Affirmative Repetition

Delivering baby Cosset

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 15:45:00 +0000

In the A+E department, a Filipino nurse came to me confused, saying that a patient presented with abdominal discomfort because of a "Cosset", which she did not understand.
It turned out that the patient had inserted a rather large courgette into his anus, and it had developed a sort of stalk distocia halfway up his rectum. I tried desperately to deliver the said vegetable, virtually fisting him in the process, but was quite perturbed that the practice was not entirely unfamiliar to him. I failed to deliver it manually, despite my encouragement to "push, I can see the stalk" ,so decided to inform my surgical colleague, who was from South India.

"A cosset?" he replied.
"a bit like a cucumber but bigger", I informed him.

" Oh, vy don't you say cucumber den?"
I decided not to answer, deciding that it would be better to discover his error by personal experience. Once he had removed the green behemoth utilising various tricks and tweaks with the silverware (in department), he proudly carried it around swaddled in blue paper, declaring to all and sundry :"is there anyone who'd like a salad?

Invitation

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 13:19:00 +0000

An old Indian gentleman was very pleased that his son was finally getting married. He was so happy that he insisted on doing all the invitations himself. As you may recall, guest lists at Indian weddings in South Africa sometimes run into the thousands, so this was no small feat. The fact that he did not speak much Afrikaans did not deter him either. His plan was to welcome guests, but to assure them that there would be separate facilities for men and women.

"Ek naai vir almal" he began, blissfully unaware of his substitution of the word "naai" which referred to the act of sexual congress, for the word "nooi" which translated means to invite.

"Die jong meisies moet bo sit. Die ou vrouens onder. Ek naai vir al die mans in die hall"

Praise

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 13:12:00 +0000

This is true. I was there.

At a wedding, an aging MC was overcome with emotion after hearing a boy's recitation of an Urdu poem of praise.

"My boy" he said, "you've really touched me with your beautiful Naat*."

*Naath- urdu poem or song of praise
*naat- Afrikaans slang- literally ass-crack

Eid

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 14:46:00 +0000

"So Dad", he began. I feared the worst. Surely he's too young for the birds and the bees. These words were usually followed by a question he had no doubt spent most of his five years thinking about. Answers were not usually simple.

"How do you know which is which?". "Oh no", I thought, "he's been watching the Discovery channel again, in between devouring this week's consignment of books from the library. Also, he has been looking at Kitty rather strangely..."

"Eid. Which one's which?"

I tried very hard to disguise my relief.

"Well", I replied.

"You know on one of them, we slaughter sheep or goats."

"Yes" he nodded.

"Female goats have udders. So that's how you remember Eid-ul-Adha(uddha)"

"What about the other one?"

"You remember that there's usually lots of food to eat, after a month of fasting, don't you?"

Another nod.

"Well, that's bound to make you put on weight. Eat till you're fatter. Eid-ul-Fitr"

"Aaaah", he looked satisfied with the answer, but I could see the wheels turning.

"So Dad" he began again.

"Udders, are they...."

Shortcut Shaheed

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 08:25:00 +0000

I'm thinking of launching a range of products. All this sleep-deprivation has given me some ideas. Feedback welcome.

Shortcut Shaheed, be proud of your humility!

We have a Ramadan special on Ovanite One-Mush Miracle, for those brothers who have made a late start on growing their beard. There is still time to catch up. There are some who have tried Propecia or Regain, but this is the first formulation designed specifically for beard growth. (please be sure to read the instruction leaflet carefully, as we will not be liable for any problems related to incorrect use. We are also pleased to announce that we won our recent landmark case, and we can confirm that using our product does NOT give you hair on your palms)

We also have a unisex range of Faux-Noor products, instant glow in a bottle.
Faux-Noor, for that just-been-to-Makkah glow, without the expense or the effort.

For the ladies, there's Muskbreath lip balm, so you can smell like you're fasting, even in your week off.
Muskbreath: shh! Nobody needs to know.

There's also the Bruise-matik forehead bruise template kit (in small, medium and large sizes- please note the large is a big seller so stocks are in short supply).

