Paris, Eiffel Tower

Monday, 1 January, 2007. I arrive at Paris Charles de Gaulle, 19, a virgin and absolutely clueless. I have no idea what to expect for the next ten months of my young life. My knowledge of the French language? Well, let’s just say that it ends at ‘Bonjour, je m’appelle Hannah’. The amount of Euros to my name? Enough to survive… for about a week.

As I enter the Arrivals Hall, I spot a group of people who look like they could be my host family. The mother, whose blond hair is tied to tightly the back of her head in a bun, is in black from head to toe – stylish, understated. “Yes, she could be a buyer for Chanel, who lives in the 16^th arrondissement with her husband and two children,” I secretly imagine. The children – one boy and one girl – look about the right ages, too.

“This must be them,” I think, but can’t be sure, as I recognise them only from photographs and descriptions given in the e-mails that were sent. I slowly approach them, waiting for a sign of recognition from their side. The mother waves at me and I am flooded with relief. Relief turns into anxiety, however, when I get a close-up and realise that she has an alarming resemblance to Trunchbull from Mathilda. “This is going to be an interesting year,” I think to myself as I smile my most charming smile and try my best to picture myself fitting in with my new quasi-family.

*

Paris, Place de la Madeleine

Paris is the tourist capital of the world. In 2010, an estimated 940 million international tourists visited the city of lights. What’s more, an overwhelming number of immigrants – some legal, some not so much – from Lebanon, North Africa and France’s peripheral region, have flocked to Paris since the 1970s. Unfortunately, however, the Parisians have been known to turn up their noses at new arrivals on their turf. Of course, one can understand why: Having to deal with over-crowding, pollution and traffic congestion? Really, what a pain.

So, before even leaving South Africa (my home country), I decided that I was going to be different. I was certainly not going to contribute to any over-crowding, but rather, I was going to be the one immigrant to Paris who would be welcomed with open arms. I would not arrive knowing nothing about French wine, cheese and fashion, but would, at all times, ooze sophistication and French-ness.

In my preparatory stages of the above-mentioned mission, I decided that an appropriate wardrobe would be amongst the first things to see to. Weeks before leaving Cape Town and beginning my adventure, I set out to find the perfect winter coat. (I would, after all, be arriving in the coldest month of the year in France.) Hours turn into days, as I trekked through endless shopping mall corridors, already developing a (new-found) distaste for malls and their rats, in my anticipation of becoming French and cultured. (Of course, I would be shopping along the banks of the Seine very soon.) On day five or six of my shopping escapade, I found the perfect coat. It was the brightest red imaginable – a bold choice, but I decided then and there, with an unshakable resolution and before forking out a third of my savings, that the French would find it hard to resist my extravagant charm with this red coat. I felt thoroughly chuffed.

*

Paris, Fete de la Musique

Saturday, 27 January, 2007. It’s nearly four weeks into my stay and the night before my 20^th birthday. I’ve spent the past few weeks settling in and finding my feet, but tonight, I decide, I am going to paint the town red. What better way to do so than to whip out my red coat for its debut appearance? I pair the coat with skinny jeans, a sleeveless top and ridiculously strappy heals. It’s about 4 degrees Celsius when I step outside. “Not to worry,” I think. “My red coat will keep me warm.”

I spend the 15-minute metro ride into the city practicing basic French phrases like ‘How do you do?’ and ‘Could I have another glass of wine, please?’. I’m on my way to meet a friend who is in Paris for a few months. We’ve booked dinner at a classically French restaurant and have invited a few local boys, who ticked all the right entertainment criteria boxes. I feel invincible (if slightly freezing).

“Hi, Hannah! Happy birthday for tomorrow!” Jerome greets me when he spots us standing outside the restaurant. He gives me a peck on each cheek, and then slowly looks me up and down. “Um, where did you buy that coat?” he asks. I look around. My red coat is the only splash of colour within a two mile radius. I am the most unfashionable person in sight.

*

Paris, St. Martin

Monday, 28 January, 2007 – my birthday. I wake up with a throbbing headache and try to breathe, but instead, disintegrate into a coughing fit that would have tuberculosis patients backing out of the room. My chest feels as though it’s about to explode with pain. Note to self: Never, ever go out in strappy heals in temperatures below 10 degrees Celsius, despite presence of striking red coat. The red coat has, by now, been stuffed into the deepest corners of my cupboard (which, by the way, is only slightly bigger than my room of seven generous square metres). I spend the next two weeks in bed, feeling spectacularly sorry for myself.

*

By June, things are looking up. I am nearly fluent in French, and have discarded all items of clothing that are not black, grey or navy blue. To my initial disappointment, I’ve fallen in love with an Englishman, who is even more un-French than I am. I try to fight it at first, but it’s no use. We’re deliriously happy and he happens to have a spacious apartment in the Bastille and enough cash to blow on expensive dinners with me, which comes in handy when you’re expected to live on a monthly salary of EUR300 and a coffee costs about half that.

In July, my closest and oldest friend comes to visit from Australia. She’s like a sister to me and so, when she asks to stay with me for six weeks, my response is immediate.

“There’s just one rule,” I tell her. “My toilet is made of plastic. It does not take well to anything other than toilet paper,” I look purposefully at her and she nods obediently. “I’ve managed it this far,” I say. “So, I’m not sure what would happen if you were to throw cotton wool down it, but let’s not find out.”

A few days later, at around 03:00, we are both awoken by a strange rumbling sound coming from my toilet. When Alexandra realises this, her sleepy expression is seized by a look of panic.

“Shiiiiiiiiiit!” she cries. “I threw face wipes down the loo last night!” The face wipes, of course, were due to the fact that my host family had not seen the necessity in installing a shower in my room. There was a toilet and a basin but, in order to shower, I had to leave my room, walk out onto the road, enter their apartment building, climb two floors, and use their shower. My guest was allowed to stay with me, on the condition that she did not use the family’s bathroom. Hence, the face wipes, which, inevitably, she had to use to clean more than her face.

Paris, Eiffel Tower

I open the bathroom door and the smell of sewerage hits me so strongly that I nearly fall over. To my horror, my plastic toilet is spewing out old drain water that’s slowly making its way towards me like an unstoppable oceanic current.

“Don’t worry,” Alex says, “I’ll clean it up right now.” She bends over the toilet to check the leakage and suddenly the plastic loo squirts a fresh load of brown water into her face. We both collapse into a pile of tears as I try frantically to clean her face.

Over the next few days, the toilet goes through bouts of leakage, until finally, we gather up the courage to tell the father of my host family. Of course, he finds the whole thing outrageously amusing.

