends it as a supplement for women who have menstrual problems.
Dorasamy says there is no single theory for which herbal medicine is used for what. It depends on the inyanga who prescribes the medicine. He also says he may use a plant to treat a condition, while another may use the same plant mixed with something else to treat a completely different ailment. He says his greatest experience practicing herbal medicine comes from using herbal medicine on himself and noticing its healing properties.
As herbal and traditional medicine is widely practiced in African cultures, herbal medicine is a thriving enterprise in Johannesburg’s CBD.
Moiloa does not have an exclusive story
In the CBD there are two free clinics available to pregnant mothers and young mothers. These include Joubert Park Clinic and Jeppe Clinic.
Moiloa and Tlotla now at least have their own shack in Freedom Park where they have been living for two months. Although things have improved for her slightly, being a vendor is not something she can do forever.
Moiloa says she has regular incidents with the police who are trying to eradicate vendors selling illegally on the streets. She says they have been particularly strict this month and she has had her goods confiscated a few times. After these incidents she has to borrow money to re-buy stock.
She returns to illegally selling goods on the pavement as she says she cannot find work anywhere else nor would she be able to afford a crèche for her son if she did.
She says she has applied to a few colleges next year as she would like to finish matric.
She wants to go back to school so that she can someday fulfil her dream of going into the hospitality industry and providing a good life for her son.
While Moiloa’s story is not unique, her story is an indication of a resonating problem in the CBD. A problem of under-resourced clinics unable to provide to the high volume of people and mothers, and a high unemployment rate preventing mothers such as Moiloa from affording a crèche, school and a decent job.
For a young mother in the middle of the city, “Johannesburg is a rough place,” says Moiloa. She says, she has found hope and care in the form of fellow vendors, the homeless and government clinics – to whom she all owes her and Tlotla’s life.
FEATURED IMAGE: Moiloa and her son. Photo: Anasya Smith
The frantic rush to relocate potted plants from the dimly-lit lobby to the courtyard defied the laid-back attitude which had been displayed just moments before. Children sprung from their skateboards, young men rushed from their benches and artists sprung from their rooms to grab anything that was green and growing to get it outside.
“Now this is the rain! Blessings from above!” exclaimed a Rastafarian artist as he stood on the threshold with his arms reaching up to the heavens in anticipation of the end of the city’s crippling drought.
As is typical on the Highveld the clouds proceeded to drain themselves in a violent short-lived outburst, and in that moment it became clear that the residents of the slowly degrading Drill Hall building in Johannesburg’s CBD were more than just cohabitants. This place is home to a community.
A young man named Adam was unlucky to venture into the downpour first, prompting an unspoken agreement between those remaining in the lobby that they would stay undercover and pass him the plants they had collected from other rooms. The plants didn’t belong to Adam but he continued without question, chuckling as the downpour promptly soaked him through.
“In 2003 the Johannesburg metropolitan council declared the burnt-out ruins of the Drill Hall a Heritage site, exhibition space and community service centre as part of an overall urban renewal strategy,” boasts a plaque on the wall.
Today, 13 years later, the plaque is as dirty as the wall on which it hangs. The only hope left for the renewal which it promised now lies in the hands of residents: skaters, Rastafarian artists and an unpaid caretaker called Eric Dube are just a few of the handful of residents who are keeping the place together.
“I love this building very much, because I have been here for a long time!” said the ever-present Dube. “Tourists used to be here, but now, even outside the building there is too much crime so they are too scared to come.”
Drill Hall Life
The now rain-soaked pot plants belong to two Rastafarian artists, the owner managers of a small company called the Green Office which amongst other things sells vegan meals at the city’s surrounding markets. The 30 or so skateboards which are housed in the abandoned underground shooting range are kept by Kabelo Tshilwane from One Love Skate Expo and distributed to the kids.
The kids themselves, the lifeblood of this public space, flock here every day at around 2pm to avoid returning to the cramped confines of the inner-city apartments where most of them live. Regardless of their business, everyone in this space loves the kids and makes a contribution to their wellbeing in some way.
Occasionally a handful of uniformed schoolchildren arrive earlier in the morning, with stories of being turned away illegally from their schools due to unpaid fees. But, Tshilwane maintains a strict no skating before school-end policy. So they wait till 2pm, with his permission.
“Where else must they go?” he shrugs.
The skateboards, as well as the multitude of ramps, half pipes and grinding rails which lie scattered over the sheltered inner square of the Drill Hall are made possible almost exclusively through overseas funding. But as helpful as they are these funds are often a once-off deal.
Tshilwane’s problems are simple, he just wants someone to help out with cleaning supplies, building maintenance and security. A few extra skateboards wouldn’t hurt either, although the sharing system certainly provides the schoolchildren an opportunity to practice the art of patience.
“There’s no formal security. The security that exists here, it’s all of us. When you see people not coming in here and pissing its ‘cause they know if anybody from this place sees you pissing it’s gonna be war.”
Skater’s Paradise
SKATER’S PARADISE: Kabelo Tshilwane runs the skate park which supplies kids with skateboards and instruction in the hope that they will be kept constructively occupied. Photo: Kyle Oberholzer
Tshilwane’s is one version of the same story which is shared by many of the artists, social workers and entrepreneurs who occupy the North and South wings of the Drill hall. The community focus which people display in this city block seems counter intuitive given the inner-city culture of money making. But abandoning the status quo isn’t glamorous, Tshilwane lives in a single room at the Drill Hall with none of the luxuries that even a basic apartment might provide.
“I’m a lighting technician by profession, a skater by slavery, there’s no choice, but I love it to bits,” laughs Tshilwane as he reminisces over the square’s transformation from a gambling spot when he first arrived there on his board to the haven for schoolkids on skateboards which it is today.
“I remember we had a talk about this, that are we gonna be just a skate crew or are we gonna try help people or have a cause with this? That’s when the kids were there and like we decided we’re gonna share ourselves.”
Many of the artists who are still here were originally brought together by an NGO called Keleketla who moved in as an anchor tenant in 2008 and took on the role of curating people who could contribute to the space in a meaningful way. The Keleketla sign still hangs outside the entrance to their old office, a constant reminder of the void which its dynamic co-founders Malose Malahlela and Rangoato Hlasane have left since moving out after being endlessly frustrated by government’s lack of interest in supporting the Drill Hall.
Keleketla’s role as facilitator allowed artists to use studio spaces for free on condition that they gave back to the space by contributing their skills (whatever they may be) to the after-school programmes which they ran. The Keleketla library, where kids came in search of everything from novels and poetry to music and play scripts is now a barren space with a few bookshelves on which books now rest covered in a thick layer of dust.
An informal resident’s committee still exists and is trying to keep the place together with the minimal funding they receive from renting out spaces Churches for Sunday worship, but they are in no denial as to the deteriorating state of the building. Without rental income from tenants or funding from government there is only so much they can do.
“We’ve been turning away a lot of people. Not ‘cause we don’t like them and we just trying to keep to ourselves. We’re just trying to slow down the wear and tear of the place ‘cause there’s no money coming in,” said Jabu Tshuma, a committee member and resident artist.
A brief history:
The Drill Hall has a long history which dates back to the early 1900’s and has seen it witness many political events.
Needless to say, the Drill Hall hasn’t always been filled with the squeal of skateboard bearings. Its historic military founders likely curl in their graves every time a skater lands a kick-flip on the paving under which their prized shooting range once functioned. In 1903 it was officially commemorated by Lieutenant-General Sir H.J.T. Hildyard, Commander of the British forces in South Africa. Its life as an inner-city training yard in which soldiers refined the decidedly un-warlike art of marching in straight lines. Years later it would form part of an Imperial Gift from the British administration, and was graciously handed over to the South African government.
Almost 100 years later in 1992, just a year after the Group Areas Act was abolished, the South African National Defence Force vacated the hall. At the time the city was undergoing a mass exodus as mostly white-owned businesses moved to the Northern suburbs leaving behind empty buildings which were quickly occupied – legally or illegally – by a newly liberated black populace looking to start a life free of the twisted and inhumane Apartheid segregation laws. Unfortunately, the premise of exclusion on which the city was built meant that it was grossly unprepared to house the numbers which an inclusive society provided, and the Drill Hall became a hijacked space.
A history guide of the site published by the City of Johannesburg estimates that 350 families were living in the Drill Hall’s walls by 2001 with no electricity, no running water, and no sanitation facilities.
“We said to City ‘you guys need to do something about it’ and as usual, because City was no more able to manage the city then as it is now, they did nothing. And then there was a fire in the Drill hall. And then four people burnt to death. And then they did something,” said Tuhf properties CEO Paul Jackson, who at the time was busy renovating the adjacent Landdrost hotel into inner city apartments.
THE CREW: The skate park draws a large group of kids every day and is a hive of activity. The regulars – pictured above – have a fierce determination to be the first to land a new trick. Photo: Kyle Oberholzer
Despite the government’s symptomatic treatment of Johannesburg’s degradation the R10-million renovation done by architect Michael Hart mercifully addressed the need for inner-city public space, and turned the Drill Hall’s main building into the open-air square which the kids now use to skateboard.
The new spaces were paired with an art-based programme originally run by Joubert Park Project that managed incoming funds from the National Lottery to run art exhibitions and an after-school programme. By 2008 however, Joubert Park Project had dissolved and after a brief changeover period Kelektla took up where they left off.
By this time however, lack of funding and gross neglect had become a crippling problem for the Drill Hall. City Power was intermittently cutting off the electricity supply and the building had still not been transferred to the regional department of Public Works in order for it to be subject to the budget of the City of Johannesburg. In other words, beaurocracy was depriving the sacrificial dedication of genuinely interested people from having a meaningful impact on the surrounding community. Eventually, the simplest of things like lease agreements, security and basic maintenance drove Malahlale and Hlasane to their wits end.
“Our departure from the space was not because we though we can find another place elsewhere, it was because the conditions were impossible,” said Malahlale.
Nevertheless, the Drill Hall continues to defy its circumstances. As the sun begins its slow Friday afternoon descent behind the West-facing gallery windows the Rastafarians from the Green Office emerge from their room with bowls of vegan food left over from their market sales the night before. Soon after, kids are sitting on their skateboards eating from makeshift cabbage-leaf bowls being handed to them by residents and friends of residents.
Everybody helps out, and does so with a smile on their face. Music blares from the congested Noord taxi rank across the road, and the city’s Friday night bustle is kicking off as taverns begin to fill up. On evenings like these, the peace inside the Drill Hall is most tangible. It’s open gates and permeable fences somehow command a certain level of respect from its surrounds and for now the space remains the property of the kids and their unlikely caretakers.
Some residents doubt whether this peace will last. Without the facilitation of an anchor tenant like Keleketla or the formal intervention of city management “The Drill’, as it is fondly called, is at risk of giving in to the relentless capitalism which surrounds it.
Space is at a premium in the city and already vendors and shop owners are lobbying to sell their merchandise on the Hall’s borders by day while drug-addicted men, known here as the “Nyaope guys”, find their way through the fence by night to steal flowers grown by the Green Office, perhaps an easy sell to fund their next fix.
It is rare for a piece of apartheid heritage to have been appropriated by a new generation of South Africans who have implemented programming that benefits the surrounding community directly. The interventions which exist within the Drill Hall’s walls can only be described as grassroots. The clichés written in government brochures by nostalgic architects which boast of the built environment’s “cultural significance to the city’s delicate urban framework” have here been realised by people who didn’t have to attend hundreds of workshops in order to understand what those clichés actually mean.