We've saved the best for last.
Are you tired of stumbling about in the dark for your istinja jug? Are you tired of cold water on your bits first thing in the morning? We at Shortcut Shaheed have the answer, the StinjaMax 9000! This revolutionary design means that a jet of water is directed where you need it, when you need it. Our (patent-pending) ADMix technology means that the water is at the optimal temperature for comfort and removal of waste, with a jet powerful enough to remove the most stubborn of remnants. Even sweetcorn and whole-wheat don't stand a chance against the StinjaMax 9000!
and if you call now, you can get the StinjaMax portable, aka Lump o' Clay, free! No more cumbersome rolls of toilet paper to carry around, and no more newsprint stains on your bottom. No more looking for random bits of clay or stone when you're on a picnic.
StinjaMax. For that really clean clean.

for franchise opportunities, please leave responses in the space provided.

going to the bioscope

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 08:52:00 +0000

We didn't have malls when I was growing up. We bought our bread and milk from the corner shop and our meat from the local butcher. We had justed started watching television in 1976, and Rupert the bear, Maja the bee, Heidi and Knersis ("waar's daai hasie") kept us children entertained after school and families enjoyed badly dubbed serials like "Arsene Lupin" and "Tierbriegade" at night. The familiar themes of "Misdaad" or "Derrick" meant that it was time for bed, but I didn't mind because Derrick's eyebags were well scary. Karel Kraai and Sarel Seemonster were seen as figures of fantasy rather than political satire (a clever black crow with a floppy hat and a guitar teaching a thick Afrikaans dragon about factories, hmmm!).

Magda had big hair and asked the little bee to blow on his flower horn, so that the daisies could sing for Bennie Boekwurm to appear. On the Cape Flats, boys would wonder what it would be like to be barefoot, on a farm and white, just like Trompie, Rooie, Dawie (not forgetting Boesman the dog). We all wondered when Heksie and Koning RoseDinges would finally get together (O Griet!). Heidi stashed soft white rolls for Ouma as she did not have any teeth while Pieter spoke out of the side of his mouth to his goats Svirni, Berli and Sneeutjie.

We did not have Hi Definition or Dolby 5.1, so our trip to the local moviehouse on a Saturday afternoon was like a magical adventure. There was the lady at the ticket office with the grey hair who looked at us over her spectacles and the big bearded chap who controlled the velvet rope and looked like a titan. Once my friends tried to convince me to slip between his legs so we could save some ticket money but I was unaccustomed to such criminal activity and stood in front of him, paralysed like a deer in th proverbial headlights. The seats were covered in tacky orange fluffy stuff, seasoned with used chewing gum. The best seats were halfway up, just behind the stairs, as you could drop things on people's heads as they came in.

Movies were an interactive medium during those days. It was assumed that the protagonist (or "Roker") was able to avoid danger based on the advice of the audience, and perform superhuman feats due to their encouragement. Any hint of sexuality (ie a kiss) was met with wolf-whistles. It was not uncommon for a movie to have a standing ovation as the credits rolled or for boys to learn Kung Fu in 2 hours. I can still recall watching Drunken Master with his red nose and matted grey hair, the monks of Shaolin temple with the six burn marks on their bald heads. Some of us started pointing to our noses when referring to ourselves in a conversation. One friend wore bell-bottoms as he liked the sound his trousers made when he kicked. We all wanted to be Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan. We all wanted nunchucks.

It was always a double feature then, with some rubbish used as a garnish for the main attraction. Of course both movies needed to be edited in order to fit multiple showings, but we knew no better. Intermission was a mad dash for the toilet and the tuck shop. Guava juice, Messaris Chilli chipi and Pick a Cake pies were the favourites. The guava juice was so artificial it made you wheeze, but the plastic bottle made a perfect projectile, especially if stuffed with a Chilli Chipi packet.

At the end of the movie, time to pose or practice your moves on the marble steps and then home in time for Magrib, a bath and Dallas.

There were some memorable releases as we grew up, Die Hard (which everyone mad the mistake of reading in Afrikaans when the saw the poster for the first time), Fatal Attraction (there was no concept of age restriction), the Rocky movies which had guys running up the marble steps singing "tadat taaa, tadat taaaaaa..."

With the advent of shopping malls and cine-plexes, it was tough for the local cinemas to compete. If I can think of one event that marked the end of the golden era of independant cinema in Cape Town, it was probably what I'd like to call the Schizm. The owners of the cinema probably thought they could get in more punters if they split the building lengthways into two pizza wedge-shaped sections with screens set at a crazy angle. Basically this meant that you watched one movie but heard two soundtracks. Value for money? It didn't work.