That week, as I’m sitting on the pavement outside my boxy room one evening, I secretly wish that I could be whisked away to my boyfriend’s loft apartment in the Bastille. By this stage, however, he’s moved back to London. Alex comes to sit beside me, and the tension between us is almost tangible. I am still furious at her for disobeying my one house-rule and for flooding my room. With poo water.

*

Eventually, October rolls around. The plastic toilet saga is but a distant memory, and I’m feeling decidedly Parisian: I’ve mastered the art of French food shopping at outdoor markets; I’ve learned to enjoy espressos; I’ve attended gallery openings and photography exhibitions; I wouldn’t dare wear colour and when I speak French to locals, they no longer guess that I’m foreign within the first 30 seconds of our conversation.

By the end of October, it’s time for me to leave. With a surprising sense of nostalgia, I begin packing up my life and bidding my farewells. I’m desperately unhappy about leaving the city; but cannot really say the same about no longer having to look after children: If there is one thing I’ve learned during my year as an au pair, it’s that having children should be left until the absolute last minute.

*

Tuesday, 30 October, 2007. I step off the plane at Cape Town International a transformed woman: My hair is long and sleek and I’m donning a dead-straight fringe; a black polar-neck, black tights, dark brown leather boots and a light brown coat.

I enter the Arrivals Hall and spot my family: Mom, Dad and sister. They have anxious looks on their faces. My mom catches my eye and I wave at her, excitedly. For a moment, I think that she’s going to wave back and then she glances in the opposite direction, a searching look on her face.

“Mom!” I walk up to her. “It’s me!”

“My darling!” she cries. “I didn’t recognise you – you look so French!” she says. I let out a long sigh and am glad to be home.

“You use a pair of garden scissors to cut the hair off the head,” explains the woman selling the sheeps’ heads. “Then, you can burn off the rest with a lighter or over the fire. After that you scrub the head clean with this” – she picks up a green scrubbing wire – “so that it’s safe to eat. The mouth, ears and tongue are the most important parts to clean. You clean the mouth, tongue and throat by holding the sheep’s mouth under a running tap. There is black waxy stuff in the ears and you must take that out, too. If it isn’t done properly, people get sick.” I try to contain my repulsion and keep nodding.

“The head is rinsed afterwards. Then my husband chops it in half with an axe. He also does the cooking,” she explains, giving her husband, who is standing outside over a vat of boiling water, a cheeky smile. A moment passes between them, but I can’t be sure of its meaning.

Local boils sheep's head in a vat of boiling water

I later learn that the blood-matted sheep’s heads lined up in front of us form an integral part of the Xhosa culture. Locally, these delicacies are known as ‘smileys’, due to the baleful-looking smiles of death displayed on the sheep’s faces. Even after each so-called ‘smiley’ has been boiled in a large vat and roasted over piping-hot coals, its smile is ever-green. The intense heat, however, does shrink the size of the head, transforming each sluggish smirk into a grotesque grin after roasting.

Sheep’s heads used to be reserved for special ceremonies in the Xhosa and Zulu cultures, because the preparation thereof involves so much effort. But locals will tell you that ‘smileys’ are now very popular amongst communities because a lot of meat and protein comes from them: One head can feed up to five people. That’s because, apart from the teeth, the whole head is eatable – even the eyes and ears. The ears are said to be tasty and chewy and the eyes, which are a delicacy in and of themselves, are the most sought-after part. In the townships, sheep’s heads are sold cooked or uncooked.

While English-speaking white South Africans generally avoid this African delicacy, the sheep’s head is far from taboo in the Afrikaans culture. In fact, it is considered a type of gourmet food. While I am told that the Afrikaans method of cooking sheep’s heads is not all that different from the way that ‘smileys’ are cooked in the townships, the two culture groups do, nevertheless, serve this shared speciality differently. In the Afrikaans tradition, sheep’s heads are served with small potatoes, rice and curry sauce, rather than with maize rice, the latter of which forms the bulk of the black African diet in the townships.

The Afrikaaners use the term ‘skaapkop’ to refer to a sheep’s head, while the township slang for the same delicacy is ‘smiley’ or ‘skobo’, which means ‘head’. And so, the sheep’s head is one of the only culinary customs that is shared by white and black South Africans.

I hop back into my car, where the smell of blood and guts is fainter. “Sheep’s eyes – a sought-after speciality? Perhaps that’s the way that these people feel about sushi and oysters,” I think, remembering that it took me a while to get used to those, too. Still, I think I’d have some trouble getting past the idea of eating any cut of a sheep that doesn’t come from its neck or buttock.

‘The smallest hotel in Africa’

Newspaper clippings of Vicky's B&B

Vicky’s B&B stands out from the rest of the small, colourful houses around it. It is the only double-storey structure on the street, although all of the houses in this particular section of Site C are formal brick structures. Down the road, however, tin shacks and shanty houses become the norm again. The residents in this area might be considered lucky: Housing projects in Khayelitsha are tedious and, at times, have to be funded by outside donors because the South African government lacks either the financial means or the resources to build proper housing in the townships. There are, however, also problems within the housing committees themselves, according to government officials.

Speaking in Khayelitsha in early October last year, Department of Human Settlements MEC (Member of the Executive Council) Bonginkosi Madikizela said, “We are very concerned about people who are pursuing selfish interests at the expense of residents.” Divisions and in-fighting within the local housing committees seems to be hampering the development of housing in informal settlements country-wide, he later elaborated.

Indeed, some housing projects are given the go-ahead by municipal authorities years before they are actually started. This delay in action is often a result of competing interests within the housing committees, and of protests by housing campaigners. Late last year, protestors petrol bombed Golden Arrow busses and attempted to burn down a Khayelitsha fire station, the restoration of which cost roughly R15 000.

Even more recently, in August this year, a corrupt Khayelitsha housing committee member was exposed for giving away land that was intended for housing, in exchange for sex. Protests ensued and fingers were pointed in all directions. It appears that there is, indeed, a mountain of problems to overcome in providing adequate housing to the 500 000 odd residents of Khayelitsha.

In concluding his address to the local community in October last year, MEC Madikizela added that the government was in the process of investigating issues of cronyism, with the intent of taking action against any perpetrators or corrupt housing committee members. But, although the Department of Human Settlement has allocated the bulky sum of R430 billion for housing projects in Khayelitsha over the next three years, residents are still largely dissatisfied with the development of new housing in the area. If only the stench of squalor was more easily eradicated.

*

'Weekend Blues' - a girl fills a bucket of water outside Vicky's B&B

I park my car outside the small establishment that is sign-posted ‘Vicky’s B&B – The smallest hotel in Africa’. Four or five children run towards me and greet me. There are no adults in sight, though. Peering my head into Vicky’s home, I ask if anyone’s there but am greeted only by silence. Then, a man from across the road spots me and shouts something in Xhosa to someone else across another street. A few minutes later, a girl of about 15 comes running up the road towards me and introduces herself as Thandile. She is one of Vicky’s six children.