And yet, the very same government who paid those architects to write those brochures to sell the ideal of a “World Class African City” to people who don’t live in it don’t seem to understand that the people who hold the power to make that ideal a reality are already right here.
All they need to keep doing what they’re doing is a security guard, some basic maintenance and someone to make sure that the toilet paper doesn’t run out.
(Mis)management
FEATURED IMAGE: A Skater at the Drill hall in Joburg CBD. Photo: Kyle Oberholzer
Faith and the law live side by side in the fast-beating heart of Johannesburg. On the one side is the South Gauteng High Court, with its olive-green dome and pillars made of stone. Just across from it, separated by a busy pedestrian arcade, is a church of brick and glass, with a slender metal cross on its façade.
This is the Central Methodist Church in Pritchard Street, and over the years it has stood tall as a symbol of the struggle against apartheid, and a place of sanctuary for the poor and dispossessed from across the African continent.
It was just after the 08:00 AM French service. The city is still sleepy eyed, when the 10; 00 AM English service commences. The only noise you can hear is that of the holy rhythm from the church. This is a place where many assimilate physically and spiritually.
HIGH COURT PRECINCT: Law situated side by side with the church. Photo: Wendy Mothata
It’s Sunday morning at the Central Methodist church. The congregation is singing, for a moment you would swear that they are auditioning for competitions. The church has three choirs, one sitting in front referred to as Music Ministry wearing a black and white uniform. What was fascinating is that there was a white man among the choir who was singing Xhosa hymns without referring to the hymn book like how many were doing.
The other two choirs were seated on the right and left side of the church, ground floor, sparkling the church with the red and white uniforms they were wearing. During the service they used piano and drums to supplement the rhythm of the praise band. They were singing traditional hymns more than contemporary songs.
One of the Xhosa hymns they sang was “Xa ndi wela uMfula iJordane, “Ndazi lahla izono zam ndodana yam edukileyo, buyela kimi ekhaya.” (Every time I cross the river of Jordan, I am cleansed of my sins, my long lost son, Come back home to me.)
The most interesting thing is that you won’t feel left out if you don’t know the song. There are lyrics on the projector, translated in English, because the church is multicultural.
The interior of the Methodist worship space is an auditorium shaped, which is in the front centre and gives the congregation full view of the actions happening in the pulpit. The roof is wider with lights. A red and white candle was lit and put on top of a square table. It was stuffy and hot.
HOLY PLACE: The Central Methodist Church as a home for many refugees. Photo: Wendy Mothata HOLY BOOK:The Holy Bible is used at the church by young and old people. Photo: Wendy Mothata
The congregation stood up, as they welcome Reverend Ndumiso Ngombo to the pulpit, dressed in a white Cassack. He was using English and a bit of Xhosa when he was preaching.
He read the scripture of Luke 15:20 “So he got up and went to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him.”
“The bible is clear that we should welcome strangers in our home, eat and drink with them. We should love our neighbours as we love ourselves, says Ngombo. Furthermore he quoted Hebrews 13:2, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
Third row from the right side there was a chubby man with black shinny shoes, blue denim jeans and blue shirt. Singing with a smile on his face, seating right next to his two little daughters who were playing with blonde dolls. He pulls out a chair outside church to take Wits Vuvuzela through his hardships.
WATCH: The Central Methodist Church caters for homeless people from across the continent.
The journey of William Kandowe
This is William Kandowe (right), (44), a refugee from Zimbabwe who came to Jo’burg in 2007 in a quest for a better life. He is one of the foreigners who found themselves sleeping jobless on the streets of Jo’burg. “I have never dreamt of coming to South Africa,” said Kandowe, a member of the Methodist church.
Kandowe was trained as a teacher in Zimbabwe and he left his country because of the political situation. “It was difficult at home during that time, we would work for months without being paid,” Kandowe said.
One night when Kandowe was sleeping three men chased him away from where he was sleeping. They were claiming ownership of the spot. “They were talking to me in Zulu and I couldn’t understand what they were saying, that’s where I got into a fight with them. They wanted to take away everything that I was having with me including my certificates. I had to fight with them and I managed to escape,” he says with a low tone.
Kandowe said that what shocked him the most was that someone who was driving a truck parked for few minutes watching them fighting, “I was thinking he will get out of the car and help out because that’s how we do things at home. You can’t just leave two people fighting, you have to intervene to end the fight.” However that was not the only time Kandowe gets into a fight, he was involved in another one where people wanted to attack him.
“They were talking to me in Zulu and I couldn’t understand what they were saying. That’s where I got into a fight with them. They wanted to take away everything that I was having with me, including my certificates. I had to fight with them and I managed to escape,” he says.
After all the struggles of sleeping on the streets, a 130-year-old church that is as old as Johannesburg, became a place of safety and haven for many foreigners like Kandowe and Sam Mogambe in the city of Joburg.
The Central Methodist Church is affectionately known to welcome strangers and creating a home for immigrants during and after the terrible xenophobic attacks that took place in 2008. Many people from African countries became victims of violence, this includes children Mogambe, 46, from Uganda, came to South Africa in 2002. He left his country because of political issues.
EDUCATING THE COMMUNITY: Illustrations of some of the project within the Methodist Church
Not only was the church a place of safety it became a place of learning where many people took classes of local languages and computer. This programme did not only accommodate homeless people but also the Joburg community, which paints a picture of how the church was assimilating in the people.
Mogambe was one of the people who used to attend Zulu classes. He said that he was mugged more than four times by the people who speaks Zulu. Mogambe explained that what happened to him made him more eager to know the language. “This experience’s forced me to attend Zulu classes which were offered at Methodist church and I thought knowing the language will make me have a sense of belonging towards the community,” says Mogambe.
Imagine a country where you are having both men and women living in the street. The Methodist came in a way of trying to bridge the gap between languages, bringing mission together learn and do skills together. Although there will be challenges for those who are affected by this huge
My point is clearly not that learning isiZulu is wrong, but so far it reflects assimilation into minority. One of the major challenges that Kandowe struggled with, was learning local languages like Xhosa and Zulu.” At times people may even gossip about you” he laughs loudly.
“Few days after my stay at church, there then Bishop Paul Verryn asked to see all trained teachers. In a conversation with Verryn, I was asked what skills can I bring to the church and I said I can teach computer, form that day Verryn took me to his home in Soweto, in one of the back rooms, I ate and slept nicely there,” says Kandowe.
Today the school has more than 400 leaners mostly are foreigners only a few are South Africans. Furthermore some of this kids do not have families and they are staying in one of the Methodist church in Soweto where they travel daily using train.
What will leave your eyebrows raised is that the very same foreigner is the teacher of isiZulu at school. “I teach Zulu here at school and all the kids have been doing well including foreign kids,” Kandowe says. The evidence is stuck on the wall and indeed the school has 100% pass rate from 2014 in isiZulu.
Kandowe said that Joburg is a city where you meet all types of people, a place where dreams come true for many. “But home is where my heart is, no matter how rich or poor one can be, home is the best. It is where you are connected to your grassroots and all memories of childhood. Obvious you will always be homesick but you are in a struggle, you have to fight and win the war,” says Kandowe.
SERVING POINT: Homeless people gather at some spots where the volunteers will come and provide food. Photo: Wendy Mothata
Mogambe acknowledged that the church helped him with the basics of language and opportunity to get a job. He is now the co-ordinator of Paballo ya Batho which means caring for people. An organisation that was established in the Methodist Church to help homeless people with food, clothes and blankets from the donors.
Right in the kitchen where she was preparing food, there was one toothless woman with a knee injury. From the Free State province, she does not remember when she came to Joburg. She was homeless and helped by one of the members of the Methodist church.
Leah van Vore (54) said that it was difficult to stay on the streets especially if you don’t have food and clothes. “Today I’m thankful to Methodist for not shutting doors for us, but rather accommodated us even though we had our own beliefs,” said Van Vore.
She now has her own place, staying with her daughter and grand-daughter, and working for Paballo ya Batho organisation, cooking for homeless people. One would say what Van Vore and two foreigners are practising is ubuntu (I am what I am because of who we all are). They are trying to give back, as they were once given.
IN THE KITCHEN: One of the volunteers preparing food for homeless people. Photo: Wendy Mothata LUNCHEON: Homeless people go to the Methodist Church every Wednesday to eat lunch. Photo: Wendy Mothata
Reverend Mawuzole Mlombi (33), is in charge of the Methodist Church in Braamfontein. He walked in his office together with his wife, both wearing black shoes and red shirts. “The mandate of the church is to go to the community and teach the gospel,” says Mlombi.
Mlombi said that having a church in the inner city is very challenging, “It’s a tough one, and the competition is too much.”
“Johannesburg needs many churches and churches needs to find a way to keep the youth in the house of the Lord so that they can enjoy and don’t feel the pressure of going back to the world,” Mlombi says.
However Mlombi made it clear that he does not have a problem with the foreigners, “I have a very good friendship with some of the foreigners, outside and inside church.”
Towards the end of the service, the Church young women ushers bring small glasses with red wine and pieces of bread put in a tray to the pulpit. The pastor kneels and prays before taking part. It’s a Holy Communion. The pastor opens and stretch his arms as he calls for sharing of bread and drinking of wine. “Bread represent Christ’s body and wine represents the blood of Christ. Drink from this, all of you; this is my blood of the new covenant poured out for you. Come,” says Ngombo.
FEATURED IMAGE: Johannesburg CBD buildings. Photo: Wendy Mothata
Destiny sits snuggled between two makeshift gazebos. The plastic legs of his stool bend as he rocks back and forth. To his left hang bundles of hair and to his right, packed neatly, is an array of the sneakers he sells.
Unperturbed by the blistering heat, piercing sounds and pungent smells that engulf Johannesburg’s city centre, he sits fixated on anyone who shows the slightest bit of interest in any of his items.
An elderly lady walks past hastily, clutching her purse under her arm. She gazes at Destiny’s stand, motioning towards a size two sneaker, its Puma stamp slightly peeled. Destiny is up in seconds.
“How much?” asks the bag clutcher.
“R250,” responds Destiny.
“My son is a size three,” says the bag clutcher, replacing the sneaker.
Destiny begins packaging the shoes in a black plastic bag. Placing it in his customer’s hand, he says: “This is a big size two madam. If you have problems, bring it back.”
Hesitantly, the bag clutcher fondles out a couple of notes from her bosom.
Destiny is quick to return her change, thanking her simultaneously.
SNEAKER SELLER: Destiny Ogah’s stand at the King George Street the linear market. Photo: Nadia Omar
Destiny Ogah is a 32-year-old foreign national living in Hillbrow. His dark skin and hardened hands indicate a life of long days and heavy labour. His ripped jeans and plain t-shirt barely hide his muscles that bulge through with every movement. Inconspicuously presented, the only thing that stands out are his orange Nike sneakers and bright smile.
He came to South Africa in 2012 from Lagos, Nigeria, in the hopes of finding employment. Having graduated from the University of Benin with a Bachelor of Science in Banking and Finance, he found himself without employment in a country with a vast population and very few job opportunities.
“If you don’t know someone in Nigeria who can give you a job, there is no hope for you. Graduates like me, without important friends, are left to be hooligans and beggars,” says Destiny.
Destiny operates in the linear market situated on King George Street in Johannesburg’s city centre. He is one of the many foreigners who came to South Africa for a better life, but who have resorted to trading counterfeit goods to make a living.
