My Journey

Hickory Dickory Dock, A Mouse Went In The Pot

2013-10-07T11:14:00.002+02:00

Funny how we are put into a certain group by the kind of food we eat. In fact, specific diets represent whole nations. If I say Pizza, everyone thinks Italian. If I say feta cheese, everyone thinks Greek. Sauerkraut – Germany, Christmas pudding – England and so on and so on.

Recently, I’ve been introduced to the idea of mice on the menu.

I always ask the kids at school if they did anything interesting over the weekend and I usually get the same answer “I play soccer” or “I wash my clothes” or “I go church”. One boy in grade 4, who is more confident than the rest of the class has surprised me by putting up his hand to tell me that he shoots birds with his catty when I popped the question.

A few Mondays later he caught my attention as he was giggling excitedly. I moved closer and he pointed to his friend seated next to him and said, “he eat puku”, meaning “he ate a mouse”. Luckily, prior to this, my new Zimbabwean friend had told me that eating mice and huge rats were common back home and that kids would often catch mice as a pass time which they cooked on a fire. She said the big rats were a meal for the whole family, some being the size of small pigs. If you went to bed without washing your hands after eating, you ran the risk of rats gnawing away at your fingers in your rural hut.

The sweet embarrassment of the boy in the class who was put on the spot had nothing to do with the fact that he had eaten a mouse but rather that he was now expected to speak English. I licked my lips exaggeratedly and said “really, did you make a fire to cook it?” which made everyone giggle and he nodded yes and grinned.

I’ve recently heard about people eating mice in Zambia. This particular woman boiled her mice in a pot and ate them whole, as in head, hair, guts and all. Eeuw. That’s a bit rough for me to want to try.

Marius, who I mentioned in my previous post, popped around on his way home the other day. His bush survival stories are enthralling so, wanting to impress him, I recounted the story of munching on boiled mice. He listened patiently as I hurried to the part about the hair still being on, then he slowly tapped his Gouloise on the cigarette box a few times, and said it reminded him of the time he won a Mercedes Benz at a festival in Namibia. His was jonk en jukkerig and at a fair with a girl who he had the hots for. A few beers later, she fluttered her eyelashes at him, offering him the promise of a good time if he took part in the competition to win a brand new Merc. The catch was, contestants had to swallow a mouse and keep it down for five minutes. The real catch was that the mouse was still alive. Contestants held their mouse which was dipped in syrup, by their tails and swallowed it without chewing.

Marius remembered being more worried about throwing up the beer which he had just spent good money on but the R20 ticket to take part in the competition, which was a lot of money in those days, was money well spent since a young girl waited excitedly on the sideline. Of the 16 contestants, a few were able to successfully swallow the live mouse smothered in syrup but no-one was able to keep them down for the full 5 minutes except for Marius. He resisted the urge to part with the contents of his stomach long enough to receive the keys to a brand new Merc. Only then, green at the gills from the strange sensation in his stomach, keys safely in hand, did he throw up.

He got the girl and the car of his dreams which in fact wasn’t the Merc but the old man’s Voxaul which he had his eye on for some time. He traded the Merc for the Voxaul, and with the fathers blessings walked away a very happy man.

HERITAGE DAY

2013-09-30T15:16:00.001+02:00

Last week I celebrated Heritage Day with a difference. Originally Heritage Day meant a day off from work for me to do chores, shopping or relaxing. Usually there was a braai involved, as many South Africans tend to naturally look for any excuse to make a fire and braai in the outdoors. Heritage Day evolved into National Braai Day for the nation as most city people of all colours, found themselves doing the same. A fire, a braai and a beer in your hand pretty much sums up most South Africans I think.

This year was different. Living in rural Transkei and involved in education, we were invited to Isolomzi SSS Heritage Day celebrations and for the first time, I experienced the true meaning of Heritage Day. The day was extra special because Rondebosch Boys High School had spent the week on an outreach programme, where their top Grade 12 students, led by the head of the maths department, who had initiated the programme, were giving maths tuition to Isolomzi Grade 12’s in preparation for their final exams. Our Qolora Education Centre works closely with Isolomzi SSS after identifying this poor, yet very exceptional school in our rural area.

Theo and I arrived at the school and we were ceremoniously waved in by a group of women dressed in traditional Xhosa outfits, ululating, singing and dancing. I felt special in my improvised version of a traditional Xhosa outfit and wore as many beads as I had. Trying to rustle up a kappie, a pair of veldskoen and a voorskoot to represent my mixed English and Afrikaans heritage would have been difficult but anyway, it was fun dressing in Xhosa culture instead. We brought food to represent our heritage and Theo’s wasgoedbondeltjies and sweetcorn fritters were placed in the centre of the group for everyone to see, while he was asked to explain the recipes. Everyone was intrigued by the fact that Theo had cooked it and not me, and they loved the concept of “washing bundles”. Some Xhosa traditional food was brought forward and explanations were done for us before we moved to an area where music played for people to dance and mingle. Later we were all seated and the festivities of traditional dancing and praise singing were performed by Isolomzi SSS students. Rondebosch Boys hauled out their guitars and a Jembe drum and wowed the crowd with a few songs of their own. A Xhosa woman took the floor and explained a little about their background and I was please to hear her announce that these days, Xhosa people were buying too much food as apposed to in the old days when they grew their own food and had fewer sicknesses. Gifts and thank you speeches were given and finally a group, lead by the headman showed us their customary dance performed when young initiates return from initiation rituals. The dance included singing, feet shuffling and a sort of hissing sound which the headman directed. I was captivated by the day’s entertainment and finally we all moved into a beautifully decorated tent where the food was laid out with name tags in English and isiXhosa. Everyone in the village had brought food to share and seeing Ubuntu work and being involved in it, was a fantastic experience. I had no idea that mielies could be cooked in so many different ways, nor did I realize that home made ginger beer is also a traditional Xhosa drink.

Spending Heritage Day around a braai is great, but sharing the day with people of different cultural backgrounds which make up our unique rainbow nation, making South Africa a special place, is the way to bring the country together. Embracing these different cultures and proudly showing the world our wonderful heritage is a positive step which each individual can do. By learning about your neighbours and having some insight into their background can only result in better relations I think.

2013-09-13T13:48:00.001+02:00

FINGER CLUCKING GOOD

2013-09-13T12:17:00.000+02:00

The fate of our eunuch rooster was finally decided. We’d been considering turning him into a Sunday lunch for some time, and Philen assured us that slaughtering a hen was old hat to him. Theo had previously been indecisive, claiming that he wasn’t prepared to do all the dirty work while I profess to be an animal lover yet am quite prepared to eat the meal so long as I don’t get my hands dirty. I have no qualms about keeping animals for meat so long as they are respected and cared for during their time on earth. In fact I support eating chickens that roam the yard as apposed to those kept in a cage no bigger than their body for the short duration of their life. Clearly Theo was not listening as usual or perhaps he needed time to figure out how to catch the rooster.

So Philen’s visit brought the dispute to an end and our longing for some delicious tasting Xhosa chicken sealed the deal.

The eunuch rooster, who, I’ll now refer to as “Curry” surveyed us with one beady eye but he seemed much more aware of the red rooster, who I’ll call Cocky Locky for now. Cocky Locky came sprinting across the yard to chase Curry away from little Henny Penny who pecked daintily at some mielies. Her alluring tail fluff had long been the cause of Cocky Locky and Curry’s conflict. Curry, even though he was 3 times the size of Cocky Locky, was very wary of his adversary and clearly had no balls, pardon the pun.

Theo and Philen plotted their attack by arming themselves with weapons of mass destruction. I grabbed the camera. Curry was way too clever for the boy’s initial attempt to lure him with their Hansel and Gretel mielie trail so they tried a more direct approach. Philen stalked Curry with his rope lasso and a towel at the ready which he planned to through over the rooster, confuse him and then pounce.

Theo in the meantime had positioned himself behind my dangly door thingie with his bow and arrow drawn and ready. The hunt was on. (I’ll elaborate on Theo’s home made bow and arrow at a later time). I stood between Curry’s retreat pathway with my camera poised while inconspicuously trying to heard Cocky Locky and Henny Penny out of Theo’s target range in case of a stray arrow. Curry sensed there was fowl play at hand.

After a half an hour we eventually gave up to regroup and re-evaluate our situation. We were hungry and tired of being out manoeuvred by a sharp-eyed chicken. Luckily, just then, a friend phoned and invited us to join him for a chicken potjie and a bottle of whiskey. We welcomed the drinks so the three of us squeezed onto the XT and headed down the road to Marius’s house. I haven’t mentioned him before, although he is an unusual character; an ex rekkie who has been hiding out from the SWAPO team since he left South West Africa in a big hurry a number of years ago and has been hiding in the hills here in Transkei ever since. His extraordinary life story, washed down with a couple of whiskeys, always captivates his audience and on this day, he recounted his Rekkie training days. By the time we left, we were all revved up and rearing to go. We raced home the 3 km’s on the bike, and jumped into action within seconds of arriving home. Theo and Philen marched over, had the rooster down, slit its throat and minutes later I was plucking it.

By the time the adrenalin and whiskey wore off, the bird was ready for the pot and looked just like the chickens you buy from the supermarket all cleaned up and ready to eat. Well almost, the feet, still attached and quite a delicacy here, was the only visible tell tale sign that it wasn’t a watered down, hormone injected, bland tasting excuse for meat.

The bird weighed 3 kg’s and was more than enough for 2 cookings. Philen made a delicious curry, feet, giblets and all which simmered a few hours that day and Theo made another yummy curry the next day with the other half.

I still have a bag of feathers to stuff a pillow or do something useful with. In fact ive just thought of a damn good idea – we can stick them on owl masks next project day at the centre.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND - PHILEN NAIDU AUTHOR OF MY LIFE MY AFRICA

2013-09-02T17:38:00.000+02:00

Yesterday we got a face book message which made me squeal with delight. Philen Naidu, author of My Life My Africa asked if he could visit us for 3 weeks and of course we jumped at the offer. Having someone here to talk to, share ideas with and take some pressure off our workload would be wonderful but imagine that someone being a traveller who spent 5 years on foot travelling to Zambia while experiencing life on grass roots level with the locals and then writing a book about his life experience. It just sounded too good to be true.

I haven’t actually read Philen’s book even though I knew of him, so the anticipation was all the more exciting. The day arrived and he got off the third bus from Jozie, tired from 36 hours of travel but we greeted him with a cold beer and a big grin. I expected someone taller and of a bigger frame but then again I also expected he’d have a funny Indian accent and bring a bag of chillies tucked under a sarong. He did bring some spices but he was more blown over to find Theo’s kitchen fully stocked with Tamarind, smoked chillies and every spice necessary to sustain his love of cooking.

I’d spent the morning wondering whether our first encounter would be a braai in the shade of my new granny panties, (the ones I spoke about in an earlier blog) which flapped on the washing line like a big cerise tarpaulin. He arrived on Theo’s birthday so naturally a braai was a given. I soon realised that we’d be eating chillies with every meal, which was up Theo’s alley but I puckered up for a steady 3 weeks of anticipated ringsting. We spent the first night sloshing down a few beers and excitedly figured out that we were on the same page about life, the universe and things that make us tick. Three weeks are not going to be enough time to discuss our passions and interests since the topic of food from different cultures requires a whole chapter of its own. His zest for life is like a fresh breeze blown in from the north and revitalized my soul, leaving a curry trail and old negative thoughts in its wake.

