This one I write from a balcony overlooking the valley of the Buffalo River at Fugutive's Drift Lodge – halfway between the battlefields of Isandlwana (where the 24th Welsh Regiment received a stuffing at the hands of the Zulu army under Ntshingwayo) and Rorke's Drift (where a full Zulu regiment took a pasting from a small knot of brave Welshmen).
Fugitive's Drift is not really on the way to anywhere in particular. Were it not for David Rattray and his family, the spine-chilling and tear-jerking stories of bravery, betrayal, cunning and stupidity would still be an aside in the somnolent history classrooms of South Africa. Instead of learning the legendary tales of Cetshwayo, Harford, Chelmsford, Dabulamanzi and Durnford, my classmates at school unlucky enough to have chosen history, read of the economic consequences of the 18whatever rice shortage on Japanese political machinations. Well probably not exactly but it all sounded like mainlining a powerful anaesthetic to me.
Out on the slopes of the beautiful hills surrounding the lodge, the Zulus live much as they have for centuries. There is very little electricity and running water is a pipe dream as far-fetched as Jacob Zuma accepting that he overspent on his little retirement schloss.
The government's continual and colossal failure to provide workable education solutions is mitigated by The David Rattray Foundation which has built and supports about 20 schools in the area. Apart from DRF support, there are 15 volunteers of the American Peace Corps dotted about the villages.
Many of us like to stereotype Americans as ignorant loud-mouthes who want to impose their culture of consumption on the rest of the world. Well let me just paint a scenario for you here. Most of these volunteers are women. They are sent, individually, to live with Zulu families and spend their days teaching in schools. There is little to no English in the area so these Americans must learn to speak isiZulu. There is no special treatment. They fetch water each day, behead chickens if they want meat, collect firewood in the bush and milk the cows occasionally. They are subjected to the trials of a deeply patriarchal society – leering from men and the labour associated with being a woman in rural South Africa.
Most South Africans of the urban middle class would no more choose a two-year experience like this than they would volunteer for experimental open brain surgery. Yet these brave American souls come out of the experience with a sense of humility, happiness and appreciation that defies belief.
I do wonder what two compulsory years in a rural village for the South African middle class would do for social cohesion in the country. That said, it is hard to imagine South African mums of Sandton, Benoni or Constantia willingly sending their darlings off to live with the Mpanza family just outside Rorke's Drift.