From a murmur to a shout

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Foto: Canva

From a murmur to a shout

It was another quick breakaway at the finest coffee shop in the village. Late in winter, the day was slowly warming up to clear skies and a verdant landscape, the surrounding mountains reflecting in the storage dam, which, at this time of the year, was completely full. We were in a beautiful place, partly due to the quiet interior design and the gentle warmth of the hostess and staff. At the same time, it was also an escape from the sordid clutter of the main street.

A woman jumped up from a neighbouring table and came over. “Would you like to be involved in beautifying and cleaning up our village? I am trying to get people together later this week.” It was so simple, and so sudden. A week later, a smattering of women sat around a table, matrons and madonnas, with wild and wonderful plans which overlapped and expanded and bubbled into dreams. The usual crowd of farmers who congregated under the veranda each morning for their daily gossip, disparaged the project gleefully.

A daunting task it would be, and one of which we did not even grasp the full extent. That is why we got going: we merely focused on the priorities at hand. Only one part of the main street had rubbish bins, with none on the route where all the pedestrians walked home. The business centre was swamped with rubbish, the public park a dump, and the absence of public amenities evident in the smell in nooks and alleys.

It would not have happened without our technologically savvy grandmother. She oversaw the social media and set up a page to share our plans and small victories. She created the stories that became the narrative for a larger community transformation. Small but unexpectedly significant gestures got the community interested. A video of the rubbish dumped illegally on the open plot next to the magistrate’s court, and a request to the municipality, resulted in immediate action. The before and after photos of the site gave everybody a whiff of hope. We gained the support of the municipal staff, who saw our efforts as complimentary rather than a criticism. After years of neglect and mismanagement, not only the infrastructure, but also the personnel looking after the village, were worn down and lost.

The people who lived around the park started by picking up rubbish, then mowing the overgrown lawns and roping in help to unclog the drainage ditch, where reeds straggled through plastic shopping bags and broken glass. Someone researched recycling opportunities. Wax drums from the packhouses in the valley would make perfect rubbish bins if we could get them mounted. A design and a budget for 100 drums were circulated, and minds started churning – the costs were already a challenge. A request for a quote transformed into a donation, with the assistance of an engineering husband being offered. The engineer donated and cut the material for the mounting plates, two mechanics were commandeered to cut open the drums and fix the mounts, and the project got momentum. A mowing service volunteered to clear the abandoned yard of the post office, a farmer collected his discarded vineyard poles and donated them as legs for the rubbish bins, and the police contingent jumped out one morning to clean their office and the street in front of the station.

The village erupted in surprised praise. Somehow, the imagery of the entire police team, from the station commander to the most junior constable, picking up sand and wielding brooms, became a beacon of hope.

Spring crept up on us. Villagers began to share pictures of beautiful scenes around the village, reminding each other of the promise and resilience of nature, allowed to flourish without the encumbrance of litter. The gardening enthusiasts tackled the town entrance, pruning back the hedges and removing the suckers from the trees flanking the main road. Teams of workers were engaged to pick up the debris from the roadworks of the previous winter. The municipality made a huge effort to address the potholes in the district, and the efforts of the park team became evident. Slowly, the idea became contagious. Envious remarks led to discussion about wider involvement, and the women living next to the abandoned playground gathered children to remove the rubbish clogging up their space. As a reward, the municipal foreman sent a team to mow the playground. The before and after pictures of the playground elicited generosity. Someone found rubber tyres and cut them into swings, another workshop made shackles, and chains were sourced from the local co-op. As we were putting up the swings, the first child climbed up and started swinging even before we could move out of the way.

Early wins. Just enough to get the naysayers going. The first of the rubbish drums were posted along the pedestrian route, with much headshaking and remarks that this, these drums, would never work because people do not care enough. The antics of a couple of rambunctious schoolboys, who tipped the bins into spinning arches, confirmed their worst predictions. The community had 20 years to slip into this bad funk of passivity and lawlessness. Even the town centre was raggedy, with retail boxes and plastic lounging on the pavement, waste bins having been stolen long ago and never replaced. It was time to prove our mettle, keep everybody motivated by posting a challenge, so we applied for a grant to upgrade the largest public park in the village.

The summer vacation almost broke our backs. It is the hot, dry spell in the valley, when everybody who can escapes to the seaside. Those who could not leave, hunkered down in shady spots to escape the blistering sun. The skeleton crew of waste removers barely kept up with the removal of household waste, and the rubbish bin decoration languished while the schools were closed. Frustrations and simmering conflicts flared up in the doldrums of a small-town summer, and our numbers dwindled.

Reprieve came late summer. We had won the grant on condition that we had to finish the improvements in our proposal within four weeks. Suddenly, all the matrons and madonnas, who up till now had been leisurely doing their own little improvement projects, had to cooperate. If spring was honeymoon, this was nappy drill. The beauty pageant queen, the school madam, the farmer, the patient grandmother, the mouthy gardener and the virago were all there, shocking the townsfolk with our virulent arguments, salty language, precious peace-making and pious gratitude.

The gardeners had to design the layout for the trees around the planned pathways and infrastructure. The irrigation plan had to be redesigned to fit the garden layout, and main lines laid before the walkways could be built. Not all the walkways could be built if there was to be money for irrigation, and the gardening team put their foot down: no tree planting without irrigation. The matrons grumbled, the guys ducked. A horrible showdown was looming, but was thankfully averted by a shortage of building materials that made the issue moot: not all the walkways could be built, hence the money could be allocated to the water and trees.

Quietly, the drums were being installed along the main road and at convergence points. Bright splashes of colour reminded us all of what we were about – not an irrigation line or a walkway, but restoring the beauty of our town.

The trees came, and then the playground equipment. And suddenly, everybody looked up. Change is possible, and it is happening.

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Kommentaar

  • Thank you for such a beautiful reminder of how ordinary citizens can and should make a difference.

  • Anne-Marie Bartie

    Martli! I can see the pictures in my mind. Continue to change the world. It is our duty...

  • Reageer

    Jou e-posadres sal nie gepubliseer word nie. Kommentaar is onderhewig aan moderering.


     

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