By
Kuda Vanyoro
I
embarked for Limpopo on 12th April on a personal journey to visit my
grandparents. At the back of my mind I was cognisant of the fact that many
far-reaching lessons had to be drawn from this first time experience. Being a
province situated at the North Eastern corner of South Africa and sharing
borders with Botswana, Zimbabwe and Mozambique; I knew that the journey to
Limpopo was going to be a long and rough one. 400 kilometres of pothole infested
tar was not a joke, especially while sitting in the back of my sister’s truck.
We
left Johannesburg at around 10:00am and during the drive I delighted myself to
a healthy chat with my brother. Both of us had expectations of what rural
Limpopo looked and felt like; imaginations we had created for ourselves from
the stories of witchcraft and backwardness we had constantly heard about the province.
I pictured the surreal images of goblins running around and a dense population
of poverty stricken people, which was not the reality. We had barely driven for
30 minutes when we stopped. My sister, who was driving, had not informed us
that we were also going to pick up our aunt who lives in Mamelodi Pretoria,
situated in the Northern parts of Gauteng Province. Her house was one of the
conventional tin shacks that most South African rural migrants are accustomed
to. She gave us a warm welcome and repeatedly made reference to her shack as
her “beautiful city home” and how we should always feel free to visit. This was,
after all, home to her, I thought. She had a lot of possessions that she wanted
us to load into the truck and take to Limpopo with us. She also owns a house in
Limpopo and seasonally she returns home after accumulating some income and new
possessions. These possessions included plastic chairs, carpets, a table and
sacks full of all sorts of things. The tin shacks were indeed small so it only
made sense to send these things back home where they were most needed and
utilised.
Having
loaded the back of the truck, we squeezed ourselves back in. It was quite clear
to me that this was going to be an uncomfortable journey. My aunt also joined us
at the back with her husband, to my uttermost surprise, given the little space
available. Despite this, we made our way to the freeway to Limpopo, which we
then deviated from and headed onto a bumpier strip road after 40 kilometres of
driving. Along the way, we compared city life to the rural areas and Aunt Maggie
was very open and forthcoming about her migratory life. “The reason I carry
these things back home is because my neighbour is a thief”, she explained out.
I laughed at the thought but her seriousness constrained my laughter. She
really meant it and the only reason she was moving all these possessions was
because it was unsafe to leave them in the tin shack. This nomadic behaviour
was the story of her life: she would do this every single time she thought of
visiting home; carry her belongings and go. I was shell shocked at the very
idea of such a life but such was hers. All this sacrifice was in the name of
migrating for work and sending remittances to the family back home.
At
around 4pm, we were neared Limpopo and now I could clearly see that my idea of the
place was far from reality. There was a well built taxi rank opposite the main
grocery shops, just along the Johannesburg highway. The only difference was
that I could now see the cows and smell the countryside air, fed by the fresh
scent of cow dung. The sign “Welcome to Zebediela” was a reminder of where we
were now. On our short drive to the house, Maggie’s husband Sipho began to
explain to us how stands and houses were actually more affordable here than in
the cities. Mostly they would sell for as low as 1000 Rand (£56.39) to local
people. The houses were so big and spacious that for a moment I even forgot
where I was. Finally we arrived at their house.
We
offloaded the truck after being warmly welcomed by Aunt Maggie’s last born
daughter and the grandchildren she took care of, then we went into the house.
It was an electrified house with 8 rooms and 2 garages. There was also running
water and almost everything one would expect to find in a city home. This was
very different from the lifestyle in Johannesburg to which I was accustomed,
especially the vast amount of space available. Johannesburg was home to more
people than space but this was a very different scenario. I even wondered why anyone
would leave such a beautiful house for the hustle and squalor of Johannesburg
and Pretoria. What shocked me the more was the juxtaposition between the tin
shack Aunt Maggie lived in Pretoria and the beautiful house I was sitting in at
that moment. She owned it and all the possessions we had come with was
offloaded and put to good use in the house.
Most
of my questions were answered by our visit to one of my Granny’s houses. It was
there that I realised that the reason people migrated from these rural areas to
the city was that here, there was no economy to talk about. People did not farm
at all, due to the dry and hot climate in the province, not to mention the
infertile land. There were not enough resources to sustain rural life, coupled
by the non-industrious environment. Only a few people with entrepreneurial
skills managed to open vegetable markets in the taxi rank while some worked in
the bars and bottle stores, not forgetting those that took to sex work. But all
these businesses heavily relied on remittances sent from the city for their
survival. People were therefore left with no alternative but to migrate and
seek monetary income elsewhere.
Interestingly,
not all members of the family migrate. Some (usually the grandparents) still
remain to take care of the grandchildren, and the youth (25-40 years of age)
are the ones who mostly go to the city in search of work. This I concluded from
mere observation and some input from my newly found friend Wellington, who is
also a migrant worker. These migrants often invest more in their rural homes
than in the city by sending back remittances in order to increase their
material wealth, societal prestige and livelihood. This accounts for why Aunt
Maggie prefers living in a shack and forking out as little as 300 rand (£16.91per
month) for rent in the city, while utilising much of her income on extending
and maintaining her house back home. I also noticed how food prices are much lower
than those of the city, which makes Maggie’s income much more useful at home
than in the city.
Aunt
Maggie’s story is not unique, neither is it representative of the whole South
African rural-urban migrants. I am, however, convinced that it is enough to
give us a sense of how rural migrants behave in order to improve their lives in
a cultural as well as family context. The context of family, in this case, is
an important one since most migration decisions are made with them in mind and
not in isolation. Gender roles and other demographic factors also contribute to
who goes and who stays at home and are often reinforced in the family
institution. It would be interesting to carry out an ethnographic study of the
Limpopo people in order to capture some of the cultural considerations that migrants
take before moving from the rural areas to the city and how these also shape
expectations for remittances back home. The story also exposes the benefits of
rural-urban migration as a means of providing for a better life back home,
without which poverty would prevail. This is migrating out of poverty in
practice, life on the move.
*Kudakwashe Vanyoro is the current Research, Communications
and Outreach Intern at the African Centre for Migration and Society, University
of the Witwatersrand (Johannesburg, South Africa), funded by the Migrating out
of Poverty Research Consortium. Read Kuda's profile.
