Fire and Smoke
Emily Koehler-Platten
Cape Town, South Africa
South Africa Interim
The St. Olaf group, all eighteen of us, were crammed into two vans, heading down the highway from the University of the Western Cape to the townships of the Cape Flats. In the vans with us were ten local men who had been heavily involved in the struggle against apartheid, and they would be our guides for the next two days. We were on our way to spend the weekend in the townships. Our mission: To understand how the legacy of apartheid affects South Africans today, to get a glimpse into the daily life of millions of poor people, and to reach out in friendship.
As we sped down the highway, past the township of Langa, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a plume of smoke rising from a vast settlement of corrugated iron and cardboard; a shantytown. "A fire, that's too bad," I thought, and turned my attention to the government-built concrete houses on the other side of the road.
But as we drove closer, it became clear this was not just a small brush-fire. Three or four large smoke clouds were rising into the sky and growing bigger by the second. We peered out of the van windows, horrified yet unable to look away.
"Do these fires happen often?" someone asked one of the guides.
He sighed. "All the time. The informal settlements are crowded so close together that fires spread quickly, and there's no fire department in the townships."
Someone gasped, and we all turned back to the windows just in time to see the source of all the smoke...huge orange flames rising from underneath the smoke clouds.
The man sitting next to me sat straight up and exclaimed, "SHIT!" I was surprised by his vehemence, but even more so by his tone; there was an undercurrent of weariness, as if he's seen these fires a hundred times before, and was tired of seeing them happen over and over.
Other man muttered, "If the government can donate all that money to the tsunami victims, I don't understand why they can't do something about the informal settlements."
The van turned into the entrance to Langa township, and we drive slowly through the streets. We stopped briefly at the former Pass Office and one of the guides explained how people protested the hated pass laws, which required every black person to carry a pass stating their right to be in the area.
We climbed back in the vans and headed out again, this time straight toward the source of the fire, as smoke clouds hung heavily over the streets. Our guide said there were only two entrances and exits to Langa, and we'd have to drive near the fire to reach the exit.
The road was blocked by cars, vans, and people; hundreds of people, carrying their belongings as they walked away from the fire. One woman walked by with a bundle of blankets on her back; others had small carts or wheelbarrows, piled high with bedding and pots and pans. I watched out the window, stunned into silence; these people were losing their homes and everything they owned, save what they could carry. Yet they seemed very stoic; no one was crying or even seemed upset, just matter-of-factly trudging along the road.
After a few minutes, our driver managed to turn the van around and we drive out of the chaos, taking the other exit out of Langa. The scene of destruction faded behind us, but the images remained imprinted in my mind, dancing before my eyes.
The next day we say the headline in the Cape Argus : "12,000 residents displaced by Langa fire".
