The Mapusha Weavers, a Cooperative

I have learned many things in my decade plus with the women of Mapusha but one teaching came slowly as I watched the graceful ways in which these women work and play together year after year. They have offered a new experience of the word cooperative which is miles from the earnest Philadelphia food coops of long ago. Their teaching is beginning to sink in and I’m coming to understand what it looks like when ‘one for all and all for one‘  is put into action.

The other day I saw a picture of the five weavers standing on scaffolding high off the ground finishing a large and complex rug and, while still shaking my head with appreciation of their ability to join forces, happened upon an Ann Coulter’s quotation in which she disparages soccer. It seems her preference is for sports where individual glory reigns. She finds fault with this sport where blame is dispersed and there are no heroes, no losers. In my african world there are neither heroes nor losers and the collective takes the blame precisely to disperse it. 

Early on in my time in the studio I heard stories from their past that should have shown me the ways of their world. It was explained to me, when I first met them, that any money they earned in those very lean years went to the most needy members.  I heard about their attempts to start a grocery store which failed repeatedly due to their inability to charge hungry, destitute neighbors. But, I was a slow to digest the truth of this matter.  

Many times I have watched when a visitor brings a box of cookies to the studio how  carefully one of the women will divide the cookies into equal piles, three and two thirds cookies per person or some such impossible task of division.  I should have remembered these little piles of cookies when I made a serious attempt to come up with an accurate price per square meter of woven tapestry.  This inquiry involved understanding just exactly how much raw wool  each spinner could turn into spun wool per week and how fast the weavers could weave a square meter of tapestry. When the calculations were complete it was obvious to all that the spinners were not working fast enough. Either they had to speed up or their salaries had to shrink to make our price per square meter reasonable. This was explained to all, adjustments were made and I returned to the states satisfied that we finally had neatly ordered salaries, production and pricing. 

When I returned to the studio seven months later and saw the accounts I realized that all my work was for naught. The spinners salaries had magically risen once again. They were a coop after all, Regina reminded me, and little piles of cookies danced through my head. I didn’t protest that it was unfair that Anna, who peaceably dozes while she spins, should have a salary very similar to master tapestry weaver Linda. I said nothing for, finally, I understood. Mapusha is at root not a business but a cooperative and in a cooperative wealth, blame and cookies are equally dispersed. There are neither winners nor losers, villains nor heroes and I am wiser for understanding this, the reality of Mapusha’s cooperative. 

"Madiba, he knew."

I remember years ago when Regina wove a tapestry for Nelson Mandela, the man who delivered freedom. 

All the women at the Mapusha cooperative agreed this was a good idea and Regina began to weave a tapestry of many colors. There was a central zigzag motif moving up the center of the weaving and when I asked , she told me, “It is our long, long walk to freedom.” Shaking her head, she continued,  “It was not a straight line.”  We were proud to send off the finished weaving with a thank you note signed by each woman and happy to think of Mapusha represented in his gallery of gifts. 

Regina was born in 1948 just as the Nationalist party was gaining political majority power in her country. She grew up, married and raised five children through those jagged, oppressive years of Apartheid and her husband left the family to work in Johannesburg, as so many did.  He never returned to their home in rural Limpopo so she bore a very real scar from the system of separation.

One day I asked what she remembered most of those Apartheid times and she was quiet, thoughtful before replying, “We would sit with our weavings at the fair at Swadini. There were many, many white people there but they never looked at us.  We were not there.  We were invisible. That is what I remember. “

And so today, when I spoke with Regina to express my sorrow at the loss of Madiba, again, I asked what she would like to say to her friends in America about him. She said “He knew.” I puzzled, what did she mean, he knew?

“He knew what our lives were with Apartheid. His work changed our lives. He knew.”

Listening to her rich voice over the Skype line I remember the Native American greeting, “I see you” and suddenly, viscerally I understood what she meant. Mandela had the capacity to walk in the shoes of another and for each of us, to be seen, to be understood is to be honored.  Regina believes he knew how it burned and ached to be a poor black woman in rural South Africa during the Apartheid era, to be invisible, without the power to hold your husband or educate your children. And, because he knew, he acted and because he acted she was free in a way she had never known before. 

Maybe Regina is right, maybe the truly great are those who know how others feel and take that knowledge,  whole heartedly into right action. Madiba, the old man, our father, showed us all what it looks like to heal a nation and inspire the world with right understanding and courageous, heart centered action. 

