The Land of Ing

It is now officially summer in the Land of Ing, and I know this because everywhere the insects have come out to play. Forget about the giant cockroach patrolling under the cupboards, out of sight out of mind. Now I have to contend with the ants, who have squirmed out of their hibernation. Fana and I were cooking supper one night and I couldn’t be bothered to do the dishes, so left them overnight. Big mistake. The next day after my run, I wandered over to the cupboard to get a cup and the entire cutting board and plates were a mass of writhing ants. We had eaten rice and, no word of a lie, there were at least twenty ants to one grain of rice. I was tired from running and not sleeping well the night before and couldn’t even fathom dealing with that, so I just turned on Oprah Winfrey, went into my bedroom, closed the door, and had a six hour nap. Culture Shock Therapy. What’s that Scarlett O’Hara quote from “Gone with the Wind”?: Ah can’t , Ah just can’t deal with it today! Ah know! Ah’ll deal with it tamorr-ah.”


Then there are the termites. All up and down the mountains are ratchet marks and hillocks of loose, upturned soil. It looks like a giant paralyzed monster has clawed his immobile body up the mountain, using talons. At first I thought this was the work of the ants, but no, we have termites too.

As if that’s not enough wildlife, there’s the spider situation. I saw this rather large, intricate-looking spider hanging out on the wall one day, and managed to capture him in a glass and take him to the Zulus for identification. He seemed to be fairly innocuous. The next night I was doing laundry and happened to glance over at the yellow Rondi where I saw a spider the size of my hand nonchalantly crawling up the wall. At which point my eyes got as big as my hands. Fana tells me it’s a “peaceful spider” but let me tell you, I ain’t be getting no peace thinking about that thing at night. Note to self: wear bug suit at all times. It is like living on Fear Factor.

On the running front, we have a new member, Thobani, who lives on the farm by the Tuck Shop, and told me one day, “This thing of the running interests me very much”. He joined us, but the problem was Thobani has no running shoes. So he ran in shorts and a tee-shirt, dress socks pulled up to his knees and newly polished dress shoes! And he still kicked my ass on the mountain! I am trying to find him some Size Eight runners these days.

I’m still learning about Zulu words and Zulu culture. The funny thing about Zulu words is that they have words that sound virtually the same but signify completely different things. For example: indula (chief); indulu (asshole). And you know I discovered that by calling the Chief of KZN an asshole (Nonhlanhla’s father-in-law, by the way). However, it’s spawned a new game: Indunu or Induna? whereby I point out a situation and the others have to correctly identify it as indunu or induna. For example, there was a town meeting the other day by the Tuck Shop and Sifoso correctly identified that as “Induna”; the drunken man calling “Please, I love you!” next to the Tuck Shop: indunu.

The culture also continues to mystify me. I was talking about all the treats they had for us a teatime in Johannesburg and Fana commented to Nonhlanhla, “Ah, that’s why you’re gaining weight Nonhlanhla. You’re really getting big. Massive!” Nonhlanhla isn’t one to keep quiet when she’s not happy about something, (she can shut you down with a cocked eyebrow and a chin tilt), so I was surprised she didn’t seem to react. I asked Fana, “How is Nonhlanhla not killing you right now?”

“Ah, no problem. She knows. It is our culture. But the white people don’t like it. I said this once to my white co-worker in the Cape and she was like, mad.”

“Yeah. Just to clarify, if you ever say that to me, I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

Fana is so random sometimes. We took a trip to Jozini one weekend, just for something to do (and to eat KFC…I’m so food-deprived here that a trip to the KFC is decadence-incarnate.) We decided to go for a walk and I chose this trail and that trail, whatever looked interesting to explore, until I stopped to fix my shoe outside this one house where Fana announced, “Oh, by the way, my relatives live here.”

I said,”Here? In this house right here?” Sure enough, they invited us in where we had pears and Coca-Cola in the sitting room with his uncles and aunts and cousins.

The water situation is a bit dire. As in, there is none. I always hold out a little bit of hope that when I open the taps a bit will trickle out, but it doesn’t usually happen. Thoko and I are relegated to filling the containers at the Jo-Jo Tank and hauling them up. I don’t understand the whole water situation and nobody has been able to explain it to my satisfaction. My conversations on water go something like this.

“Thanduxolo, do you know why Thoko and I don’t have water anymore in the Rondi?”

“Ish, I don’t know. Jenny, do you know in Swazi culture if the husband of the woman dies, her brother can step in?” (this relating to the fact that Mbali always calls me ‘sikoni’ (sister-in-law), because she wants me to marry Spamantla, her brother)

“Yeah, I heard something about that. Do you know who I can speak to about the water situation?”

“Yes, and if the husband is barren, the brother can secretly step in to save the family name. But they have to pretend they don’t know. So they send the husband away so he cannot know what is happening, but somehow he knows, but they must convince him.”

“So, he knows the child is not his, but he pretends not to know?”

“Yes, but he really knows somehow, but they must convince him, so he doesn’t know. Do you think this could work in Canada?”

“No, I don’t think so. Do you think the water will come back through the taps? Who controls that? Where does the water come from, Jozini?”

“Yes, it is pumped from the tankhouse, but now it is finished. You must talk to Beki. I think the Swazi heart is very big, we have a lot of love to share, but maybe the Canadian heart is not so big.”

“Maybe a different shape.”

So, I go to talk to Beki, whose attention is consumed by this giant swath of intestine he’s heating up in the microwave.

Me: Sawubona Beki. I’m wondering about the water, how we can get it back.

Beki: (poking at his sausage with a fork) Ai, the water is finished.

Me: Right. But how do we get it back?

Beki: It is finished. You must carry it up in a bucket.

Me: Right, but how do we get it to pump from the water source back to the tankhouse into the pipes? Like before.

Beki: (biting into his sausage, and heading out the door, up the mountain.) I don’t know. Maybe someone out there is not doing his homework.

Me (calling after him up the mountain): Who? Who is not doing his homework? Ubani?

So that is where we are at with that. The most plausible explanation I have heard so far, given that Bhambanana never runs out of water and is only 22 km away, is that the Bhambananians vote IFP (whereas Ing. Votes ANC).

So if you are reading this, take a moment to really appreciate that running water coming out of your taps: cold water, hot water, running water…and don’t waste your time in the shower worrying about your day, just think about the delicious sensation of running water and savour it.

Fana and I were talking the other day about airplanes, how unfathomable it is that they can get this huge metal contraption up in the sky, jetting around with movies and snacks, yet they can’t get running water to Ingwavuma. One day his phone kept beeping and I said, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

He said, “No, it’s just my Facebook alerts, like people responding to my posts and stuff. It’s forwarded to my phone.”

I said, “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “I like to know what my friends are up to.”

You see, we can do that. But we can’t get the running water to Ingwavuma.

And that’s just a little bit about life here in the Land of Ing.