"What do you mean you didn't need a joystick?"

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 08:50:00 +0000

Hands up all those who remember the playground game "Rover". You know, the one where everybody lined up against the fence on one side of the playground and ran to the other. The person reaching the other side last was termed "on", and was given the task of catching as many of the players who weren't as they attempted to traverse the field. People could be called in turn, and try to cross. If they were caught, they were also "on", but if they managed to cross, the entire team made a mad dash to the opposite side. Being one of the slower runners, I had to devise a method of ensuring that I didn't end up standing in the middle of the field alone every time. I didn't choose the slowest runner to try to cross solo. In fact I made a point of choosing someone who was likely to succeed and then target one of the faster chaps as they crossed en masse, hoping to increase the statistical probability of catching them. In hindsight, the game was probably a good preparation for the frequent encounters my schoolmates would have with the security forces during the school boycott years. I think the game got it's name from the call "Rover come over" which was used to invite players to try to get across the field.

There are some games, however, which had names for which I have no explanation. Piegits (or Piggy Liggy), Nickies (which was also called Kimberley Jim in some parts and Kirri Bekka in Johannesburg). There were also some songs, which in hindsight could be construed as cruel, bordering on abusive.

My sister's getting married, married, married

My sister's getting married, disma disma day.

Oh may we come to your wedding, weding, wedding

Oh may we come to your wedding disma disma day.

No sis you are too dirty, dirty, dirty

disma disma day

It is quite interesting how the theme of exclusion from weddings and using it as a basis for establishing social standing are explored at quite a young age (regular readers may recall a reference to this in a previous article "the great indian wedding part I"

Other songs have lyrics which are a bit more cryptic with regards to their origin, and any feedback would be appreciated.

Ing Ging Goga

I Figgi Nogga

I Figgi Anything

Ing Ging Goga

My question is, what exactly does the act of "Figgi-ing" entail? Also, it seems as if "Nogga" is used as a noun, but if not, does it serve to describe the act?

"i recorded it inna Gyal(axy)"

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 08:46:00 +0000

Umesh was a pioneer, ahead of his time. I'd never heard about house music till he let me listen to a recording on his tinny speakers. My brain was not ready for it yet, and the repetitive four-on-the floor beat overlaid with camp vocals remained as mysterious to me as the recipe for Apa's Chana Magaj. While he was trying to explain the difference between Acid House and disco, my classmates brought in mix tapes they had made by leaving a casette recorder running in a club and spent study sessions carefully drawing playboy bunnies on their canvas bags and arguing about the exact size of DJ superfly's fingers. The quality of the recordings was far from adequate, but they were happy as long as they could hear the bass, to "klop it", while the DJ could be heard (vaguely) trying to get his voice heard over the music:

"mumble mumble mumble TONIGHT!

mumble, Jerome your mother's in the foyer

mumble TONIGHT!"

I do not understand to this day why DJ's at the time insisted on trying to sing along, telling us to "Jack your body", or "tay tay tay tay take or leave us". Vocalists get paid rather well to do what they do. Leave it to them.

The arrival of the CD meant that the quality of sound improved dramatically, but actually owning a CD player was beyond the reach of most of the kids at school. Having a recording from a CD was something cool, whilst actually owning a CD elevated your status to something approaching minor deity. One of the first CD's I heard was by Chris Rea (on the beach) at my friend Yogi's house. His brother had quite a collection which included Michael Franks, whom I've never heard from since and Sade whom I thought was gorgeous. Some of the posh girls still listened to Wham!, although I still can't understand how we never figured out that George Michael was gay even after we saw him dance.

Choice of hairstyle was dictated by the musicians at the time- the mullet was king, but the curly perm with the obligatory wet-look came a close second. Girls often opted for the androgynous quiff favoured by the new romantics like Duran Duran or the untamed mousse-mane with the hat-behind-the-fringe look to go with the plastic Madonna bangles. Party-wear was clashing colours, tights with bubble skirts for girls or pastel Miami Vice suits with sleeves at half-mast for boys.

Ah yes, the eighties. So glad to have been there, so glad they're gone.