“Life is only a little bit better here than in Nigeria. I thought I would be able to come here and find a job as a banker or get a Master’s degree, but I have to sell these shoes to put food on my table,” says Destiny.
CBD: The entrance to Jay’s Outfitters.
A step behind Destiny’s stand is Jay’s Outfitters, a store that has been selling branded items for 37 years. Inside, the air is still, the only sound that can be heard is the occasional flip of a page by owner Yameen Mayat, who passes time by reading a daily paper.
A bell jingles, alerting him of someone entering. A young male customer enters and has a quick browse. He stumbles upon some sneakers that fit his fancy; he turns them over to view the price, replaces them and leaves the store once more. Yameen continues reading his paper.
“Business has been slow for about the last five years, ever since this linear market opened,” says Yameen.
“And, to be honest, I don’t even blame my customers. Who would be willing to pay the full price for a pair of original shoes if they can get the fake for a fraction of the price on my doorstep?” he adds.
According to a statement released by the City of Johannesburg, linear markets were first established in 2011 as a means of properly managing street trading, as well as ensuring that it did not disrupt pedestrian mobility or passing road traffic. It is an area designated for street trading in a pedestrian environment within the inner city.
After a street is chosen to host the market, the city erects a roof to indicate the presence of a linear market. Most serve as a place to purchase goods, such as clothing and electronics or as an informal area to eat for those working nearby. The linear market on King George Street is littered with stands of second-hand clothes, counterfeit goods and digital cameras. The aroma of cooked rice, spicy chicken and chakalaka camouflage the persistent smell of garbage and urine.
Yameen and his family opened Jay’s Outfitters in 1984 during the Apartheid era. Due to segregation laws, theirs was one of the very few black-owned shop in the city. At the time business was booming, the city centre was, after all, “the only place to shop”.
“Naturally, the area began to change once Apartheid laws were abolished. People of colour were allowed to come into the city and buy anything they wanted. It was an amazing time to be alive,” says Yameen.
“But things really changed when the City of Johannesburg built a linear market on the same street my store was on. We are no longer making a profit so we are shutting down at the end of the year,” he says.
“I am all for people making a living and I think the linear market helped solve a lot of the problems informal traders were experiencing, but the government has not been monitoring what is being sold in these markets. Most of the goods are fake,” says Yameen.
INFORMAL ECONOMY:The linear market on King George Street, is full of second-hand clothes, counterfeit goods and digital cameras. Photo: Nadia Omar
In a press statement released by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development in April 2016, based on international data, it was estimated that imports of counterfeit and pirated goods are worth nearly half a trillion US dollars a year, or around 2.5% of global imports.
“It is not possible from available data to determine the exact figure fake goods are worth, but there is no denying that it is a huge problem and that it affects the market in many ways,” says Professor Imraan Valodia, a senior lecturer in economics at the University of the Witwatersrand.
According to Prof Valodia, the increase in counterfeit goods in a market represents a major threat to business and is also a key barrier to trade. The distribution of cheap and poor quality pirated goods creates an obstruction to the distribution of genuine products.
“As the global trade in counterfeit goods is growing, Africa is increasingly being targeted as a market for counterfeit merchandise. Fake goods are not being produced to any significant degree in Africa. These products are mostly imported from Asia, and particularly China,” says Prof Valodia.
As such, Africa is fast becoming a “dumping ground” for knock-off goods. A very high percentage of counterfeit shipments from China are destined for Africa, either directly or via ports such as Karachi, Dubai or Hong Kong, in an effort to disguise the country of origin.
“The problem of fake goods is increasingly serious and the continent is fast becoming fair game for counterfeiters and it is hurting, not only South Africa, but the entire continent’s population and economy,” says Prof Valodia.
UNREAL: The fake sneakers Destiny sells. Photo: Nadia Omar
Wayne Minnaar, spokesperson for the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police Department, says the department deploys “counterfeit operations” continuously but as quickly as the goods are confiscated, the traders manage to replace their stock.
“These operations are held by the Gauteng Law Enforcement Agency Forum (GLEAF) which consists of all law enforcement agencies in Gauteng and brand managers who are working together to try and combat this problem,” says Minnaar.
According to the spokesperson, GLEAF receives tip-offs from the community, mostly shop owners, that fake goods are being sold. The agency then goes into the market and confiscates all the items, which are then transported to warehouses to be disposed of.
“Counterfeit goods are being sold all over the country at a rapid rate,” says Minnaar. “It is difficult keep it off the street but we [JMPD] are doing our best.”
One such “Counterfeit Operation” occurred in October 2013 called “Operation Clean Sweep”. The purpose of the operation was to move towards creating a safe and habitable environment within Johannesburg’s city centre.
“We managed to impound 528 counterfeit goods, one bad building and arrested 192 illegal immigrants,” says Minnaar.
The operation, which saw thousands of legal and illegal traders without an income for weeks, received major criticism from the South African National Traders Retail Association (Santra) and the South African Informal Traders Forum (SAITF). The Socio-Economic Rights Institute of South Africa (Seri), acted on behalf of SAITF, and filed an application for an interdict in the high court against the city for “illegally and violently” removing traders.
According to a press statement released by Seri, the traders were evicted even though each had a right to trade in the area, granted through permits issued by the City of Johannesburg itself. Without warning or explanation, they were removed from the streets in a mass eviction operation. Many were assaulted and had their goods trashed. All lost large quantities of valuable stock.
Seri stated in a press statement that the municipality of Johannesburg did not seek to justify its “brutal and humiliating” eviction of the informal traders, nor had it been prepared to repair the damage it caused.
“Immediately after Operation Clean Sweep was abolished, things improved drastically but as time has gone on, it has deteriorated again. Traders are at risk of having their goods confiscated without warning and are regularly taken advantage of by officials,” says Nomzamo Zondo, Seri’s director of litigation, who acted for the traders.
Yameen remembers Operation Clean Sweep vividly.
“The city centre was in shambles! It was very sad to watch the police come in and remove so many people from the city. The linear market wasn’t cleared, but a lot of goods were confiscated,” he says.
“I didn’t agree with the way it was done but I do think the police must do something about all the fake goods. I have to pay a licence fee to sell original items, plus rent, levy, tax and so on. The guys outside aren’t paying anything,” says Yameen.
THE REAL DEAL:Jay’s Outfitters has been selling original, branded items since 1984. Photo: Nadia Omar
Yameen further adds in frustration: “I am paying the same rent as the store owners in Eastgate, R60 000 per month. Can you believe it?”
According to Yameen, the problem will be rectified once “the playing field” is equalised; when every trader is subjected to the law, liable to the same taxes, the same conditions of trade and to abide by all the bylaws regarding street vending.
“All I want is to be able to trade in a safe and fair environment, where every storekeeper is a legal entity, where rentals are fair and not subjected to a false demand allowing unscrupulous traders to manipulate rentals,” he says.
Yameen, noticeably frustrated, lowers his voice that was now filling the store, when he hears the bell ring indicating a customer coming in.
Outside, Destiny has offered his chair to a young man who has shown interest in a pair of navy blue Adidas sneakers.
While his customer paces a couple of steps away, feeling and examining the fit, Destiny says: “I know selling this stuff is not good, but what else must I do? I have been living in asylum for four years. I have been applying for citizenship since early 2013.”
Destiny makes a profit of around R1 000 per month. His earnings go towards the rent he pays for his room in a Hillbrow flat, food and the rent of R800 per month that he pays a South African citizen who owns his stand.
The owner of the stand then pays the City of Johannesburg a mere R100 for rent.
“I know I am being ripped off, but I cannot own my stand because I do not have an ID, so I have to go through a South African, who makes me pay eight times the price,” says Destiny.
Like many foreign nationals living in South Africa, Destiny does not enjoy citizenship and the benefits that come with it. He says the lack of a South African identification document means he cannot own property or open a bank account.
Thus, desperate for an income, he has resorted to selling counterfeit sneakers.
“It’s basic economics, there is a demand and I am creating a supply,” he says, pocketing money from the sale while returning to his original seated position.
“Besides, this stall is all I have,” he says, steadying himself on one of the poles as he rocks back and forth on his plastic stool.
FEATURED IMAGE: A photo of fake sneakers sold in the streets of Johannesburg. Photo: Nadia Omar
The hiss of slot machines, private conversations, numerous television commentaries and crackling sounds of tables and chairs filled U Bet – one of Johannesburg’s popular gambling clubs.
Mungoma, a 25-year-old strapping lad from Thohoyandou, Limpopo, sheepishly squeezed into this packed building for the first time in his life and took a chair that had just been vacated by one of the regular punters.
Mungoma has heard through the grapevine that people make money, lots of money in these gambling houses should luck fall into their laps. He has since been toying with the idea of coming in to push his luck in either sports betting or lottery. But he also isn’t sure whether to just stay away from gambling completely.
To this point, he hasn’t made up his mind. “I think sports is better though, because the results are determined transparently. All you need to do is watch the games for yourself. But … I don’t know man,” he says as he inspects in painstaking detail a pile of betting slips on the table. He says he is in need of cash and winnings as little as R5 000 would suffice.
“Andinawuza apha ngomso ndingawinanga kaloku” (I wouldn’t come here tomorrow without having won anything) a strident voice came as a parting shot from Sihle, a regular gambler, behind us as she was leaving her group of friends, spontaneously offering the newbie (Mungoma) a blinding glimpse of the obvious.
Truth is, to strike it lucky, Mungoma will have to risk a portion of his stipend he earns from East Rand Water as an intern process controller. He feels aloof about spending that R2 or R6 for a single bet. “Gambling may be rewarding but it involves wastage of money”, he says.
But gamblers want the experience they believe only people with money enjoy. They are convinced that just a bit of more money would make things right. Every win is breads hope with exhilaration. Violet, a regular gambler, says she feels “ecstasy” when she wins.
A desperate quest for money
Crowds of people from across Johannesburg (mostly from the townships) converge in five of the licensed betting houses in the inner city or at some random street corner in pursuit of a windfall that would change their lives for good.
Most punters downtown are motivated to gamble by only one reason- money. They are apt to build castles in the air and they believe their dreams of a better life would come true one day.
However, gambling demands some resources which may not always be within easy reach. Regular gamblers, specifically, need enough time to decide their bets, and money to play with.
They sacrifice their hard-earned monies for something bigger and better. Most of them have 9-5 jobs or businesses that lade them with even more responsibilities.
Violet, who is also a university graduate from Nigeria, says sometimes she cannot gamble because either she doesn’t have money or her food business needs her presence.
CLICK CLICK:Slot machine gamblers trying their luck at Supabets on a Sunday afternoon. Photo: Sisa Canca
Getting the numbers right
For gamblers, choosing numbers for their bets requires more than just guesswork. Sihle, a mineworker, spends her waking hours cinching the numbers before taking a 67 kilometre trip from Carltonville to tempt fortune with her money at U Bet.
She goes underground with a notepad and a pen, specifically earmarked for taking notes of signs to be interpreted to numbers later on. She is constantly on the look-out for signs and symbols and every dream she dreams has got a meaning about a potential lottery number.
Certain incidents, most of which come in a dream but sometimes even in real life, mean a certain number is extremely likely to win. Gamblers will see a combination of numbers in a dream, which need to be jotted down as soon as they wake up from sleep. Failure to do this, gamblers believe, will result in letting the numbers slip from memory.
If she dreams of a prostitute, then number 15 is her lucky number the following day. A dead man represent number 4, whereas human faeces represent number 34. A urinating man means 47 is the number, sea water is number 3, a graveyard is 30, fireworks is 38, a little boy is 33 and so and so forth. Every lottery number from 1 to 49 has more than one symbol attached to it.