“Hi,” I shake her hand. Her shake is firm, and she looks me directly in the eye. “It’s great meeting you. Is your mom around?” I ask.

“She’ll be back later. She’s at a meeting right now. Do you want something to drink while you wait?”

Khayelitsha, literally ‘new home’ in Xhosa, is located on the Cape Flats, just outside of Cape Town. It is one of the fastest-growing informal settlements in South Africa. Khayelitsha was established in 1985 under the Group Areas Act, as an attempt by the apartheid government to address the ‘problem’ of a growing black population.

Since the settlement is close to the urban centre of Cape Town (and thus work and education opportunities), there has been a continued influx of people relocating to Khayelitsha. Now, roughly half a million individuals live in this poverty-stricken part of the city that runs for several kilometres along the N2 highway. The ethnic makeup of the township is primarily black African, with only 0.5% of its residents being white.

Despite incremental improvements in general service delivery by the African National Congress government since the first democratic elections in 1994, conditions in Khayelitsha remain abysmal. Indeed, new schools, clinics and community centres have been built in recent years, but many of Khayelitsha’s residents still live without access to basic services such as running water or electricity. Statistics from earlier this year show that 70% of the population live in informal housing structures (shacks), and one in three people has to walk 200 metres (or more) for access to tap water.

*

That night at dinner around the TV, I have a chance to chat briefly with Vicky. I can’t quite decide whether she’s despondent or simply exhausted. I tell myself it must be the latter – she’s just come home from a housing committee meeting that lasted for hours and she has six children, the youngest being five years old and the eldest 27. On top of that, she’s got me, a stranger, staying in her home for the night. While the kids prepare dinner, we discuss the housing committee’s efforts of late.

“How is the progress with the housing project you’re involved in?” I ask.

“The progress is quite okay,” she replies, to my surprise. “The important thing is that we have involved the residents themselves. The people build their own houses, so there’s an element of skills training and empowerment.”

My concentration is broken momentarily as I watch her husband and only son carry a small, wooden dining room table inside from the balcony. On the TV, a local African soap opera is playing. Vicky sits in a big armchair opposite me and various members of her offspring hover around us. Moments later, somebody pushes the table into the centre of the living room and covers it with a white table cloth. One of the daughters walks upstairs, carrying a plate of food – my plate of food, I soon find out. She places it in the centre of the table, pulls up a chair and gestures me to sit down.

“Am I the only one eating?” I ask, a little perplexed.

“No, no. We’re all eating.” Vicky responds.

I sit still on the couch for a few moments longer, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of being the only person to eat at the table, while the rest of the family have their dinner in front of the TV. Eventually, the eldest daughter brings up a second plate of food – this time it’s Vicky’s. Vicky asks one of the children to pray, so we all hold hands and bow our heads. It’s a simple prayer, but it encapsulates all the pressing concerns you would think might belong to the mind of a five-year-old. I get up, fetch my plate from the table and take a seat on the couch opposite Vicky. She’s started eating already; I relax. Only later do I realise that I have probably insulted her.

*

Part 3 to follow. (Read Part 1 here)

Hannah Moore is a freelance travel and copy writer based in Cape Town, South Africa.

All photography is author’s own. Permission to re-use must be granted.

It must be close to 19:00 by now. I’ve been driving for nearly 30 minutes, on my way to Vicky’s Bed and Breakfast in one of Cape Town’s biggest informal settlements, where I am to spend the night. My crumpled page of directions flutters in the wind that’s blowing through my open window. I clutch onto it and the steering wheel for dear life – lose my way here, and I’m dead, I think to myself. I glance down at my lengthy sheet of instructions: ‘At stop street, turn right. Take the next left. Just before the Caltex, turn right. Take the fourth exit to the left. Pass the fire station, then take your third right. Go around the crescent. Vicky’s B&B is the big, double-story red shack on the right.’ No street names. Just plenty of left and right turns, and several chances to end up lost in a maze of the unknown. I swallow hard, trying desperately to concentrate on where I’m going and avoid killing any pedestrians along the way.

Sheep's heads: R36 a piece

And then, something inexplicable happens. I look around me, and time stands still. The sky is a brilliant pink and I am enveloped in a chaos so poetic, it’s almost unreal. To my right, the sun lights up a turquoise shack. In front of it, children are playing and two adults are selling what looks like sheep’s heads. To my left, a fruit seller is sitting on an empty blue crate. Everywhere, people walk about, talking loudly to each other. In the distance, music is playing; the base vibrates through my car seat. It seems like the most natural scene in the world. This is one of those moments, I think, that stays with you for life. It’s also a photographer’s dream, I realise. Suddenly and without warning, an unstoppable rush of adrenaline comes over me. I know I have only two or three minutes before the sun disappears, and this incredible light is wasted. I pull over to the side of the road, fumble for my camera and notebook, and jog towards the turquoise shack, my heart racing. People stare at me. I do a quick recon: I’m the only white person in sight. What the hell am I doing? I beg of myself.

*

Sheep's heads are dipped into barrels of boiling water and then laid out to dry.

My thoughts drift involuntarily back to the previous day, when I had interviewed Jenny ‘Nomvuyo’ Housdon, a white female guide who takes tourists into Khayelitsha. For seven years she had been showing visitors around the township. For seven years nothing had happened to her… Until, only two days prior to our meeting, she and her two Dutch tourists were held up at gun point outside a school in Khayelitsha.

“All I can remember is staring down the barrel of that gun, saying ‘Shoot me. Just shoot me.’ The tourists each had guns pressed to the back of their necks, their faces white as sheets.” The words left her mouth and I immediately wished that they wouldn’t have.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. How was I supposed to, knowing that I was going to spend the following night in the very township in which Jenny and her tourists had nearly been killed?

*

Sheep's heads laid out to dry

I shake off the feeling of having put myself in an incredible reckless position, and walk over to the people on the other side of the street. They eye me out, suspicious. And then, the woman behind the meat stand smiles at me and I am flooded with relief.

“Hi,” I say. “What are you selling?”

“Sheep’s heads,” she answers. “R36 a piece. Do you want one?” I giggle nervously and tell her “No, thanks. But I’d love to take some photos. How do you cook these?”

“Come, I’ll show you,” she answers and beckons me inside the turquoise shack. It’s empty inside, apart from the rows upon rows of dried-out sheep’s heads. I let out a small shriek and she laughs. It’s contagious. This was going to be an interesting evening.