Blinde Spy

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 08:39:00 +0000

Our childhood games of hide-and-seek were more than just a bit of fun. There were strict rules of engagement. Anyone who did not play according to the rules was shunned. Even worse, they could be left counting while the remaining players secretly vacated the playing area.

The seeker had to count out loud, and then confirm that the other players were ready, by calling out:

"hier kom ek" (I'm coming)

If the players looking for a good spot had not done so in the alotted time, there was some leniency to take into account the level of literacy and numeracy of the seeker, as this would of course impact on the speed and accuracy of the countdown and indeed in the abillity of the remaining players to understand what he was saying. They could appeal for extra time, calling out:

"Notty" (pronounced "naughty" and implying that they were NOT ready)

Once they were suitably hidden, or a mutually agreeable time had passed, they could say:

"Kom maar" (oh well, alright, you can come)

I believe one of the more innovative rules, which I believe is peculiar to Cape Town, is the Blinde Spy amendment. It was designed to ensure accuracy of identification on the part of the seeker, and meant that well-camouflaged or well-hidden players had the benefit of doubt. If the seeker believed that he had found a player, he had to identify them by name, and if his guess was incorrect, the player could invoke the "Blinde Spy" (translated blind spy) rule, appealing against his capture and therefore resulting in a new game due to a vote of no confidence.

I have written before about the way childhood games form a template for social interaction in adult life. I wonder if the Blinde Spy amendment is a model which could possibly have been put to good use in the Middle East conflict with regards to the American Millitary Intelligence (? a perfect example of an oxymoron) reports on missile bases and chemical factories in Iraq. An example follows:

A: julle het missiles (you have missiles)

B: nee ons hettie (no we don't)

A: ja julle het (yes, you do)

B: Wela, blinde spy! Ons speel weer, en ons kry Kuwait! (blinde spy, new game and we get Kuwait!)

On the transmission of memes in the Greater RGC

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Thu, 29 May 2008 14:50:00 +0000

"Memes" are defined as a units of cultural information that can be transmitted from one mind to another. The term was coined by Richard Dawkings in 1976. Examples would be tunes, catch-phrases or styles of clothes. Some meme theorists use evolutionary theory to describe the way memes propogate themselves, much as a virus would. Certain memes would spread more efficiently and therefore survive, whilst others would die out.

I would like to focus, if I may, on the transmission of certain memes in a well-defined area, that is the greater RGC (Rylands Gatesville Cravenby).

In the late 1980's, a fast-food shop in Rylands used the words "Great Gatsby" to refer to a sandwich made up of a french loaf filled with potato chips and deep-fried cold meats, seasoned and covered in sauce. It is unclear how the name of a literary character came to be used to for a food item, but due to the popularity of the product, the name stuck. It was interesting that it was not just a new word which was born, but a completely new meaning for an old term. Gatsby lovers would have their favourite stockists depending on their particular preferences. Super fisheries in Athlone added mango atchar (pickle) to their formula, whilst the Golden Dish in Gatesville produced the UberGatsby, the mother of all Gatsby's, with a combination of sauteed beef steak and eggs in addition to the standard chips and sauce. The price and size of one Gatsby meant that it would usually be shared amongst 2-3 individuals. The liquid accompaniment to this hearty but dietetically unsound meal was usually an ice cold coke, but some Gatsby purists would argue that this was too harsh, and that a fruit juice and dairy cocktail called Fiesta (pronounced "Fees Ta" by the locals) was the only way to compliment the dish. It is important to note that advertising was limited to the shop-window at that time, so most clients came in based on the recommendation of others, conditions perfect for viral advertising, and the transmission of memes.

It is worth noting that, even within a seemingly homogeneous group, sub-groups exist within which certain memes are dominant. Rylands and Cravenby are separated geographically by a very small distance, and famiilies living in the two areas may seem to share common ancestry, and therefore one would assume that there should be very few cultural differences. This is not the case. Take clothing for example. The average male Cravenby-dweller of the late eighties and early nineties could often be seen in a pair of formal trousers, dress shoes and a long-sleeved shirt, (frequently very vividly coloured, sometimes paisley) while Rylanders were more comfortable in casual attire. English was more commonly spoken by Rylanders while Cravenby-dwellers spoke Afrikaans or spoke English more commonly (ahem) One needs to question why this apparent isolation of meme pools existed. I believe that the fact that Cravenby exists North of the Boerewors curtain has led to meme contamination by the population of Parow and Belville. Indians in Rylands believed that their cousins in Cravenby were a backward lot who dared to continue to grind their spices by hand and cooked tough cornish hens for their gatherings. Their counterparts in Cravenby probably thought the Rylanders were too damned liberal, had the gall to pay others to work in their shops and were to blame for everything subversive from "the boycotts" to PAGAD.