Mistakes are Made, Forgiveness Happens

I hesitate to consider the hundreds of mistakes I’ve made over my years in rural South Africa. I envision them like a multitude of colored sprinkles on a frosted cupcake; the red ones are the mistakes I know about, the pink are the ones I suspect and the blue, green, yellow, orange and purple are all the hues I can’t even begin to decipher. Often, I mess up the very simple ritualized gesture of greeting, forgetting the appropriate rhythm with the check out person at the grocery store. It should be, “hello,” pause, and “how are you,” pause, before getting down to the check-out business and again and again I catch myself  skipping that second pause.  Whether it is the small ignorances or the big ones, they have happened often over the years and I smile not at the mistakes I’ve made but at the generous response of my community in Rooiboklaagte. 

This year, as I stressed and struggled over the building project, there was an incident that gave me a first hand glimpse of the peculiarly rich vein of forgiveness that runs through the rural world in which I work.  It was a hot afternoon in March, the walls of the studio were reaching higher, higher towards the sky and the new borehole was filling the tank, the tap obediently turning a flow of water on and off. Yet, as I stood within the walls of the studio talking with the foreman about cement and building sand, I could see out the window  a crowd of high school kids gathered around our new water tap. 

“What are they doing?” I asked Desmond with all my sensors on high alert. He replied something about no water at the high school but before the end of his answer, I was out the door, moving around the building towards the kids like a tightly wound rubber-band, snapping.  They were just being teenagers, throwing water, slouching, goofing around but the tap wasn’t yet securely cemented in and I feared they would break our brand new system. 

The kids knew me, knew my car with the Obama sticker on the back bumper, remembered me painting their hands to decorate the walls of their grade school and teaching art classes to them in the mission yard.  They knew I was mad and, even if their English wasn’t up to a conversation, they knew I was threatening their water source. I tried ineffectively to get them to form an orderly line and then, in frustration, clapped the lock on the tap and marched over to the high-school to demand that the administration provide adult supervision at our precious new tap. 

The principal was courteous and listened to me. He wished he had someone to supervise the kids and worried that I was not going to be a good new neighbor. It was all very civil and I congratulated myself on my behavior, neither angry nor impulsive but when I told Desmond about the confrontation the tilt of his head and his silence gave the first hint that a mistake had been made. Over the weekend I knew for sure, though my request for supervision seemed reasonable, something about my entitled attitude was off. So, first thing Monday morning I walked over to the office and knocked gently on the principal’s open door. He was stilted in his greeting and so I just simply said, “I came to apologize for my behavior on Friday. I made a mistake, I was scared that the kids would break our tap but, please forgive me. I was wrong.”

His response was immediate and complete, full-bodied and genuine. He reached out to clasp my hand between his own and his smile was warmth itself as he replied that he understood. I was forgiven for my slip into American flavored imperialism and in that that instant I understood something about forgiveness and something about my adopted world.

Few countries can top South Africa in modeling forgiveness.  There are numerous books on the miraculous capacity of black South Africans to forgive the many, grievous indignities of the Apartheid years. There is the universally revered Nelson Mandela forgiving all and inviting his jailers to his inauguration and there is the noble effort of the Truth and Reconciliation committee chaired by Desmond Tutu.  Seared into my brain is the image of Tutu putting his head on the desk and sobbing after listening to certain gruesome confessions. So, it makes sense to me that he gave this response when asked what kind of people he wanted to see on the commission: “People who were once victims.  The most forgiving people I have ever come across are people who have suffered — it is as if suffering has ripped them open into empathy.”

I learned later, from Desmond, that upon hearing of my action on that Friday, the women of Mapusha immediately went over to the principal to apologize. They never mentioned it to me but it did give me pause to wonder how many times they have apologized for my behavior. In truth, I think the principal will remember my apology more than my misdemeanor and I will remember the warmth of his forgiveness more than anything else. The longer I work in Rooiboklaagte the more I understand how very little I understand about this other world but I do understand that forgiveness reigns. So, I will happily continue to learn and grow, accepting my mistakes and moving forward, trusting in the great heart of those who have suffered.

Hardware Stores and a Set of Swings

Hardware stores were a central tangle in my days as a project manager. I knew from day one that if I was unable to make peace with them, I was in for a rough time.  And, still, sometimes when I look at the splendid new building I see it as one thousand trips to the hardware store. Sitting on the porch I might casually glance at  those shiny, little metal things at the base of the poles and  remember standing in the back aisle of Acornhoek’s Cashbuild, pulling the same sharp angled joints from a dusty bin onto the floor, crouching as I painstakingly counted out 50 left, 50 right.   Or, I might gaze at the whitewashed wall and remember sitting in my hot, little car waiting for some old man in overalls to shuffle up with a 20k bag of the dusty white powder and then, the puff that filled the car as he placed it in my hatch.

