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This year we had 34 participants join us for the 2015 Warrior Race at Sugar Rush Ballito.  What an awesome event!  Perfect weather, plenty of mud, challenging obstacles, and excellent comradery from mates racing together for a good cause.

We had warriors racing in each of the race categories: Rookie, Commando and Black Ops Elite.  Warriors used the opportunity to raise sponsorships for We are Durban: approximately R11 700 was raised!

We were blessed to be able to give out energy powder sachets and water bottles to our racers, which were kindly donated by NATIVA. Beautifully branded shirts and vests were also donated by Jam Clothing for each of our participants making sure we all looked like a team. We sent everyone home with a tube of face wash donated by Unilever, to help them feel human again after the race.

We’d like to say a huge THANK YOU to all of our sponsors and participants who contributed to this event being a huge success!

So another day to use my ten toes to walk the streets and pavements of Durban. It still has the effect of feeling as if I am more in contact with the city when I walk rather than driving. So with no specific destination in mind, but wanting to either move towards the city or beach area, I went down Argyle Road toward the beach. It being a sunny, blazing hot day, it was a slow walk.

On Argyle Road, by the bridge, I saw a security officer from the company which I believed to be in charge of chasing the beggars away from the robots. I also saw a guy (who I’ve seen at church and begging at the robots) go to a bin, lift it up and grab his hidden “I’m hungry, No Job, No shelter, Please give me some money” sign. He took his sign and headed towards Stamford Hill Road. I asked the security guard if he was going to go chase him away, but the guard said that’s not in their jurisdiction.

So where this security company patrols there will be no beggars, and where they do not patrol there will be beggars. They basically just chase the beggars from one area into another.

So I continued my walk towards the beach along Argyle Road, and just at the next robot I saw a guy named B. He looked like he was in discomfort and when I greeted him he just grunted and replied with a disinterested “hi”. He seemed sick and tired and weak. He said he begs so he can get shelter fee. He told me he does not do drugs, although I could see his lips where dark and cracked as drug smokers lips generally look. He was absent-mindedly nibbling on a sandwich (he didn’t look like he was enjoying it). I shared a bit of my story in the hope that it would make him feel a little at ease, but he replied with “so what do you actually want?” I said I just want to talk. He said he does not want to talk and added “in fact I was doing pretty well without you here… I don’t need to talk”. I got the message and slowly walked off after he got up and headed towards a pole where he had more food.

I’ve noticed a lot of the guys begging near the street robots always have a bag nearby, either by a pole or by a bin. There is generally food inside that they keep for later, and they still hold a board which says “Please help, no food, I’m hungry”. I’ve also noticed that they have a feel sorry for me facial expression when begging, but when you talk to them their face is generally fine or even better; they are actually slightly happy. Knowing that their need (Whoonga) has been met keeps them on the happy side, mostly due to the fact that food is not the problem. The main reason they are begging is because they need a daily fix and they want to sleep at the shelter. If they don’t make enough for shelter they just need enough for drugs. One guy told me “the more I make, the more I smoke”

So as I continued towards the beach in search of a more willing and open, homeless person, just by the robots near Sun Coast Casino and George Campbell, I met D. He was down in mood, spoke with a soft voice and lowly natured. He was basically crying without the tears. He told me how he doesn’t know how he landed up there, how he used to be a taxi driver and had a license. He also told me he just recently was able to get a temporary license but then he just lost it and how hard for him that was. He is from Port Shepstone, is an only child and his family home is non-existent, although he still has relatives that side. He would love to go back to Port Shepstone because he believes there at least he will not suffer like he does here in Durban. He said back home people always use to ask him to drive for them, and that what would probably happen again. He sleeps by the grassy open space near George Campbell and he pointed to the garden area in front of us and said “I sometimes sleep there”, and every now and then would exclaim “ey this is hard”. This guy needed help.

