There are two points of entry to the camp. The official entrance lies to the south and keeps a very high and very obvious security presence. At any one time there are two police cars and three thick-set and well-armed men from a private security company standing by the barrier that marks the only break in the wire fence. The unofficial entrance lies to the north, hidden in the scrub. We’ll be there shortly.
As we pull up to the metal barrier – rusting but official none-the-less – one of the heavies lurches from his chair and makes his way slowly to our small hire car, which he dwarfs impressively. Addressing us, his voice is deep and his English heavily effected by a broad Congolese accent. It transpires that the security companies won’t employ local South Africans such is the tension between them and the Somalis in the camp.
We have arrived in the middle of a meeting between the camp elders and the guard is reluctant to let us pass. Luckily, Karen informs me that she’s contacted a friend inside who will meet us by the unofficial entrance on the north side. Piling back into the golf, we draw bemused looks from the watching security as we bounce along the potholed coast road and into the scrub. We are met by Yousuf, a friend of Karen’s, who helps us passed the two guards and into the camp. Though this is the “unofficial” entrance the guards are stern-faced and conduct rigorous searches of our bags, confiscating my camera and enquiring as to what exactly my business is trying to gain entry with photographic equipment. He then offers to wash my car for 10 rand, I can’t help but smile and decline politely.
“I’d rather take a few photos,” I offer somewhat speculatively.
“No photo!” comes the gruff reply. We press on.
The camp lies beneath the Slangkop lighthouse facing south into the Atlantic and onto the regularly frequented surf break of 365’s; the immediacy of the surroundings and the plight of the inhabitants makes surfing feel like a pastime far removed. It’s a warm day and the atmosphere is upbeat and convivial however the tents are flimsy and moth eaten and complaints of leaks are rife. Makeshift washing lines strung up between bushes droop under the weight of sodden blankets, and mattresses are propped at various angles soaking up every minute of the precious winter sun.
Apparent threats of violence from some of the camp elders towards volunteers has meant that visits are down so mine and Karen’s presence draws a small crowd. Karen disappears off into a nearby tent to see some of the women for whom she has bought lemons from her garden; the ladies use these to flavour the rice that the government provides as the staple source of food.
I remain outside the tent and chat to Hassan and Yousuf, two brothers who fled Mogadishu 5 years ago and set up a life in the townships of the Cape Flats. They tell me that their sister was granted asylum by the British government and now lives and works in London. She sends them regular packages of money that the boys pooled to buy a small corner shop selling groceries and cigarettes. They ran the store for 3 years during which time they were robbed at gunpoint 6 times.
“I was lucky they didn’t kill me,” Yousuf says staring down at his shoes. During the recent violence they lost the shop and all its stock, with no home and no job there is now no hope of forging a living and regaining their life here in South Africa. Asking where they will go, they say that they will return to Somalia, despite the violence, as they have a better chance of life there. But how they will get there is another matter altogether.
Hassan tells me that they have sought help from the U.N but they are powerless and unable to help. The problem, according to Hassan, and indeed many of the camp’s inhabitants, seems to lie with the South African government. An obvious source of grievance perhaps but their argument seems to carry a certain weight.
Unable to afford the travel expenses to return to Somalia, the refugees are entirely reliant on the South African government to repatriate them. However South Africa is the continent’s shining light, the Rainbow Nation and a beacon of tolerance. Paying out the expense of repatriation would be an admission of guilt and one that the government is not about to shoulder anytime soon.
It’s a heartbreaking predicament and one to which there seems no immediate answer. It’s hard to know what to say. Hassan is 26, the same age as me and yet our lives couldn’t be further apart. Conversation dwindles. To break the silence we discuss football: Manchester United will play in Cape Town in just over a week. As a lifelong fan, Yousuf used his precious earnings to buy a ticket several months ago, “before all this” he says gesturing to the dreary surrounds of the camp that now keep him. He hopes to attend the match next week but has no money, no mode of transport and fears for his safety should he enter the stadium.
It’s incomprehensible. Despite the hopelessness of the situation, the atmosphere in the camp seems very welcoming and in complete contradiction to the threats of violence that filled my thoughts as we followed the narrow path into the camp earlier in the day. It is not until I talk to one of the elders that I get a sense of the frustration.
“Volunteers come,” he says “and they leave and nothing changes.”
These are proud people, who built themselves a life out of nothing to not only survive but prosper in the harsh conditions of the South African townships. Now they are caged, forgotten and with no way out, reliant on handouts and second-hand giveaways. Powerless to help themselves, subject to a government unwilling to recognise their plight and beyond the reach of the international community, it is this feeling of hopelessness that drove 5 of their men to enter the sea and never return. I learn this only as we leave the camp on our way home.
An eagerly anticipated swell is due to light up the Atlantic coast tomorrow. Doubtlessly there will be a small pack of hungry surfers paddling around at 365’s, tuned in, focused and out to extract every last drop from their session. But then the waves will go and with them the surfers. But the Somali’s will remain, and for how much longer is anybody’s guess.
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