TWELVE OYSTERS, TWO SHOES

---

---

KNYSNA

PART I

TWELVE OYSTERS, TWO SHOES

It’s a rolling IMAX movie theater.
I have a box seat, pent house, on a double-decker bus from Stellenbosch to Knysna (pronounced Nysna). The huge front window wraps around me like the clear convex wall of a bubble. Suspended ten feet above the road, it feels like a carpet ride. I am streaking through brightly lit farm country, descending mountain passes, snaking among thick green pine trees, passing long stretches of surf whitened beaches.
This is the famous “Garden Route” which skirts the southern extremity of the African continent, along Indian Ocean. In the afternoon I roll into Knysna, The water glistens, and houses climb the hills that rise around me. To the south I see “the Heads,” two Gibraltar-like promontories that guard the narrow entrance into the Knysna estuary. But I am not really here to see those kinds of sights. I walk in the opposite direction for I am on a different mission - to meet people.
At Highfield Backpackers, Brother Paul is waiting for me. He works here and has arranged a “home stay” for me tomorrow in Judah Square, the Rastafari community. He himself is a long time Rastafari, and when he finds out that I have already made arrangements to visit the Dorothy Broster Children’s Home and go on the Crèche tour with Sister Karen Heddricks, another Rasta, he is delighted.
“Irie man! Rastafari!” he says, “That’s beautiful man. So you want to see the people here in Knysna. Beautiful. I have everything set tomorrow with Sister Kerri. I’ll make sure you get up there. She doesn’t get home until five or six. But her son Shakasi can show you around. Irie.”
“Irie,” I say. I’m already into it.

That evening I walk down the hill to the harbor and the estuary, then across the bridge to Thesson Island. It’s about 6PM and hundreds of black workers, thick, heavy hipped women and thin sinewy men, are walking off the island,. The houses in front of me are slick, shingle grey, and connected condominium-like behind ubiquitous security gates. The tide is up and the wind is blowing. The smell is of salt and the dying heat. At the Knysna Oyster Company Arthur Melgraaf and a few other men are culling oysters. They have stopped for a few minutes to drink tea from white restaurant cups.
“We get our cultivated seed from Chile and France,” Arthur says as he leans casually against the rail at the sea wall, “The seed from Chile doesn’t do so well, but the French seed is OK. We also get the wild oysters from the coast right here.”
I tell him about Wellfleet oysters, how they are grown, and we discover that Wellfleet and Knysna have much in common, including the claim to have the best tasting oysters in the world.
“Here we have to worry about the heat, not the cold,” Arthur tells me, “That’s what can kill the little ones. But we move them to deeper, colder water in Port Elizabeth when they get big enough.”
Africa’s version of the New England oyster cellar.
Then Arthur and the others go back to opening the black mesh bags, separating the shellfish by size, and placing the market oysters into a tank to clean them up before they arrive at their ultimate destination - me.
I have a dozen with a pint of locally brewed bitter.

Early the flowing morning I once again cross the bridge to Thesson Island. This time I walk in the same direction as the hundreds of black workers. I am the sole pink face in a sea of black. Austrian Markus Farbinge’s bakery, Ile de Pain, is over here. Markus uses three hundred year old starter dough in some of his breads. I’m on the hunt for one of his croissants. It pulls apart, buttery, like some piece of glutenized Paris. But I am restless, looking at the time. Este Roux from the Dorothy Broster Children’s Home is to pick me up at Highfield at eleven. The world suddenly feels so bizarre - black workers streaming over the bridge, mountains of pastry, flour dusted bread, township shacks on the hill overlooking the estuary.
I imagine a house filled with AIDS orphans.

