We had come to South Africa from different countries, but we all had things in common. We were eight white, middle-class, educated tourists interested in a culture existing very far removed from our reality. We knew not what to expect when we signed up for the ‘Township Tour’, one that would take us from grandiose Dutch-style houses, resplendent in their landscaped gardens, to the impoverished shantytowns, with little sign of sod. 

It was to prove a lesson in diversity and cooperation, humility and forgiveness. It was a short trip of drastic highs and lows expounding the disparity and racial divides within communities otherwise considered one. 

Our driver, Jared, was “coloured,” his caramel skin indicative of his multi-ethnic background. As he began the tour passing through different neighbourhoods that made up the metropolis of Cape Town, he shared personal stories of growing up during apartheid, the racism that separated him from every other racial caste, and the bias that still exists today. Resentment tinged his tales with a sadness that was a prelude to what we were about to witness.

Jared grew up the child of a black mother and an Indian father, gaining a rich heritage, but also a lifetime of oppression. He had been cast without identity – not the lowest on the totem pole nor the highest. That he was on the “other” side was apparent in many ways, but he was passionate about breaking down those barriers through education. For him, it was important that the visit to the shantytown was an honest experience, one that we would leave us with an extensive idea of the true state of South Africa, for better and worse.

The irony as we neared the township was not only in the new, white van that paraded us around, but also in the glass windows that separated us from “them.” Were we experiencing, in a true sense, this community or were we still in our own world merely bystanders viewing life on the other side? 

As we approached the township, the sun reflected off the mass of tin roofs and other scrap metal that formed the skeleton of these neighbourhoods. Telephone wires were haphazardly strung from leaning poles. Hundreds of inhabitants shared a single pay phone. Most did not have running water or indoor plumbing. Instead, they fetched water from centrally located spigots. Toilets were merely deep holes in the ground with a wooden shack built on top. It was impossible to discern between individual dwellings as everything seemed to run chaotically together. Beyond our comprehension was the fact that two million inhabitants resided within these townships. 

Pulling off the highway, our first stop was at the end of the driveway to the post office. A small, nondescript building, it was surrounded by a high, metal fence topped with rings of barbed wire. We didn’t get out of the van, as this was probably not a secure area. Stray dogs ran by, plumes of smoke billowed from industrial buildings nearby. These plants initially sparked the expansion of squatter camps and, eventually, the townships. Housing had been built for thousands of workmen in dorm-like residences years before, companies shuttling them to and from their plants. An eerie air of desolation now pervaded, a tree-less landscape provided little refuge from the sun, rain or wind. Everything was wide open, open to the elements. You could sense the inhabitants’ vulnerability, not just to the environment but to elements of a poor life and of years of unfair governance and discrimination. 

The end of this driveway marked the spot where Amy was killed. Almost ten years ago, Amy Biehl, a white American, had been driving some friends home to Guguletu Township when a mob of blacks forced her out of her car. They stoned and stabbed her to death, despite her friends’ pleas for mercy. A Fulbright scholar, she had come to South Africa to help with voter registration before the 1994 elections that marked the end of apartheid. 

An unexpected twist in Amy’s story is her killers’ amnesty trial, which gave them freedom after only a few years behind bars. Amy’s parents testified on behalf of her killers, knowing that Amy was on their side; she was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time, they said. One of the youths later said he realized that Amy was just trying to help South Africa's blacks and he regretted having taken part in the killing. 

Today, the two youths who took Amy’s life are running her foundation in her memory, if nothing else a true testament to the power of forgiveness, redemption and hope. Their example has been held up worldwide as an example of alternative reform, of reform that doesn’t necessarily include solitary confinement for perpetrators themselves victims of a flawed society.

Stepping out of the van was in essence stepping out of our reality. We were leaving the comfort of our guarded safety and entering the wilds of Khayelitsha, a township some twelve miles from the glistening skyscrapers and tourist port of Cape Town. It was like breathing new air with new smells and a new spirit, a spirit of hope, despite the historical stench. 

You could feel the intensity in the air, like scattered dust of resentment settling on our shoulders, the shoulders of perceived oppressors. We were “them” and our shoulders bore the weight of this guilt despite our innocence. At the same time, a competing air of bullheadedness in the people around us pervaded; of headstrong men and women able and ready to conquer their fears, conquer their roadblocks, and move forward. This courage was a magnet that pulled us into their lives.

A small gift shop featuring art and crafts from the township’s residents was our next stop. The residents of this forgotten place had produced pictures and jewellery that spoke a thousand words. They symbolized a new hope and resurrection from the ashes of apartheid. Scenes depicting black women doctors or happy kids playing on a playground were visions of their future. Creative endeavours that had been suppressed only a decade ago were now on display and encouraged growth. 

A woman working in the shop spoke up. “You know Amy?” 

“I know Amy’s story. An incredibly brave girl.”

“Yes, very brave,” came the response.

We both looked down at the floor for a minute, reflecting on the amazing work Amy did for the rural communities of Cape Town. Looking up, there were posters and pictures of Amy on the walls with captions telling her story. The community that took her life was now carrying on her mission by improving their own lives. Her spirit and legacy now live on in this small shop connected to a church and education centre founded by her parents. 

Walking across the parking lot to the local church, we heard singing voices warming the air, their chanting contagious. Amongst all the hardships and battles, here was a choir of angels. With their euphoric and rhythmic beats, my feet stepped in time with their clapping. As we entered the crowded room, a warm wave of acceptance was offered. The congregation led us hand-in-hand to their own seats. Already over-crowded, they shared their seats, even if there were three to one. That was their way of saying no matter what, there’s always a place for you. I stopped counting the times we stood up, sang, danced and sat down again as the choir raised it’s voice and we the dust underfeet.

After a time of being mesmerized by the congregation’s sheer exuberance and hope amidst such poverty, no words could describe the overwhelming sense of fulfilment and connection we felt to the township and we remained silent, but smiling, for the ride back to town. 

As we were dropped off at our shiny, new hotel, an unspoken doubt and sense of guilt loomed. I questioned our need for elaborate and expensive lodgings after experiencing the conditions of the shantytown. 

For me, the foyer’s marble floor had lost its sheen after dancing in the dirt.