Affirmative repetition

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Thu, 29 May 2008 14:48:00 +0000

It could be argued that gossip (or "skinder") has some positive aspects with regards to social interaction. After all, some relationships are based chiefly on the frequency of gossip-exchange encounters and the perceived quality and authenticity of the stories involved. I believe that there is a heirarchy of gossip-mongers (or "skinder-bekke") which has developed over years as the art has been perfected by individuals, and as the art as a whole has evolved.

The markers of good skinder are
a) level of familiarity with the person involved

b) perceived authenticity, ie can it be corroborated by more than one skinderbek

c) the degree of perceived immorality of the act which the story purportedly describes. Note that inter-region as well as inter-individual variation with regards to the idea of morality means that really good skinder needs to be skillfully and meticulously targeted. Telling a 22 year old university student in Rondebosch that her best friend is a lesbian might be a good story, but telling her aunt in Cravenby that she goes out with her non- Indian, non-muslim friend during Ramadan and doesn't wear a scarf borders on creative genius.

d) audience participation is important as it validates the story at the time of presentation, but also increases the chance of it being is passed on, (see b above)

Affirmative repetition, a common linguistic practice on the Cape Flats, can therefore be seen as an extremely powerful tool. This is probably easier demonstrated by means of a dialogue.

Skinderbek A: Sy gaan mos uit in die Pwasa (she goes out in Ramadan)

Skinderbek B: Pwasa, ja (Ramadan, yes)

Skinderbek A: Maar weet Bhabi, sonder 'n doek ( but you know sister-in-law, without a scarf)

Skinderbek B: 'n doek, err ( a scarf. yes)

Skinderbek A: is 'n skander, ne (scandalous, isn't it)

Skinderbek B: 'n skander, is waar weet Bhabi (scandalous, it's true sister-in law)

Smuggling Bombil and the Art of Pusch-in

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Thu, 29 May 2008 14:47:00 +0000

It seems quite sensible to the rational man that an airplane has a finite carrying capacity, and excess weight is not a good idea, in a Newtonian sense at least. Perhaps it is because our forefathers travelled for months by steamship that a tradition of overpacking has been maintained over decades, despite progress in baggage materials and the shelf-life of food. Seasoned white travellers with their ultra-lite Samsonite are scoffed at, we prefer the family pethi, the trunk still marked with the signs of that first journey on the Truro, kept at the end of the bed ready for the next grand trek. The smell of Bombil (dried fish, known as Bombay duck in English) fills the air when it is opened, as much an insect-repellant as it is a deterrant to any customs officer who would dare open it for inspection. "Aaah", cries the matriarch with a pang of nostalgia, her turmeric-stained hands clasped to her bosom. "The smell of the motherland"

The art of Pusch-in is passed down through the generations, and is characterised by the systematic disregard for the basical principle that no two objects may occupy the same space at the same time, with specific reference to luggage. Relatives, aware of an impending journey, traditionally try to get the most impractical object to challenge the Puscher, and points are given for not only the number of extra objects, but also their size and the potential for incurring a fine or establishing alien vegetation at the country of destination. Failure to include an object is seen as a personal insult to the party bearing the gift, resulting in an honour-deficit which may take years to resolve. Teams of specialist Puschers have been established, and may be seen packing with fervour accompanied by the call of "Pusch-in, Pusch-in", and hence the name.