I working on ME again and I’m filled with joy and vigour. Damn it’s good to be alive.

IT’S BEEN A HARD DAYS WORK

2013-08-30T13:52:00.001+02:00

We were excited about an upcoming overnight trip to East London to meet a bunch of influential big shots with oodles of money. We packed an overnight bag and left the lullies for the big city. 10 km’s before reaching East London we got a flat tyre and realized that the puncture which Theo had repaired with craft Genkem glue the week before, didn’t hold. Oh well, improvisation has its moments. We phoned Gwyn, the guy who had arranged the meeting and who generously offered to put us up while we were in EL. He organized a bakkie to pick us up and sort us out. What a nice guy.

He didn’t blink an eye when we finally arrived at his plush upmarket office, lugging our helmets with visors which are taped on with pieces of duct tape, the bike’s topbox, a rucksack while my helmet hair stood at all angles and my right boot was coated in oil.

He gave us the exclusive use of his house which had a massive flat screen DSTV and a jacuzzi bathtub. He even paid for the punctured tyre repair. Unfortunately the clutch housing broke when the bike got strapped onto the back of the bakkie so the trip cost us more than we planned especially since we decided to put a new front tyre on since we were in EL which rarely happens.

The meeting went well and everyone seemed quite impressed with our story of the work we do here and we walked away with many leads and have already had a follow up offer of 50 dictionaries which we are thrilled about. The next day we visited ITEC Learning Centre and met management staff who run a well established resource training centre in East London.

They are mostly involved in community programmes which develop young learners up to grade R but they also run a community library. They have set up programmes from empowering mothers to nurture their babies, setting up mobile libraries for schools as well as train crèche teachers.

Children visit their wonderful library where they, assisted by Xhosa volunteers, offer story book reading sessions, craft sessions such as drawing and making their own books. Children go there to read books or have short sessions on the 2 computers with internet access. Their centre was such an inspiration and we left there with more ideas, leads and a sense of achievement knowing that we weren’t just floundering, grasping at straws but in fact we had really achieved quite a lot and were headed in the right direction. If we could get our centre anywhere close to resembling theirs, I’d be thrilled.

Seeing so many people, walking the busy streets, popping in at all the shops, eating different food and chilling on a couch watching TV was refreshing. Telling our story over and over to interested people during the few days we were in EL made us feel alive and gave us a new zest to continue with our work.

Back at Qolora we attacked our admin with the same fierce urgency which seemed to have become a routine over the past few months. We finally finished our website which had been excruciatingly frustrating and tiring work. We’d also networked with many people and even visited the Department of Education which proved to be just as fruitless as we expected but at least now we have introduced ourselves to them. They asked the same question many people here ask, which is “what can you do for us?” or “what have you brought us?”

It’s always give me give me. Isolomzi SSS on the other had have reached success by helping themselves and we cant but help falling over our feet trying to promote their school and assist them. They are trying to get their computer lab up and running and we have started training the teachers who want to be equipped to follow it through to their learners.

We’ve become special members of their School Governing Body (SGB) which is quite an honor but more importantly, we have seen the principal be recognized by influential people who will continue helping him to reach his ever increasing new goals making education a success.

And that’s what makes another day in Africa, a day to smile about.

All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth

2013-08-09T14:34:00.000+02:00

So recently I needed to visit a dentist. The gums around my back molar started swelling to such an extent that it was affecting my intake of food, which led to a loss of appetite which led to the fantastic realization that I might loose a few kilos. That was the upside of dealing with a throbbing jaw. The downside was I couldn’t pop down to the local Medi Cross Centre and flick through a 5 year old copy of Fair Lady missing the back page with smells of novacane wafting around the waiting room before a man in a white coat could cause more pain and take all my money.

I had three options. One; an overnight trip to East London to see a dentist who would probably take ex-rays and charge exorbitant fees for his services. Two; a trip to Butterworth to a Chinese dentist who the locals here recommended but who I had reservations about since I didn’t know what to expect. Three; a visit to the local igqirha (medicine woman) who I was told by a village teacher treated toothache by dripping juice of a certain bush down a smoking twig into the problematic tooth cavity. I didn’t have a whole lot of money for option 1 or an actual hole in my tooth to be filled the African homeotherapy style remedy so I settled on option 2.

The bike trip to Butterworth took my mind off my throbbing jaw and in fact my whole body shuddered so much I thought the trip might be fruitless as I feared the molar, which had slightly loosened over the past few days, would fall out of its own accord by the time we arrived. The combination of our old 550 XT Thumper which has seen better days and the gravel road to Centane which is deteriorating badly makes for a horribly bumpy ride. I can’t make the full 15 km’s without having to stop a couple of times and get off the now seemingly shockless bouncing back tire, stretch my aching semi metal knee, wipe the oil which leaks from the engine onto my shoe causing my foot to continually slide off the footpeg and finally realign my bifocal glasses and wedge them back into my helmet at the correct angle so that when I arrive at my destination I don’t have a headache from vision which alternates between near and far sightedness at the speed of the bikes piston, causing me to be more squint than usual.

From Centane to Butterworth the 17 km's of tar is smoother but by then the damage was done to my body so I sat on the back and tried not to think about the dentist visit which I dreaded. I focused on keeping my lower jaw stretched as far away from my top jaw as possible to give my teeth a rest from the hour of clamping they had been through which is a good way to prevent your tongue being bitten when your body vibrates at that speed but the enamel coating on my teeth is wearing thin. I also had to focus on not actually opening my mouth while doing this as I didn’t want to scare the dentist by presenting him with squashed bugs all over my pearlys.

We arrived at the Chinese dentist and I took a seat in the sparsely furnished waiting room with a dozen or so other patients while Theo went shopping. The friendly Xhosa women all chatted away around me and after 4 hours, I’d picked up the rhythm of how things worked at this dentist surgery. By then I’d poked my head into the room next door since there wasn’t a receptionist, where the friendly Dr Chang and his Chinese assistant, who was probably his wife, asked about the tooth and after a quick exchange of hand signs, their limited English and me trying to talk with my mouth open for him to see my swollen gum from the doorway, I returned to the waiting room for the long haul.

An old Xhosa man directed people from the surgery room to the bathroom at the back of the building where you rinsed your mouth but generally people seemed to know where to go. The patients seemed to be business people and chatted away except those who came out of the surgery room. They sat clutching tissues against their lower faces, waiting for the injection to kick in while the dentist peered into the next patient’s mouth in his surgery. My turn eventually arrived and the dentist told me that it was too late to save the tooth and that after pulling it, the huge abscess would drain by itself. I settled back in the waiting room for about 10 minutes after a quick trip to the back bathroom to rinse my mouth and squeezed past the generator for a quick pee. Just as the drool was about to run down my chin, escaping the provided tissue, I was called back in to have the job finished. The dentist had a lovely jaw side manner and put my mind at rest before the extraction which wasn’t half as bad as I’d expected. I’d once nearly punched a dentist who hurt me. It was an instinctive action as my clenched hand automatically shot out when he carelessly groped around in my mouth with his sharp tools. He was not a nice dentist at all. This guy was totally different and in fact afterwards we even tried chatting although it was really difficult since by then, we not only had a language barrier but my limp mouth made it impossible for me to articulate coherently. I paid my R100 and left, relieved and with a lopsided grin.

The trip going back wasn’t so bad as my body seemed to be more relaxed, from the adrenaline surge probably or maybe because I rode half the way with my leg stuck out straight but we still stopped just as many times for me to spit mouthfuls of blood out and to replace the surgical wad which I was biting down on with a fresh one tucked away in pocket which the dentist's wife had sent me home with.

That’s a dentist I don’t mind going back to but if I do get a cavity and the Igqirha is off duty, I’ll try a recently recommended option by a woman who said her parents treated their farm labourer's tooth aches by sticking a hair dryer nozzle into their mouth to dry it, followed by a blob of quick set Pratley putty pressed into the hole.

Hopefully I won’t need to look for my hair dryer stuck in a cupboard in the truck any time soon. My appetite is also back so the 2 kg's I thought I'd lost have found their way back to my middle again. Oh well.

Another Year Of Eunuch Life In Transkei

2013-07-24T14:16:00.000+02:00

I find it hard to believe that we have been living here in Qolora for a year already. What have I learnt during that time you might ask? Well something interesting is that many roosters get castrated. It’s a special skill, practised by a couple of trained grandmothers or old men who know which part of the internal bits to remove. They turn the bird over, deftly slice under the ribs, pop out the goonies and slice off the unwanted bits. Where I come from, people take their poor cats and dogs to the vet where they leave their testicles and their dignity behind and return home docile and less likely to roam the neighbourhood. Loosing your manliness would take the wind out of your bag I guess. Anyway here in Qolora, all the dogs are brown, scrawny, hungry and from the same stock. Having more than one cock on your property is more of an issue though as they will fight each other to the death to put claim to their roost of hens. Turns out our hen, the one who doesn't lay eggs, but occasionally squawks a pathetic sort of crow and doesn't partake in any recreational fowl play around the yard other than an occasional dash, isn't who we thought she was. After she grew tail feathers, I asked a Xhosa woman who probably thought I was as thick as a plank for not knowing the basic facts of life, to identify our unique fowl. Turns out our eunuch chicken has been under the knife which explains his behaviour and why he’s getting so fat. He is meant for the pot but Theo doesn't seem to be making a move to slaughter it as he’s too busy figuring out what to do with only one egg per day. Meanwhile the eunuch rooster doesn't know where it fits in, the functional rooster is getting cockier every day and the hen is getting laid more often than she is laying eggs.

Besides learning about the schematics of our chickens, I've also learnt that facebook is addictive. I was probably one of the last people to succumb to its web of exploit. Now, every time someone has an epiphany or comes across a quote proclaiming peace and happiness it seems I'm also informed along with the rest of the world. I've joined an Anti Animal Cruelty group and I'm horrified at my response of being reminded daily that I belong to the same human race as those repulsive people who abuse animals, yet I do nothing about it. I've become bored with the window into other peoples lives but I still find myself scrolling down daily looking for something but goodness knows what it could be.

Naturally, the two most important things I've learnt while here in Transkei is the Xhosa culture (which is an ongoing quest) and the Transkei education system, the first being intriguing and the second being shocking. Here, the Xhosa style of cooking is not very imaginative and copious amounts of oil and Aromat are the only flavourants used. All cuts of meat are chopped into hunks and boiled in their own juice or braaied. Xhosa people share their food readily and when feeding visitors, the correct etiquette is to fill your guest’s cup and plate to the brim. People always carry left overs home. Xhosa women enjoy their tea or coffee very hot and use a tablespoon to sip from their cup. Umfino is a bitter leafy wild vegetable boiled with pap and oil. Vegetables can be chopped into minuscule pieces without using a chopping board or a mixer. Much less preservatives or additives are eaten in the Xhosa diet so people don’t suffer as much from cancer and other modern diseases.