This belief system comes from a widely-accepted Dream Guide available in most of these gambling clubs in Johannesburg. This system stipulates that there is a symbiotic relationship between dreams, numbers and people’s names.
Some gamblers keep track of recent previous results to follow a pattern. Dunisani believes he has cracked a winning system of some lottery competitions.
“Yesterday I made a terrible mistake. I switched my Powerball and lunchtime (UK 49) numbers around. I would have won both”, he says with rue and signs of a heavy heart. “I don’t subscribe to this Dream Guide thing, most people have these visions because that is what they are obsessed about” he says.
Going the extra mile
STUDYING THE NUMBERS: Punters going through recent results to follow a pattern that will help them decide on their next lucky numbers or scores. Photo: Sisa Canca
Sihle takes the first Metro Rail train straight after her night shift at 8:15 AM to arrive in Johannesburg Park Station about two hours later. By the time she leaves Carltonville, she has already decided on the most important numbers of the day’s world lotteries, including France Powerball, Greece Lotto, local lotto and Powerball, UK 49’s tea and lunch time bet games.
Some gamblers have the luxury of time in their jobs to focus their attention on their future bets. Olebile, a Jo’burg City security guard, says they converse about sports betting at work with his colleagues long before they pay Hollywood Bet a swift visit during an hour-long lunch time break. Like Sihle, who goes underground in the mine with a book and a pen, some would go about doing their jobs while secretly gratifying their betting hunger.
Between the time someone plays to the moment the numbers come out, gamblers go through a psychological turmoil. The anticipation is one fervid, adrenaline-filled conjecture often displayed, in these dens, by intense focus on screens and tickets with few exchanges of words if any at all during the moments of results release. “There is anticipation. Also a doubt that maybe you should have played this number instead of that one” says Violet, also a regular gambler at U Bet.
Punters need less convincing in if any at all to check the results. Besides TV screens inside the clubs, punters make efficient use of computer monitors installed inside for them to use. During travelling hours, they regularly check updates on their phones.
When money is too tight, more hospitable environments like U Bet have a culture of fellow gamblers, at times complete strangers, helping each other with money. Sometimes, punters would have a good start, especially in the slot machine games and end up using all their gains and the money they had for other usages.
Terrence Mpofu, cashier at Hollywood Bet, says she always have people who need money to get home because they have used all money they had on gambling. “I help them whenever I can, but sometimes it becomes too much and I wouldn’t have enough myself to help all of them” says Terrance.
This depicts the life of regular gamblers. They lose money, and sometimes go bankrupt. Violet was once up to her ears in debt trying to sustain her gambling passion. “I was financially bankrupt. I remember this one day I played R3 500 without any control” she says. Loosing comes with a great deal of misery. “I struggle to sleep at night when I’ve like a lot of money and I just change, even my children notice me” says Sihle.
In her very first bet, soon after she arrived in the country back in 2002, Violet made R2 000 out of R10 she invested as her betting price. The next time she played, a fellow countryman from Nigeria disappeared with a R30 ticket which could have won her over R5 000. She later learned through her other friend of her winnings.
While still in that state of despair, she gathered that women gambling in South Africa was not in any way as taboo as people make it to be in her home country. “In Nigeria, it is taboo for a woman to gamble. So gambling for me here represent some kind of freedom” Violet says.
LOOKING OVER THE SHOULDER:Gamblers keeping tabs on the latest lottery and sports results across the globe on a monitor screen. Photo: Sisa Canca
The inside of the gambling world
Betting dens are generally loud, busy places with people from different backgrounds sharing an interest or two. At the entrance, there is always a security guard who searches everyone coming in, presumably for dangerous items.
Some would have a mobile security scanner that they’ll run all over your body to detect such items, whereas some will grope around your waist with bare hands, whether you are a man or a woman.
There is usually a speaker at the entrance. Loud music is more audible at the entrance than inside. Inside are different queues for different games ranging from lucky numbers, action sport (dominated by soccer), horse-racing, lotto and Powerball.
Lucky numbers people have their eyes fixed on screens twice every five minutes. A stopwatch is always visible for everyone to see the countdown to the next draw. When that time comes around, a lady (usually white) in either a black or red dress appears on the screen to facilitate the process.
Scenes of tantrums escorted by heavy huffs and foul language coming out in gasps (when a number they played is closer to the one on screen) are usually a constant background noise in these particular queues. And rarely do you hear a roar of celebration and when that happens, people incline towards that particular winner, wanting to confirm for themselves if the numbers on the ticket correlate with the ones shown on the screen.
Soccer fans are quite obvious to notice with their markedly long slips with fixtures of up to 50 games at times. They will fill up their coupons while looking at fixture books, which tend to be a couple of about six to 15 pages. The fixture booklet has codes which direct them on what to tick on the coupon for different choices.
The horse-racing community is more relaxed than others. It never really gets tense unless a major event is on the cards and the horses are heading for a finish line. Every gambler shouts their chosen horse number, “woza number 8” (come on number 8..or 12 or 17 and whatever the case may be).
Thwala, a 60-year-old regular horse better, says Hollywood Bet is like a haven for people his age to pass time. “It’s a clubhouse for us. Much better than sitting in a tavern back in the townships because here, we not only spend but we also gain something out of our winnings and we have sober conversations” says Bab’(father) Thwala.
Slot machine people line up in short lines, sneering at each other when the person on the machine doesn’t give them a chance. Some people are infamous at Hollywood for tendencies to occupy two machines at a time or using one machine the whole day.
In his worst days,*Abel loses about R2 000 on average per day on the lucky numbers game but he keeps coming back over and over again. An insider confided that he had won an amount of over R35 000 more than once.
ACTION SPORT:Punters watching weekend sport action on television screens to see for themselves the outcome of their bets.Photo: Sisa Canca
Who’s who in the city?
The most popular in terms of numbers and vibrancy is Hollywood Bet at Newtown Mall, corner Plein and Harrison Streets. There is also Betting World at corner Rissik and Lilian Ngoyi Streets. U Bet is on Plein Street, between Wanderers and Eloff Street. There is Sports Bet on Jeppe and Polly Streets as well as World Sport Betting on Pritcherd and Troye Streets.
You can see more women than you could see in both Hollywood and Betting World combined. Violet thinks the setting at U Bet is more conducive than its competitors. “I used to go to Betting World, but that place is so crowded, the situation there is tense and there is this stink of smelly shoes and armpits of some men who jam that place”, says Violet as she frowns showing sullen displeasure about the kind of environment in question.
At U Bet, there is more interaction and courtesy for one another. People gather in small groups chatting, giggling and swapping coins, betting tickets and pens. The space is a social centre for Sihle where she meets and mingle with birds of a feather.
Gamblers, mostly at U Bet regularly “bank” numbers as groups of at least four members on a single bet, with each person putting forward their lucky number. Should they win in this instance, they split the money equally amongst all the participating members.
It is hard to spot by chance someone who has just won in some of these houses. But most regular male gamblers are notorious for flaunting at their counterparts when they’ve won big.
These gambling spaces are crowded by people traditionally viewed as working class or not wealthy. Security guards and police officers are the most visible in their branded uniforms whereas domestic workers, cashiers, cleaners, mineworkers, small business owners, pensioners go about without much visibility. They all come from different townships ranging from Soweto, Tembisa, Katlehong, Daveyton, Alexandra, Kagiso and so forth. Depending on age, they all dress up differently, with youth mostly wearing sports brands in shoes and fashionable clothes like DH, Guess, and the like. The older generation wear their semi-formal wear or golf Ts and tukkies.
The daredevils on the streets
Outside these spots, are informal groupings of illegal gamblers either playing dice or three cards or three caps. Most of them are lining up on Plein Street. There is always noticeable presence of young men rolling a dice by Attwell Gardens Park. The game is played with two dices and each player must get the two pieces show the same number of dots at the top.
Three cards has been a popular game in Johannesburg for quite some time. The owner of the cards is the only one who dictates things by shuffling three cards (two have blue colour and one is red) with other players expected to point the red one. The cards are in black pouches and before every shuffle the player show all the colours to show fellow gamblers. A minimum of R100 is supposed to be placed on top of the red card. If you get it wrong, you lose the R100 but if you’re right, you get a R100 in addition to yours.
There is also a more dodgy game by unscrupulous gangs in town and that is three caps. It is played much like three cards. There is a little clod that is hidden underneath one of the three 2 litre bottle caps and gamblers have to point the correct cap after a long and quick shuffle.
Most people are tricked to get into the game and never allowed to leave if they have won a few games. Next to Bree Taxi Rank, last week, a lady in her mid-30s was enticed by one of the female gang members to partake in this game and she ended losing R200, and her cell phone confiscated as she was trying to win back atleast a R100 to get her home.
In the National Responsible Gambling Programme research paper by Leanne Scott and Graham Barr, they concluded that dice and cards were perceived as being “fairer” and allowed punters to be in control than casino gambling.
“Police are regularly and routinely bought off” reads the paper about illegal gambling. Johannesburg Central Police Station Spokesperson Xoli Mbele could not be reached for a comment.
Gambling a tad too much
Mashudu Netshivhungululu, a registered counsellor for the National Responsible Gambling Programme, said gambling problem is a mental illness. “It’s a psychological problem, and the behaviour of people with gambling problems doesn’t make sense. Gambling addiction falls under mental disorder on the DSM 4 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4). One of the symptoms that reflect a gambling problem is someone who feels a need to gamble with the increasing amount in order to achieve the desired excitement.
“When you play, it’s like something is pulling you. Gambling has got a spirit of its own,” says Violet. The quest for money never stops.
FEATURED IMAGE: Gamblers looking at the screen for their bet outcomes. Photo: Sisa Canca
It’s eerily quiet at the Johannesburg Art Gallery (JAG) on a Tuesday morning. The only people around are the few staff that the gallery can afford to employ and two men sitting on a bench in the main entrance, getting some peace and quiet from the busy city surrounding them.
It’s understandable that there aren’t many people in an art gallery on a weekday morning, but ,come Saturday afternoon, the gallery has still but a few visitors. The continuous decline of the Central Business District (CBD), where the gallery is located, has meant that the largest gallery in Africa is now only visited on a rare occasion. Its visitation numbers have been on a steady decline and nowadays the gallery only sees a crowd at exhibition openings a few times a year.
The CBD has, over the years, become plagued by crime and traffic congestion, making it a less than perfect area to visit for tourists and locals alike. Visitors are often intimidated by the traffic surrounding the gallery and many people living around the CBD go right past it, assuming the gallery is a police station because of the large number of Metro police vans parked outside.
APPARENT POLICE STATION: Metro Police vans park outside the gallery daily, giving the impression that it is, in fact, a police station. Photo: Laura Pisannello
Once entering the gallery though, it seems worlds away from the bustling, congested Klein Street just 50 metres away. Tara Weber, the interim director of the gallery, sits in an outside courtyard having a smoke break, and the only noise to be heard is that of birds singing.
Weber, who has been the interim director of the gallery since the abrupt exit of former Chief Curator Antoinette Murdoch, is animated when talking about the exhibitions but does not gloss over the serious problems experienced either. Weber has high hopes for the gallery, including more educational programmes for young people and the use of their once popular Art Bus.
“There are really big struggles, I think, being a municipal gallery in general, because we don’t have the direct access to the main [Department of] Arts and Culture budget. We all sort of have to fight for one budget,” said Weber.