The Great Indian Wedding part two, deconstructing the wedding speech

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Thu, 29 May 2008 14:44:00 +0000

Let me start by saying that I don't think I would be as comfortable or confident at doing a wedding speech as the more established MC's (who, it may be argued have a stranglehold on the vocation). I will therefore not be too critical about the actual delivery, but choose to focus on the content of the speech at an Indian wedding in Cape Town. Note that I refer to the speech in the singular, because I do believe that there is just one speech, having been passed down the generations with only the occasional variation. (Regular subscribers may remember the concept of memes)
Some of the recurring themes and stock-phrases below may illustrate my point.
"the universal greeting..."
"respected elders, brothers and sisters, beloved children..."
"it gives me great pleasure.."
"without further ado... (frequently erroneously "further adieu")

The introduction usually paves the way for the guest speaker, whose arrival at the podium is usually heralded by the sound of scarves being repositioned from the neutral position (ie on the neck) to the position of humility (ie on the head) executed by women in the audience with military precision. ("No, Chand-bibi, you have to wear a scarf, even if it's in your neck!")

The main purpose of the main speaker seems to be to inspire feelings of guilt and cultural inadequacy: women and men are constantly reminded of their roles in society and how they are failing to fulfill them. Women especially are targetted for not being better wives, and husbands for "not teaching and looking after your womenfolk". The topic of divorce is a common thread in the wedding speech, as is filial obligation. Bollywood movies are increasingly used as a template for emotional blackmail, used to justify actions and attitudes between the married families (ref to the great indian wedding part one). The movie Baghban, for example, has been cited as "something every family should see!" by MC's at recent weddings, which usually inspires mutterings of "it happened to Amitabh, it can happen to us" from the members of the audience. (Let me just digress for a moment to say that Baghban is crap, an awful movie with dismal acting, and no purpose other than to rake in the rupees of prospective mothers-in-law who, after watching it, will develop an unhealthy fear of their future daughter-in-law..) A healthy dose of hellfire and brimstone are added to the mix, and served as an appetiser before the main meal

The Great Indian Wedding part one

noreply@blogger.com (Parasputin) — Thu, 29 May 2008 14:42:00 +0000

What the west fails to understand is that an Indian wedding is not so much a union of souls as it is a clash of wills. Anyone who has been through an Indian wedding will realise that it is not the couple that gets married but the respective families which marries you. As such, it is not your day, but your parents'.

The idea of social standing is not unique to the Indian culture but it could be said that no other culture defends it as vigorously. One needs to save face, and the concept of a small informal function to save money and ensure intimacy is completely alien to the average asian family. The armbands worn by some Christians with the reminder "What would Jesus do?" or "WWJD" could probably be replaced by an 18 Carat gold bangle with the inscription "What will the people say?" on the arm of someone from an asian background.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that our funeral services are really modest affairs, but a family wedding is the one occasion when we can show the rest of the community what we have and what we are prepared to spend. It is thought that "Bling" is of Afro-Caribbean origin. Having been to many asian weddings, I'd like to challenge that. Western couples spend money on rings, and traditionally the value of an engagement ring should be approximately that of the groom's monthly salary. Indian families in Cape Town need to buy similar rings, but also need to fork out the cash for gold Indian jewellery and TWO outfits for the bride. The guest lists are enormous, often greater than 1000. Those who are not invited, will be offended. We do not have the drunken brawl, but what we do have is the family feud you take to your grave.

Recently, catering for the wedding reception has been taken care of by prfessional companies, with elegant tableware and extensive menus. My childhood memories of weddings in Cape Town are of wooden tables covered in rolls of white paper, folding chairs and plastic bowls of steaming Akhni with a sideplate to serve the food. No posh fruit punch in crystal glasses then, but frosty 200ml bottles of Marshall's or Amla soft drinks. The pineapple flavour was always popular, but there were the die-hard iron brew fans. Every table had a bottle-opener. There were no waiters in ridiculous waistcoats then, just family members forming a human chain to serve all of the tables and respond to calls of "Chicha, bring nog aartappel!". Before the advent of the wet napkin (or more recently the lemon-scented linen napkin warmed in the microwave) we tore off strips of the white paper on the tables to clean our hands. Remember, no fancy silverware either so everyone (including the obligatory token white family) ate with their hands. We didn't have desserts, no fancy cakes or little heart-shaped ice-creams. A polystyrene cup filled with hot sweet tea which had been brewing for hours was usually available in the foyer, poured from yellow enamel kettles (probably the same ones used to wash guest's hands earlier). Any domestic efforts to replicate the flavour of the legendary "kargana tea" were bound to be met with failure.