Stories from a distance

I’m sitting on a bench made out of a plank stacked on bricks, in a shebeen (unlicensed pub) in one of Cape Town’s largest townships. The township’s name, Llanga, literally means “The Sun”. It’s apt for the day. Cape Town has been experiencing an unseasonably warm Autumn, and outside the shabeen the air is beginning to heat up quickly. Inside though, the temperature is cool. There is a smell – not unpleasant, but interesting and earthy.

My guide is a local named Mzuli. Although he’s in his forties, he gives the impression of a much older man. He speaks slowly, with a strong Xhosa accent, and wears a blue polo shirt under a worn grey jacket. Mzuli is a character, and I listen to him attentively as he alternates between dissertation and wry humour.

“Umqonbothi is more than a beer,” he says to me as the locals watch in amusement. “It’s a way of talking to the ancestors. We Xhosa drink it at big events. You getting married? You’d better make some inqombothi.” As he talks, he organises a metal pail of the drink for us. It’s R20 ($2) for enough umqonbothi to half-fill a kitchen sink. I eye the sloshing bucket warily.

Inqombothi is made from maize and sorghum and takes 3 days to brew. This shabeen sells nothing else. As I pick up the pail, Mzuli starts talking about “Ubuntu” – a deeply ingrained concept in township life. It’s the idea that you are part of your community, and you are not wealthy if your neighbour is poor, nor happy if your neighbour is sad. In a shebeen, ubuntu means that when you buy a quart of beer, the quart is shared around.

Because it’s my shout, I drink first. I steel myself, not knowing what to expect. I take a long sip. The stuff is warm, malty, slightly sour and kind of grainy. It’s a beer you can chew for a few minutes after you’ve swallowed it. I’m surprised by how low-potency it tastes, and discover later that the typical unqombothi has an alcohol level of about 3%.

I pass it to Mzuli. “Now you see how a local drinks it,” he says. He swivels his baseball cap so that the brim sits slightly low and skew on his head. He grasps the pail with both hands, and proceeds to quaff about a fifth of the contents.

Later on, Mzuli tells me that the township is thriving on an entrepreneurial spirit mixed with the ever-present comraderie of Ubuntu. I look over at him. “So, do you reckon things will keep getting better?” The most optimistic realist I’ve ever met, Mzuli gives me one of his infectious smiles and says, “Always. Maybe.”