Running has become one of my Saturday things, usually somewhere in the line-up with laundry, baking and nail-painting. You know, the things that weekdays don’t have time for. I don’t love running, but sometimes it’s just good to move and sweat a little. Explore runs are my favorite: I drive to one of the dozens of neighborhoods in town, park under a shady tree, then just start running up and down the streets. I like it cause it feels more like exploring, less like exercising. And while it never measures up to the kind of beauty and adventure you can find on mountain trails, it’s the best I can do here.
The weather last Saturday was delightful for running. After a sweltering week in the 90s, it was sunny with a high of 75, and there was a delicious breeze blowing. I drove toward what was, for me, uncharted territory just past the new shopping center. Car parked, shoes laced, headphones in, I started off. It didn’t take long to realize that this was a neighborhood of ritz and excess. Big, old trees arched over the streets which were named after flowers, the same ones that shone from beds of soil at every turn: Lavendula, Protea, Begonia, Iris, Hibiskus. The lawns were perfectly manicured and watered by automatic sprinklers. Some even boasted tiered, burbling fountains. Fragrant roses of every color were being pruned by the black help, wearing their blue uniforms that mark them as gardeners. An apron-donning maid was wheeling the rubbish bin to the curb when I ran by, so I smiled and waved. She didn’t know how to respond to this simple but rare gesture, as we were in the white domain. The tall iron gates that surrounded each large, impeccable house were both intimidating and beautiful, many with the unnecessary sort of embellishments that cost a pretty penny. And the over-fed yippy dogs that chased me along the fences had me rolling my eyes plot after plot.
I must admit that my nostrils welcomed the sweet smells of luscious flora in lieu of open sewage. But the stark contrast between these blocks and the ones that stretch on for miles in the township where we live and minister left me struggling with the lack of economic balance in this world. South Africa actually tops the chart for the ever-widening gap between the haves and have-nots.
Why should some have clean water piped directly to their lavish gardens while others walk long distances to fill jerry cans with contaminated water, and lug them home to cook and wash? Why are there dogs with satisfied round bellies when there are children just minutes down the road scavenging through the refuse that piles up on every other corner? Why do some reside in fortresses on sprawling plots of well tended land, while others sleep on the dirt, sheltered only by weathered sheets of tin leaned against their neighbor’s?
These imbalances can’t be easily remedied, but today, in a meager attempt, I took a few of my favorite little people out of the township to a place called Decadent—a quaint cafe well-suited by its name. Set amidst a lovely, aromatic garden with enough playground equipment to put a smile on any kid’s face, they serve indulgent sundaes and enormous slabs of chocolate cake. Four brown faces sat across from me, beaming with merriment as these simple yet outlandish treats were placed before them. The ones that ordered cake plopped crumbly chunks into the ice cream dishes of their siblings. And the ones that ordered sundaes generously shoveled spoonfuls onto the the cake plates. They’re so accustomed to sharing everything that they don’t even have to think about it. Once every last morsel and dribble was gobbled up they looked at me with big eyes that were begging to play. My nod was the only cue they needed to slide one-by-one out of the booth and dash towards the swings, slides, climbing towers and bounce house.
So I’m just sitting here under a giant thatch umbrella, the sound of some of my favorite kids laughing fills the air, and I thank God that I have the resources to spoil them with such decadence every once in a while. In the 15 minutes that it took to cross the boundary between township and town, I could feel some semblance of balance forming as the kids “ooo-ed” and “ahh-ed” at the sights of the city that are not part of their daily experience. And on the drive back they were still bubbling with joy and gratitude for an afternoon outing that cost me all of ten dollars, and will have them buzzing for days.
When the suffering of the underprivileged is right in front of my eyes, hopelessness sets in. But this is what I’ve observed, what the have-nots lack in material possessions they make up for in unmatched resilience and rich community. The economic cushion that comes with first world living can’t buy these things. If I’m being honest, I would rather be in the company of the have-nots. They’re less hard to please. I’ve found that they’re easy to love and laugh with. And there is so much I can learn from them about what really matters in life, because they don’t have all the excess that seems to crowd out the beauty of simplicity. Crises are less devastating to them, because they’re well versed in all things not perfect. Simple and even second-hand gifts are received with sweet, sincere thanks, because they barely have necessities, let alone niceties.
Yes. I fully realize that there is no simple solution to such vast disparity. At the same time, we mustn’t overlook the power that simple acts of love can have in an effort to inch the sides of the chasm closer together. Mother Teresa, bless her heart, knew all about this, and in her wisdom on the matter spoke these words: “In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love.” So it boils down to this: if you have, share with those that have-not. Even if it’s just a smile or hug. If you have-not, you are actually a wealth of resilience and resourcefulness that we could all stand to learn from.
Disclaimer: Please know that I’m not writing this to condemn any segment of the spectrum. I have no place in doing so. Sure, I live in Africa, and there are a handful of luxuries that I chose to forego in doing so, but I most definitely still fall into the “privileged white person” category even so. I only raise these questions because this place makes them so blatant and hard to dismiss. Because the striking juxtaposition of wealth and poverty meld all around me every day, leaving my heart heavy and my mind asking how such injustice can be reconciled. Little by little. With the wonderful love of Jesus. That’s all I know.