I've learnt that getting my tongue to click at different angles in my mouth at the same time as pronouncing a bunch of syllables is difficult. I've learnt that Xhosa people are in no hurry to get anywhere and they love singing while doing chores, walking, visiting, partying or any occasion. Gospel tunes are favoured. Night time singing while walking home through the hills makes one feel braver in the dark. Ululating and repeatedly flicking out your hand towards someone is a show of appreciation and handshakes are a three part ritual which has nothing to do with rappers. The colour of the beautiful, beaded, traditional outfits of wraps, skirts, aprons and headgear worn by older women often vary from area to area. A new bride’s patience is tested as she is expected to serve her inlaws hand and foot for the first few weeks of her marriage. A man with a foreskin is still a boy. A medicine person treats patients without asking them to describe their ailments as opposed to a regular doctor who does, thereby exposing their incompetence for having to extract the ailment from the patient. A medicine person also treats cases of bad luck and psychological ailments.

Xhosa superstitions are different to western superstitions. Black cats, ladders, Friday the 13^th, 7 years of bad luck from broken mirrors, salt over your shoulder, lucky charms which keep one safe or help you rugby team win and number 3, 7, 13 or 666 are not considered. Sitting on your front step blocking your front door is considered unlucky because you are preventing a family member from returning from whatever place they have travelled to for a length of time. Dangling a needle over your pregnant friend’s stomach to find out if she’s carrying a boy or a girl isn’t practised but if you have twins it used to be recommended to plant a Euphorbia (Naboom) which is a hardy plant and as long as the plant grows strongly, so will the children be healthy.

I’ve learnt that funerals are a very big part of Xhosa life and that if a young man disrespects his tradition by not attending, (which also leaves less men to dig the hole) he can be fined as much as R500 by the elders. I’ve learnt that important family decisions are made based on people’s dreams and that even ancestors can get very jealous of each other. I’ve learnt that killing a cow sorts out a lot of issues.

The most important aspect of Xhosa culture is the traditional belief in ancestors. This is changing and unfortunately as younger people are drawn to a more modern lifestyle in cities, so their customs are being forgotten.

And then there’s the education system. Where to start. Well, the whole system sucks. Teachers, themselves struggling with the English language, ineffectively teaching in schools without sufficient desks, chairs, books, working toilets, jammed into overcrowded classrooms, regular absenteeism and led by principals without any management training is the norm. I’m learning to go with the flow but seeing the system fail the learners on a daily basis is frustrating.

I think the most important thing I’m learning is that the way I view my world determines my place in it. I’m here in Transkei to observe not to judge.

Rondebosch Twinning

2013-07-02T13:36:00.001+02:00

A crisp morning breeze whipped around my face as I waved my goodbyes to the last of the Isolomzi students as they headed home. The workshop had come to an end and the 14 Isolomzi students were left with memories and experiences never to be forgotten. I felt privileged to be a part of it.

It all started a while back when Theo and I visited Isolomzi High and found a competent principal at the helm of his exceptional school and things just snowballed from there. Word reached Rondebosch Boys High in Cape Town via Jock and the following Easter holidays Rowan, the Maths guru from Rondebosch High and Marion, his better half, offered to visit our centre and get a feel for the challenges faced by schools out here in Transkei. They brought hundreds of text books and maths papers with to distribute to students who visit our centre. There are 2 high schools in the Qolora area fed by about 15 junior schools. Tyali High is a typical overcrowded high school and learners struggle to get a proper education whereas the charismatic principal of Isolomzi High saw the opportunity and after Rowan and Marion visited his school, ties between Isolomzi and Rondebosch High were established.

A one week workshop was planned by a Rondebosch team for the June holidays and everyone was pretty excited about things to come. Jock and 4 teachers drove 8 Rondebosch city boys all the way up from Cape Town to meet 14 selected students from rural Isolomzi High. Jock opened his house and his heart and the Cape Town crowd settled into his holiday cottage while the Isolomzi students moved into 2 accommodation rondavels here at our centre.

The Rondebosch boys were soon to learn how privileged they were to have access to a good education on their doorstep, running water, money and a functional home. The Isolomzi students were given a window into the lives of white city boys and learnt about cultures in a rural village.

Monday kicked off with a meet and greet and students from both schools had their first opportunity to get to learn a little bit about each other. Everyone seemed relaxed and short before long they were kicking a ball around outside and things just flowed from there.

Our days were filled with activities, tour guided outings and free time for the students to relax. The Rondebosch boys were jovial and entertained us with their light hearted banter while the Isolomzi students were more academically orientated and grabbed every opportunity to learn as much as they could. They were thrilled to all get email and facebook accounts and hopefully they will stay in touch with each other.

Ross, the aspiring Rondebosh Boys High chef, prepared most meals for us, except the samp and beans (umngqusho) which the city boys found a bit too unpalatable for their taste buds. On the other hand, the Isolomzi students were not accustomed to western style of cooking and not everyone enjoyed Ross’s delicious garlic mussels, broccoli and cheese sauce and even green beans were too exotic for most of them.

We went on 2 informative guided tours, one to the home of an igqirha (medicine woman) and the second one was a short hike and a boat trip to the Gates, a picturesque geological fissure through which the Qolora river runs. We were told about Xhosa history and interesting information about traditional uses of plant life. The igqirha showed us how to pound mielies, winnow them into different sizes for different dishes and some of us brave ones tasted a white frothy concoction which she pounded from tree roots and which keeps evil spirits away. Bjorn was the only one brave enough to get elbow deep in fresh sloppy cow dung and smear it over the floor, a tradition still practiced once a week in many homes here. Johan, the photographer, captured all the memorable moments on his camera, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he blackmailed the boys for their hilarious attempts at singing, making animal noises and beat boxing during the talent show. Johan is also a professional swimmer and gave the Isolomzi boys a swimming lesson in the lagoon. Both Jordan and Eddie’s loud mouths kept the party alive at all times.

Isolomzi beat Rondebosch at every single competition from the debate, topic being fracking, to the beautiful gospel singing at the talent show. Eddie was beaten by Anathi at chess and Isolomzi even beat Rondebosch on the sports field in a relaxed game of soccer and a casual game of touch rugby.

Tinei, from the Isolomzi group, showed leadership qualities and directed a short movie about the life of a rural girl. I would love to see it completed, edited and posted on Youtube.

Theo entertained us with a fantastic fire poi show and I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t burst into flames as it was his first time ever.

The maths teachers gave a workshop at our centre and the place was packed with additional Isolomzi students who arrived for the lessons, all dressed smartly in their school uniforms.

Two of the maths teachers organized a session for the girls to create dream posters where we had fun cutting and sticking magazine clippings which we found inspiring.

We ended the week with a lovely 3 course dinner for everyone at Trennery’s Hotel on Friday night after spending the day at Isolomzi High school for a special function. Representatives of the Department of Education were invited to the school function as well as a large group of influential guests, all connected to Rondebosch Boys High who coincidentally happened to be staying at Trennerys hotel on holiday and were keen to attend. The Xhosa culture at the school function was evident in the beautiful singing and as always, I swallowed a lump in my throat as the room swelled with the melodies of praise singing. The students captivated the audience with a few skits. The theme was anti drugs and the importance of education and even though the message was serious, they managed to humour the crowd and had us in stitches. Of course there was traditional dancing by the boys who kept the beat with a guitar, drums and a kuduzela. The girls received supportive ululating as they stomped around in time to the makeshift drum and all looked stunning dressed as mamas in their beautiful traditional outfits and painted faces.

Pride swelled from Mr Butshingi and for the first time I saw the man almost, but not quite (I don’t think that’s possible), lost for words. Years of hard work, alienation from surrounding schools, opposition from parents and elders, personal attacks on his character, lack of support from previous teachers, union interference, having to educate students from junior secondary schools who fail to come close to preparing students for high school, poverty, faction fighting and lack of resources are all issues which he has faced at his school. His hard work paid off and for a day he felt like a prince as everyone congratulated him on his success. Later that night at the Trennery’s dinner, I heard promises of further support from the other Rondebosch guests and the possibility of twinning Rondebosch Prep with other schools in the area was even mentioned.

The workshop was a great success towards building further relations and plans are already under way for September holidays when teachers will return to assist with winter school at Isolomzi.

The students of Isolomzi High have to work 3 times as hard as other students to achieve their outstanding results and their dedication and efforts have been acknowledged and the rewards will follow. The pride I felt for these students and their wonderful school makes me feel blessed. How lucky am I to have been involved.

The igqirha (medicine woman) performing a ritual on me to prevent evil spirits from entering my body

Bjorn getting down and dirty

A day of maths at the centre (note the Isolomzi students neatness)

The boat trip

Theo doing fire poi

The Rondebosh Boys team

Interaction at the centre

Johan giving swimming lessons in the lagoon

Isolomzi girls fashion shoot

students and a ball - what more can I say

The whole team - with Jock a happy man in the front

The buzzing of the bees, the paper trees and the big rock candy mountain

2013-06-14T15:41:00.001+02:00

Yesterday, after school, we were heading back to our recently revamped rustic rondavel when our taxi hit a swarm of bees that were on the move. We weren't going very fast, what with the bumps and stones and potholes and all, so a whole bunch of bees buzzed in at Theo’s window, past me in the middle and out at the drivers side. The taxi came to a screeching halt and Theo and the driver jumped out waving their hands around their heads. This encouraged a couple of bees to dive down Theo’s shirt, making him jump around even more vigorously until he eventually got stung. The incident led to a new fascinating discovery which I shall share.

It seems that bees have a special place in Xhosa culture. I bet you didn't know that if bees decide to enter your house and make a nest, you are not allowed to remove them, harm them or smoke them out. In fact, the visiting bees are actually your ancestors making a house call and the only way to make them leave, is to kill a cow.

I’m getting to know the Ngidi family through school since Mrs Ngidi is a teacher while her husband is our contracted taxi driver. He is one of the few people around here who farm their land and they are one of the more respectable wealthier families in the area. Their 2 sons have been to college and their daughter is in Grade 3 and has the most confident voice in the whole school. Mrs Ngidi is a Christian, as is her daughter, Viwe, but her husband is more old school Xhosa and follows traditional ways, as do their sons. Mr Ngidi talks to his ancestors at his kraal whenever a decision needs to be made but he is a bit sceptical about some of the powers of the amaqiga (sangoma). For instance, he doubts that a person can be made invisible so as to avoid being hit by bullets as was reported on the radio recently. Anyway, some time ago, some bees entered the Ngidi home and decided to make a nest in their couch right in the middle of the lounge. The couch was carried outside and a structure was erected above it to protect it from the rain. Two years later, Mr Ngidi, decided he wanted his couch back so the local elders were called in and of course a cow was slaughtered. The elders spoke to the bees, who listened, and after the conversation, the bees (their father’s father’s father) buzzed off and all was well. The ancestors were happy to see that a cow was slaughtered in their honour and left the family in peace.