Part 2 to follow.

Hannah Moore is a freelance journalist based in Cape Town, South Africa.

All photography is author’s own. Permission to re-use must be granted.

Food

The easiest way to cut your spending on food is, of course, to sleep through breakfast. Not an option? Then make sure that your hotel accommodation fare includes breakfast – specials like these can save you a lot of money. The occasional meal out is not a problem (especially if you opt for lunch rather than dinner), but if you’re on a budget you shouldn’t overdo it. When staying in self-catering accommodation, buy the bulk of your food from the grocery store. Ready-made meals in Europe are much cheaper than the average restaurant pizza (which, by the way, is €8.50 in Paris and €10 in Dublin).

Drinks

If you’re single and willing to mingle, you shouldn’t have to pay for your own drinks. Guys might think themselves sadly exempt from this rule, but they’re clearly just aren’t meeting the right strangers. If you do have to buy your own, drink what the locals drink. You might enjoy the change and imported alcohol is more expensive than locally-produced drinks. During the day, take a water bottle with you and refill it with tap water. The water in most major European cities is drinkable, but do enquire upfront.

Freebies

They say that there’s no such thing as a free lunch, but if you play your cards right, you may stumble upon quite a few. From parks and beaches to student night discounts at cinemas and art galleries, most European cities offer activities that are free of charge or cheaper on certain days. Information on freebies can easily be found at organisations like the YMCA, universities and language schools. Also check online at www.isic.org to see if you qualify for the International Student Card, which can cut your travel costs by as much as a 30%.

Getting Around

If you’re a struggling student or a broke backpacker, you always should prioritise your dwindling budget over an aching back and feet. Whenever it’s possible and safe to do so, walk to your destination rather than using public transport. Not only will you save your bucks, you’ll learn more about the city you’re in that way. Taxi fares in European capitals are atrocious and unless you’ve got a monthly pass, public transport costs can add up, too. (You might also want to befriend locals who own cars, boats, scooters or other means of convenient transport.)

Shopping

Find out where the locals shop. This is especially important when visiting markets, which can often be tourist traps. Also, make the effort to learn three of four phrases in the local language – you’ll substantially boost your bargaining power that way.

These tips might not be life-changers, but remember that it’s the small things that add up. Follow even two or three of them and, who knows, you might be saving towards your next holiday much sooner than you thought.

Hannah Moore is a freelance journalist based in Cape Town, South Africa.

Photography: Author’s own. Permission to re-use must be granted.

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It is three weeks later and I’m on my way to meet with Len Swimmer, Chairman of the Hout Bay Residents Association. I double check the time – I’m running late. I quickly promise to earnestly begin working on my time management and hit the accelerator.

When I arrive, a middle-aged Coloured woman greets me wordlessly and shows me in. As I enter Len’s home, the faint, not entirely unpleasant smell of dog hair mixed with fabric softener wafts my way. The decor is old-fashioned; the furniture is covered in floral patterns and ornaments are meticulously lined up against the shelf above the television. Len welcomes me and offers me a seat next to his Spaniel on the couch.

I notice that he is both older and friendlier than I expected him to be, after conversing with him via e-mail. Not wanting to waste his time, I swiftly get to the point.

“I’m quite confused with this whole story,” I admit up front. “Getting to the bottom of it has been really difficult; I’ve been trying to block out the politics of it all.”

“That’s hard,” he responds. “The issue is being used as a political football at the moment.” He pauses, before carrying on. “Essentially, the people that are living in Hangberg need housing. But you see, the City doesn’t have the responsibility to build houses. The City’s responsibility is to provide the site, to do the planning and to provide the services. It’s the national government’s responsibility to provide the housing.

“It’s the same with our harbour. The harbour is in absolute chaos and it’s the central government who won’t do anything; they own all the harbours. And if they did anything to the harbours in Cape Town, the DA would look good. It’s in their interests to ferment turmoil, so that’s what they are doing.”

A rather strong statement, I notice before commenting: “It’s quite bizarre then, that the attitude in Hangberg is so anti-DA, when a lot of the responsibility actually falls on the central government, which is run by the ANC.”

“It is. And they are, in effect, both on the same side. Everybody wants jobs and the fishing harbour is just waiting to provide that. But for that we need boats, netting, everything.”

Feeling that the conversation has drifted off-topic somewhat, I try to steer it back to the matter at hand and ask him how he feels about the housing shortage in Hangberg.

“Well, there are old blocks that need refurbishing and maintenance before any new blocks are built. The City has bought land, and hopefully that will alleviate the issue.”

If only things were that simple, I wish to myself.

“And what was your experience of the 21^st of September?”

“That was horrific. Look, the situation was that there are shacks above the firebreak. But I think the firebreak can be moved.”

At this, I get excited, since what he is suggesting is along the lines of my own sentiments.

“Well, this is what the community members in Hangberg have been saying,” I add, enthusiastically. “They’ve seen that the firebreak on the other side of the Valley has been moved up for expensive housing projects, and want to know why the same can’t be done on their side of the mountain.”

“Yes, but you see, the thing is also that the land in question is South African National Parks land,” he responds, highlighting to me once again the complexity of the issue. “And SANParks play a double game all the time. One minute they are saying ‘You can’t have any housing there’, the next they are saying that the City has the responsibility to sort out the land issues. They’re never straightforward.

Back streets, Hangberg Election Day 2011

So, what is necessary is that all parties get together- the Parks, the community, the City, the Province. And a proper settlement needs to be reached so that houses can be built. And this is where the national government come in. As much as Tokio Sexwale, who is the Minister of Human Settlements, is going around the country, sprouting his mouth, they don’t really do anything.”

“I think there’s also a big breakdown in communication from the City’s side. The community members don’t know whether they’ll be evicted, whether there will be a partial upgrade of the area or whether there will be new housing altogether… They have no clue. They live in fear.”

“Oh, absolutely. And any fear perpetuates all the things that are opposite to the truth.” A biblical reference? I can’t be sure.

Len takes a sip of his water and strokes the Spaniel as she hops around on the couch next to him, and then makes her way over to me.

“Hi, pup.” I greet the dog, patting her officially and trying to appear as friendly as possibly. She licks my hand and knocks over my Dictaphone. “No, puppy.” I tell her sternly, wishing I was better at hiding my annoyance, wishing that I was more of an animal lover.

“That’s Hannah,” Len smiles.

I glance at my watch and realise I’ve already taken up more of his time than I had promised to. Wanting to wrap things up, I pose a question that had been in the back of my mind since I arrived.

“Do you think that once the infrastructure is upgraded, racial integration will be possible in Hout Bay? It seems to be a very obviously segregated area.”