The gallery’s incredible collection of art is often loaned to galleries for exhibitions around the world, many of which have been incredibly successful. The loans generate international exposure for both the gallery and South African artists, but do not provide an income and don’t help in encouraging locals to visit the gallery.
The JAG, which celebrated its centenary last year, had six massive exhibitions that showcased its impressive permanent collection. The initial collection, which has now grown to over 10 000 pieces, was first started by Lady Florence Phillips in 1910. Phillips, the wife of a wealthy Randlord, had the intention of displaying the works in a yet-to-be-designed gallery.
“To put it in perspective, if we were to fill the entire gallery wall to wall and ceiling to floor, it would still only be about 2% of the collection. That’s why I appreciate the loans so much – because then the art is actually seen,” said Weber about the massive collection at the JAG.
QUIET SPACE: The gallery offers benches and a quiet space that allows visitors a moment of peace. Photo: Laura Pisannello
The original building was designed by British architect Edwin Lutyens and in 1915 the doors to the unfinished gallery were opened. Since then, the East and West wings, which were in Lutyens’ original design, have been completed. In 1986 the gallery underwent a massive extension which effectively doubled its size.
With the extension complete, the gallery now boasts 15 exhibition rooms. The new extension, designed by Meyer Pienaar and Associates, has managed to mesh the grand high-ceilinged rooms designed by Lutyens with smaller, more modern rooms. The extension has not been without its problems though. The copper roofing, which was added to the extension, has been stolen numerous times, presumably to be used as scrap metal. This has resulted in a stream of continuous leaks and a serious dent in the JAG’s maintenance budget.
Murdoch left the gallery after seven years calling the experience a terrible one. In an interview, she said the problem was not with the gallery itself, but rather the funding issues with the City of Joburg. “They [the city council] would cut budgets at the last minute even though they’d been set from the beginning of the year; it was very painful to work like that.”
The process to have funding allocated to an exhibition is a lengthy one and numerous reports have to be submitted to seniors before funding can be approved. However, funding for the JAG was cut regularly after money had already been allocated and exhibitions had been budgeted for, said Murdoch.
“We didn’t have toilet paper! Only one of the seven years I worked there we had a gardener, the rest of the time we had to beg people to help!” said Murdoch who still feels very emotional about her experience at the gallery.
Weber speaks frankly about the problems citing both an overstretched budget and a lack of support from members of the public.
“I think people are more willing to fund stuff that is more glamorous looking. So in terms of funding it’s not a huge drawcard because they don’t want to be associated with this area, I don’t know, which is quite sad, I think,” said Weber.
Public space
The gallery has had many struggles, over the years, attempting to keep the degradation at bay while many other areas of the CBD have not been as lucky. The city is now riddled with decaying, boarded up buildings and the massive gallery has not been immune to the degradation.
As with many aging buildings in the CBD there has been talk of moving the gallery to another location and using the building for something more practical, perhaps a parking lot. “I think it’s quite interesting that it’s [the gallery] been through all of that but it’s still remained,” said Weber. “But I think it’s also an interesting response that once things start going downhill people are like, ‘Oh let’s move it.’“
Weber said that this is a very public space that allows people to use the gallery for a variety of reasons, even if they do not fit the norm of a gallery’s typical functions. Photographers from Joubert Park often use the gallery’s courtyards to take photos in front of sculptures and school children are provided a safe space to do their homework.
Joubert Park, which is connected to the gallery via its North Entrance, is a complete contrast to the gallery. While the gallery has few visitors on a weekday afternoon, the park is filled with people. Groups of men gather to watch a game of chess, children mill about in their school uniforms and hawkers sell sweets and chips around the park. David Selepe has been one of the park photographers for 32 years and regularly uses the gallery to take photos.
“It’s very nice there. A lot of people don’t go because when it was apartheid we weren’t allowed and now when we tell people they can go they are surprised and they want to walk around,“ said Selepe.
Selepe has his own suggestions for the gallery though – bring back the shop and cafe. “It’s nice for people to get a cool drink and walk around there, it’s very cool inside and it’s nice to sit there.”
This is something that not many other public spaces in the CBD offer. Weber has really tried to encourage the use of the gallery as a public space for all, while many other historic places in the CBD forbid any form of loitering; an unsettling reality in public spaces. “Most weeks school kids will often come here because it’s safer. I’m very much of the opinion that structures should be used in a natural way.”
EXHIBITION OPENING: The opening of two exhibitions draws a large crowd of art lovers to the gallery. Photo: Laura Pisannello
Constant struggle
The JAG recently appointed an education officer, Colin Groenewald, with the intention of creating more projects that encourage youths to visit the gallery and get involved in the arts. The funding for large programmes doesn’t come cheaply though, and their budget for educational programmes was cut right before his appointment.
“The money we got for education was minimal, so small I don’t even want to say it. Sometimes we would have to take money we made from exhibitions to use for programmes,” said Murdoch.
The gallery’s first educational workshop this year encouraged school kids to write their responses to exhibitions on a wall covered in chalkboard paint. “The workshop was filmed and photographed, and the idea is to use this footage to apply for funding for further educational sessions. Chalk has been left in the workshop room, and we invite the public to voice their own opinions,” Groenewald told Friends of JAG, a group dedicated to raising money for the gallery.
“It’s really nice because it’s engaging with kids who are in the area but had never been to the gallery before. We had a whole space where they could write on the walls and, I suppose, take ownership of the gallery,” said Weber.
OPENING SPEECH: Tara Weber, the interim director of the gallery addresses a large crowd at an exhibition opening. Photo: Laura Pisannello
Onwards and upwards
Municipal galleries play tug of war with the funds allocated, with each gallery trying to ensure it receives enough funding to keep it going. The funding is, of course, never enough to meet everyone’s needs and while maintenance costs pile up, budget allocations go down.
“Last year we finally did get a budget to start restoring the building, so there’s a lot of construction going on, on the roofs and so on, but unfortunately the first contractor screwed it up a little bit so we have to redo some of those projects,” said Weber, before adding with a laugh, “I firmly believe this building is cursed.”
Weber’s belief that the gallery might be cursed might not be entirely wrong. Maintenance troubles aside, the gallery has experienced a serious shortage of staff which is highlighted by the fact that the gallery currently does not have a permanent chief curator. Weber said the gallery currently only has 30% of the staff that it needs to run properly.
Murdoch said that the lack of funding for exhibitions and maintenance really affected the ability to do her job. The last straw for Murdoch was when a two-year plan to exhibit works from Reunion, a small island off the east coast of Africa, had to be cancelled at the last minute because their funding was cut.
THE DAY BEFORE: Staff at the gallery excitedly prepare for the exhibition opening the next day. Photo: Laura Pisannello
The lack of funding required to hire a new director has been, among other problems, one of the biggest downfalls of the gallery. Lack of solid leadership has meant that other employees are required to fulfil many roles at once. Small details are overlooked and creativity when curating collections is limited.
The one thing the gallery has no shortage of is money to acquire new artworks, thanks to a generous trust started by Anglo-American. Their collection will continue to grow and under Weber’s temporary direction, will gather more Pan-African contemporary art as well as encourage a space to foster more artists.
The passionate staff at the gallery and the art lovers who are committed to helping them have been fighting an uphill battle. The continual lack of funding for the gallery has made it increasingly difficult to put on exhibitions.
The Anglo-American trust will allow the staff at the JAG to grow the incredible collection of art for many years to come, but a lack of funding for vital materials such as nails and paint might prevent the artworks from ever being exhibited.
FEATURED IMAGE: EXHIBITION OPENING: The opening of two exhibitions draws a large crowd of art lovers to the gallery. Photo: Laura Pisannello
Just outside the imposing Carlton Centre, at the corner of Commissioner and Von Wielligh streets, loud maskandi music can be heard blaring from the parked minibus taxis. A silver Toyota Quantum silently joins the queue of taxis waiting to load passengers for the mid-morning rush.
It stands out for looking roadworthy among the many taxis that look more like old car parts assembled in a hurry, that seem to be held together only by the drivers’ prayers and God’s grace.
On entering the silver taxi, one is welcomed by the calm voice of a Talk Radio 702 news anchor reading the top-of-the-hour news. Nomusa Ngcobo, also widely known as Gogo Ngcobo by regular commuters, taxi marshals and drivers, reveals an off-white set of teeth as she warmly greets the passengers as they fill up her taxi.
Every seat taken, the vehicle takes off but is soon slowed down by another taxi overtaking it. The passengers in Gogo’s taxi are treated to the spectacle of two taxis driving dangerously close to each other as the overtaking driver asks for loose change from the one in front of Gogo’s taxi, all this while both vehicles are in motion.
“Bheka la manyala bawenzayo! Mabeqeda bazibiza oodriver.” [Look at this nonsense they are doing! And then they call themselves drivers], says Gogo while honking at her fellow drivers.
The South African taxi industry is known for its fraught relationship with women, be they drivers or passengers. There have been a number of reports of gender-based violence in taxis and around taxi ranks.
In December 2011, there was an incident of two teenage girls being harassed by a group of over 20 taxi drivers at the Noord taxi rank. The men taunted the girls about the length of their skirts, groped them and took pictures with their mobile phones. Even though the police intervened and took the girls away to safety, to this day no arrests have been made.
In 2015, a taxi driver was filmed manhandling a female passenger just because her cellphone rang while she was in the vehicle. These are just two occurrences that were highly publicised but many more occur on a daily basis without being reported.
THOUGHTS ON WINGS: After 12 hours on the road, taxi driver Nomusa Ngcobo takes a lunch break. Photo: Olwethu BosoPIMP MY RIDE:After the family taxi business folded, Nomusa Ngcobo started her own in 1990. Photo: Olwethu Boso
Still I rise
Women taxi drivers are few and far between in this male-dominated industry, and Gogo Ngcobo is one of the few that can still be found in the various Johannesburg taxi ranks, as the majority has now retired.
The 60-year-old mother of three has been in the taxi industry for over 30 years. Her children, Vivian, Given and Lilian are not fans of her being a driver as they feel it is a dangerous enterprise, particularly for a woman.
She says Given, her son, constantly asks his mother to get a gun – as a way to protect herself – like most taxi drivers.
In response, the single parent reminds her children that it was the taxi business that put food on their table and educated them, so they should not look down on the business.
Waking up at 4am every day is no big deal for Ngcobo. When she was a young girl growing up in Orlando East, Soweto, her grandfather was an owner of several sedan taxis. She says she and her sister would wake up early every morning to help their uncle and grandfather to wash the sedans, check oil and water and warm up the vehicles. The two men would head out to the rank for the day, leaving the young girls to go about their house chores, before going to school.
COMING UP SHORT: It’s incumbent on front seat passengers to count the money for the driver. Photo: Olwethu Boso
“Growing up, I knew I wanted to be a driver, especially a truck driver, but when I found out that truck drivers get hijacked a lot I became fearful,” she says, her eyes focused on the road as she drives.
After falling pregnant in Grade 10, Ngcobo did not return to school. She found work in the Johannesburg Central Business District (CBD) as an assistant at an Indian-owned shop selling curtains and homeware, where she stayed for 12 years.
While still a shop assistant, she would spend time at the taxi rank where her grandfather worked, and her liking of cars and driving was reignited. She took the scarcity of women in the taxi industry as a challenge and got more and more involved in the family business.
In 1984, Ngcobo became a driver for her family’s taxis, however, within six years the business was no more, after the vehicles had been hijacked or stolen during turf wars. When the taxis were sedans, the industry was highly regulated and controlled, with only a few black operators being issued with permits. After the industry was deregulated in 1987, South Africa saw the emergence of the minibus taxi, and and fierce competition amongs operators for passengers and profitable routes.