Walking through the front door of a hardware stores has never filled me with the same anticipatory shiver of delight which I invariably feel when I walk into a fabric shop, a book, art supply or thrift store. No, instead, as I approach the entrance to a hardware store I pull myself tall and mentally try to toughen myself in preparation for whatever is to follow.  There is almost nothing in this metal, plastic, concrete jungle which appeals to my senses and my nose crinkles like a real girl as I prowl the aisles in search of whatever.   And, then, there is the exasperation of never having quite enough information or the pitch perfect, correct information. Invariably, I know the size of the grinding disc for the baby grinder but I don’t know if we are to cut steel or concrete. Maybe, I know the exact length of the nail needed at the site but not the diameter.  If you join my inherent hardware store distaste with my impatient nature and then couple this package with repeated trips to rural South African hardware stores, it just plain looks bad.

 It was obvious that something needed to change. Things got worse as the building progressed and sometimes I came home with 5 or more receipts bulging out from my wallet. I needed to find a way to manage this and I needed it fast. Did I discover the answer, the stance, the magic potion to make hardware stores something other than a trial for me?
I did.

It certainly was not that I finally found patience in a country that models that quality all too well. No, as I stood in line, surrounded by all shapes and sizes of patient people with soft smiles and listened to a young builder using the cash register as his job cost estimator my internal agitation rose. He was speaking in Tsonga but I could guess what the words were, “Try taking just 1/2 that many nails......... Now make sure you use the cheapest cement and forget about that wire....what’s the total like then?”  

I certainly did not become an expert on building supplies and techniques, did not get curious about how things fit together or intrigued with how things work. All that information like the mechanics of a motor, still just slips right through my head, whoosh. There are no hooks for hanging such things in my brain. It was choice that saved me and saved me almost by mistake.

It was a bad day at the hardware store. The trucks were going out with orders which meant that all my most trustworthy helpers were too busy to assist me in the electrical supply aisles. There was  a good chance that half the things in my basket were wrong and  I saw that it was Desiree, the very slowest of the check out women, at the till. It was early in the morning and many had building projects underway that day. The line was long, the going slow. I sighed as I took my place in line and tried for a gentle smile. It was then that it happened, it was then that I saw a vivid image in my head of 7 year old Elena, swinging, back and forth, up and down with a big so happy smile on her face. Somehow when I saw her swinging I was instantly back at the New Dawn Center watching the children on the new play structure. If I let myself rest in that pocket of pure joy, a child swinging for the first time in her life, a nursery school gaggle climbing the ladders, sliding down the slides, everything changes within me. All that is crinkled, crabby, crumpled becomes suddenly smooth, like the dusk smooth stillness of a small lake after a rainstorm.  
It is the play structure bursting with children which became my solution to hardware stores. It was from these dark aisles that the bolts, nails, wood and cement came. It was Nick and Mike who built it and it is all the children of the community who delight in it but it began in a hardware store. This is the image I call forth as I reach for the front door of the Acornhoek hardware store for the 1,001st time.

Mapusha's splendiferous arches!

It took over a week to complete the three arches in the central support wall at the new studio and each day I found myself rushing to the building site to see the next step. I was fascinated, took numerous pictures and marveled at the inspirational effect these structural curves had on me.  

I drove home with images of rainbows, Chartres Cathedral and the Arc de Triumph floating through my head. I was trying to feel my way into an understanding of why these simple structural curves seem to have the power to make my heart expand.  

I googled from many angles, read about the first arches in Mesopotamia and Persia in the 2nd millennium BC, perused pictures of the solid Roman arches of military triumph and the soaring Gothic arches of European churches. I came to understand the variety of arches and the structural significance of their efficient weight bearing capacity but it was a brief illusion to the Greco-Roman sky gods, Zeus and Jupiter, that caught my attention. Of course, arches were the turf of the sky; the daily path of the sun the moon, and the planets.This seemed a big clue for me.  

When Regina, the chairperson of the weaving cooperative, saw the first brick curve under construction, she said, with a wide smile, “It is like a church.” This felt like another clue. 

Then, on Friday afternoon, just as I was about to leave the site, Regina and Gertrude came over to the building site to see the weeks progress. As I watched them walk through the front door and marvel at the arches it all fell into place for me.They were looking up at the arches and the sky. I flashed on Gertrude one day long ago when I told her I’d found a job for her daughter. She spontaneously raised both arms, looked up and thanked God for this miracle. That was it! When the women of Mapusha look up they are in communication with their God. Their solace and  support comes from above and the arches inspire them to look up. The simple action of raising our head, our eyes up, moves all of us from the earth to the skies, from the dense physical to the numinous realms.