Skipping Rope, Hangberg Election Day 2011

He responds without a moment’s hesitation. “It’s a microcosm of greater South Africa… You can’t have social engineering. That’s what Hendrik Verwoerd did. It’s got to be that people want to be together; and historically, people are more comfortable being with their own kind. So, that’s why you have people living in certain areas. That’s the natural way that people are.

Integration will come naturally when people want to be together. I mean, I have people of different race coming to me for dinner, for braais, and I mix freely with them. But they are people that I like, people that I trust and people of the same level of education.”

I am torn between feeling that his response is a modernised version of Darwinism and between sensing that it is actually representative of a rather mature, progressive attitude – the type that is perhaps needed in this country.

“That’s a refreshing take on things, as opposed to just saying that we all need to be integrated, and not thinking about it properly.” My verbal response surprises even me, and I almost feel that it has decided on my judgement without fully consulting my brain.

“Yes, and what must happen is that if people can afford to buy into certain areas, they must do so.” A neo-liberal school of thought, I recognise. That would certainly not go down well on the other side of the Valley.

“Another thing,” he continues as I scribble down some notes, “is that people also talk about wanting stable jobs etc., but a lot of them don’t want one. Many of them are working illegally, with drugs and poaching, and that’s where they get their money.”

I nod my head, remembering that a couple of weeks back, I had seen two White teenagers (the only other ‘Whiteys’ around at the time) driving through Hangberg, in search of drugs (as was later confirmed to me by a resident). Hangberg may be a drug-ridden area; but a substantial chunk of the demand therefore is coming from the ‘White’ side of Hout Bay, from the Valley.

Len and I chat for another two or three minutes before he wishes me well and shows me out. I feel satisfied. A productive twenty minutes, I decide, as I start up the engine and make my way back home.

4. Election Day

Election Day comes quicker than I had expected. I am up at 07:00, and by 09:00 I’ve made my mark and am headed in the direction of Hangberg.

When I arrive, the community is abuzz with activity. The ANC has two brightly coloured stands, loudspeakers and a number of supporters, who chat excitedly amongst each other. Someone is serving tea. Caroldene, as expected, is sitting behind one of the ANC desks and greets me with an engulfing hug when she sees me.

“Another vote for the DA is a vote for another rubber bullet!” An anonymous voice blears from the speakers at the ANC stand. A couple of people from the voting queue glance back and shout their concurrence. I momentary look over to the DA table. Not much movement. A couple of disgruntled faces. The underdogs.

*

It’s a few days later and the official election outcomes have just been announced, after being reported on in piecemeal over the past three days.

At the 2006 municipal elections in Hangberg specifically, 36.43% of the vote went to the ANC. This year, it was over 52%. Overall voter turnout in the community increased by nearly a third in Hangberg, too, with nearly 500 more people having voted this time around, when compared to the figures in 2006.

Despite all its efforts, however, Hangberg remains under the leadership of the DA, since the outcome in the greater area of Ward 74 (Camps Bay, Llandudno and Hout Bay) weighed heavily in the DA’s favour.

ANC Flag, Hangberg Election Day 2011

After double checking the figures and making a few notes on the above, the first person I think to call is Caroldene. We might not have seen eye-to-eye on everything, but I had become fond of her and her vulnerability had left me questioning many things I had previously taken for granted.

“How do you feel about the outcome?” is the first thing I think of asking her.

“Oh, fine.” She says, optimistically.

“But the ANC lost the ward.” I pronounce, feeling a little bad for rubbing it in her face.

“We’re going to put through a vote of confidence,” her voice comes through the other end. “And we’re going to have a bi-election.”

Caroldene is my second contact person in Hangberg and, like Ranka, she is actively involved with the ANC. Born in Wellington in 1955, Caroldene moved to Hangberg at the age of nine with her family, because her father found work as a fisherman at the harbour.

She is a short, round woman with a jolly demeanor. At first glance, one might think her a fairly contented human being. On the day of our first meeting, however, a bizarre incident occurred – one which I feel serves to represent the hurt and paranoia that emerged in her life during apartheid, and with which she still lives today.

Caroldene Bailey, 30 April 2011

After fetching Caroldene from our meeting-point one rainy morning, I asked her whether she would like to have our interview over coffee. She agreed and suggested that we make our way over to the Engen petrol station where they serve take-away coffee. Finding this idea somewhat in conflict with my middle-class instincts, I offered to take her into the village to ‘a nice spot’ where we could chat in peace. Little did I know – the town centre turned out to be the least peaceful place for her that I could have suggested.

When we arrived in the Hout Bay village centre, it was pouring with rain. Not wanting Caroldene to get wet unnecessarily, I got out the car on my own to see whether there were any restaurants that were open, since it was still fairly early in the morning. I spotted, through the window of one of the nearby establishments, a roaring fire in what seemed to be a cozy café. Feeling that I had found an appropriate spot for us to chat, I jogged back to the car and asked Caroldene to follow me.

“Are Coloureds allowed in there?” she asked me, very matter-of-factly as she climbed out of my 1995 Fiat Uno. I giggled nervously, brushing her comment off as a bad joke. When we got to the front door, however, the sign (which I had not seen) read ‘closed’. Caroldene remarked, “They always do that, the Whites.”

“Do what?” I asked, now sure that she wasn’t joking.

“Pretend that a shop is open and then turn over the sign when they see you are Coloured.”

Fishermen's Sons, Hangberg 2011

A wave of emotions washed over me: Shock, humility and a strange kind of embarrassment. Every time I feel that this country is making progress, is moving on from its past, every time that I feel I can be part of the change, something like this hits me and I am hurtled back to reality; forced to remember that, in the midst of our transformation, we are left with more brokenness, more bitterness than we actually care to admit.

*

Caroldene’s mistrust regarding the motives of Whites in general and those of the DA specifically, crops up again, not long into our interview. We settle down in my car, in the parking lot of a nearby petrol station, coffee in hand. I try desperately to put her at ease after the coffee shop incident, and launch into my prepared questions as quickly as I can.

“Can you tell me about the two pieces of land that the City has bought for new housing in Hangberg?”

“Yes. All of a sudden there is land available for houses. There wasn’t land available when they wanted to move people to Blikkiesdorp and Atlantis. All of a sudden there is land available! Do you know why? To get votes for the DA! I’m sorry to say… Don’t get me wrong… I love people, but I don’t have respect for Helen Zille, Patricia de Lille, Len Swimmer or Dan Plato. They never had one meeting in Hangberg that I know of. So I don’t respect them. Any of them.”