As we were talking a taxi driver drove past and made a comment to him, and he replied “hey you, you don’t even talk to me anymore but back then….” They knew each other and it confirmed for me that he really was a taxi driver. He said he was hungry, so I offered to go to Pick ‘n Pay and buy him something to eat. I got him a pie, chips and juice. When I came back he was stoked and said “wow you kept your word, thanks”. So while he was eating I started to share about myself being an ex-drug addict and having been homeless for 2 months. I told him this because it always seems that people open up more when you have been open. All this time he had not told me he smokes Whoonga, but I could see it. After I shared my story he was touched and said “to be honest I also smoke”. He told me that he eventually had no money to renew his professional driving permit (PDP) and the police kept arresting him and he would pay them off. Then his boss would ask for money and he would not tell him he paid the officer for not having PDP, as well as smoked portions of the day’s takings. So he ended up with no job and on the streets. He mentioned that he had a place to stay and when he lost his job as a taxi driver the guy he stayed with basically said they can’t stay together any more.

He told me a story of how he got arrested for a crime he had not committed. After 9 months in Westville Prison, one day he attended a court case where the judge was a white lady. The officers were speaking in Zulu about the judge, thinking she couldn’t hear them. To their surprise the white lady judge replied in Zulu “I can hear you, and you think I can’t release the prisoner?” The next day he was back in court and he was released.

He also told me how he sometimes wishes he can get arrested again just for two weeks so he can get past this painful withdrawal (Arrosta) process of not smoking. He mentioned how he has tried but if he goes two days without smoking Whoonga the pain is hectic. He told me once he got this medicine from the chemist which was supposed to help but it didn’t. He took this medicine for four days and on the fourth day was sweating and drank the whole bottle and the pain was too much to bear, so he came to the same robot at midnight and a lady gave him R20. He went straight to the dealer, smoked and the pain was gone. So he has tried and really wishes he can just be locked up somewhere until he is fine.

He also occasionally helps out at the booth market, and he mentioned that when he does he feels like a “real person” because when he goes there he has a bath and tries to make sure his clothes are on the clean-ish side. It makes him feel like a productive member of society. I encouraged him to continue working there on Sundays.

He was very grateful for our conversation and took in a lot I said, because when I had left he said he hopes to see me again and he prays he can also be helped like I was. I told him about the Methodist feeding scheme and Salvation Army and how he must try getting his temporary drivers again. He said he will and he will try find out more about this Methadone, which is apparently helping some get off Whoonga. We spoke about a few other things but his energy when I left him was up and he definitely had hope, which is something I like seeing.

With a sense of D’s story being very informative, and the sun’s scorching heat getting to me, I headed back to the office. On my way back I saw B sitting down by another set of robots and not in a good state; my heart cried out for him. He is probably going through withdrawal pains (Arosta).

On my way I bumped into a guy who I’ve briefly spoken to before. He begs at the robots and I had previously told him he must go to Salvation Army if he needs food, but I was in my car that day so I didn’t get to have a thorough conversation with him. I greeted him and asked him if he remembered me. He said “yes, you are the guy who drove past in your car and said I should go to Salvation Army”. So I asked “so did you?” He replied, “well, I’ve actually just come from there and they gave me a loaf of bread, and have told me to come back at specific times when they have the feeding scheme”

I was so glad that he had gone, and we spoke about a lot of stuff related to NGOs and ensuring people on the streets get help. He didn’t have the limp which he normally acts out when begging. He told me that he is not standing at his spot today because there is a “this fat policeman” who is on duty and if he finds him (a white young man) at the robots, he takes him and drops him off at Umlazi or Kwamashu and doesn’t care if they don’t have bus fare. He said this with a “sick and tired of it” attitude. He showed me some onions, tomatoes and potatoes he had just bought, and said that he is taking them back to his girlfriend/wife so she can cook them and feed their child. When he had previously told me about his wife and kid I did not believe him, although now I do. I could feel that he is worried about them, especially if he gets dropped off in Umlazi or Kwamashu.

Then he told me how he will come back and hustle for shelter fee later. He told me he smokes Whoonga, but his priority is his wife and kid, although he does smoke every day. Just like the other, he smokes to get rid of the pain. He really seemed as though he would like to stop Whoonga, but I didn’t get to ask him. I just saw a young father addicted to Whoonga wanting to provide for his family. I went from thinking of him as a big con-artist, because he acts like he is disabled so he can get food and shelter for his family and Whoonga for himself, but now I see him as someone who wants help but only knows this lifestyle as a means to survive. It was a brief interaction with him, and I would love to see him again and actually get more of his story.

That is something important: that is they (homeless people) all have stories and histories worth being heard or told, and I kind of wish I could start a reality show where they could come and share their stories and let us into their world. Hopefully with the intention of assisting them through a rehabilitation process; at least those who are earnestly wanting help.