Back at Highfield Backpackers Este and her newly hired social worker roll up in their Volkswagen van and I climb aboard. No time to dilly-dally, they have to pick up one of the kids from school. Soon we leave the shops, restaurants and hotels of Knysna behind and climb a narrow road through the townships. Unlike the tin and plastic shacks of Cape Town, here they are predominantly built of wood. Beyond these clear-cut hills, thick pine forest covers the mountains in a dark green carpet.
High on a hillside, overlooking Knysna and the water, is the Dorothy Broster Children’s Home. It is a low-slung affair sitting in the middle of this ramshackle neighborhood.
“Listen, this is not a five star facility,” Este tells me as she starts our tour of the buildings, “But it’s a place of warmth.”
We cross the hard packed earth and pass through the door. I am amazed that forty children live here. I’ve seen worse in apartments where only two or three kids live. All but the babies are off at school now, and a smiling woman is sweeping as we enter. On the floor, pushed into a corner, is a pile of dust, candy wrappers, bits of plastic, and two mismatched shoes. For some reason I find this picture of the two ragged shoes both sad and oddly funny. I imagine the story behind it, the inspiration for a short story or a novel: Have the mischievous kids taken to hiding each other’s shoes? Is this the best they have? Are they wearing mismatched shoes? Are they wearing only one shoe?
Este shows me the babies’ room, eight or ten cribs, some in better repair than others, pushed together with just enough room for an adult to maneuver. Then one after the other, rooms with new bunks beds, all arranged neatly according to the children’s ages. But the place is indeed very rough around the edges, and there are parts that might make some cringe. They need cabinets for the children’s clothes, new common furniture, upgraded bathrooms, a separate room to isolate sick and contagious children. In the kitchen one of the staff is cooking while standing amidst a mountain of donated food.
When I ask Este if the children are mostly orphans she explains to me that actually most of them have been placed here from at risk homes, after reported cases of abuse and neglect. One of the littlest ones was brought here recently when it was found out that her addicted mother had planned to sell her.
“We are state subsidized to house thirty children,” Este tells me as she sits back at her desk, “Three years ago we had eighteen children here, now we have forty-three. How can I say no?”
She takes me outside, over the bare baked earth, past drying mattresses, and up a few steps into a building where the littlest ones are napping. Six of them are sprawled out on the floor atop a red blanket, while others are waking up, being changed, and readied for lunch.
“I am a religious person,” Este says, “ but I don’t wear it on my sleeve. I just believe in ‘Do unto others.’ At one point in my life I asked myself, ‘Why am I on earth?’ That’s when I applied for this job to manage the Dorothy Broster Home. That’s why I am on this earth.”
Back in the main house where the kitchen is housed, the youngest are being carried in and set down. The ones who can, walk immediately to tiny chairs at the little plastic tables and wait stoically for lunch. They march in like perfect little students. Just this is a moving sight for me. There is no whining, squirming, complaining. They just wait patiently, knowingly, for the food that is on the way.
The pureed vegetables, donated by Woolworth’s, are a hit with most, but some of the little ones turn their heads away from the approaching spoon in that typical “yuck” gesture.
“This one, he only likes the fresh food,” the cook says, laughing, a hint of pride in her voice.
Those little ones who have mastered the utensil are smeared now with orange mash. Then, very casually, one of the boys, maybe 18 months old, gets up from his little chair, walks across the room and climbs into my lap. It’s the most natural and unaffected gesture. I melt with the feeling of his warm dungaree overalls against me, his smell. I wipe the blobs of carrot from his chin and put them back into his cup. I’m immediately in love.

It’s about time now for thirty odd children to come home from school. Este must pick some of them up in the VW, and it’s clear that all hands will be needed on deck very soon. My presence might not necessarily be helpful, so I accept the kind offer of a ride back to Highfield Backpackers.
In the car Este tells me of her “Wish List,” and I immediately tell her that I would love to help in some way, although at the time I’m not sure exactly how. She’s not looking for answers. Just hope. And maybe new cabinets, and a few remodeled bathrooms.
“So, you are going to stay with the Rastafaris tonight?” she asks, a wry smile on her lips.
“Yes, it should be interesting,” I say, returning the wryness.
“Yes it certainly should be,” Este answers.
And we drive on.
It feels good to be with someone who knows why they are on the planet.

---