Saturday Night, Hangberg 2011

I feel both frustrated and suspicious, and am secretly torn between wanting to understand this woman who is clearly scarred by her past, and wishing I was spending my time with an apparently more reliable source – perhaps one that would remember that the DA has, in fact, held numerous meetings in the community. I try, however, to put my apprehensions aside and let her continue.

She pauses for a second and looks down. “Sorry to say that about them, hey.”

“No, that’s fine. You can say what you feel,” I respond, the journalist in me overriding my thoughts.

“No, because you are White and I am Coloured. And I have to say that to you.”

Her confession leaves me baffled. The only way I can make sense of her apology to me because I’m White is that she has perhaps associated all of the above people with ‘Whiteness’, or with apartheid – even de Lille and Plato, who are Coloured.

“But Patricia de Lille is Coloured and fought in the liberation struggle,” I challenge her.

“I know,” she says. “She had an iron fist in the Pan African Congress. And all of a sudden, she jumped to the Independent Democrats, and then to the Democratic Alliance.” The disappointment in her voice is almost tangible.

I struggle to hide my surprise. This is a woman who has, for 34 years, supported the ANC – an organisation that fought for democracy and national unity for decades. Yet, she despises people of her own colour just because they are affiliated with another political party. I am left confused and mistrusting of her version of the ANC, yet fascinated by her theories.

Rasta in front of his bungalow above the 'sloot'

She tries to explain further, but suddenly interrupts herself and goes off on another tangent. “But it’s their fault! Can Helen Zille put back the eyes that the police shot out? She cannot! She gave them permission to do so, her and Dan Plato. I was even on the Internet. They shot me! Me and Barry [Mitchell]! ‘We deliver for all?’ They shoot us all!” She is so excited that she hasn’t touched her coffee, or the biscuit that she has held in her hand for the past twenty minutes. “But next time, I will be ready. And you can record that- next time I am ready for Helen Zille and her team.”

“In what way are you ready?” I probe.

“You know what? I want Helen Zille to come here, to Hangberg. But I know she is scared. To come in and say, ‘break down your houses or we will send in our army’ is wrong. They will kill her this time.”

Death threats. I instinctively double check that my Dictaphone is on, suddenly feeling very important.

“What do you mean, ‘our army’?”

“The metro police are her army. They are like gangsters – they have no feelings. No remorse. But we have an army, too.” Her voice drops to a whisper, “We have an army too, and I’m going to say this very softly, but we have Umkhonto [we Sizwe]- the people’s army. So, she must think twice before sending in her army again.”

I would like to thank the following individuals who helped me along the way, and without whom I would not have had the clarity to write this story. Special thanks go to Voice of the Cape journalists Dorianne Arendse and Faatimah Hendricks for sharing with me their coverage of the story; as well as to Cobus van Staden of Special Assignment for his kindness and lending hand. Finally, I would also like to acknowledge Jodi Leza as the person who inspired me to write this story.

I.            James ‘Ranka’ Davids: Where will we go?

It is unusually hot for autumn in Cape Town on the day of my first excursion to Hangberg. The scenic drive into Hout Bay (in my air-condition-less Fiat Uno) has taken me nearly half an hour. I have an interview arranged with James Davids, or ‘Ranka’ as he is better known in the community. Ranka is an executive member of the Hout Bay Civic Association, as well as the African National Congress (ANC) candidate who has been elected to run for ward councilor of Ward 74.  “Finally” – I secretly rejoice, as I make my way down the Suikerbossie (literally ‘sugar bush’) Pass towards Hout Bay – “somebody who will talk to me!”

As I reach Princess Avenue, which takes me further in the direction of Hout Bay harbour, I am awoken from my daydream and my wild fantasies of turning this story into an award-winning piece. My eye catches the multitude of decor shops shimmering in the midday sunlight, the real estate agencies; the feeling of ‘well-kept’, of suburbia. With each passing moment that brings me closer to Hangberg, I get a looming sense of the twisted contrast that I am about to be faced with.

*

Hangberg is a so-called ‘Coloured’ fishing community and one of the twenty-eight distinct residential areas in the greater suburb of Hout Bay, Cape Town. From a distance, it looks no different to the rest of the neighbourhood’s highly valuable land. Resting on the slopes of the Sentinal Mountain, the relatively small district of Hangberg stretches towards the Hout Bay harbour which, with its thriving snoek and lobster industry, is where most of the settlement’s residents have found work. The town centre of Hout Bay is further north, in a valley that is flanked by mountain to the north, east and south-west, and by the vast Atlantic seas to the south, creating a majestic setting for some of the Cape’s most sought-after residential property.

Being a Capetonian from the City Bowl area (which lies about twenty kilometres north of Hout Bay), anytime that I had driven to this coastal village before, had been for recreational purposes – deep fried calamari at Marina’s Wharf, strolls along the often deserted beach and nights-out at the Lookout Deck near the harbour. I certainly didn’t know the tumultuous history of the area, or that of Hangberg specifically, as well as I have come to know it now.

Hout Bay, in fact, has a fascinating past. Behind the facade of exquisite mansions, bustling restaurants and some of the City’s top architectural accomplishments lies a history that has been shaped, in part, by decades of White domination and suppression under the apartheid regime. The history of the area is still uncomfortably (and some might say, awkwardly) obvious: Hout Bay is divided into three distinct communities – White, Black and Coloured – each living in their separate corners of the suburb. A microcosm of greater South Africa, it is a fascinating place for anyone interested in the politics or sociology of post-apartheid South Africa.

*

On the day of our interview, Ranka and I haven’t made out a meeting place. As per his instructions, I am to find my way to him when I get there: “Just ask anyone for me when you arrive in Hangberg. They will tell you where to find me.” Sure enough, my first informant directs me to his block of flats, and the second person I ask turns out to be him. He is a tall, large man, and his skin colour is darker than I had expected it to be after speaking with him over the phone. Ranka’s accent sounds like that of someone who might typically be called ‘Cape Coloured’. His heritage, as it turns out, is far more interesting than that. With a mother who is Malay and a father who is Zulu, Ranka is anything but ‘typically Coloured’, if such a thing exists.

He greets me heartily and suggests that we take a walk around the area so that he can show me the noteworthy parts. The views of the harbour and the bay below are breathtaking; we take a minute to enjoy them. “Come” – Ranka interrupts my moment – “let me show you our famous sloot”. Although I haven’t heard the expression before, I know at once that he is referring to the infamous firebreak – the cause of so much of the recent upset in this community, and the reason for the violent protests on the 21^st of September, 2010.

