Tom and Hadrian rose excruciatingly early on the Saturday morning to head to the UN debates being held at parliament in the political capital city, Bisho. The three of us that remained got up at a more sensible hour to help out at Book Club (an outreach program run in the two local primary schools every other Saturday in order to improve the English literacy of the younger generation. Volunteers from St Matthews run the sessions as activity leaders as part of their Presidents Award (think Duke of Edinburgh, South African edition). Jarvis and Emily, an American couple stationed at the school on behalf of the Calibar Foundation, help to oversee the initiative). I went with Jarvis to the school in the centre of Keiskammahouk, but arrived to find the school gates, the same school gates that the principle is supposed to leave open on Book Club weeks and the very same gates that had accidently been left locked a fortnight ago, locked and no sign of any kids or activity leaders. We asked around and found out that the principle lived in the ‘coloured’ part of town so Jarvis went on a retrieval mission whilst I began the club outside the gates with the small trickle of young children that were starting to appear. Forty minutes later, and by this time with a full set of keys, activity leaders and collection of learners (the South African term for students, teachers being referred to as ‘educators’), Book Club began in earnest. After the best part of an hour spent reading “A day at the beach”, “The boy who loved to sing” and other such classics, the focus of the club shifted to mathematics, much more my cup of educational beverage. It quickly became apparent that these young kids, ages from 4-10, were in possession of mental arithmetic capabilities far superior to those of the 12-18 year old learners of St Matthews, being happily obliged to perform mathematical feats such as 9 x 7 in front of the group that would have the oldest grade 12 classes in tears. Either this has been a recent development in the educational standards of rural primary schools, I thought, or there is a huge discontinuity in teaching from infant to junior/senior grades, allowing such vital skills as mental arithmetic to become buried in dusty boxes and placed at the back of the cerebral attic as a result of neglect.

The Saturday afternoon had been set aside for Miss Saints, the inaugural competition that occupies the highest plinth in the St Matthews social calendar, a gritty battle of beauty and fashion, with contestants grappling for the prestigious title of Miss/Mr Saint Matthews Junior/Senior, followed by a ‘bash’. Rachael had been scouted by the event organiser, Miss Blom, as a budding Simon Cowell, and had been asked to sit on the board of judges, alongside one of the female teachers and Jason, the token white teacher of the school, and at 18 years of age, barely out of school himself. Despite being the obvious first choice, I realised that they wished to respect my preference to act as a passive spectator.



On turning up at the glamorous venue, the assembly hall behind our house, we were tasked with newspapering up the windows. “Oh, to block out the light?” I enquired naively. “No, to stop the boys outside from looking in.” The date of the competition was well known in the village and every year locals, mostly older boys, try and gain entry for the spectacle, and after, dancing. I’d like to think it’s solely an indication of the lack of alternative entertainment available in Keiskammahoek, rather than due to the high percentage of vulnerable, young females and similarly low proportion of competing males. Barely hours after the event was due to start and minutes after the preparations were complete and the high-profile DJ’s from King William’s Town had arrived, Miss Saints 2010 began. Each category was to be decided by a single round – a walk along a pre-determined path, at times within close proximity to the judges table, allowing for a flare-moment (i.e. ridiculous flirting with the judges) in order to really stake a claim at the title. The junior category of the girls and boys passed by innocently enough, each contestant timidly pacing the floor to the general appreciation of the audience. It was during the senior categories that the knives came out and things livened up. The girls, all dressed up in their finest formal dresses, were first up. In stark contrast to the conservative regulations governing normal school dress-code, many of the contestants would have been considered indecently dressed by the girls found walking the streets of Newcastle on a Saturday night. “Tom [a.k.a. resident volunteer photographer], take some pictures!” demanded Miss Blom, thrusting him out into the catwalk, forcing him to tread the precarious line between accurately documenting the event and being prosecuted for inappropriate voyeurism. “This would not be legal in England,” whispered a blushing Tom. The girls having finished their parade, one golden-garmented girl among them having received a cacophony of boo’s and jeers by the on-looking girls (“She deserved it, her dress was ug-ly,” I was later informed by one of the learners. Talking to some of the elders, an evident shift in the interests of the young generation over the last decade has been the increased idolisation of Western idols, such as Beyonce and Jay-Z, bringing with it the associated values of fashion and vanity), the senior boys made their way out. Being a female-dominated school, this was obviously one of the more generally appreciated rounds, judging from the screams.



It can’t be easy for an adolescent girl growing up in Keiskammahoek. Even Rachael had difficulty suppressing her excitement, especially as each sun-shaded and suited young gentleman made their way over and sought her approval with an intimate wink. The results having been announced and disappointments thinly concealed by insincere congratulations, the DJ’s began blasting their music through the speakers and us volunteers, feeling awkward due to our purgatorial position between the roles of teacher and student, made a swift exit. Outside, we encountered the older boys queued eagerly at the door, attempting to gain entry by any means possible. On reviewing Tom’s photographs later on, we realised our newspapering had not been sufficient as a line of heads could be seen at the windows, above the blocked out sections, peering in.