It’s weird but there is something remarkable about the daily activities of homeless people. To a certain extent they are less worried then most “normal people”; they live off nothing basically while “normal people” live off abundance. With each of those who have been willing to share about themselves, as much as they are broken in certain areas they are also at peace with certain issues or circumstances.  Being homeless in Durban is not that bad. Stand by the robots and you’ll surely get fed. Otherwise there are lots of feeding schemes all around the city on different days. The real downfall is shelter fee and clean shelters. Those that I have spoken to complain that the shelters so are filthy that they would rather sleep on the streets (e.g. a park or outside some business steps or front door or some corner somewhere). Nonetheless, if you have no big dreams for yourself, being homeless in Durban is not that bad; it’s not the end of the world. Although if you do have dreams then it will be hard and a painful experience. Just my thoughts, who am I? After all I’m not homeless. Even though I was on the streets for 2 months, I was never really and truly homeless; my mom would have taken me back without even thinking about it. I chose to run away because of my own shame and guilt; I chose to use drugs over being obedient to my parents. Drugs never chose me, I chose them. So I landed up where I did, because of the choices I made. We are all faced with daily choices, and the choices we make daily shape our days and futures. Until next time, stay blessed.

Royal Hotel suit and tie, to on the streets filth and drugs – The journey of how I went from an internship at the Royal Hotel to trying to run away from Durban hitching to Cape Town.

I had been to rehab and heard what others who had suffered from drug addiction had said, stuff like alcohol is a trigger; don’t stop going to meetings and church; stay away from places where you used to hang out or use at; and don’t mix with those same friends you used to use with. But they can’t tell me what to do – who do they think they are? They had no clue that I would be working at the royal hotel studying at an international hotel school accredited by an American standards institution. I was at the best job I had ever had and studying through the best college I ever had (thanks to my loving mother and sisters who went through great lengths to get me accepted).

Well I was doing pretty well – I was a Christian who got born again in rehab and came out and got stuck in a church for a few weeks. I found work to occupy most of my time and I enjoyed it, mostly because of being a people’s person and I enjoy serving and learning about how to be a great manager. As 2 months of being clean and sober outside of rehab passed I started having this “I can do this” attitude, meaning “I can live without attending AA/NA meetings or even church. My life is at the beginning of its great future – I don’t need these meetings to hold me back. I can hang around the shops where I used to hangout now. Come on, I’m fine.”

The staff/interns at the royal were having parties every week and I would go with them occasionally and just drink a coke or something. In rehab I apparently stopped smoking cigarettes, but that wasn’t really the case; I used to secretly find a place to smoke a cigarette where nobody would see me. Even my family and friends thought I had stopped. But slowly I started smoking openly with my colleagues and eventually my family knew. I remember my sister clearly saying “I just hope you don’t go back to the drugs” and of course I said I wouldn’t. One night there was a big party hosted by the royal hotel staff and I remember clearly wanting to drink but not wanting anyone to know, so I left the party and went to Joe Cools, a club at the beach. Those double brandy and cokes brought that tingling tipsy feeling back, and even though from sheer self-disappointment I didn’t drink again for at least 2 weeks, the memory of the feeling was with me and I slightly craved it.

There was no fear of a drug relapse, no! I just had a drink; I didn’t spend a grand on a full moon (Crack cocaine) or something. Well the thought that I can have a drink once every 2 weeks and be able to maintain control sneaked in. I didn’t see this as a slow spiral back to old behaviour; no, this was the new and improved Mac. He now has control over his drinking and smokes cigarettes, doesn’t go to church much since he works most Sundays (excuse), and he doesn’t need a support group because he has control. I had had at least 4 episodes of drinking once every 2 weeks (nobody but those who were in the bar knew about these) and on my 5^th episode I got so wasted I passed out somewhere and only got back home the next day. You would really think this was old behaviour wouldn’t you? Not me. I could fix this. Well the next time I got very drunk to the point I knew if I went home my mom would know, therefore I needed to fix this! I needed to get sober. How? Crack gets you sober; of course I would know this. Eish! We all can hear and see what’s going on here but somehow I still believed I had control.

