Chapter One -- Fire:
Hmmm...we'll start with fire since this internet cafe is like a sauna. I've been on this Intrepid Tour now, Overland Africa, for about 10 days, but it feels like a year, so much has happened. First of all, I have totally lucked out (I think) as our travel group only has five people. It's like being on Survivor, but in the final weeks. Since the truck and trip are designed for 21 people, we all have double seats to ourselves, three lockers each, extra mats for sleeping and our own tents. It's a bit like Gilligan's Island. There's Rhonda, who was a housewife for 26 years, but then did a total life-turn-around and now lives and travels on her own. She is a raw foodist/vegan, abstains completely from alcohol, is very spiritual and meditative, takes long walks at sunset and does energy healing and massages for us in the 'massage tent'. She works at a place called 'Smashed-In Head Buffalo Jump' in Alberta and is a true 'cowgirl'. Then there's Bernard and Ursula, a couple in their sixties, from BC. Bernard is happy-go-lucky and chuckly and and adopts a 'TIA' (This is Africa), shoulder-shrugging attitude when things go off course on the trip, and his wife Ursula keeps him on his toes and toeing the line. She's astute with a quick eye, whether it's spotting the first springbok in the wild and capturing it on film (kick-ass camera that puts our point-and-shoot cams to shame) or spotting her husband surreptitiously pulling a beer from the cooler mid-morning. Sandra is a social worker from Switzerland and has spent the last bit of time in a language school to learn English, in Cape Town. Bernard and Ursula speak Swiss-German, so sometimes they translate for her. She's really cute and fun, with a quiet side, but then she'll come out with these dead-pan zingers. The other day at the campfire she told us, "Many people have say me 'this trip will change your life'". The trip leader asked, "And has it?" She just shrugged and said, "Until now, no." We share a tent and have a lot of fun together.
Then there are the crew: Shiundu is our trip leader and he has the dubious job of trying to make everybody happy with questions on the budget, special food requests, through bugs, and heat and disasters. He's a really funny and fun guy from Kenya with a smile that lights up his whole face, but when he means business he means business and he'll whoop your ass into gear. Lelei is our driver, and he's really chill and cool, though I saw a different, boisterous side of him the other day when we were all drinking at the watering hole, and got kicked out for being too loud. He's trying to quit smoking, so I usually give him a sweet at the end of the day as a little incentive. He's on Day Four now. Henry is the cook and he makes me laugh. He's quiet and demure, bopping around the stainless steel table with his knives divvying up tasks, but when we do something wrong, he gets this startled bumble-bee look and says, "Ai! Not for hands, this towel. Not for hands!" He is always reminding us to wash our hands in the 'three bucket system' and last night he was quite perturbed because I cut the cabbage pieces for the salad too big. "Ai! Jenny, what has happened. Too big, too big, there will be big matata (problem)" I told him size doesn't matter and that I stand behind my work, but I could tell those cabbage slices were making him anxious.
Every couple of days we're are doing something new, and being that it's Africa you never know what's going to happen along the way. Our trip got off to an auspicious start as the first day we were camping out at Felix United, our hotel caught on fire. I had just finished going for a run by the Namibian border and jumped in the swimming pool when I saw a fire up in the sky. For a second I thought there must be a rooftop patio I hadn't noticed and they were cooking a braii, but the next second I realized how big the fire was and hopped out of the pool. I don't know the ignition rate of thatch, but an entire section of the roof was blazing. Unfortunately, Calas, the owner, in his haste to shut off the electricity also shut off the pumps, so the crew of his hotel were relegated to using garden hoses and buckets of water to put out the fire. Which was tantamount to putting a band-aid on a gushing amputation. Also, men from the hotel (who had been 'trained' in firefighting) were scrambling up the rooftop like ants, to position themselves at closer range. Seeing this from the ground was alarming, as you could see the fire burning like the dynamite sticks in Roadrunner, so Bernhard and I were hollering at the men to get down. Also, to make things more challenging, there is no fire department there! Lelei drove our truck out of the danger zone and then we scrambled to get our tents and gear out of the way, though two of our tents melted from the heat and there are openings big enough for a wildebeast to enter, never mind mosquitoes. I nearly knocked myself out trying to dismantle this dome tent by myself, under heat of fire.
I ended up joining the crew of guys who were trying to douse the neighboring rondawel rooves with water as it seemed a bit more productive than fighting the man fire which was just completely out of control. It was like trying to block out a shout with a whisper. So I ran back and forth to the swimming, filling up buckets with pool water for the guys dousing the rondawels, and giving pineapple and drinking water to the firefighters. The good thing was that nobody was hurt and the way they build in Africa they use lots of individual buildings, so the rondawels housing the double and singel rooms, and the restaurant/bar were all saved. But they lost all their computers from the internet cafe, the entire gift shop, ATM, and offices. It's weird how we had just paid and then seconds later all that money was up in smoke. Also, Calas has good insurance.
