Beauregard Tromp
Patrick didn't think he could fall asleep in this strange place. But the blanket and soft mattress were alluring, slowly drawing him into their restful embrace. Suddenly the blows rained down from all around, kicks and punches finding their painful mark. His assailants pinned him down, muffling his mouth to smother his cries. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the vicious attack was over. He slowly pulled back the blanket that had covered his face. "There were many. I couldn't see a face," says the 16-year-old Patrick. He'd come to the United Reform Church (URC) shelter to seek refuge but after one night there he decided to return to the streets of Musina, which he regarded as safer. "Some of the new boys get attacked," says Georgina Matsaung, who started the shelter a year ago for unaccompanied minors crossing the border from Zimbabwe. "We try to find out what happened but they always say they don't know. The rules on the street follow them here."
Of even greater concern to Matsaung are rumours that some older boys rape the younger ones. For her and other care workers, the disappearance of girls crossing the border is of grave concern. "Many girls are turned into wives or do piece jobs." Some girls who cross the border illegally fall prey to the notorious 'gomma-gommas', gangs of Zimbabweans and South Africans near the border, she says. "They strip a woman naked and search in their private parts for money. If you're fortunate they'll end up searching you indecently without raping you." The shelter, the church's 2008 Women's Day initiative, began with a couple of boys sleeping in Matsaung's garage, and is now is responsible for helping hundreds of children on the streets of Musina. When the church hall could not accommodate the growing numbers of children, Médicins Sans Fronti232res (MSF) donated tents and more double bunk-beds.
Matsaung, the principal of a local school, makes sure all the children attend school, unless they have arrived too late in the year. Meanwhile, on a farm outside of town, boys are planting tomato seedlings, backs arched in the warm sun. A "drip system" of irrigation - allowing for between five and seven minutes before it starts flooding the next freshly planted row - helps to ensure the boys work at a quick, steady pace. Occasionally, one of the young workers straightens and stretches, firing off a one-liner, bringing smiles to his workmates. When the baobabs become silhouettes along the fading Limpopo skyline, the work stops and the boys return to their home in Campbell Location, where a letter awaits them. Staff from the department of social welfare have visited again and the boys were not there. Again. The four must report to the URC shelter or the adults assisting them will be in trouble. "If they come for us, we will run away," says 16-year-old John.
Following a dusty road from Beitbridge border crossing, each of the boys has their own story of how they arrived at the farm. 17-year-old Tafadzwa did piece jobs for two weeks before boarding a bus that took him away from Gweru, near the centre of Zimbabwe. "In Gweru, if you want money you have to mine for gold. But you can die," he says. Peter, 16, from Masingo, paid R20 for the journey to the border before using "double-up" (walking) to reach the farm. "We heard stories from other guys who said things are nice here, that you can live here. I heard stories of people being attacked and women getting raped. That you can get killed. But we thought we'd be lucky," he says. Beside Peter, Samson turns away shyly when he catches me looking at the vacant hole where his left eye once was. He lost it while playing with wire seven years ago.
Things were so much better when Samson's father was alive, he says. But it all changed two years ago when his father died suddenly, leaving the family to survive off only his pension. Often there wasn't enough money for school fees. Or even food for Samson and his four sisters. The children were all forced to drop out of school. "I just want to work and maybe buy them some clothes." He and Peter decided to come to South Africa "where things are good". The boys from Campbell are territorial and the four are careful about trying to make friends here. "Why wouldn't they be accepted? We are all foreigners here. Banda, Phiri... from Malawi, Zambia. All over," says farmer Godfrey Banda. When the mine closed down in 1992, Godfrey's father returned to Malawi. "If he stayed, he may still be alive," he says.
Four years ago, with land granted to the community by the local municipality, Banda and 24 others formed a co-op. In the first year of operation, planting only tomatoes, the farm turned a profit of R300 000. The next year there were only two remaining co-op members on the land. "Everybody else chowed their money. Me, I decided I want to be a farmer." For now, the co-op is barely making enough money to keep producing the seedlings which will ensure another year of farming. Banda has promised the boys a share of the profit once the cheque comes from the market in Joburg where all the okra, tomatoes and pumpkins they produce ends up. In the meantime, the boys are satisfied with a roof over their heads and food in exchange for their labour. Here days run into weeks and the boys spend most of their time in and around the farm. Saturdays are, however, a treat. For an hour or more the boys will sit in front of a television set, transfixed by the indestructible muscle-bound men jumping off ropes, pummelling each other with chairs and enduring an impossible amount of punishment. "John Cena's my favourite," says Peter. "Yes, Cena but also Undertaker," Samson says. There's a quick debate about who's the best and the decision is unanimous: Cena.
Elsewhere, Jerome's tyre has a flat. Even with the tyre wrapped in rubber, Jerome will not go very far. For the half-dozen boys sheltering at the taxi rank, the tyre is a huge problem. Temporarily taking a break from sucking at the glue-filled juice bottle, Bheka explains that without Jerome in his wheelchair, the group's income from begging has dwindled considerably. A two-litre tin with rice suspended over a fire will have to do for the group today. "Maybe we can get some money at the mall," says Bheka. The boys grudgingly concede they will also try to buy shopping slips. Armed with these the boys will go to the border with a valid passport holder and claim the VAT back. A month-end till slip can yield as much as R200. The group are adamant that living on the streets is better than the shelter. "I'll go to Joburg and go home with money," 16-year-old Chris says.
Stealing glances at the fire, the street children assembled here are a collection of broken bodies. There's the girl with a missing eye and scars on her nose, a boy who smiles brightly before scratching his name on his forearm and the two girls resting on bedding, nursing a toddler. Back at the UCR shelter, Save the Children are leading the boys in a debate: the streets versus the shelter. One of the older boys moderates as the debate occasionally descends into jokes, with orators either cheered or jeered. It's better at the shelter because you go to school and are assured of a place to sleep and three meals a day, argues the one side. No, the streets are better because you learn to fend for yourself and don't have to be dependant on anyone, is the response. A decision is made and the boys, some grudgingly, accept the result. The social worker steps in and changes the result. "You have changed the result because you want us to stay here," says one boy. "But we all know the streets have won."
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