Backstory: Touring the real South Africa

A growing number of international visitors are asking to see the underside of the post-apartheid Rainbow Nation.

from the January 24, 2007 edition

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Residents in the Elias Motsoaledi Informal Settlement were quick to spot the trend. In the mid-'90s, soon after the settlement formed and when postapartheid tourism was beginning to grow, a community youth group decided that rather than have tour guides come into their neighborhood, they would take control of tourism themselves.

"We saw the tourists driving by on buses, and the guides were giving them information inside," Mr. Jack says. "We knew those tour guides were not from here. We knew it would be much better if the tourists came to us. Those guides were explaining the conditions that we live in – we knew we could explain those conditions better, because we actually live here."

The youth group – called "Uluntu," the Zulu word for humanity – elected representatives to talk to the provincial tourism association. They asked that registered guides bring tourists by the settlement. The youth group also elected a dozen volunteer guides from the neighborhood who they deemed trustworthy enough to put tourist donations in a general community fund. (At the end of a tour, a guide asks whether a visitor would like to make a donation, and then asks how much is a personal tip, and how much is for the community. Shongwe says the community ends up with around $1,400 a month, which is used for food parcels and other projects.)

Residents agreed to let visitors into their houses, knowing that the tourists might leave them a tip, too. They admonished their children not to beg.

Soon, word spread about the tour.

"We like to share the belief that there is a difference between being poor and miserable," Shongwe says, as he walks past the colorful aluminum shacks.

Elias Motsoaledi, named for one of the anti-apartheid fighters imprisoned with Nelson Mandela, sprouted in a vacant patch of land in Soweto in 1995, Shongwe says. Apartheid had ended the year before, and blacks from rural areas were taking advantage of their newfound freedom to move to Johannesburg – the "city of gold."

That's when Shongwe moved here, he says. He came from a rural province, hoping to make his fortune. His father was already here, working in a mine near Johannesburg – a major employer of black men during apartheid. They and nine of Shongwe's siblings lived together in a one-room shack, while Shongwe looked for a job. Because the new black-led government had promised every South African a house, they expected that their dwelling would be temporary. But by 1997, they and many others realized that jobs and houses would be hard to come by. Shongwe started volunteering as a guide.

"Do you want to go into one of the shacks?" he asks. "Pick any one."

In an aluminum-sided dwelling, spotlessly clean, Eric Tyalo sits on his bed – one of the only pieces of furniture that could fit. He lives here with his wife and two children and has a story similar to Shongwe's. He came to Johannesburg because it was the city of opportunity. But he couldn't find a job or afford a real house.

This isn't the first time he has welcomed a foreign visitor into his shack. "We see so many," he says. "At first, we were reluctant to accept white people coming into our community. We were really afraid of white people. Now we believe that white people are friends."

Tourist tips, he says, help make ends meet.

Outside, Shongwe points out the shebeen – the shack that is now a bar – where patrons use a radio (powered by car battery) to play music in the evenings. He points out the metal chain-link fences surrounding the shacks, and says that those are not for security, but for keeping out animals such as dogs and goats. He walks back up the dirt road, to the car lot and bids farewell.

Then the tourists drive away, and he joins his colleagues, waiting for the next ones to come along.

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