During our stroll through the neighbourhood, I cannot help notice that, despite the apparent vibrancy of the neighbourhood, the living conditions in which people reside are filthy and service delivery in Hangberg is clearly almost non-existent. Ranka informs me that negotiations with the City on the issue of municipal service have repeatedly broken down. From research I know, however, that agreements on either side were not stuck to. That, I suppose, explains why the last housing development project in the area occurred in 1992. Since then, little practical work has been done to improve the living conditions of Hangberg’s residents who, seventeen years into democracy, still live on the fringes of society.

*

The modern history of Hangberg dates back to the 1950s, a time during which state housing was provided near the harbour to ensure the continued supply of cheap labour to the fishing industry. In the mid to late-1960s, the community expanded as the remaining Coloureds living in the valley (now home to the majority of Hout Bay’s White population) were forced to relocate to Hangberg under the consolidation of the Group Areas Act of 1966.

In the 1970s, the City built additional residential apartments in the area. As a result of population growth over the next three decades, however, a severe housing shortage ensued. Residents began populating backyards and vacant City property, resulting in the informal settlement that is Hangberg today. Now, dilapidated houses, overcrowded council flats and backyard dwellers share their legroom with one another, causing a myriad of social problems. As the situation has worsened and conditions further deteriorated over the years, the tensions between the City and the community have steadily risen, and on the 21^st of September last year, came to a violent crescendo.

*

As we wind our way up the mountain, slowly approaching the infamous sloot, Ranka points to the derelict apartments across the road to our right. The front yards are tiny, filled with overgrown bushes and scattered with junk. The roads are filthy and unwelcoming; and the stench is a constant reminder of the forsaken state of this neighbourhood.

“These structures have been here for more than fifty years,” he says. “These are the conditions people are living in. That’s what I, as a person living here for fifty years, can’t understand… that Helen Zille can claim that the DA [Democratic Alliance] delivers for all. If they do deliver for all, how can people be living like this?”

“So you feel that after seventeen years of democracy” – I hop over a crusty brown puddle in the road – “you are still dealing with the issue of housing?”

“Yes,” he answers, “and the City doesn’t play their part.”

“Can you tell me about the eviction rumors? What has the City told the residents till now?”

An onlooker stops him before he can respond. “Hi, Ranka!” they shout from over the street, grinning broadly. I catch myself smiling, hopeful that I have met an individual who, despite his circumstances, is making a difference in the lives of his family and friends.

“Hi!” he bellows back, and then returns to answering my question, and I am almost certain that it is a hint of pride that I detect in the face of the onlooker, as he watches us pass by.

“They don’t tell you it’s the old Group Areas Act, but that is what they are indirectly practicing. What they’re saying to people is, ‘There’s no land inside of Hout Bay, only outside.’”

His response doesn’t directly answer my question, but it does bring up a host of underlying problems. We haven’t even touched on the subject of apartheid yet, and the Group Areas Act has already come up in conversation. Clearly, this is a man who still harbours hurts about the past.

“And where do they want to send people?” I dig deeper.

“Blikkiesdorp,” he replies. Blikkiesdorp translated from the Afrikaans means ‘Tin Can Town’ and was built in 2007 by the City as a relocation area for approximately 1 600 individuals who were evicted after occupying structures illegally.

“I mean, for now, we have been told that we won’t be evicted”, Ranka continues. “But that’s just verbal. Put it in writing for the community! Read it out to them! People must know where they are going to. And if you look at the court documents… the court documents speak about Transitional Residential Areas. Like Blikkiesdorp. The houses there are like those emergency houses that they build for you out of zinc. It’s just one big room. A concentration camp.”

Although I know that the City has, for now, put off the evictions to Blikkiesdorp, I also know that the miscommunication between the municipality and the community has left many people paranoid. I contemplate the statistics for a moment before trying to get him to talk more about these ‘emergency houses’.

Hangberg is not an isolated case in South Africa; in fact, it is representative of a greater socio-economic problem in the country: Since 1994, economic growth has caused rapid urbanisation throughout South Africa. The result has been a massive expansion of informal settlements in precarious, environmentally degraded areas. Now, over 2.5 million South African households live in informal settlements – a figure that is hardly surprising, I suppose, considering that the country’s five major cities (including Cape Town) provide nearly 50% of the national number of jobs. Municipalities all over the country are faced with a tremendous task as they try to address this growing problem.

Sensing that my question is somewhat unnecessary, but asking it anyway, I inquire as to whether Blikkiesdorp is far from where people will find work.

His response is casual, “It’s far away from where we work… and things like that. But the whole issue will be unpacked after the 24^th of May, which is when the hearing for the evictions case takes place.”

“So, the terms on which the City will evict people are unclear at the moment?”

“They are unclear!” he agrees with me enthusiastically, as a proud tutor might with a teachable student. “They’re too broad.”

“Which makes everybody scared?”

“Ja. Everybody’s scared. Everybody’s scared. But you know, it’s like… people are not enlightened on this whole issue. They don’t get given the right information because the mediators have meetings with the City officials behind closed doors.”

At that moment, I get a sense that the ‘they’ Ranka is referring to might include himself, too. He seems to be just as unsure, just as scared that the evictions might include him, too, and on the other hand, that he might be one of the individuals who isn’t ‘enlightened’.

I decide to change the subject, to get the heart of the matter. “How and when did the tensions between the City and Hangberg begin?”

Suddenly, Ranka’s face lights up. Is it just me, or does he, out of the blue, seem more interested in our conversation? I can’t be sure. He begins his narrative and I get a strange feeling that his version of the truth will turn out to be a little different to those I have come across in the media thus far.

*

The official story, the one that appears in the newspapers and in reports, goes a little like this:

Hout Bay, Camps Bay and Llandudno are the three suburbs that form part of Cape Town’s Ward 74, which has been under the leadership of the Democratic Alliance for just over ten years. In 2006, community leaders approached the DA-headed council to upgrade the informal settlement of Hangberg. One year later, in 2007, the planning of the upgrade began. The project, which never took off, was supposed to commence in practice in 2008.

During negotiations around the upgrade, it was agreed upon that no further informal structures would be erected – a settlement that, to me, seems conceptually flawed since it inevitably placed the residents in a catch-22 situation whilst they waited for the project to go ahead. It was also decided upon that the community elect representatives with whom the City could communicate. Neither of the two agreements was held: The community only elected a representative committee (the Hout Bay Civic Association) two weeks before the chaos on the 21^st of September erupted and, besides that, continued to erect structures on land that lay above the firebreak separating the Sentinal Mountain from the rest of Hangberg.

On the 21^st of September, 2010 violent clashes erupted between the Metro Police (and the South African Police) and Hangberg residents, after the City’s Anti Land Invasion Unit moved in to demolish those homes that had been illegally built above the firebreak. Sixty-two arrests were made, four civilians lost an eye and fifteen officials were injured – a sign, perhaps, of the extent to which negotiations between the two groups had failed; a sign perhaps also, of the imperfection of our transformation to democracy and of the long road that still lies ahead of us.

