A school in the city

I'm waiting in the principal's office. We're chatting about the school, about the holidays next week. He marks exam-scripts as we talk. I notice that there is a small queue forming at his door. Jostling little green tracksuits waiting to see him. "Oh," I realize that they're not coming in on my account, so I wave them over. Their queue moves from the doorway to the principal and the first little girl puts a one rand on the desk. The principal slides it over to the tin just to the left of his calendar and gives her an expectant look. "Blue pen." She says. He reaches for the container of blue pens on the tea-tray next to his phone and hands it to her. The next student is up. "Uitvee" he says as he passes his coins to the principal. The principal passes him an eraser from the little blue-lidded tupperware next to the pens. The ritual continues until all the students have completed their transactions.

"It's most busy on a Monday and Friday morning," the principal answers my unasked questions, "that's when they have money." He smiles. "We don't do it for profit you know, we just sell at the cost price but at least then they can have stationery in the class."
I think back to all the classrooms I've sat in and observed the last few years, to all the shouts for stationery that disrupt learning. I nod emphatically, "ya, it's a good plan!"
"And it teaches them to save you know," he goes on. "Like these two rulers," he holds up a plain red one, and a broader blue one that has an ABC stencil in the middle, "the blue is more expensive, but all the kids what it. So I tell them, don't buy the red one, rather save your money for a few days and then come and buy the blue one." He smiles again. "And they do!"
I smile back. I'm liking this school already, and it's only my first meeting.

I sit with the deputy and drink tea for an hour, and we discuss what my students could do at the school, how they could slot into the existing programmes. She tells me about the problems in the community, and I'm no longer really surprised by much that I hear, about kids in the BBK's (Billabong Kids), or the Mongrels. But when the HoD of foundation phase pops her head in asking for the number of the inspector who came to speak to the Grade 6s last week, I'm taken aback a little bit.
"Ye-es," she tells me, "the young ones are also getting involved now."
"How do you mean?" I ask her. She offers me an animated response, as though thriving off my disbelief.
"There's a boy in Grade 7 who's like the boss see. And then he is now recruiting some of the younger kids to join him. So we took all the boys out of class this morning, and we asked them what is going on. Then they were telling us about all the other gangs that are recruiting, and who is involved with which gang. We did a bag search and found some screwdrivers and scissors, so we took those away and now we must call in the parents." She shakes her head. The deputy tells her where to find Inspector Allie's number.
"It's difficult," she sighs. "Everytime the violence flares up, then the kids get involved. It's their brothers and uncles and fathers."

We chat a little longer, and I go in to greet the principal on my way out. He looks worried. "We've just had a phonecall he says," he doesn't finish the thought. "Which way are you leaving?"
I point to the direction that I came in from.
"Good," he responds. "You just go right at the gate and keep going out that way. The other side has got a bit active." I suspect 'active' is euphemistic for something gang-related.
The deputy looks nervously at me. "Don't leave the Main Roads," she warns, the subtext of which is easily understood: don't get lost or you're going to find trouble.
"I'll be fine," I reassure her smiling. It really is, I have the directional-sense of a homing pigeon.
The principal seems placated. "Last night I was reading in the papers and there were two stories about Hanover Park, but it's just where we are, we live here, we are here everyday."
"Ya," I agree, "exactly."

I drive onto the speed-bumped road outside the school, the mountain in the distance. There is a blotchy grey-white donkey negotiating it's way through the narrow buildings to my left and out onto the street. Cape Town is a donkey-cart, a man with an amber quartz bottle--there waving to a group of guys huddled on either side of a low fibre-crete fence. Cape Town is a woman in bright pink pajama pants, sitting on the pavement texting. It's the Olympic Cafe and the terracotta coloured butchery on the corner.

Really: it, the city, is as much Hanover Park as it is the V&A.