While this was going on for a period of about a month and a half, I would not arrive at work on some of those days when I had a jol the night before. I had a tavern I always used to hang out at and I would sleep at the back there by the merchants place. Yes, smoking weed (marijuana) again and drinking as much as possible because I was under lots of stress trying to not lose the good boy image which I had wrecked a couple of times already. It wasn’t long until one day I spent my whole pay cheque (R5000) on Crack. 25^th December 2009 I didn’t spend with my family, I came back on Boxing Day, changed my clothes and left for a party. I only came back on the 31^st (New Year’s Eve) and did the same thing.

In the industry of taking drugs you generally don’t smoke alone. It’s not that you can’t – you can and definitely sometimes you will. But when you are going to go buy there is usually someone hanging around who is trying to hustle people who are going to the bar or are buying from the dealer. They ask people for loans and if they can smoke with you. If you one day gave them a smoke then you can say “remember last time I hooked you up?” You can even go home and try seeing what you can sell like Cell Phone, Clothes, anything valuable.  So I obviously had no phone anymore and I lied to my mom and sisters and said I had been robbed.

Work had given me a last written warning before Christmas so I believed that I now had no more chances, and my dream of being a restaurant manager melted away like the crack when it was in the pipe and I inhaled it. It was gone! After New Year’s I never went back home. I couldn’t face my family because I was guilty, full of shame and embarrassed. I hung out and slept by the bar at the bottom of Umbilo where the dealers were, and I met a guy named Andrea when he one day called me to smoke with him. He told me that he is homeless and I asked him how he gets money to smoke and he said he hustles. He said he asks people for broken appliances and he fixes them and then sells them. After he and I got close because he would come back to the bar every day to buy, he asked me if I wanted to go with him, to which I agreed. I had spent at least a whole week sleeping at the back of the tavern, the mommas and the merchants liked me so they were very helpful to me, and they fed me and gave me weed and cigarettes.  So Andrea and I became friends I would follow his lead because he knew how to hustle on these streets. I was just hopeless and full of guilt and shame and just wanted to disappear.

Thinking about those times right now makes me want to cry because I did not feel loved even though in my heart I would always talk to God. I felt like a naughty child whom God would not help because of what I was doing and how I was acting. I still asked for help though. So we would go around the areas of Montclair and ask people for their broken appliances or even phones or any old things they wanted to get rid of. People would give us irons, wooden furniture and even broken phones. They would also give us food and something to drink. He showed me how to always check garages, to check if they were open, and bicycles were what we mainly looked for when doing this. We had a dealer who would give us half a moon for one bike. We occasional found other things in garages like electrical appliances (drills, etc.), which we would steal and sell. Andrea was street smart; he was not afraid to do the most stupid things just so he could get his way. Well I was stupid as well by thinking he was a worthy teacher for me to follow. We slept all over the show – post office steps, train station benches, behind the bar, a broken down car in Clairwood (we made friends with a mechanic who owned it, he wanted us to sell appliances to him).

I still had a gym card which my mom was obviously still paying for because whenever I got close to South Way Mall (where gym was) I would go and have a shower there. My clothes where not clean though. Andrea had a mother who stayed in Yellowwood Park with his step dad who didn’t want him there because he stole from them every chance he got. His mom, though, was still concerned about him and wanted him to get a job. He took me to go see her a couple times and we would go there during the day when he believed that his step dad was not there. His mom would feed us and he would bath on occasions and we would then leave. I remember seeing her cry once or twice when we left. She liked me for some reason and she asked me to help him.

There we go, I now believed I had a purpose – to help this guy get a job and clean up. So we attempted to stop smoking Rocks (crack). We drank more and we started smoking sugars on occasion. I would just sweat and vomit nearly every time I smoked it, so I was reluctant to do it. I preferred getting drunk (in attempt to drown my sorrows). He came up with an idea I jumped at and was so keen to do. He said we should go to Cape Town and I got psyched up. He said we could hitch a ride from truck drivers. I believed him. He kept smoking sugars and I started getting frustrated with him a lot because of this. I would constantly encourage him that we should look for a job or start our journey to Cape Town. I believed I was going to start a new life in Cape Town and I would be away from all this shame and guilt.