Undeterred, Gogo Ngcobo decided to start her own business, and so N Ngcobo Taxis – as per inscription on her taxis – was born in 1990. This was a dangerous time for any male taxi driver or owner, let alone a woman, yet Ngcobo has never looked back.
A WOMAN’S TOUCH: Gogo Ngcobo has had a life-long love affair with cars. Photo: Olwethu Boso
As a taxi owner, Ngcobo is a member of the Witwatersrand African Taxi Association (WATA). Her four taxis collectively rake in close to R2000 per day.
Back in the taxi, Ngcobo counts the money the passengers have given her, and she realises that it is R5 short. A single trip between the city and Orlando should earn her a total of R180. Instead of getting angry, Ngcobo calmly says, “Iyekele, ayisenani ngane, angeke ibuye manje” [Leave it, it doesn’t matter my child, it’s not going to come back now.]
Male drivers do not have extend such mercy to their passengers. Not when it comes to their money. A male driver would have shouted and disrespected the passengers until someone produced the missing R5.
Driving taxis can be demanding. Road rage, accidents, taxi turf wars and even criminals pretending to be passengers are just some of the problems drivers contend with. Ngcobo says the sexism she experiences does not only come from taxi drivers; passengers are rude to her just because she is a woman.
They make sexist comments and shout at her, calling her names such as s’febe [bitch]. As the driver she has to stay calm at all times. She says when she first started out as a driver, many passengers doubted her abilities at first, but now that some are used to her they have become comfortable.
She says it is strange that some men have a problem with her being a taxi driver, and yet do not have an issue with their wives, sisters or daughters driving cars.
BEHIND THE WHEEL: Gogo Ngcobo chats to her passengers. Photo: Olwethu Boso
National call
In September 2016, the South African National Taxi Council established provincial desks to deal with some of the issues female taxi drivers and owners deal with on the job, especially discrimination from male counterparts.
Chairwoman of the Gauteng Women’s Desk, Memory Modigoe, says these steps are long overdue. “Most of the women in this industry are not informed about running the business and they are vulnerable.
We want to create a space where women can be taught how to run their business, and where they receive the necessary support,” says Modigoe, who is a taxi owner.
She says her passion is to empower women operators and to create a platform where their issues are taken seriously even within the various taxi associations where women’s voices are not often listened to.
“I came into this business after my husband, a taxi owner, was shot and killed.
I was afraid, but I made a decision that I would run this business. We want women who are in the position I was in, and other situations they may have, to see we are here for them.”
In 2015, the Department of Transport compiled an action plan document in which it has given itself and the taxi industry a two-year time frame to transform the taxi industry, by allowing more female representation in its structures, especially at leadership and decision-making levels such as in associations.
As much as this initiative is great on paper, Ngcobo explains that it will be difficult especially with married women who are still suppressed by patriarchy, even in their own homes, as this job is demanding and means less time at home being a wife.
“Kukhona la kuzomosheka khona and kuzomele ukhethe,” warns Ngcobo. [There will be a time when all comes down crumbling and you must choose.]
After indulging in her cooling, yet filling, meal on this hot day, Ngcobo relaxes in the passenger seat behind the driver’s. Quickly, itis, a general feeling of lethargy experienced after eating a satisfying meal, seems to be attacking her as her eyelids struggle to fight sleep. Her phone rings.
“Uyabona nawe abathandi ma imoto imile iskhathi eside,” she says as she drops the call from her son. She explains that her children check on her once the taxi’s tracker alerts them that the vehicle has not moved in a while.
“They think something is wrong and don’t understand that sometimes when I’m done with my trips I park the taxi and sleep or eat lunch.”
Trackers were installed in Ngcobo’s four taxis when she purchased them. This was done mainly for insurance purposes as she is still paying off the fleet. She says it was also a smart business move as she is able to also keep a close eye on her drivers, to see whether their distances and routes correlate with the money they bring in at the end of the day.
CALL ME WOMAN:Gogo Ngcobo applies makeup before rejoining the queue to transport commuters. Photo: Olwethu Boso
“Hayi ukuthi angibathembi, kodwa li-business.” [Not that I don’t trust my drivers but this is business.]
“Ubaba bengekhe abuzwe kungani e-tracker abashayeli bakhe ngoba bayaqonda ukuthi uvikela imali yakhe nebusiness lakhe.” [If it were a man no one would question why he tracks his taxis and drivers because it would be understand that he’s protecting his money and business.]
Gogo jumps back to the driver’s seat, opens the overhead compartment and starts to apply foundation and lipstick, an unusual sight to witness in the driver’s seat of a taxi.
“Yebo ngishayela amatekisi kodwa ngise ngumama ozithandayo,” [Yes I drive taxis but at the end of the day I’m still a woman who cares about her appearance and loves herself], she says giggling.
It is the late afternoon rush and hordes of commuters swarm the taxi rank to make their way home, and hawkers peddling a variety of goods ranging from foodstuff to clothing, are keen to get rid of more of their stock before close of business. Gogo Ngcobo reverses her taxi from where she was resting, to join the queue, and to ferry the last load of passengers for the day, before she can make her own way home. Tomorrow, she will do it all over again, from 4am.
It is a hot Tuesday afternoon and informal waste pickers, those who retrieve recyclable items thrown away by others, approach the recycling yard situated on the premises of the Green House Project on Wolmerans Street, Johannesburg.
Placed in a small corner, with an entrance separate to that of the Green House Project, the recycling yard is a beacon of hope to the 392 informal waste collectors that walk through its gate.
With shoes that have fallen apart and makeshift trolleys, these informal waste pickers walk great distances collecting bottles, plastic, paper, boxes and cans which they sell for a small sum of money. A big blue skip bin is placed in the centre of the yard where workers sort the trash brought in by the informal waste pickers into organised heaps.
The recycling yard, run by a South African based company called Trash Back, focuses on improving the quality of life of informal waste pickers with the hopes of moving those who are homeless off the streets.
Manager of the Trash Back branch on Wolmerans Street, Sipho Moyo, said: “My collectors are guys from the streets, so in actual fact this recycling unit was established to help these guys.”
“In the long term we plan on getting these guys out of the streets,” said Moyo. “We plan to get them a flat, but for now we are working together with them.”
Moyo, a friendly and approachable 35-year old, explained that before he started working at the recycling yard, which opened up at the beginning of this year, he was a manager of a restaurant here in Johannesburg.
SORTING: A waste picker sorts through plastic and cardboard within the recycling yard. Photo: Leanne Cummings SORTING: Workers at the recycling yard place the cardboard into a large skip bin. Photo: Leanne Cummings
“ I came here because I love working with, let me rather say I love helping people, so when they told me this project will be starting up solely to pull these guys off the streets that’s when I joined,” said Moyo.
Moyo said that after working throughout the night, waste pickers “come here [to the yard] first thing in the morning”. Moyo said that depending on what is brought in, the waste pickers are “given money, and in return we are given what we need, the waste products”. “They go out and come back much later again to make enough money to buy food and the basics that they need,” Moyo said.
“I tell them what items to look out for and what items to collect,” said Moyo and he explained how much the informal waste pickers are paid according to the different items that are brought in.
Moyo said he gives the informal wastepickers:
R10 per kilogramme (kg) for aluminium cans,
R1.15 per kg for LD, a clear plastic,
R2.70 per kg for PET, which are the cold drink bottles,
R 1.50 per kg for HL1, which is white paper,
R2.20 per kg for PP, which is the hard plastic, and
R2.20 per bottle for HD, which are the milk bottles.
RECYCLING: A worker within the yard sorts through several bags that are filled with recyclable objects. Photo: Leanne Cummings
Moyo continued to explain that “the people that help me sort out stuff [in the yard] are people that I got from the streets”.
“I saw that they were hard workers and so I pulled them out and now we work as a team where I pay them a salary,” said Moyo.
While hiding in the shade of the skip bin from the scorching hot sun that is beating down, *Collins, a waste sorter in the yard, wipes the sweat that drips down his face with the sleeve of his overall.
“Let me tell you about the story when Sipho found me,” he smiled.
The short, soft spoken 27-year old said: “There was someday where I was at a garage here in Joburg and I was collecting in a bin. He [Sipho] was busy at the petrol station, waiting for people to pour fuel there. He saw me collecting some of the things and he managed to call me. He wanted to get me off the streets,” said Collins.
“I didn’t believe him at first, but he told me he was serious and he wanted me to get a job and come and see him,” said Collins. Shaking his head Collins said: “I was thinking to myself that he was just bluffing. You see, some of the people they promise you empty promises.”
Collins explained that he decided to go and see what Moyo had to offer three weeks after he had been spotted at the petrol station. After seeing Moyo, Collins still worked as an informal waste picker for a few months before he was hired by Moyo to help sort out the items that came into the recycling yard.
Collins added that he earned a salary of R1700 per month, by working as a sorter in the yard, where he “manages to pay R400 every second week for a flat at Hilbrow Safari”.
Collins shares a small two bedroom flat with a colleague that works at the recycling yard. Collins sleeps on a thin, worn out sponge mattress that is placed on the floor and a few items of clothes hang in a cupboard.
Collins is silent for a few short moments before he hangs his head in his hands…“but before that, yoh! yoh! yoh! It was very difficult”, he said.
“The reason why I came to eGoli you know,” said Collins is that “it symbolised a way of life. Like even if you came from a background where it is very poor, at least you could come to Johannesburg to find a job to cover transport and your family.”
HELPING HAND: A worker helps a waste pickers cart his trolley through the recycling yard to the weighing area. Photo: Leanne Cummings
From its discovery of gold in 1886, the city of Johannesburg has been seen as a city of new beginnings with the opportunity of a new life and an abundance of jobs. The vibrant, culturally diverse city life attracts locals and migrants, like a moth to a flame.
However not all is gold in Johannesburg as there is a prominent divide between rich and poor, and like most developing countries the unemployment rate is skyscraper high. According to Africa Check, South Africa has one of the highest unemployment rates in the world.
Collins who grew up in the location of Hammanskraal, Pretoria, worked in a restaurant Wings in Witbank, before coming to Johannesburg in 2008. Collins said that he came to Johannesburg because he thought that he would be able to find a better paying job.
“I find one day I just wake up and I’m lying on the streets, before when I was at home, I didn’t think that one day I would end up on the street”, said Collins .
The struggles of the street
Collins explained that at a young age he got involved with the wrong crowd where he was introduced to drugs and intimidated into committing crimes. Collins said that when he came to Johannesburg he was smoking “crystal meth” and explained that he used the little money that he earned as an informal waste picker to buy the drugs to feed his addiction.
“I just started to be a collector because I just came up with the idea – what can I do to produce drugs?” said Collins. “So I start selling chrystal meth, weed and the paddling stone where they call it nyaope.”
The drug Nyaope is a concoction of rat poison, dagga, antiretroviral medication and heroin and *Jackson, an informal waste picker who currently lives on the street said that Nyaope was a common drug that is found on the street.
Jackson a tall and slender 33-year old said that “most of these guys they have a problem on smoking, yeah, this Nyaope”.
“It’s a terrible thing that they do just for the fun of it and at the end its killing them. Some even go to hospital” said Jackson. “They spike themselves with this Nyaope, with injections that they get from the pharmacy”, Jackson said.
Jackson said that he too used to smoke Nyaope but explained “you see, now I see my life is going down the drain, nothing is going fine.