Bees found in nature are regular bees and are not your reincarnated uncle. Some small boys bravely collect honey from natural bee hives by covering a arm and hand in a plastic bag and with a balaclava pulled over their head, they help themselves to chunks of honey comb. I like the fact that inadvertently, the bees are protected around here, but I just wish more farmers would plant vegetables and give the bees something more than wild cherry guava trees to pollinate.

my beaded shell window thingie

my decorative door thingie

my beaded curtain thingie

As to our recently revamped rustic rondavel, I've been in a bit of a creative mood lately and besides moving furniture around, I've created some dangly thingies to hang in front of the tiny window as well as another threaded bamboo thingie to hang in the doorway. It’s pretty to look at and I'm proud of my handy work although it hasn't kept my ancestors out of our mud hut. They have tracked me down here in Transkei and if slaughtering a whole herd of cattle will get rid of them, I’m game. You see, my ancestors have taken the form of mozzies and I suspect they are here to stay, whispering sweet nothing in my ear until I answer them or go dilly.

Granny panties

2013-05-28T18:32:00.000+02:00

So it finally happened. The day I’ve been dreading with great anxiety and the day which became a milestone turning point for me. I am mortified to admit that I now own 2 pairs of giant sized granny panties. In my defence, I must explain the reason how I came to own these gigantic knickers with cerise blossoms splashed all over them.

I recently went to Centane and did some shopping. Centane has the hustle and bustle of a “town” and I love shopping there even though there is not much variety. At the deli in Shoprite you can buy a piece of fried chicken, chicken feet, a quarter loaf of bread with a fried egg slapped on top, giblets and pap or red viennas. They cater for Xhosa taste buds so you won’t find things like croissants, lasagne or corn dogs. Back in Cape Town you have to dodge eager charity workers who shake their coin tins in front of shop entrances hoping you will part with your spare change for the blind, the needy, paraplegics or cancer patients. Here you have to dodge chickens, goats, mangy dogs, garbage and the wheelbarrow brigade who offer to carry your groceries to the nearest taxi.

You will find Pep Stores in every remote corner of South Africa clothing our nation, keeping skin moist with Dawn body cream, Black Like Me hair oils and underwear in large, XL and XXL sizes. These days their rival Chinese shops are also opening up in every corner of Africa selling every imaginable plastic item, shoes and clothing but they cater for midgets which are not the average size of most African women.

Anyway, there I was, scanning the underwear shelf and musing over how my taste in underwear seemed to have changed over the years. It seemed like only yesterday that G-strings and floss were quite comfortable to wear. Somewhere along the way, I gained a few kilos and I discovered wonderfully comfortable stretchy boy leg brooks work better at covering cellulite. The transition happened comfortably except I noticed Theo didn’t find my new Lycra skin colour briefs as enticing as the previous lace thongs.

The sound of Xhosa women babbling away around me brought me back to reality and I found myself staring at the more functional knickers. You know, the florally ones which come in packs of 3 which Woolworth s have been selling since the days when the castle in Cape Town was still a tent. Anyway, I grabbed a pack of what I thought was bikini size but instead it turned out to be full size. Very full size indeed as I discovered a few days later when I opened the packet and unrolled meters and meters of floral cerise printed cotton. I stepped into two gaping holes while the shocking pink flowers expanded across my arse and half way up my back where the cerise blossoms finally ended inches below my armpits.

I’ll need at least 6 pegs to hang my granny panties on the wash line for all the world to see. But do you wanna know a secret? They fit as snug as a bug in a rug.

ALL FOOLS DAY

2013-04-02T16:20:00.004+02:00

So tomorrow is April Fools day and it got me thinking about dates and calendars and months of the year and I’ve come to the conclusion that our present so called calendar is a bit of a joke. In fact, it’s so messed up that the whole idea of April Fools pranks originates from the mix up.

In the beginning God made day and night and soon after, man made the calendar since people needed a reminder when the next full moon rolled around so that everyone could plant their seeds.

Later, after societies were replaced by modern man who had learnt how to write on paper they decided to redraft the calendar using words instead of pictures, making it easier to carry a pocket diary. The first modern calendar was made by the Romans, who had an 8 day week, (the 8^th being market day). This was BC and since the Bible was not in circulation yet, they still based their calendar on the moon which they considered to be important for planting and named months after planets and when to plant, chop wood and make love.

Next came the Julian calendar and they shuffled a few days around and added a month, which they named after Julius Caesar himself. Then finally, came the current Gregorian calendar which we still use today. In between all this a few other calendars such as an Asian one also featured in other countries just to complicate issues and to create employment for people who worked out daylight saving time.

The current calendar used in many countries today, (not all mind you) came about in 1752. Imagine, there you were, happily making bottles of apricot jam and meebos to sell at the castle to the Dutchies who stopped off with the post every other month and bam, suddenly your calendar, neatly folded up and safely kept in the back of your Bible, was no longer valid. All the dates on your pickling bottles needed changing and never mind the confusion of when a person was supposed to celebrate King James VI birthday anymore. There must have been utter chaos with taxes and imagine the chaos that import export companies in the Cape harbour would have had to deal with. Imagine trying to keep track of dates of the Cape Pinotage leaving for kings on foreign shores. Its no wonder scurvy was such a problem since no one knew the right date of a barrel of oranges sent out to sea.

You see, not only did the calendar change from Julian to Gregorian, they changed the kick off date. All along the 1^st day of the year started on the 25 March and then suddenly from the next year, it started on 1^st of January.

Half a year was written off by some countries, and tough if you had a big event planned on the 23 of September. Some countries were still working Old Style system and others changed to New Style. A whole bunch of days couldn’t be accounted for anyway since even though Julius Caesar’s data capturers where pretty good, they just wrote off a day every now and then to catch up to the moon’s cycle. Anyway it was such a deurmekaar mix up that since new years celebrations always lasted a whole week i.e. from 25 March to 1 April, some people were celebrating new year while others hadn’t heard the news and were waiting for 1^st January. They teased the Old Style people who clearly were not with the program and that’s how Aprils Fool started.

So where does that leave you and I today? Well it probably doesn’t matter since I’m pushing 50 no matter which way you look at it.

COMPARING APPLES WITH APPLES AND FORESKINS WITH LION SKINS

2013-03-31T11:52:00.002+02:00

So I find this whole coming of age thing quite interesting. Turns out the passage of rites is more involved than a Xhosa boy loosing his foreskin somewhere in the bush or a 13 year old Jewish boy suddenly capable of understanding the Torah after his bar mitzvah.

The difference between Xhosa youth in Transkei and white boys in Limpopo is quite evident. Here in rural Transkei, becoming a man is the most important event in a boy’s life. There is a lot of psyching up before the initiation and after a hearty 3 week chat from the old men in the village who visit the boys who are tucked away in a secret hut, their foreskin is chopped off. Depending on the boy’s father’s financial position, he slaughters a goat or a chicken but preparing a meal of samp and beans often clinches the deal. From that day on, he is expected to act responsibly as well as attend family funerals which takes up most of their Saturdays. Young men display their newfound manhood by wearing a checked jacket and/or a floppy flannel beret. This outfit from the 50’s probably confuses onlookers into thinking the wearer’s limped shuffle, prompted by a recent slice and dice, is a carefree swagger.

Boys in Limpopo on the other hand, are treated to a weekend away with their dad, dad’s buddies, and as much brandy and coke that can fit next to the rifles and ammo packs in the back of the bakkie as they head off to the nearest game farm to find an animal to kill and turn into biltong. Once the boy has made his kill, he smears the dead animal’s blood all over his face and eats a piece of its intestines. He straddles his kill for a photo shot and sometimes the initiate takes the head home to mount against the lounge wall to remind everyone of his manhood. His swagger is brought on by brandy and coke as he celebrates his newfound manhood.

Even Japanese people, both male and female have a coming of age day. It’s celebrated on the 2^nd Monday of January and everyone who turns 20 that year is allowed to vote, drink and smoke. Perhaps men walk around asking everyone for a light to show their newfound manliness even though they are the size of an average 9 year old Benoni boy. 20 Year old girls probably peer at you from smouldering almond eyes as they pluck out a cute, miniature cigarette, wrapped in origami paper decorated in Hello Kitty designs which they keep in a cute little box stuffed up their kimono sleeve.

American Indian boys go off to pray in a sauna and afterwards, a special spirit, who appears in their dreams, protects them for the rest of their life and they are rewarded with a new adult name like eagle eye, big bear or hopping rabbit.

Young men of the Buddhist faith go to a monastery for between 3 days to 3 years, depending on how dedicated they are in trying to levitate. After abstaining from sex and food but thriving on praying, you are primed for adult married life and cooled down enough to attract a woman.

In Australia, Aboriginal tribes get together for a Bora ceremony where singing, dancing and storytelling is performed. After sacrificing something to the spirits, boys loose their foreskins, a finger or a tooth to signify their manhood.

In the Amazon, the Satere Mawe tribe push pain levels to the extreme as boys have to wear a glove of ants whose bite is excruciatingly painful but they have to repeat the exercise 20 times before becoming a man with a swollen hand.

On the Pentacost island, a little place in the south pacific, boys do bungee jumping on land with a length of jungle vines and hope to survive the fall. If they do, their yam crop will be good but the trick is all about the length of the vine and I imagine how much impact your head can take.

In New Guinea, timid Matausa tribesmen injure themselves in order to let their mother’s woosie blood bleed out of their bodies. They stick sharp reeds up their noses, down their throats and repeatedly cut their tongues with arrows. Once they’ve spat out all the bad blood, they are certified brave men and probably from then on speak with a forked tongue.

Maybe you think these rites of passage are unusual and outdated. I think that although some are a bit extreme, the concept of a passage of rites is important for many primitive communities. To be acknowledged as a man within these communities and honouring their tradition keeps hierarchy levels in order, respect for the elders is kept alive and separates the boys from the men.

On the other hand, every year modern, first world Danish teenagers trap hundreds of dolphins in a bay and butcher them to death. I find this demonstration of manhood much more shocking and barbaric.

Each tribe has a system that works for them, some just differ from others but some just are not acceptable no matter how you look at it.

COFFEE BAY

2013-03-27T17:10:00.002+02:00

Living in Qolora takes a certain kind of person with a certain kind of character and it’s not recommended for the faint hearted. I’m not referring to the Xhosa people who stem from the Transkei and are a part of this land as the anthills, the rivers and the grasslands are. I’m referring to outsiders like myself. I absolutely love it here, and I find the simplicity of Xhosa life much more fulfilling than city life but I do miss things like a get together with a girlfriend and a glass of wine. I miss being able to have an intelligent English conversation with someone. Theo and I spend too much time together so we don’t really have much to say to each other.

Occasionally, when it’s not windy or when there aren’t any students for lessons or I’m not preparing lessons or sitting behind the computer, I get a chance to sit quietly outside our rondavel and listen to the afternoon sounds as dusk sets in and quietness settles over the village. I find the sound of children happily singing at our neighbours house 400 m away (sound travels here), boys whistling at their cows as they herd them home with a whip or a stick and the birds preparing to settle down are the most soothing noises I could imagine.

The young children, with their smiley faces are a treasure to have around, so long as it’s in a controlled environment and so long as they are not more than 6 or 7 and all wanting my attention at the same time. One particular little 8 year old girl has crept into my heart. I always get a big open arms hug from her if I haven’t seen her for a while. She has enormous eyes and a sweet croaky voice which often breaks into little giggles if I pull faces at her or mine Inkosi Sikeli after line 3 since I don’t know the rest of the words.

As rewarding as this is, we have decided that we need time out occasionally so last weekend we decided to take an overnight trip to Dwesa Nature Reserve which is about 100 km’s away and supposedly a fantastic place. The weather looked ominous once again, but this time, we were prepared and I packed my rainponcho and Theo packed his rain suit although he only found one glove so they got left behind.