Towards the end of our relationship we become like a husband and wife just arguing a lot. We started sleeping at a shelter on Point Road and there was more sugars being sold around there than anything else. One day he left in the morning with another guy whom he had become friends with overnight, and he told me I should meet him back there at 17:00. So I walked around town alone the whole day. I went to the beach and had a swim (bath) and after a long day of not being able to do what he did because I was shy and scared when he wasn’t there, I eventually came back to the shelter that evening and he wasn’t there. I got shattered. I had no mission and my dream to go with him to Cape Town was gone. I spent another day walking around Durban, and when I came back to the shelter in the afternoon I saw him, but from our conversation I got that he was in a hurry with that new friend of his, and he just wasn’t interested in how I was or how I had spent my days. I knew then that I should try making my way to Cape Town by myself.

I somehow hustled and somehow got some money, because I remember that I bought some bread, juice and fruit. And so I was off. I headed towards where the old airport was and walking on that road I hitched. I had a little bag with that bread and stuff and a little bible and a shirt and a pair of pants. I walked for ages with no trucker giving me a lift. I got to Toti and went towards the beach for a break. With determination to get to the Cape I again went towards the highway for another session of scorching heat. To my luck this time a truck driver stopped and he said he was going to stop somewhere by Park Rynie. I accepted the lift, and although he wanted some money I told him I had none; he graciously took me anyway. It was getting dark when we arrived so I slept on the beach somewhere by Park Rynie. I had a very soul searching session at the beach (every time I’m at the beach alone I have a God moment).

The next day I ate the last of the little bit of bread I had and I then knew I had a problem. So I continued walking along the train tracks on the beach down the South Coast, I vegetated on a beach the whole morning, and around midday I started trying to get back to the highway. On my way I walked past a house which had no fence and I heard the maid laughing out loud while a gentleman was talking to her. The house door was open although the gate was closed but not locked. On the left hand side of the door there was a bicycle just leaning against the wall. Long story short, I stole that bicycle in such a way that I qualified myself as a professional bike thief. Yes, believe it or not at that moment I thought I was brilliant in terms of how I stole the bike 007-style. It is sickening to think that I got a rush and a proud moment in my head about orchestrating a criminal activity. I surely see now that it’s not something to be proud of.

Well then another journey started. I tried going to the local pawn shop to sell the bike but due to the long process it took I had no better idea than to cycle all the way back to Durban which I did. I went to my dealer, sold the bike for R500, bought R300 worth of crack, and then bought a bunny chow and beers with the rest. That evening I found myself sitting at the beach with this distinct thought that I had lost my mind. My legs were finished, and I had tried to go to Cape Town but only got as far as an area by the South Coast and was back in Durban with no plan. Realising my insanity I decided to pray for help. I asked God what to do (sitting on a beach again) and I remember sensing/hearing that I should go to an old friend’s house. This guy was a police officer and I believed he would help me.

That was the 1^st day of the end of my homelessness; the hard journey back home began. My “run away from home and world as I had known it” (homelessness) had come to an end, a harsh, dark, sad and twisted evil time of around 2 and a half months. Honestly, I’m glad I made it out alive.

My friend gave me a caravan to sleep in and he fed me and I could have a bath at his place.  He was an alcoholic and he did smoke weed, so that part didn’t help, but at least I could cover myself with a blanket and was clean all the time. He encouraged me to go home and tell my mom where I was, and I eventually did. I got my clothes and had decent stuff to wear. My habits hadn’t changed drastically, but I eventually got a job as a waiter at a nearby Spur because of my history in hospitality. The job didn’t last long. I just spent the money on alcohol and drugs, and would not pitch up to work. My mom eventually convinced me to come back home; she was so worried about me. She never gave up. I could see her spirit crying out for my life to come into order, and I could see the hurt she went through because of me was supressed by the relentless hope and love she had for me. Even though I had lost hope in myself. She really has gone through a lot because of me and I would not be who I am and where I am if God did not use her to be there for me the way he did. I was her son, nobody else’s, and I thank God she never fully gave up. Thinking about her and what she went through makes me what to cry again.

Well my behaviour still didn’t change, but at least I was back at home. A failure filled with shame and guilt, but I was back home. My sisters didn’t want to see me or help me, but at least I was back home.

This article was about my homeless phase, which ended there.  But to leave it there would leave you wondering… so I eventually reconciled with my mother, and my sisters and moved home.  I stayed clean and drug free and now 5 years after this episode my life is starting to impact others and has meaning and purpose.