I’m not free, I’m always stressed, you don’t know what to do and you all mixed up”, said Jackson. “I see, no man, the more I smoked the more I get this problem, but now since I quit[ in 2010] my life now I can see where I’m going”, Jackson said.
Collins too said that he no longer smokes drugs and added that “there’s no big proper rehab centre that I haven’t been to”.
“I’ve been to Bronkhorstspruit, Magalies. I’ve been to Brakpan, Springs, Witpoort Care Centre and I’ve been to one in Pretoria” said Collins where “I’ve been in for eight months in each of them” he added.
“I don’t know what would happen today if I was staying on the street”, said Collins. “Even all the crimes I’ve done. I’ve been to prison you see and that’s why I needed to get off the street, cause that’s the problem I don’t want to do all those things again” Collins said with a croak in his voice.
“There are dangerous things that happen out on the streets,” Collins continued. He looks around the recycling yard and smiles. “It’s just a wonderful opportunity to be here, it’s a wonderful job.”
Collins explained that in 2014 he was involved in a house break-in in Boksburg after which he was locked up for two years, “but even today I am serving my parole,”said Collins.
“I got out of prison last year,” Collins explains and adds that “it was hard in prison, but I managed to pick up from there just being alone. Even the people I was going there [to the house break-in] with, they are big criminals, even the ones that make the murder and violence it was not nice…I don’t want to go back there [to prison],” said Collins.
Collins said he doesn’t have many friends and that he is not a “friend person”. “The reason for me just to be in jail and smoking drugs is because of friends, so that’s why I don’t want friends,”, said Collins.
Jackson, in a separate conversation to Collins, also brought up the fact that the streets are very dangerous to live on due to crime.
“Sometimes you meet those guys that rob you of your things,” said Jackson. He leaned against the wall and said “two of my friends, in the past two weeks, they got burned and set alight,” said Jackson.
Jackson said that it is very hard to live on the streets, especially in winter or on cold nights. Jackson stated that his one friend made a fire to keep warm and “was smoking rock when he fell asleep and then he leave the fire and it just catches everything,” said Jackson.
ANOTHER DAY’S WORK: A waste picker pushes his trolley towards the recycling yard where he can exchange goods for a small amount of money. Photo: Leanne Cummings
“My other friend, he get, uh died,” said Jackson. His face that was light with a smile earlier in the conversation had dampened out to an emotionless expression. “They [criminals on the street] just caught him and just light his blanket. They said he robbed one of their colleagues you see,” said Jackson. “We haven’t seen them [the criminals] since.”
“Sometimes you meet cops, Metro cops, that take your blankets,” added Jackson “and you can’t do anything about it.”
Hopes and dreams
Both Jackson and Collins say that they are grateful for the recycling yard. Even though there are others down town, “this one is the best,” said Collins.
“They friendly, they work nicely with people you know. You can even borrow money and we have some showers where we can bath here everyday,” said Jackson.
Jackson explained that he completed his first year of mechanical engineering at Witwatersrand University. However could not complete his studies as the people who paid for his education could no longer pay for him anymore. “I’d really like to go back to school,” said Jackson. “If I find a good job with enough money I can go back to school because living on the streets, and doing nothing, is not easy,” Jackson added.
Collins said he hopes to keep the job at the recycling yard so that he can send money home to his only other living relative, his grandmother, who lives in Boksburg. “You know your life it is what it is, if you look at the things you know what happened in your life and in your future – there is still opportunities out there,” Collins smiled.
FEATURED IMAGE: Waste pickers dragging waste around. Photo: Leanne Cummings
The Johannesburg Central Business District (CBD) caters for a variety of needs to different members of society; there are retail shops, medical practitioners, clubs, churches, traditional healers and so on. But at times, there seems to be tension among members of society with different religious and cultural belief systems.
A black man wearing a black suit and a white shirt with a red tie standing outside the church door on Eloff Street preaches in an effort to draw people to get inside the church, while doing so he sees a woman wearing sangoma regalia passing by, he starts shouting holding a mic connected to speakers that people should repent from their evil ways and stop consulting sangomas and seek help from the church.
National co-ordinator of the Traditional Healers Organisation (THO), Phepsile Maseko, says pre-colonial Africa relied on traditional healers for physical and spiritual health; however colonisation has made Africans to believe that their tradition and belief systems are “evil”.
A Hindu seer who doesn’t want to be identified owns a chemist; she also sells traditional medicine in the area. The chemist is full of different traditional medication stored in bottles and plastics with no labels. The chemist is decorated with horns, animal skin and feathers.
The seer who explains that she has no time to waste as she is preparing to do a ritual is reserved about the nature of her work to non-clients but highlights that her only problem in the CBD is with some pastors who inform people that they do evil things.
While still complaining about the pastors, an old man gets in and asks two elderly black women sitting next to the door if they still have the muti (medicine) for women, the two women inform him that it is finished and he leaves looking a bit disappointed.
The seer also complains about government wanting traditional healers to have certificates as she says her father trained her for the work that she does as a result she doesn’t have a certificate.
However, Sibonginkosi Mabena, 48, is more open about the nature of her work. She has had to deal with what most sangomas (traditional healers) deal with when they start accepting their calling to become traditional healers including being “labelled as people who are in the dark” by some religious groups .
Gogo Linqe (her sangoma name) conducts her traditional healing practice in her apartment at 93 Derry Mansion on Claim Street. The storey building is a few blocks away from the office of the Traditional Healer’s Organisation (THO) (a non-profit organisation that develops policies and provides support to traditional health practitioners) on De Villiers Street.
Adorned in blue, red and white beaded necklaces, bracelets and colourful strings on her waist, her appearance draws attention even from by standers across the street sitting on the pavement of the Seventh day Adventist Church on Claim Street.
Gogo Linqe has a welcoming smile as she greets with “ Thokoza Gogo” (ancestral greeting). On the way to her apartment, a lady clothed in Zionist church gowns greets her with “nina bakhulu” (the elderly) Gogo laughs and says “thokoza mntanami” (greetings my child).
Gogo Linqe seems to be well known in the area as the women selling vegetables on the street also greet her warmly; one asks whether she’s been sleeping the whole weekend as they have not seen her.
“Isangom’asilali mntanami siyasebenza,” (a traditional healer does not sleep my child she works) she smiles as she walks.She lives in a two-bedroom apartment with her two daughters; Sakhile (26) and Balenhle (11).
JOBURG SANGOMA: Sibonginkosi Mabena standing outside the Seventh Day Adventist Church, a building opposite hers. Photo: Nobathembu Zantsi
At first glance, there seems to be nothing out of the ordinary in her flat; a kitchen with built-in cupboards and two bedrooms however, she uses a corner in one of the rooms as her “indumba” (practice room) where she does consultations with clients.
“Most of my clients are elderly people, youngsters who come here are often accompanied by their parents,” she says.
MEET GOGO LINQE: Gogo Linqe in her “indumba” (practice room) explaining how she conducts a consultation for a client. Photo: Nobathembu Zantsi
Gogo Linqe is originally from Zimbabwe, she came to South Africa (SA) in 2000 looking for better job opportunities.
When she arrived in SA she worked as a domestic worker for 12 years in different households around Johannesburg. She answered her calling in 2013 after years of resisting it. She says she grew up in a Catholic church up until she decided to come to South Africa.
She says she has been aware since she was still a child that she had a calling to be a sangoma but her mother was against it, she says she thought to herself it would go away if she ignored it but it caught up with her even in her adult years.
“I used to see things in my sleep including things that would eventually take place,” she says.Gogo Linqe had many “episodes” before she finally decided to answer her calling.
She recalls one where she disturbed a taxi driver once and almost caused an accident as she was overwhelmed by the spirits of her ancestors and she grabbed the taxi driver by the hand and asked him why he was not taking her to thwasa School (initiation school for sangomas).
One of the passengers realised that she was a person with a calling and quickly gave her snyf (snuff powder) to in hail to appease her ancestors.
“A Zion prophet in the same taxi told me that I had to accept my calling or else I would die,” she says.She went to an initiation school in Diepsloot (a township in Johannesburg) where she graduated after training for 10 months.
She says she finally felt like a load had been lifted of her shoulders when she finally accepted her calling and started practising as a sangoma.
Attending church as a sangoma
However, she would still face more problems after qualifying as a sangoma as it is easy for anyone to notice that she is a traditional healer because of her beads.
“Sometimes that’s a good thing because some people come up to me and ask for my contacts because they need help but at times I face people who don’t know anything about being a sangoma and will start saying hateful things,” Gogo Linqe says.
“Even now my mother who is a staunch Christian and I don’t get along as she still doesn’t understand the calling that I have,” she says with sadness in her eyes “but I still love her and try to reach out to her,” she adds.
However her father has been very supportive and understands the nature of her calling. Both her parents still live in Zimbabwe.
Gogo Linqe says with the help of traditional healer’s institutions which educate people about the work they do, when people see sangomas on the street they greet them with respect.
“You would walk into a taxi and some taxi drivers would say thokoza Gogo,” she laughs. However, she says, there are still people who think when someone has idlzoi (ancestral spirit) they are demon possessed.
“Healing people is a gift and in the olden days, our ancestors used to seek guidance from sangomas, they were gatekeepers of society,” she adds. Maseko says over the years, with the assistance of traditional healer’s organisations and the government, people’s perceptions about traditional healers have changed.
“People are starting to embrace their calling despite sceptics,” she says. There are currently more than 200 000 traditional healers across the country of which more than 29000 are members of THO.
Gogo Linqe says one of the myths that came with colonisation was that sangomas don’t pray or don’t know God.
She says when you have a calling to heal people you pray even more for guidance from God “even when preparing medicine I pray,” she says.
She uses bones, incense, candles when doing consultations. She also prepares medication using herbs to give to her patients. “I buy most of my herbs at a store in Faraday and sometimes my ancestors show me where to find a particular plant, “she says.
She recalls how she had to be hospitalised for three months after congregants of an apostolic church called her to the altar and prayed for her because they believed “she was demon possessed.”
“Abanye babengiqhwaba benginyathela bengikhaba besithi bakhiph’amadimoni (some were clapping and kicking me saying they were casting out demons) all because I attended church without taking off my beads,” she says sniffing snyf which is used to connect her with her ancestors when feeling their presence.
However, she says at Revelation Church in Johannesburg down town, sangomas are allowed to get in without taking off their beads but they sit together in a different corner from other people.
What causes stigmatisation of sangomas?
“Some healers don’t use their gift appropriately, they harm people and they give us a bad name,” Gogo Linqe says.
She says she was disturbed by reports that people with albinism were being murdered to make muti.“When I went to thwasa school for 10 months, we were never taught to make medicine using people’s body parts, I don’t know where it comes from, people who do that are not healers ngabathakathi (they are witches),” she says with a louder voice.
She adds that pastors also have to continue preaching so that people stop doing “evil” things. “Sometimes the people who approach sangomas for evil doing are church goers but I turn them down, my ancestors would never allow such,” she adds.
Gogo says most of her patients learn about her healing practice through word of mouth and through THO where she is also a member.“We conduct imihlangano (gatherings) where we are equipped with skills,” she says pointing at her certificates; one a certificate as a senior gobela (trainer) and the other certificate as a certified sangoma.
“Nowadays it’s important for patients to verify if a person is a certified sangoma before consulting with them to avoid ‘bogus’ sangomas,” Gogo adds.