After the first 50 km my bum was aching and Theo corrected my assumption that we don’t have shocks. Turns out, I sit on them. Go figure.

We arrived at Idijwa and asked for directions. We really should prepare ourselves on these long trips, especially here in Transkei where there aren’t any bike shops to stop for spares or SOS roadside assistance or a tow truck service or such like. Next time we should at least take a puncture repair kit, a cell phone charger or a map or something to make us seem a bit more organised.

Anyway, we were told that the road which turned off the N2 at Idijwa was 90 km of gravel and not too good. On impulse, since my shins were complaining already and the soles of my feet in my worn, oil coated takkies were bruised from being bounced around on the footpegs, we decided to stay on the tar road and continue to Coffee Bay instead. A bit of a spur-of-the-moment decision which turned out to be a further 220 km’s but who’s counting. Well, my bum sure was. Theo did his best to avoid the massive potholes decorating the road for the last 50 km’s before reaching Coffee Bay. We laughed at one hole which was so big that a handful of duck heads peeked out the top as they tried catching a rainwater splash bath.

We eventually arrived pooped and stiff. The trip definitely was worth it and we had a fantastic time and ended up staying an extra night to recuperate aching limbs before returning. Everyone in Coffee Bay was either a surfer, a hippi, stoned or all of the above. We felt the Ja love and it would be easy to confuse the place with Jamaica. There are close to a dozen backpackers in Coffee Bay, all doing a roaring trade from the Baz Bus regularly unloading young people from all corners of the world.

I chatted to a young German girl who was a qualified Waldorf teacher as she sat behind her sewing machine on the stoep of the back packers where we stayed. She told me she used to teach at a school locally but that didn’t last long since she didn’t agree with the techniques of the Eastern Cape schooling system. We discussed corporal punishment which still takes place in schools here. I found it shocking the first time I saw a teacher whack a kid on the back of his head in class. At our school they still get cainned on their hands with a “switch” for arriving late, not singing loud enough at morning devotion, chewing gum in class, talking in class or even not giving the right answer sometimes. I found it unsettling at first but am embarrassed to admit that it works for keeping discipline in class. Shouting and hitting students who don’t try expressing themselves in English only aggravates the problem as I’ve diplomatically tried telling the teachers but when it comes to discipline, I don’t interfere. Anyway, Beta, the German girl had hooked up with a Xhosa guy who worked at the back backers (and who is world’s apart from any of the Xhosa people from our village) and she was quite happy exploring her other talent which was sewing.

After 2 days of chilling, we headed back and were pleasantly surprised to receive a big box of crayons and stationery donated by a couple who visited us and who support our cause.

Now that we are rested, its time to plan the maths workshops which will take place during the Easter school holidays and which should be a great success. I wonder if the Maths teacher from Rondebosch Boys High eats mielie pap and cabbage. I’m crossing my fingers that the power and water are both on while they visit but I’m not holding my breath.

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

2013-03-22T12:41:00.003+02:00

I’m getting more of an idea of what life is like for an average child here and it sure is nothing compared to the average kid on the block back home. The fact that there is no “block” here with a shopping centre, movie house, toy shop, café, chemist or sports centre on the next corner is the most obvious difference. No-one has a proper address, like the corner of 2nd and Main Road and I haven’t learnt the names of all the settlement villages so I just refer to someone living either over this hill or over that hill. The upside of not having an address is no junk post but the downside is not getting your online order for a new mortar and pestle delivered to your door so you go without. In fact, people here kinda go without everything which city people consider essential. If you don’t happen to have your own Kenwood to crush your plantation of mielies into maize meal , then you could always load up as many bagfuls as you can carry and go to the guy in Centane who parks his cement like contraption in front of Pep Stores and will crush your mielies for a small fee.

Most people don’t farm here anymore so they just buy their maize meal from Boxer or Shoprite in Centane. Apparently, in the past, the boys used to keep the cattle out of the mielie fields but now that they go to school (well actually not all do), no one watches the cows so over time, the people stopped farming since the cattle just ate up the crops. Putting up a fence around a vegetable garden would probably cost 2 months government grant, which is the only income for most people here. Bushes and branches used to work as fencing in the past but the people seem to have lost their desire and motivation and anyway, a government grant is much easier. I’ve been told that if the boys don’t fetch the cows in the afternoons then they wonder into the forest and die from eating plants before sunrise. Either these were muslin cows celebrating Ramadam or I lost the thread of the story. The fact that there are poisonous Ink bushes growing everywhere hasn’t come up. The Xhosa people here don’t keep their cattle the conventional way of on ones property. They open the kraal gates in the morning and the cows wander around wherever they find grazing. They are not milking cows and the vet doesn’t pop around to help during calving season or tick infestations. Animal husbandry is left to nature and the ancestors.

Going to school is the highlight of most primary school children’s day. They get to see their friends and are fed a hot meal every day. (There are limited spoons at school so I’ve gotten used to watching many of them eating samp and beans with their hands, a ruler or protractor). After school boys fetch cows or goats while girls fetch water or smear a fresh layer of dung on the floor. All children over the age of 10 have to wash their own school clothes. Most children live with their grandmothers but I’m not sure how many are because their parents have died of Aids or because their parents work somewhere else. About 40% of children drop out of school before high school (which starts at grade 10). I have recently found out that faction fighting amongst the boys from different villages definitely does exist. In fact a few weeks ago, 3 boys from our school had to deal with this problem en route to school since they walk through another village to get to school. The one who was too old (twice the age of the others in his class) dropped out of school, the other moved to another family member’s home to avoid walking through the wrong village and the third, well he is still too frightened to come back to school.

Weekends consist of church, soccer, funerals and family visits. Xhosa family is not the same as the western term of family and everyone here talks about extended family. All those excuses that your cleaning lady gave you that she has to attend her sisters funeral, are probably true. Families begin with biological members and extend to just about the whole village in fact. Clan names are more important than surnames and members of the same clan are considered family. Clan names originate by someone important and all descendants of that person, even if you marry someone and your surname changes, are family. You aren’t allowed to marry your brother or sister even though they are not necessarily biological family members but you have to, without fail, attend everyone’s funeral.

Funerals are a whole topic on their own which I’ll leave for another time. Now its time for me to do another load of washing in my fancy upmarket Sputnik washing machine.

A TRIP TO CINTSA

2013-02-26T20:57:00.001+02:00

Lately we’ve been a bit too consumed with teaching and admin so a night out sounded like a jolly good idea. Last Saturday, the weather looked gloomy but it didn’t stop us from a road trip to Cintsa or however far we got.

The 15 km to the Kei River was bumpy on the XT but I’ve long ago accepted that bike shocks are a luxury I’ll be doing without. At least the gravel road was dry even though grey clouds loomed overhead. We crossed the ferry to Kei Mouth village and on tar roads from there, we headed for Morgan Bay. We were hoping to meet up with the interesting people who we’d met there in December. A bit of drumming and alternate conversation would have been good for my soul. No such luck, so we pushed on to Cintsa. Gee, had I realised it was that far away, I would definitely have signed up for a beer pitstop but since it had started raining and we were getting soaked, we pushed on till we hit Cintsa. At first the rain was a dam nuisance and all I wanted to do was stop somewhere and dry off but eventually a person accepts that there is nothing to do so you might as well sit tight and accept it.

The east side of Cintsa had a caravan park, one or two business’s but most importantly, we spotted a quaint little pub which we made a bee line for. My rain soaked pants had almost dried a few kilometres back when the rain let up and the wind had a chance to air dry my pants glued to my knees. My feet squelched in an inch of water which had run into my sockless takkies. It was a toss up over a cup of hot coffee or a cold beer but Theo ordered two Rum and Cokes which quickly solved that problem and my frozen tootsies were soon forgotten. Our timing was perfect, since the local brewer, a friendly, soft spoken guy, who just happened to be delivering a keg to the pub, got chatting to us and we spent the afternoon hearing about his popular Emerald Vale craft beer which, by the way, tasted really good. Later, armed with directions from the two chatty, barefooted, surfer barmen how to get to Buccaneers Backpackers, we headed off to the west side of Cintsa.

Bucaneers was buzzing with young people from all over the world. Some surf, some do volunteer work at the local crèche or just hang out for a day or 3 but mostly, everyone was on a holiday tour of the east coast of SA starting from Joburg and ending in Cape Town. Bucaneers is on the Baz Bus route so even though the place might seem remote, it’s a very popular hotspot for overseas young people and offers lots of activities and socializing.

We shared a dinner table with a young couple on holiday from Russia. He was British, working there as a lawyer and she was an American TEFL teacher. Our idea was to forget about teaching for a day or two but I found myself enjoying talking about education. By the end of the weekend I was sourcing volunteer teachers and was giving tour advice.

The highlight of my evening was a drumming session led by a comical Xhosa guy. I got a thrilling chance to thump out a rhythm on an African drum. Five of us where led by the leader, who’s hands blurred above his drum as he rhythmically kept us in beat. The sound vibrated right through me and the room became alive with the beat of our drums.

I’m thinking of making my own drum in the style which the locals here make theirs; from an old paint drum with a piece of leather stretched over the top. Maybe if I’m able to beat a rhythm I might get invited to the next sangoma’s beach party.

In the meantime, I’m looking for an excuse to go to Cintsa for another pint of Emerald Vale.

HEY TEACHER, LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE

2013-02-23T14:38:00.002+02:00

This year our days are jam packed with teaching, teaching and more teaching. Our day starts at Siseko JSS which is about 10 km’s from here, so every morning a taxi bakkie collects us and as we bounce to school on the gravel roads, I practice my Xhosa on the driver. His English isn’t too wonderful but he enjoys helping me build up my Xhosa vocabulary and laughs at some of my pronunciation attempts.

We really enjoy teaching at Siseko JSS as the principal is serious about education. The classrooms are tiny and 2 grades are squashed up in a single classroom. Many learners sit 3 to one desk. Some desks are broken or have tops made of hardboard which is disintegrating at the corners and some students can’t fit their legs under the low tables. None of these factors make writing an easy mission. One grade face their teacher in the front while the other half face their teacher at the back of the classroom. I can’t imagine how this situation works effectively. The grade 1’s don’t have desks, just a plastic chair, many of which are broken so writing is not an option. Their little faces light up when I enter the class and I always bring a teddy bear, a coloured ball, a floppy hat, home made alphabet flashcards or some sort of realia to make the lessons interesting. They love pleasing me and they are so eager to shout out the answer and sometimes they can’t contain themselves and they rush forward, shouting missy missy, with their little arms reaching up and their face scrunched up as they shout “f for fish”. As cute as they are, I prefer teaching the Grade 5 and 6 class since, even though there are a few boys who don’t really try and can’t really read, never mind speak English, I find it easier to teach them since, as a class, they are able to understand me much better and I teach them grammar in fun activities with realia, role playing and they absolutely love competitions.

Its difficult teaching 2 grades at a time since they are not all at the same level of competency and I can’t use their prescribed English work books since each grade’s book is different. I therefore have to create my own lesson plan every day. Generally, they need basic sentence structure lessons since they’ve had no experience expressing themselves in English.

