Steve Khumalo

I wake up each morning to the sound of birds chirping and the distant hum of traffic. The sun peeks through the gaps in the curtains, casting a warm glow over the small room I share with my wife and my three children. It’s a humble home in Hout Bay, Cape Town, but it’s ours.

Today is a tour day. I’ve been leading walking tours through our township for several years now. It’s a job I stumbled into, one I wasn’t entirely sure about at first. The idea of showing tourists, mostly wealthy folks from Europe, North America, and sometimes Asia, the ins and outs of our daily struggles seemed strange to me. But I’ve come to see the value in it.

A few days ago, we had an unusual visitor. She was a black woman, probably in her late thirties, who lives less than a hundred meters away in a posh house. It’s ironic how close the wealthy neighborhoods are to our township, yet the gap between our worlds is immense. Her curiosity had finally driven her to join the tour.

We walked through the narrow alleys, past makeshift homes and children playing with improvised toys. I showed her the community projects, the local school, and the garbage dump. At one point, she stopped and looked around, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “I had no idea,” she whispered, almost to herself.

Many who come here leave with a mix of guilt and gratitude, aware of their own privilege but moved by the resilience they witness. Some call it voyeurism, a sort of “poverty porn,” and maybe there’s some truth to that. But I’ve learned not to be bothered by such judgments. What matters is the awareness and the small but steady stream of income it brings to our community.

At 54, I take pride in my work now. Each tour is a chance to educate, to connect, and to hopefully plant a seed of empathy. As I step out into the bright morning, ready to greet today’s group, I’m reminded that this, too, is a form of hope.