QUALIFIED: Sibonginkosi holds her certificate with pride. Photo: Nobathembu Zantsi
Government regulation on the traditional healing practice
Gogo Linqe says she appreciates government efforts to try to regulate traditional healers to protect both healers and patients however, she says she is concerned about some of the additional regulations that have been proposed to be effective starting in February next year.
“Government cannot decide how long a person must stay in training because that totally depends on the person’s ancestors, some people do spend a year but others spend three months and so forth and that does not mean they have robbed the process but instead it means that their idlozi matured faster,” she says.
Gogo adds that on the proposed minimum age of 18 to be an “ithwasa (sangoma initiate), she says she understands the reason for the regulation. “Some people are called at an early age and once they have undergone ukuthwasa they are still not ready to take on the responsibility bestowed upon them and end-up displeasing the ancestors with the way they handle themselves,” she says.
However, she insists that government should not impose such regulations on sangomas but instead should involve traditional healers when coming up with these policies. Gogo Linqe immediately got lost in the spiritual realm but quickly came back. “Where were we,” she asks but quickly remembers “ohh the traditional healers act”.
She calls Sakhile, to go call another young sangoma who stays on a floor two stairs down from hers.
Before she arrives, she tells us that the girl had to go to thwasa school at age, 17 because she became very ill. After waiting for a few minutes, Nontobeko Mondlana who goes by the name Gogo Maweni (sangoma name), 21, arrives.
She is also wearing red and white beads and bows while clapping her hands when greeting us.She says she knew when she was still 11 years old that she had a calling but her family did a ceremony to plead with her ancestors to let her continue with school.
She carried on studying until her ancestors could no longer wait so she abandoned her studies when she was still in grade 11.” Ignoring my calling led me to become very ill, I went from having kidney stones to having a stroke but doctors couldn’t help me my family and I knew it was time for me to accept my calling,” she says.
She went to an initiation school called “Vuk’uzakhe” in the township of Thokoza. Mondlana strongly opposes the proposed government regulation on the minimum age to be an ithwasa.
Maseko says she does not understand how the government can reach a conclusion of stipulating how old people must be when ancestors decide to call them.
“How can government decide to control spiritual things, what if a person ends up dying because of not accepting their calling?” asks Maseko.Mondlana also strongly opposes the minimum age to go to initiation school. Making reference to her case she says “ I could have died if I had not answered my calling, no one knows the pain you go through when you resist your calling except you so it’s completely wrong to impose such things on sangomas,”
Mondlana is not a fully practising sangoma although she’s a certified one. She says she wants to be like other young sangomas who are academics and still practice as traditional healers.Despite some negative perceptions people may have of traditional healers in Johannesburg CBD, the traditional healers are determined to continue doing their work and carrying themselves with pride.
Gogo Linqe and Gogo Maweni will be attending umhlangano to be held at the THO office in November in an effort to resolve the plight sangomas still face in modern society and will also be taught more about some medical procedures. “ukufund’akukhulelwa” (you never stop learning).
Gogo Linqe laughs: “Vumani bo!” (agree with me).
FEATURED IMAGE: JOBURG SANGOMA: Sibonginkosi Mabena standing outside the Seventh Day Adventist Church, a building opposite hers. Photo: Nobathembu Zantsi
A middle-aged man wearing an old suit looks relaxed while he is sitting in the shade in Joubert Park with a camera around his neck and a photo display nearby so that people walking through can see samples of his work. He is approached by a woman wearing a summer dress with her two young daughters dressed identically.
The man and woman spend some time negotiating before he leads the family to a tree that has the best amount of light for the perfect photograph. He first positions the mother and then the daughters so that they are ready for the family picture.
The man takes a couple of steps back; he encourages the children to smile and after two clicks the job is done. He first looks at the photos before asking the mother to pick the one she likes best.
Back at his work spot, he prepares the printing process which happens immediately with the help of a small portable printer that gets its power from a connected motorcycle battery. The photo is then sealed in a plastic sleeve and handed to the customer. In exchange, she pays the photographer for his work.
Thinking about the past
David Selepe is one of the ‘street photographers’ that operates in Joubert Park. Selepe has been working around the area since the 1980s and officially started working in the park from 1982. He has been in the same spot by the north entrance of the park since his first day. Selepe reminisces about the old days when things were different.
“You were not allowed to sit down anywhere like I am doing now, only in designated areas of the park because this choice was for the white people. You were only allowed to walk around inside.” Selepe says as he looks off into the distance.
Street photographers could take photographs inside the park if someone approached them and asked, however, once the job was done then payment had to happen outside. “It was illegal to do trade in the park and there was always a lot of security around,” Selepe says.
He stretches his arms out a little and pulls up his sleeves to show the scars on his wrists that he got in 1983 when he was arrested. “A customer offered me money inside the park and security saw it. I was arrested immediately and the scars are because I fought against them when they tried to put on the handcuffs. I was taken to the station and had to pay a fine of R30, which was a lot of money back then, and I was let out,” Selepe says.
SCARS FROM THE PAST:The dark rectangle-like mark is the scar David Selepe got from handcuffs when he resisted arres in 1983. Photo: Candice Wagener
Why business has declined
When Selepe first started working in the park, he was using a film camera, something that not a lot of people knew how to work compared to today and digital photography. He says that around 1995 more photographers started arriving in the park but cannot say whether this was related to the end of apartheid.
Now there are about 30 photographers and each one has his own spot inside. Many of them can be identified by the umbrellas that they sit under and each one has also got a photo frame that displays his work.
Selepe says that business has gotten difficult, mostly because of smart phones. People prefer to have photos taken with their cellphones. This is just one of the contributing factors behind the decline of business for the park photographers. Another factor that is hurting business is that the area is not regularly looked after.
When you take a glance around the park or walk down its pathways the thing you notice the most is the amount of rubbish that lies around and the smell of urine that occasionally fills the air.
Selepe also mentions how bad the crime used to be when there was no longer security looking after the park, “compared to the apartheid time”. Selepe says that there came a time when all the photographers that were operating in the park had a meeting and it was agreed that they (the photographers) needed to be the watchers of the park and look after the people.
“If we see someone doing something wrong, we tell them not to do that,” Selepe says.
He adds further that since the photographers started looking out for the park, “the crime has gone down”. During apartheid, they were viewed as a problem, however, many years later they now play a role in keeping the park safe.
FROM ONE PHOTOGRAPHER TO ANOTHER:David held his camera in front of his face so I could take a photo. At the same time he took one of me. Photo: Candice Wagener
The loss of photo hotspots
What once used to be the main attraction of the park was the striking circle fountain located in the middle. According to Selepe, when the fountain was working, there were six sections in the centre where the water would gush upwards around a metre or so high. The second layer to the fountain was surrounded by sections where water would flow out into a half circle and trickle into the pool of water surrounding the centre.
Selepe remembers how the fountain used to be a popular attraction for everyone, from kids to adults. He recalls a time around 2001 “where the water gushed out into streams and the pool was frozen in time. Everyone got excited and wanted a photo taken in front of the fountain. I still have a photo of just the frozen water back home in Limpopo, it was a great day for everyone.”
He reveals more of what he remembers. The fountain had different coloured lights inside: red, blue, yellow and green. “During the evening you could see the lights through the water while it flowed,” Selepe says. He has a wide smile on his face and at one point he turns to look back at the now empty feature which stopped working five or so years ago.
The Victorian Conservatory inside the Greenhouse Project, known as the “Greenhouse house” by the photographers, used to be another photo hotspot. The conservatory used to boast of its beauty with a complete glass and metal frame structure and different types of flowers that had rooted themselves in all areas of the greenhouse.
“People liked it, it was a nice area to take photos in and sometimes wedding photos as well,” Selepe says.
The conservatory is now closed off because it forms part of the Greenhouse project. This project is found in the northwest section of the park and it serves as a teaching ground about sustainable living. It has become a garden where vegetables and medicinal plants are grown by the community for the community. It is fenced around so as to keep it safe from crime.
BROKEN AND ABANDONED:The park’s photographers are yearning for the fountain to be fixed. Photo: Candice Wagener
A woman and a flower
Selepe moves on from talking about the fountain and the conservatory, and starts talking about one of his photographs that have brought him great pride. When he worked with film he could do double exposure photography and one photograph he had taken was of a woman pictured in the middle of a flower. He cannot recall the exact year when he took it, but he remembers that he sold the photograph in 1995 to a young woman that had taken an interest in it.
“I have my name and number on the back of some of my old photos and I got a call from a man in Cape Town. His daughter was the one that had bought my photo and he was impressed with how I had done it. He had it placed in an exhibition and my photo won a R15 000 prize which the man sent to me. My photo made it all the way to Cape Town!” Selepe exclaims with a look of pride and excitement on his face.
The Zwane family business
Gift Zwane was another photographer that used to work in the park during the same time as David, but he passed away in 2002. Zwane’s photography lives on through his sons who now also work inside the park. Both brothers see photography as a family business and they take great pride in this. Mkhululi Zwane started working in 1998 and Frank Zwane joined in 2001 after he finished school.
“David is our elder, all the photographers know about him,” says Frank Zwane
Mkhululi continues: “David and my father were some of the first photographers that started working in the park and they created a space for us.”
The brothers’ work spot is close to the fountain and they each have a bench where they sit and wait for customers. Frank and Mkhululi both have a love for photography, and they work in the park because they can’t find work elsewhere.
“My camera is my life,” Mkhululi says as he lifts his camera up to his face as if talking directly to it.
Mkhululi, who has been taking pictures of a customer, shows the customer what he has taken and asks him which one he likes best. While the photographs are being printed, Mkhululi starts talking about what he earns for the day, which is all dependent on how business is for that day.
Frank, standing next to him with his arms behind his back, nods in agreement with his brother.
The brothers speak about the same concerns that Selepe had raised and that these are the reason business has declined for them as well.
The breakdown of the fountain and the conservatory are named as being the main reasons things are difficult for not only the Zwane brothers but also for the other photographers.
A photographer’s community
Although the photographers initially only took portrait photographs, they have become innovative and lately they take ID and driver’s licence photos as well so that they can keep business steady. They charge R5 more for this simply because the photos need to be cut and that wastes some of the photo paper. They use a white sheet as the background for these types of more specialised photographs.
Each photographer respects the other’s space. If a customer goes to a specific photographer, the others do not try and get that person’s business. The price for portrait photos is the same price all round at R15 a photo, and ID or driver’s licence photos are priced at R20. This is also something that the photographers have agreed on.
The photographers have some form of a brotherhood among them. If one’s printer or camera does not want to work when they have a customer, then another photographer will lend a helping hand. Frank says that going to help is important because “the same thing could happen to me one day”.
Joubert Park is a community where you will find kids playing on the playground equipment, and men of different ages playing chess, either on the small boards they bring with or the giant chess board painted on the floor. It’s a place where people come to drink alcohol that’s kept in a plastic bag or to smoke dagga. It is also a place where people come to sleep during the day or to gamble with playing cards.
“LET ME SEE”: A customer checks his picture to give it the stamp of approval. Photo: Candice Wagener
In this mix, you will find the street photographers that see the park as their office or their studio. These dedicated individuals come every day, from dawn till dusk, and can be found in their spots trying to earn a living.
“There are still a few [photographers]. Some are dedicated, some don’t stay for long, and some have passed on.” – David Selepe
FEATURED IMAGE: An image of a photographer holding a camera. Photo: Candice Wagener
In this episode, we explore the feasibility of social housing for students, and the advantages and disadvantages that the inner city offers to the development of a student precinct.