The principal is very keen to improve teaching at his school but the challenges are tough. The teachers are keen to welcome his new rule as of this year, based on ideas which we’ve presented to him, using English in all lessons as the first change but unfortunately their grasp of English is very poor. Do the maths! They are not very imaginative in creative lessons and games such as Eye Spy are as foreign to them as umfino, the much loved wild leafy vegetable, was to us.

We teach at Qolora By Sea in the afternoons for an hour but unfortunately by then, the teachers at this school are either in some sort of meeting or something or other and the learners are unruly which makes teaching there not very pleasant. We are barely into the year and we feel demoralized having to deal with this schools lack of interest in dedicated teaching. The only thing keeping me there are the little ones who run to meet us at the gate and fight for a chance to hold our hands. My skin and hair are quite a fascination point with all the young kids at both schools. We would much rather teach at Isolomzi, the high school over the hill, where that principal is doing a wonderful job of offering his learners a good education. He has a team of dedicated teachers and the first rule of the school is that only English is spoken after entering the school gates. Mr Butshingi, the principal, is not very popular with the other schools and is considered a tyrant but he just produced a matric pass rate of 75% and many distinctions to boast of. He only has about 25 learners per class since not many students around here want to attend his school as the expectations are too high for them. Alternatively, Tjali High, which is over the other hill, is a totally different setup. They are fed by about 5 junior schools in the area. They have 6 grade 12 classes, each with 80 plus learners per class, 4 grade 11 classes, also with about 80 learners per class and not much less grade 10’s. Teachers go there to do crowd control more than teach.

We open the Qolora Education Centre from 3 to 5pm during the week for the local kids who come around. Some just come because they enjoy being there and have nothing better to do but some enjoy the English and Maths handouts which we’ve been giving them to do lately. I’ve gotten the little ones to read to me in the past, but as of yet, none of the older children have shown any real interest in actually reading a challenging book. At 5 o clock I tutor a couple of students from Tjali high school, 2 walk the 10 km’s 2 or 3 times a week for my English lesson (and computer lessons) which I give them before walking all the way back home again. I’ve asked them what challenges they face at Tjali High School and they tell me that besides sharing desks, some students don’t have textbooks. Also, some students stay after school to hide a chair for themselves to use the next day. Half of the first period is usually wasted by teachers trying to resolve chair ownership issues. I guess some students just have to stand for the lesson due to the shortage of chairs. I believe the one and only maths teacher will be leaving in a month or two and will not be replaced. Abongile also told me of her concerns that when it rains, the long drop toilets get flooded and can’t be used.

Many learners drop out along the way. I can’t imagine why, can you?

WITH A CLUCK CLUCK HERE AND A CLUCK CLUCK THERE.

2013-02-17T17:58:00.001+02:00

Our hen is having an identity crisis. We left the chickens alone (besides a friend feeding them daily) for six weeks and now the oddest thing has happened. When we returned, Diablo, the only chicken we named out of the three, had doubled in size. Her beady yellow eyes which glare fearsomely at you, earned her the name. The other black hen is not nearly as greedy as her, but the rooster has always treated his 2 hens equally as far as courtship and calling them to share food. Only the smaller hen pops out her egg every morning much to Theo’s delight, but Diablo doesn’t seem to have the same desires to contribute towards our breakfast.

Well, the other morning, we were still in bed; I was enjoying listening to the birds and filtering through my thoughts which these days are limited to creating fun lesson plans, or recalling skipping songs from files which have long ago been abandoned to file 13 in the bottom drawer of my whiskey saturated brain. Anyway I have limited time to arrange these thoughts before Theo turns the radio on to listen to the traffic report in Cape Town or what poultice Tannie Sannie recommends to treat Boet’s recurring athlete’s foot calamity on Radio Sonder Grense. So there we were, 30 seconds into some or other Afrikaans singer belting out something about “ek wil styf langs jou lepel lê” when the rooster gave his usual “I got it all this morning crow” when clear as daylight, we heard an answering call in a deep voice right outside the door to our rondavel.

It definitely was not the neighbour’s rooster answering as used to before we left for Cape Town and I can only assume that he was eaten over the holidays, (probably to celebrate someone being circumcised) and now our rooster has to strain his ears to listen for an answer from another adversary over the hill. Anyway, Theo jumped up to investigate and true as bob, Diablo was out there crowing. WTF? Was it possible? Was Diablo messing with our rooster’s manhood, or more perturbing, was she a he? Surely the rooster would not have tolerated a rival on his property? She’s bigger than him these days and he can’t catch her for his mandatory bonk but since she has started crowing, the rooster is disgusted with her and he and the other hen have teemed up and poor Diablo is being ostracised. Well all I know is if it turns out that we have two roosters, one potentially to reach the size of a goose on steroids, then one of them will have to end up in the cooking pot and what a pleasure it will be to eat meat other than Russians.

I’m gatvol of Russian sausages. Theo’s culinary abilities have been put to the test in his attempts to disguise the taste of yet another meal of processed Russians. Slicing, dicing, braaing, boiling, drying and the latest way of mincing them and adding to soups, stews, and bolognaise served with rice, samp and beans or pap have been on the menu every day since we’ve returned. He has yet to pickle them. Last night he made lasagne, with home made pasta which was yummy so maybe there are more inventions to come.

Anyway, the chickens better figure out who’s who, since the latest advice is to take our rooster to the 90 year old mama who lives over the hill and who specialises in castrating roosters. This apparently will curb his lusty desires and become less aggressive but if you ask me, all that will do is encourage Diablo to blow her own horn. I researched this rooster castrating business and apparently it’s not as bizarre as I imagined, but slicing a chicken’s groin open to pop out his internal goonies just doesn’t sound right at all. I’ll rather let nature play out its course and if that doesn’t work, I could seek out a Sangoma for advice regarding our chicken problem. Chances are I’ll be told to bury a bundle of herbs in the yard to restore harmony in the coop. That seems to be the general advice I’m told, whether to heal a sick person, change your bad luck, or get rid of a persistent itch in your groin, burying a bundle of herbs will do the trick I’m told.

On the other hand, the Sangoma might cleverly tell me to bury a dead chicken instead and that would be the end of my problem of having two roosters. The next step is finding someone who will catch it, slaughter it and pluck it cos I sure as hell am not gonna be able to. I’m holding thumbs we will find two eggs in their coop some time soon.

PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON, LIVED BY THE SEA

2013-02-08T13:12:00.000+02:00

Living in rural Transkei, I’m reminded daily that Africa is a continent so very different to the rest of the world. I’m not referring to the fact that here women carry their groceries, luggage, wares, pots, firewood or a chicken balanced on their head as apposed to young ladies in the Swiss Alps balancing a book called Etiquette For Young Ladies on perfectly practiced poised heads. Nor am I referring to the extensive range of cutlery which the French endeavour to confuse diners with compared to the locals here who have simplified table settings down to a dessert spoon, your fingers and a shared knife. Life has not evolved at the same pace as other continents and I find it pleasing. Unfortunately, poverty and hunger seem to be part of the package which is the reality of many people who make up the population of Africa.

I never go to sleep hungry so perhaps I have a romantic view of life here on the southern tip of Africa where customs and traditions have not given way to the race of technology and its disastrous side effects which breeds greedy corporations indifferent to consequences and don’t give a rats arse about human life.

Now that I’ve got my philosophical opinions off my chest, let me elaborate about the uniqueness of life in Africa, Transkei in particular. I’ve discovered a fascinating myth while digging a bit deeper to discover the reasons why the Xhosa people take their bottles of sea water back home to the city with them over the Christmas holidays. It seems that the sea water is used comparable to what I would call a new year’s resolution. As you wash your face with the sea water and drink some, to flush out your system, (referred to as Spuits) you are washing away any bad omens of the year which has ended and you can start the new year fresh.

The intriguing part is still to come. Even though Xhosa people here in rural Qolora carry cell phones and like to wiggle to the beat of Kwaito music and hiphop, they still believe in and fear the myths of the witches who live at the bottom of the sea and any other deep body of water. These witches are way more powerful than the Loch Nest Monster and more real than mermaids who sunned themselves on rocks and octopi which swallowed whole ships when Bartholomew Diaz crossed unchartered waters. People on other continents fear a red skinned beast with horns, a long tail, armed with a pitchfork and lives in a big fiery cave slap bang in the centre of the earth. The witches, mermaids, underwater nymphs, spirits, sea people, deities, call them what you like, are just as real to the rural Xhosa people and just as frightening.

The story of people living in the sea has been confirmed to me by qualified school teachers and young adults and strangely, mostly practicing Christians. They tell me it’s a myth but in fact some are even afraid to talk about these witches for fear of inviting bad omens. I reassured a 19 year old guy that I understood his concerns and told him that people of my culture who dabbled in evil things like Ouija boards are considered just as foreboding by others and many people don’t like to talk about it or want to have anything to do with it.

Land witches are safe from the sea witches and I believe Sangomas sometimes go down to the beach at night to a specific spot to communicate with them, about what, I still haven’t discovered and quite frankly, I don’t fancy crouching behind a dune in the dead of night to find out what these sea creatures have to say for themselves. Anyway, apparently if you happen to be at the beach at the wrong time, these sea people will appear to you and can call you into the sea. They will lure you into the water and the sea will swallow you up and no one on shore will be able to prevent it from happening or be able to pull you back. A teacher recounted a story of a young girl who was taken by these sea witches a few years ago somewhere in East London. The Sangomas slaughtered a white cow (emphasis on white) which was led down to the same place where she walked into the sea, and they performed the necessary ritual which appeased the sea witches and the girl magically walked out of the ocean again. I’ve confirmed her story with others here in the village. The teacher did not believe the part which was retold that ants came out of the girls mouth or that she spoke in tongues once back on dry land, not believing it to be possible but the fact that she came out the water after having disappeared for days was not something to be scorned at since everyone knew it was true. Apparently these sea witches are most fond of young children so mothers keep their children away from the sea and even adults don’t go down for a swim even on hot days.

I think that by believing in something, you give it the power to make it real, be it good or bad, and so, the witches are given what they seek. Story telling is a way of keeping these myths alive and modern man’s alternative forms of entertainment have not overshadowed the art of keeping these stories and history of the Xhosa nation alive. Not yet anyway, but I wonder how long before these captivating customs and myths are totally buried with grandparents and replaced with the growing alcohol abuse or the desire to mimic the life of a movie star.

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, HOME IS SO REMOTE

2013-01-28T20:55:00.000+02:00

Life in Qolora is back to normal. The holiday makers have all buggerred off again and life has returned to the rhythm that Africa functions on. I only have to share the beach with one or two stragglers who have stretched their hard earned yearly break to a little longer than the rest, before checking out of Trennery’s Hotel and heading back home in their flashy 4 x 4’s, revitalized but minus their bonus from a startlingly high bar tab of too many Mojitos, perhaps a frozen fish in their cooler box and the women all sporting a tan to show off at the office.

