The traditional lifestyle of a small fishing community in the Cape is being destroyed by developers, reports Rehana Rossouw
FISHERFOLK living for generations on the beachfront in Paternoster are being forced out of their homes to make way for tourists and have now discovered they were probably robbed of their right to the riches of the sea.
The village, about 180km from Cape Town, has attracted scores of holiday-makers to its pristine beach and tranquil surroundings, but locals say their arrival has brought racism to the village for the first time in its history.
Its name, Latin for “our Father”, was bestowed hundreds of years ago by shipwrecked Portuguese sailors. Legend has it they were so grateful to survive that they knelt down on the beach and said several “paternosters”.
Since then, the descendants of those sailors and indigenous people have been living off the sea. But fishing quotas have been drastically reduced in recent years and landowners in Paternoster are looking to tourism to keep the village alive.
Some fisherfolk are refusing to move from their cottages, believing they have a historic right to their homes.
Cecelia Corizon is determined to die in the cottage she has lived in for 29 years in a section of Paternoster called Valplaas. The stone-walled, three-roomed house was built by her father-in-law and after three generations of Corizons were born in the house, she refuses to budge.
Some of her neighbours have been moved to a suburb called Kliprug, where starter houses have been provided by the government.
Corizon and her husband worked for Paternoster Fisheries. Although she was only employed during the crayfish season, she managed to send her son to university “with a lot of help from God above”.
In 1989 her husband was told by his doctors he was no longer fit to work. Although he had worked for Paternoster Fisheries since he was 14, the company made no provision for his retirement. The couple now survive on a state grant of R410 a month.
“This house is owned by the Pharo family. They owned Paternoster Fisheries, but a few years ago they closed down the factory and disappeared,” Corizon said.
“I don’t want to move, all the families who live here in Valplaas are like one big family. We don’t lock our doors and we don’t hesitate to help each other. I had flu recently and was in bed for two weeks. Every night my neighbours brought food for us to eat.
“Even if I’m the only person left in Valplaas, I’m staying here … People who say apartheid is dead should come and see what is happening in Paternoster. Apartheid is very much alive here. It was only after 1990 that coloureds were forced out of their homes here to make way for whites,” Corizon said.
Paternoster councillor Paul Sampson says the only way community leaders had been able to secure land tenure for the villagers was to invoke the Group Areas Act in 1989 to pave the way for state assistance for coloured families.
“Until then, 100% of the land in Paternoster was owned by private landowners. The fishermen were allowed to live in the cottages, but if they no longer worked for the company, they were forced to move out.
“When the Pharo family closed down Paternoster Fisheries and disappeared, community leaders grappled to find permanent homes for the fishermen. We managed to persuade the owners of Kliprug to sell their land and got government funding to build homes.”
He said although the Kliprug homes were smaller than the beachfront cottages and did not have the views, they offered security to hundreds of people.
Community leaders had battled to find a way to secure tenureship for residents living in the Valplaas cottages, but had failed. “Mr Pierre Pharo owns the land and we have been unable to trace him since he left Paternoster,” Sampson said.
In Kliprug, tears flowed as residents related their history and their struggle to survive without the right to fish in the waters which had fed generations.
“When we were moved from Valplaas I had to leave most of my furniture behind because it couldn’t fit into my new house. One day I’m going back to my old home,” vowed Mabel Bailey.
“Our grandparents built those homes. They carried every stone down to the beach on their backs. If that doesn’t make those houses ours, then I don’t know what will.
“We didn’t pay rent in the cottages at Valplaas, but we worked ourselves to the bone for the fishing companies. My husband used to earn about R100 a month during the crayfish season. When the season ended, all we got was R10 a week as subsistence pay. We had to feed our families on that money.”
Bailey cried as she told of the hardships her family suffered after Paternoster Fisheries closed down. She said last Christmas she had no money and no food to make even the simplest stew.
“We have our pride, it’s the only thing we have left. Since the factory closed, the women spend all day together in each other’s homes. I can’t even offer them a cup of coffee. I know they’re going to kitchens as empty as mine, but we don’t talk about that at all.
“Our lives are bitter … In the old days there was always fish to eat. Now you need to get a quota before you can catch anything.”
Susan Corizon’s husband’s application for a quota was turned down by the Quota Board and he was forced to seek work in a factory in Saldanha Bay, about 20km away.
“My husband used to earn R24 a week at Paternoster Fisheries. Some weeks he came home with as little as R4. If the boats were damaged, he would spend all day at work repairing them and not get paid a cent.
“The company would lend us money for food. When it closed down, my husband owed them R800.”
Corizon said a few of Paternoster’s fishermen owned boats and caught fish to feed their families. Children gathered mussels and the surplus was sold illegally at roadsides to earn some money.
In winter, when the sea was rough, the men could not go out for days.
“What do you say to a child who comes asking for bread and you don’t have any to give him? I can’t keep sending my children to my mother or my neighbours at supper time. Some days it gets so bad I sit on my bed all day and cry.”
Corizon and others have formed a womens’ league to battle for their rights. They have persuaded the municipality to improve the Kliprug houses by installing electricity and painting the exteriors, and intend lobbying the government for a fishing quota and their land rights.
“[National Party MP] Abe Williams came here in 1989 and said he would help us fight for our rights, but all he did was buy land for himself as well,” said Corizon. “That land belongs to the people of Paternoster, we’ve started a petition to protest against it.”
Williams said the area was part of his constituency when he was elected to parliament in 1984 and he had to intervene frequently when residents’ rights were threatened.
“People were being forced to move from Kliprug as well as Valplaas because the owners saw the potential for tourist development. They tried all kinds of tactics to keep people out,” he said. “It was unfortunate that I had to use the Group Areas Act to safeguard them, but it was the only solution I could find.”
Williams denied that he was given any “favours” when he purchased a 487m2 plot in Paternoster. He said the community was so grateful for his assistance that it insisted that he be given the right to own land in the area.
He said Paternoster residents had to accept the fact that the beachfront property would never belong to them.