Although the violence occurred months before I began covering this story, at the time of writing the memory of the riots still vividly occupied the minds of Hangberg’s residents. Indeed, in the weeks running up to the country’s third democratic elections, the events of the 21^st of September were re-told and recalled more than they had ever been before.

*

“I’ll tell you how it began,” Ranka’s begins his story, clearly eager. “The community representatives – Brian Williams and his team – carried the message to us that the Premier wanted to have a meeting with us. On the 17th of September last year she had that meeting. But how can the Premier come into the community with Caspirs, police vans, everything… the whole law enforcement! She said, ‘People, break down your shacks.’ And the community was up in arms. They didn’t even give her a chance to finish because, in fact, anybody would be cross if you were to tell them, ‘Break down your house’. Where are you going to?”

From having done my own investigations, I understand the significance of Ranka’s reference to the 17^th of September, the day on which Helen Zille and the mayoral committee of Cape Town last met with the residents of Hangberg. According to a number of newspaper sources, Zille took what some might have regarded as a harsh stance that evening. In numerous sources, she was quoted as having threatened,

We’ve got the message loud and clear. You don’t want to stand by your side of the agreement and you clearly don’t want the development, so we will walk away from it.”

In 2010, the City bought R8 million worth of property, adjacent to Hangberg, to assist with the upgrade (which had still not taken place). It was, nevertheless, stated that unless the residents occupying the firebreak voluntarily move off the area, the City will refuse to go ahead with the new housing development. The adamant stance of both parties involved has halted any upgrading of the area since the land was bought in 2010, and suggests that any potential betterment of the area is unlikely to happen in the near future.

According to the reports, the meeting on the 17^th of September 2010 ended in chaos, as community members ignored the threats and drowned Zille out with their protests, clearly resolute to hang onto their community. The irony does not escape me.

The failed upgrade and the events of the 21^st of September might not have been as extensively covered in the media in the months to follow had they not occurred within the political climate that they did. With the third democratic municipal elections just over six months away, there was indeed a lot at stake; and the media was having a field day: This was a time in which, in the eyes of the public, the DA had failed at local service delivery on numerous accounts. It certainly wasn’t a time in which the Party could afford to upset any more people. And yet, whether willingly or unwillingly, it had created a seemingly unstoppable wave of opposition in Hangberg. Indeed, the party’s days of governing Ward 74 appeared, after September 2010, to be numbered.

*

“Do you think the DA stands a chance in Hangberg”? I ask, feeling somewhat like I have managed to address the white elephant in the room.

“No,” he replies “because the City doesn’t look after the people. They now say that they want to move the fifty-four remaining people above the firebreak to the two pieces of land bought by them for housing development. But what about the people who have been waiting for twenty years for new housing?”

Indian pop music blares from the speakers of a car driving past us. I feel my head spinning as I try to make sense of everything I’m being told. Another car zooms by. This time it’s a red Toyota Corolla; the melody of a popular Kwaito (South African rap) song fades into silence as it turns up a side street. Is it unity that I had sensed in this community or underlying competition for the scarcest of resources?

We arrive at the firebreak towards the end of our interview. It’s smaller than I expected. “Surely, the debacle at hand can’t just be about this small sloot?” I secretly question, feeling more puzzled at the end of my interview with Ranka than I had been at the start.

(Part Two to follow).

But what are the implications of the fact that most kids in developed countries now own their own cellphones, or are begging to own one at every given occasion? Well, we believe that there are two sides to this coin.

On the one hand, banning your child from access to cellphones means that you might be sabotaging their chance to interact with technology at an early age, when they are able to learn and absorb the most. Not good. Whether you are for or against it, being tech-savvy is a vital skill in the 21^st century, and for you to exclude your child from that revolution is to rule out a host of wonderful opportunities for them in the future. Indeed, those of us who are lucky enough to be digital natives, will remember that most of what we learned about the Internet and related technology, we learned at a young age. Those amongst us who are digital immigrants, however, know how painstaking it is having to catch up with the times at a later age.

In addition (and perhaps most importantly), the fact that your child can connect with you from anywhere, at anytime also means that they are safer with a mobile phone than they would be without one.

However, there are a number of real threats in allowing one’s young child unrestricted access to a mobile phone and all the functions it might include. ‘Sexting’ for example, has become a serious trend amongst tweens (pre-adolescents) and young teenagers alike, whereby sexually explicit text messages and/or photos are sent electronically between mobile phones. The rise of sexting amongst youngsters is a reality of which parents need to be aware since it can, in extreme cases, lead to sexual harassment, abuse or child pornography.

Cyber bullying is another danger, defined by the Australian Department of Education and Children’s Services as the use of e-technology as a means of victimising, controlling or humiliating another. A tragic act of cyber bullying in 2010 lead to the suicide of teenager Tyler Clementi, who took his own life after his roommate filmed him kissing another man and posted the footage on the Internet for viewing. Indeed, cyber bullying is a reality that can often be more destructive than face-to-face encounters, since information and photos can be sent between peers instantaneously, with the click of a button.

There is also the risk that your child over uses their mobile phone, insofar becoming what experts call ‘screen-obsessed’. A fascinating study by Internet security company, AVG showed that in developing countries, children as young as two to five years old have become more practiced in computer skills than they are at basic life skills. The results of AVG’s year-long study can serve as a warning to parents to prohibit their young ones from spending all their free time engaging with technology. Simply being a kid- riding a bike and playing outside, for example- is still essential to the healthy development of your child’s body and mind.

Sexting, cyber bullying and screen obsession are just some of the psychological risks of allowing children unlimited access to cellphones. Nevertheless, they are reason enough to highlight the urgency with which parents need to begin monitoring their children’s mobile phone usage. Whilst the answer doesn’t seem to lie in banning them from access altogether, there is a real need for proactive parenting in this regard.

As pointed out by child safety software company, Mobiflock:

Increasingly, children are living large and significant parts of their lives online, whether via computer or mobile phones, and parents need to understand what they are doing and encountering”.

So, make sure that you educate your child about both the opportunities and the threats of the digital world. And ensure your own peace of mind by installing the correct parent support software on their handsets to be able to keep a watchful eye over their calls, text messages and Internet use.

To sign up for a free trial with Mobiflock, one of the leading providers in child safety software, click here. Be proactive and make the digital world a safer place for your kids!

Hannah Moore is a freelance journalist based in Cape Town, South Africa.

Image Credit: www.parentdish.co.uk; www.mobiflock.com, www.google.co.za/imgres