Someday soon these arches will have a roof over them and their majesty will be diminished without the backdrop of a bright African sky. Two of them will be fitted with frame looms for large rugs and the weavers will be weaving within the curved spaces. But, I must thank Kevin Mitchell, the architect, for having the prescience to grace this building with three arches. The very fact of a new studio is proof of miracles and limitless possibility for the women of Mapusha. And, since the bedrock of their strong faith is their connection and communion with above I am happy that the arches will be there to remind them to look up, often! I only hope I remember as well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1G3qC3nYqiY

Ubuntu in Rooiboklaagte

"One of the sayings in our country is Ubuntu – the essence of being human. Ubuntu speaks particularly about the fact that you can't exist as a human being in isolation. It speaks about our interconnectedness.”  Tutu 

The front door being bricked in place and (below) the Mapusha women admiring their new studio.

Ubuntu is a an ethical concept of South Africa that was spoken of often in the early days of Mandela and now is the name of a new Linux-based computer operating system and a new soft drink. The concept is one that appeals greatly to my idealistic nature. The notion that when one is humiliated, all are humiliated, when one is oppressed all are oppressed sounds like both a deep spiritual principal and a gentle humanist philosophy. 

In the last few weeks I have had the opportunity to understand the essence of this practice in a visceral way. What I now see is that this is practiced daily in the studio of Mapusha. When little Zanile falls down, all of the women within sight will shake their heads with a worried frown and say, “Sorry, sorry, Zanile!” They are expressing their pain at her pain. It used to make me laugh when I would clumsily trip and Gertrude would say, “Sorry, sorry, Judy,” but I have come to appreciate the sense of connection this practice holds within it. 

Over the last month, as I came to the studio with my swollen arm either bandaged or in a sling I could feel all the women looking first at my arm when I entered the door. It was a collective “sorry, sorry” that hit me like a wave of warmth each day. 

Then, yesterday I had the unpleasant experience of an angry American expressing his low opinion of my project management skills loudly, publicly at the building site. The workers went on working, wheeling their full barrels of bricks to the base of the scaffolding, mixing cement and placing bricks up near the top of the walls but, again, I could feel the collective caring surrounding me. When I left the confrontation and walked over to stand with Desmond at the cement mixing pile, sure enough, he looked up at me with great concern in his eyes, shook his head slightly and said, Sorry, sorry Judy.” I glanced up at the women with the bricks and they, too with a slight shake of their heads communicated their support to me. 

I feel graced to understand more deeply the experience of Ubuntu here in Rooiboklaagte. It would seem to me that the gun slinging individualism so prized in the states would benefit from the teaching of this rural South African community. They know how to live together with a great sense of interconnectedness and a great deal of heart. 

At the building project it was time for a birthday celebration with Mapusha and the building crew! Gertrude’s 71st birthday and my 62nd were honored with cake, apple slices, cool drinks and, of course, a double dose of all singing “heppy berthdey to you.”

I

On Being a Disabled Project Manager

It didn’t seem like much, the little insect bite on my left arm, nothing out of the ordinary for summertime in Limpopo province. I continued my project managing and marveled as the walls of the new studio rose higher, higher but, then, a fever hit, my arm swelled and before I knew it I was in the Tzaneen hospital on IV antibiotics.Two weeks later, I have completed my mega-antibiotics courses but i’m still wrapping my arm in cool cloths and typing clumsily. I was felled by that one little bite but the work in Roiboklaagte went forward: the weavers wove, the builders built and the borehole drill arrived on site.

Lizbeth is pictured here finishing a beautiful commissioned rug. She and Angy have woven it in the last three weeks and it will be ready on schedule.

At the building site the walls are rising and the window frames are going in, thanks to Desmond, the foreman, and his super crew. I called in orders for cement and building sand, brick force and bricks.

And then thrill of thrills, gift of gifts -  A Spring of Hope ( a USA non-profit dedicated to bringing wells and water to rural schools in South Africa) brought in the Van Eck drilling rig and parked it just by our tree.

Koibus explained each soil sample retrieved from the earth and there was great excitement as we hit water at 15m and then again at 70m and finally at 100m when we hit the mother lode. The final water pressure indicates 2000 liters an hour. Everyone - creche children, school kids, the builders, the weavers and me with my wrapped, still swollen arm -  watched as the drill went down, down, down.  The excitement was palpable and when the water spurted out there was a spontaneous cheer.

Regina and Gertrude’s  eyes glow when we speak of the New Dawn borehole. It is truly abundance, abundance of a precious commodity in a world where abundance on any front is rare. We will create a community garden and a dye plants garden and a strictly beautiful garden at our New Dawn center. 

The borehole digging happening helps me to envision the community that will grow at the center.Being disabled didn’t stop me from imagining what will be by the time I head homewards in early June - a new fence to define and protect the center, a bright play structure for the children of the creche,  Mapusha moved into their shiny new studio, the central lapa covered and gardens, gardens, well watered gardens galore!

Great thanks to A Spring of Hope for their vision, tenacity and generosity!

www.aspringofhope.org