The Xhosa people who all came home to see their children and extended families for the Christmas holidays, have also left by the bus loads. Local villagers were excited to receive gifts of food which the Xhosa city dwellers ranging from cleaning ladies, mine workers to successful businessmen brought with them for everyone to feast on. Not as many cows, goats and pigs roam the countryside as some of them complemented the celebrations by being slaughtered in backyards for feasts and to honour ancestors. Well, you don’t really have back yards or front yards here, just inside or outside. Slaughtering, chopping up the carcass and cooking the meat all take place outside while eating and drinking all take place both in and outside. Women gather in kitchens to noisily catch up on news since there’s no party co-ordinating to be done, in fact cutlery doesn’t even feature. Anyway, after returning to their roots and honouring their ancestors, everyone waved their goodbyes till next Christmas, and left with a bottle of seawater to drink back in the city to cleanse out their insides. I wonder why it’s so important to use seawater to make themselves throw up as apposed to a glass of tap water and Cerebos salt. I wonder how long ago this custom started. Could it be a tradition passed down from a clan who understood the properties of water?

Some boys became men over the December holidays and spent time in the hills, hidden from women and being taught the ways of men before losing their foreskins. We were lucky enough to see the beginnings of these initiation ceremonies before we left for Cape Town. Over a few weeks, the older teenage boys gathered in groups and paraded through the village, singing songs of bravery for the soon to be circumcised boys. Their outfits resembled colourful gumboot dancers’ but they also carried their sticks and occasionally they performed displays of traditional stick fighting while the rest noisily chanted and sang in high spirits. Stick fighting is a dying art in the cities but here in rural Qolora they still proudly show off their skills. Two opponents, each armed with two long sticks and both of their blocking arms wrapped up in their shirts, skilfully fight each. Their sticks connect noisily as they hit and block at a fast pace. Apparently faction fighting between initiation groups from different villages has been known to take place but all I ever saw were a lot of excited young men happy to have a reason for partying. I heard a pig being slaughtered at a neighbouring house the day that the elders led a teenage boy into the forest. He was all wrapped up in a white cloak and the entourage of boys were signing much more solemnly in honour of their elders and their custom. The rest of the people at the house had a big fat party and ate the whole pig and drank beer.

Our chicken’s, who a friend was feeding daily while we were in Cape Town, did not end up in anyone’s pot over the holidays and in fact the one hen has grown twice the size of the rooster and is not the dainty lady we left behind. She either fattened herself up to avoid the rooster’s courtship demands or to avoid being eaten by the monitor who has moved into a hole under the container. The chicken feed attracts mice which attract snakes but the rock monitor hopefully will keep the snakes at bay. The two metre long reptile will eat the chicken eggs if given the chance so everyone has a win win situation except us since one chicken egg a day doesn’t quite satisfy Theo’s dietary requirements.

The other day at school, we ate a chicken which tasted really good. Proper meaty chicken which made the stuff you buy in the shops taste like bland, white, artificial meat. The toughness of the meat actually contributed to its tastiness but I struggled to hack off a piece of the bird with a blunt knife which four of us shared. After the chicken we were each given a big plate of samp and beans. As payment for teaching, we get lunch at our new school every day, usually pap and cabbage, so its great but the biggest reward is watching the kids faces light up when they are able to successfully repeat an English sentence.

Meanwhile, my days are getting busier and busier out here in rural Transkei. And here I thought my life in Africa would be laid-back.

WE’RE ALL GOING ON A SUMMER HOLIDAY

2013-01-17T09:28:00.000+02:00


Us Wine Tasting with Charlene


Scarecrows at Mooibege Strawberry Farm


At mothers 70th Birthday Spitbraai party

WE’RE ALL GOING ON A SUMMER HOLIDAY

December school holidays rolled around and we decided to treat ourselves to a trip to Cape Town. Well actually it was supposed to be a profitable breakaway since we planned to sell corn dogs at a 4 day new years music festival and make some money while we were there but plans didn’t worked out accordingly. Before leaving, we spent 2 days pushing the wheelbarrow back and forth, emptying the cupboards in the truck to make space for more things to bring back.

Our holiday in Cape Town was great although traffic was a bit overwhelming and I avoided those dreaded shopping centres as much as I could. Indoor taps spurting instant hot water, glossy tiles, hallway mirrors, shiny draining boards, wardrobes and an indoor oven were a real treat. My mother turned 70 and she celebrated the day with a wonderful spitbraai for friends and family. 4 Days later we stuffed ourselves again on Christmas day but sadly I was only able to wish Kyro and his new family in Japan via a computer screen. Rock the River music festival turned out a complete disaster (opposite to the previous year) as traders were once again told to cater for an expected 8 000 people but only about 2 or 3 000 people turned up. The wind howled at gale force speed the whole time and we went home with less money than we started off with and a shitload of left over Russians and Cheese Grillers which we would have to take back.

During the six weeks in Cape Town, my mothers’ friends and family dropped off bags and bags of children’s books, toys and clothes, some even from as far as Ireland which Charlene brought over. Everything needed to be squeezed onto the truck together with our bed (the only remaining thing we owned besides our truck) which we’d stored in my mother’s garage. We planned to ransack my mother’s garage and relieve her from any possible building material to build ourselves a new house once we returned to Transkei. The kitchen zink got wedged next to our motorbike which stood in front of the fully loaded freezer with a donated bicycle strapped on top. Our bed went on top of the truck in typical Transkei style and the weetbix wooden boards and boxes of left over tiles got slotted in between the caravan and the side railings. The outside cupboards on the truck were rammed full of donated clothes, school bags, knitting needles, beads and pencils while the inside cupboards were bulging with bottles and bottles of tomato sauce, mustard and peri naise left over from the festival. More boxes of lego blocks, teddy bears and suitcases of second hand clothes were wedged in between gallons and gallons of cooking oil, a kerm board and a broken gazebo (but still usable for a chicken run or something). The laptops balanced on the porta potty, while the floor was stacked with crates of flour and maize meal, a couple of seedlings for our veggie garden, a toddlers scooter and a big bag of bras donated by someone who was clearly size 46 double D. 2 Bunches of bokkoms dangled above the bed disguising the ever present smell of Russian sausages. Every time I opened the fridge the dam things were there, squeezed into every possible crevice, reminding me that we would need to eat our way through 80 kg of the stuff over the next few months. I have an idea I’m gonna start drooling for tripe.

The four day trip back was a tight squeeze and every time we stopped, we attracted every dog on the block and by the time we arrived back in Transkei I was already getting a bit tired of eating cold sausages since Theo couldn’t reach the stove to try and disguise the taste.

I watched the vegetation change from farmlands to fynbos to thorn trees and finally grassland. Eventually we arrived home and I hung out the window, waving with both hands as we neared our village and passed people on the road.

We were home. Now all we had to do was unload the truck and bit by bit push the wheelbarrow the 50 m to our hut through lush swampy grass which had flourished in the torrential downpours of summer rainfall. Before donning my gumboots I needed to get rid of the spiders and their webs which made our hut look like something from the movie set of Cocoon and sweep out the layers of mouldy dust, mouse droppings and sand mounds left by whatever other insects had moved in while we were away. Theo’s job was easy - more Russians.

Ahaa, home sweet home.

Sometimes I can’t see the forest for the trees

2012-11-05T21:11:00.000+02:00

Sometimes I can’t see the forest for the trees

I’ve been feeling a bit dissolutioned lately but on reflection, maybe it’s me who’s loosing the plot again. It’s easy to fall into the trap. The pathetic schooling system really fails the children here and it’s driving me insane trying to work with a system that is non existent. Besides the fact that school only takes place Monday to Thursday mornings; afternoons are a bit wishy washy since it depends on which teachers aren’t in a meeting. Some afternoons the teachers who are at school, leave work on the blackboard for the students to do on their own but usually the students just amuse themselves. Friday’s the teachers go home from 10am and the learners clean the classrooms. When it rains, many learners can’t get to school as the river flows stronger than normal but they don’t miss much. Lessons are taught in Xhosa by teachers who don’t have a clue about dedication and the principal is about as much of a token trophy as we are. The kids have no discipline but mind you they are pretty good at making coffee for the teachers.

Last week we attended a big party at school. The grade R’s graduation and the grade 9’s farewell. The parents/ grandmothers and the elders were there to proudly cheer the 6 year old’s dressed in hired white dresses and suits and cloaked in their graduation gowns. The grade 9’s looked like matrics in their fancy suits and shiny dresses all dressed to the nines. The school spent a fortune to feed everyone who attended and there were no lessons for the whole week what with students having their hair done, others cleaning classrooms and teachers off shopping for groceries for the occasion.

Last month at the school sports day, another huge chunk of school cash was spent on meat and booze to feed the teachers. The students were given their usual samp and beams although the guest soccer team were treated to hunks of bread and a slice of polony. The teachers took loads of left over meat home and we were given our share as well. The guest school went home with a few bottles of Johnny Walker red label and I went home with a lump in my throat.

So. What am I missing here? The whole forest actually. The above are all the reasons why education in Transkei sucks but I’m not a politician and I didn’t come here to change the course of education in Transkei. I’m just somebody living in a rural village, helping at the school and our library while learning about the Xhosa nations’ lifestyle.

Actually, I enjoyed spending the day at the functions with the other teachers in the kitchen chopping vegetables. I got to know them a little better. I was intrigued by their practical method of cooking 2 huge bags of butternut. Peeling all the butternut took some time but no one complained and they sang songs and did the occasional dance when it got boring. Cooking seemed to be part of the party. Then they put all the peeled butternut slices back into the big orange bags which they came in and tied the bags up again. They boiled the bagged butternuts in a huge black pot for an hour or 2 on the fire. Then they took the bags out and hung it on the fence for all the water to drain off for a half an hour or so - somewhere out of reach of passing livestock. A nifty way to handle bulk portions of food. I took my own chopping board in since I haven’t mastered chopping carrots and vegetables into miniscule blocks in the air above a bowl.

They boiled a pig in a huge black pot on the fire. Everything got cut into massive blocks, chops, hocks, the whole damn thing. No water was added at all and the meat just cooked in its own juices with some spices. It was quite tasty. Another huge pot was filled with hunks of seasoned beef steaks, stewing meat and sirloin all stirred into one pot and also cooked only in its own juices on the fire. It was just as tasty.

Luckily we are not fussy eaters and have sometimes been invited to join the teachers over lunchtime when they eat boiled pigs heads and such like. I ended up with a piece of ear once which was a bit too cartilagy for me so I kinda sucked on it and nibbled on it until a respectable amount of time had passed and I could politely put it down on a plate. The way to eat meat, fat or afval is to pass a knife around and cut chunks off which you eat with your hands. This is the Xhosa way which we are becoming comfortable with. In the beginning I tried acting casual and took my piece of stomach or whatever it was handed to me and bit into it as you would a chop. I felt a bit like a Neanderthal gnawing and yanking on my kill until someone passed me a knife while the teachers all continued jabbering loudly around me.

I’m learning that when Xhosa people get together for a party it makes white people’s parties look like a stuck up affair. The graduation was much more of an interactive event and the mammas got quite carried away with spontaneous singing as they hailed the next speaker. Some ululating to show appreciation of a child’s performance was quite in order.

Next month we have been invited to an initiation and I can’t wait. I think Theo is a bit worried about the fact that he will be the only male there over the age of 25 with a foreskin but I don’t think they will be doing a spot check.

I’ve decided it’s more fun enjoying the ride through the forest than worrying whether someone checked the brakes.

