Florence lived in a Wendy House. A whimsy of a name for the structure of corrugated iron and wood it describes. Usually erected behind someone else's home, these shacks are the accommodation backbone of the informal settlements. They are made with whatever can be found. Revealing a genius for foraging amongst the very poorest of our country. Its not unusual to see portions of old cars, billboards and flattened coke cans doing sterling duty as roofs, windows or cladding. One of the houses on the way to the airport even boasts a second storey with a balcony - made from a light-aircraft wing. This is recycling at its most imaginative.
Florence's home was a bit different. It was made of new iron, new roof tiles and proper, glassed windows, and she had just finished paying it off. It was set on a concrete slab to keep out the Cape damp and cold. And it stood behind her brother's brick house: so had the benefit of (almost) legal electricity and water. And was secure.
But not from the guy at number 1. Who came home drunk from a shebeen, fancied a bit to eat and knocked over his parafin stove. And not from the howling south-easter - which did the rest.
I was in Tulbagh when Florence called me. In a small cottage built on someone else's property. I'd had a couple of drinks with friends, a meal cooked outside and had retired to my bed - lit by candle and gas. I was marveling at how fantastically well we were all handling life without electricity.
Only difference was: we was paying for the experience. I'm sure the irony wasn't lost on Florence.