I’ll play my drum for you pa-rum pum pum pum

2012-10-29T08:25:00.002+02:00

I’ll play my drum for you pa-rum pum pum pum

Gee whizz. We’ve been sitting here without any physical contact with the rest of the world for 3 months but suddenly we’ve been quite the social busy bees. We arrived back from our first trip to East London and away from rural life and the next day Theo’s folks arrived for a visit to see where in the world us wallys are. They found the roads here a bit of a challenge in their new little bakkie but I think they enjoyed their visit and now they have an idea of what our lives are like although it was school holidays. We picked wild plums, visited the quaint Trennery’s hotel and went mushrooming. I’m sure the bags of clothes they brought with will be well appreciated by the needy here.

A few days after they left, my old school buddy, Charlene, who has long since been living in Ireland, came for a visit with 2 of her Irish pals. Unfortunately we had bum weather and grey skies and in fact the whole Eastern Cape was flooded from too much rain and has been declared a disaster area. I guess those ancestors must be upset with someone for not planting their mielies on time. Someone better own up and fix things cos I’m getting tired of squelching around in wellies and not having clean running water. We have a backup rain tank but showering in brown murky water is not the greatest but here I am complaining and everyone else in the village only has a bucket to wash in.

Anyway it was great having Charlene, Sarah and Tim around for a few days. Tim has a house in Morgan Bay (how coincidental is that – meeting someone all the way from Ireland who owns property a short distance from us) so we joined them at his holiday home for a few days. I’ve gotten a bit caught up with the library, preparing lesson plans and the whole school thing so I’ve forgotten about other things in the world so it was really nice spending time with them and meeting Tim’s friends at Morgan Bay. Tim, Sarah and Charlene all practise various forms of natural healing as their livelihood (when they are not travelling) and they are connected by therapy dance movement which they do and the people I met from Morgan Bay were not your average 9 to 5ers either. Professor Mark has designed and built a vegetable garden which is self sustainable and runs on human poo. Quite an involved system by which he used algae in a couple of small dams to clean up the poo which then gets used to water the garden which, by the way, was flourishing. He and Dave were in the process of getting funding and have plans to improve some crappy long drop systems in rural schools to become more user friendly. They have successfully already built a few such systems for schools which they funded from their own pockets. Maraina is passionate about fighting back against Monsanto’s policy of forcing the world to buy GM (genetically modified) seeds. She goes around informing farmers about the facts which Monsanto omit to tell them. Things such as GM seeds only produce one crop which will force them to buy more seeds from Monsanto the next season. Monsanto is busy controlling the whole worlds crops by suing farmers who won’t fall into their trap. She told us that 25 000 farmers in India have committed suicide because they have now become financially ruined. I googled it, and was horrified to find out that its true. Did you know that Monsanto (who already genetically modifies plant DNA) have recently bought a pharmaceutical company which experiments with human DNA. I guess we will soon be able to buy carrots in the shop which can make your eyes blue or cure cancer so everyone will want to give them another Nobel award but no-one mentions that they will have control of manipulating how your body functions without you realising it. So if in a few years time people notice that everyone has to buy lets say hayfever tablets or pills to replace calcium to keep themselves healthy and the pharmaceutical companies keep getting richer then they might wonder why. We, the man in the street, do not think about these things and only raise an eyebrow if the apples at the veggie shop aren’t nice and perfectly crisp and juicy. I might be green but at least I’m not a cabbage can take on a whole new meaning.

Anyway, besides having intellectual conversations, they also all had a zen side to them which I found stimulating. They hauled out a couple of drums and a bag of rattles and shaking thingies and massive cow bells and stick things and we made music. Clearly they do this often but I’m not musical although I can shake my booty around a dance floor (even better after a few tequilas) but this was a new experience for me. I grabbed something to shake which didn’t look too complicated and I tried to keep in time with the drummer who controlled the beat. Someone else clapped in time and hummed a weird noise in my left ear while another guy shuffled around the room knocking sticks together in a hari krishna sort of way. Oh and Sarah gaily played the flute and occasionally freely expressed herself by letting out a noise which sounded like a banshee whatever that might be. This whole musical expressive thing was a bit new to me but somehow it worked and we sounded cool. I’d love to do more and learn to express myself freely other than with words.

Charlene brought puzzles, CD’s and flutes for the children at the library and now that they have taught 2 students to play Campfire’s Burning (Umsi Watcha), the rest spent today quite happy to blow their lungs out in my other ear, not the one which got zenned out. Perhaps I’d better try and learn a note or two and we can have a music session at the library.

In the meantime there is more rain on the way so I guess those thousands of frogs which croak outside can keep the bass beat and lull me to sleep.

2012-10-23T17:33:00.002+02:00

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

The other day we jumped on the bike and headed over the hill in search of Thelma’s crèche. Jock, the guy who sponsored the books and computers at the library asked us to visit the crèche and see what their needs were as he wanted to sponsor them. Jock has been trying to make a difference to the lives of the people here in Qolora since long before we even got here and Education is his prime concern. He has a successful legal practice in Cape Town and he’s connected to big shots in the Department of Education. His heart and brains are in the right place. I suppose by now you must be wondering how Theo and I are coping financially and how we manage to stay fat. Well, we left Cape Town with 2 months supply of food and thought we’d end up at Coffee Bay teaching. We stumbled onto the library here at Qolora and that’s where we’ve settled. It didn’t take long for Jock and us to connect and now he contributes towards our living expenses. Things just fell into place, proving once again that life is as simple as you want it to be.

Anyway, there we were, looking for a crèche, working our butts off, riding around the beautiful countryside, soaking up the scenery of hills and dales blanketed in feathery grassland. Putting along the gravel roads on our toot toot as the kids call it, with the sun on your back and the wind in your hair, dodging the odd cow, goat or pothole can really strain those smile muscles. And then there’s all that waving.

It’s much greener on the other side of the hill and the countryside has more of a tropical feel to it. Even the cattle kraals which are made by stacking branches in a large circle, had lush green ivy growing all over them. Kraals are a very very important part of a family’s homestead. A man who has any worth has a kraal next to his hut or house. Even if his cattle have died off, which is the case of some people, the kraal is still an important structure. The man of the house communicates with his ancestors at the gates of his kraal. This is where he runs all important matters of the living by his ancestors for their approval. For instance, if he wants to build a new house, make important changes within his family or suchlike, he will communicate this to his ancestors at the kraal. They will respond to him in his dreams thereafter and even if it takes a long time, he will not go ahead with the plans even if its months before he has their approval.

Communicating with ones ancestors is the core of Xhosa tradition and the lives of the people here are woven around their ancestors. Ancestors, who are in fact deceased parents, grandparents and great grandparents oversee their family’s wellbeing and are a gateway to God so whether you are a Christian or not, ancestors play a part in the Xhosa people’s lives. If a person is blessed with good fortune, then they need to thank their ancestors by slaughtering a cow or goat depending on the level of their success. The man of the house will select a cow and prick it in its neck to make it bellow. A good choice is if the cow bellows before the spear touches its skin, an indication that the ancestors are very happy. A cow cannot be made to bellow by hurting it forcefully as this would then not be a true reflection of their ancestors approval. If the chosen cow does not bellow then it’s a serious problem and the ancestor will communicate to them in a vivid dream otherwise a Sangoma needs to be summoned to determine why the ancestors are not happy. If something goes wrong, such as a person gets sick, looses their job or something of this nature then the ancestors are angry with them and a Sangoma needs to be consulted to determine why. A cow, goat or chicken can be offered to the ancestors to set things straight but usually they do not bring bad fortune. Basically, if you are the motherly type, you get to carry on controlling your family even from the grave although there are more male ancestors than females. You don’t automatically become an ancestor just by dying, it’s a special privilege and an ancestor is highly respected. They present themselves to their family in very vivid dreams which cannot be questioned or refuted. A year after a person has died, a ceremony is held which involves a cow being slaughtered and the passing of the ancestor is celebrated. An expensive tombstone is placed at the gravesite followed by great festivities to honour the new ancestor. This is a costly business and the people here don’t have a lot of spare cash lying around but they make it happen.

My father who passed away 5 years ago often wagged his finger at me from that other dimension but these days he is resting peacefully or perhaps he’s busy watching over other people who break the hairs in their ears by listening to loud music in discos. Anyway, he was a diabetic so I didn’t need to keep a herd of cattle to appease him, diet coke would have done the trick. Theo wouldn’t make a good ancestor as he would forever be demanding a spitbraai and would surely get very frustrated with only the aroma of meat wafting up past his nose while the living had a feast.

So whether or not you go gently into that dark good night, whether you put flowers on someone’s grave to remember them, scatter someone’s ashes over their favourite place or whether you believe they are still watching over you like a guardian angel, we are all going to eventually take our last living breath and return our energy back to earth. Some just get to wag their finger for longer than others.

Anyone who takes the time to soak up the energy around these hills will be able to feel the presence of the ancestors watching over their people. Me, I’ve set my father free.

Ouma en oupa sit op die stoep

2012-10-12T09:10:00.004+02:00

Ouma en oupa sit op die stoep

We have become grandparents. I don’t feel any different, just very excited. The bundles of joy, note I used the plural, are the tiniest, cutest, most perfect little twins on this earth. Unfortunately they live across the ocean in the faraway country of Japan so I have to go googoo gaga over the airwaves. Thank goodness for technology which enables us to see them and watch them grow. Kyro and Aoi are keeping me updated from Japan. Kyro read up about every aspect of every stage of Aoi’s pregnancy and before her first trimester was over he informed us that babies can communicate from a very young age and that he planned to teach them to sign so that he can understand their needs and requests. Marine is waving on the one photo so I guess she was saying “hi granny, look, I’m even cuter than a panda bear. I have long fingers so I’ll soon be able to use chopsticks to eat my rice for breakfast.” Sky has a good set of lungs on her as I heard in the video clip while she got her first bath so I guess she’s gonna be communicating verbally instead. I could have them mixed up already in fact I wonder how their parents can tell them apart. I would love to visit them sometime in the future but I think only once they are past the jelly stage and I can play with them. Perhaps they will come out here for a visit and I will teach them how to be a South African and eat mielie pap, rip meat off the bone and sing Sarie Marais. Maybe they will even want to go hare hunting with Theo on the airstrip at night. Maybe not. Theo really did try it once but he can home hareless. His own hair (all 16 of them) had a slight wave though since it was a windy night.

We recently made a trip into East London for a long weekend to skype Kyro and his new family. Funny how after 3 months of living here in the village, you’d think I’d enjoy seeing a bit of the rest of world. Well, I haven’t missed the traffic, the shops or the people all doing those things which city people do. And when we returned I felt a sense of belonging as we neared our new home at Qolora Village. We bought some lettuce and cabbage seedlings to plant in Theo’s slow growing vegetable garden. He had planted beans, spinach, and carrots from seeds and they were all coming along ever so slowly in his organic garden. The potatoes were doing the best and were up to the second tyre. Anyway someone, I assume one of the woman who occasionally slap mud on a roof to fix a leak or mop the shower floor, must have gone into the garden to take their wheelbarrow. Problem is they left the damn gate open and not only did the chickens have a feast but so did a damn donkey. Not a single blade of anything green is left. Theo will have to start all over again.

Oh well, it looks another month of mielie pap, afval and Theo’s imagination.