The next day we felt like bad luck was following us as we headed to Fish River Canyon. There were some motorcyclists at our camp doing an overland trip in a group of four. They left the camp about twenty minutes ahead of us, but the one guy must have inadvertantly popped a wheelie on the railway tracks as he'd flown off his bike and his mate was performing CPR on him by the time we arrived. I offered to take over the CPR to give the guy a break and Rhonda wanted to do energy healing, but it was a tense situation and this guy was screaming about 'fucking tourists' so Shiundu warned us back and let them continue until the ambulance arrived from Bethanie. Unfortunately, being that it was remote, the ambulance took 45 to arrive, and the prognosis didn't seem to be good.
We were on tenterhooks the next day, since bad things seem to come in threes, but (knock wood) it all seems to be going well now. We keep running into this German couple Derrik and Monja and they always ask us what disaster has befallen us now.
Earth
One incredible part of Namibia has been the sand dunes here. They are some of the tallest in the world and we did a sunrise climb up Dune 45. It's tough to climb sand, one step forward, half a step back, but it's a compelling view seeing the russet of the sand against the cerulean blue of the sky. When you see people climbing the dunes from down below they look like small hairs on a rhino's chin. Our guide showed us how to look for circular indentations in the sand to pry up sand geckos. If you're lost in the desert you can eat them live and their blood quenches your thirst while their body meat gives you protein. The travellers store drinking water in ostrich eggs buried in the sand with acacia root straws. Also, I discovered that the best thing to do when you're lost in the dunes, is to hike to the top of the dune, sit on the shady side and be completely still until someone finds you. Because of the metallic nature of the sand (iron filaments) the temperature can go up to 80 degrees. A woman was lost there a couple of days ago, and Fran said that if it hadn't been a windy day she would have died of dehydration.
In Swakupmond, Sandra (my tent mate) and I went sandboarding on the dunes. It was so much fun. She's been snowboarding since she was 15, so she got it, but I've only sandboarded once and surfed once (and we know how that went down) so it was a new experience, but I was starting to get how to do the slalom turns by the end, and when you do a faceplant (my position for the day) the sand was super soft to fall into, not like snow! We also got to do lie-down sandboarding, which was an incredible rush, seeing the dunes sail past your cheeks as you lie pressed against the sandboard. They clocked our speeds and I was able to reach 71 km an hour. We also had the same instructors as Brad Pitt. They said he struggled a bit but his bodyguard was amazing.
Water
I got nothing. Sand dunes (See above story on fire. Then refer back to story on surfing.)
Air
No wind. Desert. Daytime hot. Nighttime bloody cold.
There have been so many amazing things happening on this trip, I feel like I'm in a whirlwind. Bernhard always talks about making every day a Saturday and that's exactly what we're doing. We've been to the games park in Etosha and spotted lions, rhinos, giraffes, elephants, zebras, springboks, ornyx, steenboks, rock dassies, wildebeasts, jackals and a million other animals. At night, we went to the backlit watering hole and just watched the elephants lumber up to the watering hole to fill their trunks while the other animals skittered away in packs and herds and tribes, out of respect.
We've hiked to remote desert areas with mountains, and slept under the stars or in caves. We've horseback ridden through the desert, hiked canyons, and yesterday we did a nature hike with the San bushmen (if you've seen the movie 'The Gods Must Be Crazy' that was the San bushmen) and watched them hunt and set traps and make fire (I bought some fire making sticks!). They are so slender and smooth but they have the most perfectly plump butts, like smooth river stones. We asked the guide how old these bushmen were but when Johannes asked them, they didn't know their age, only the season they were born (winter.) I've played with village children, giving them swipes of toffee lip gloss, sunblock and apples, singing the Waku Waku Shakira song with them, and eaten fried caterpillars and Windhoek beer in the Shebeen with the locals.
In the evenings, we usually jump in the swimming pool and then prepare dinner together and have campfires. Africa has a notoriously quiet nightlife and last night, our neighboring camper screamed at us: "Jesus Christ! Shut up! It's ten to ten at night!" Yup. So Shiundu has hooked us up with earphones connected to his Ipod so we can at least party in the bus. Oh, and last night I was hanging out with Shiundu and a huge Wildebeast and eland rushed by us. I could feel the hairs on my arm stand up as they rushed by.
We are now heading to the Delta in Botswana where we'll be spending the next few days in dug out canoes with mosquitos.
Must go drink water.
Cheers,
Jenn
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
From Rags to Riches
Rags to riches has truly been the theme for my journey of the past couple of weeks: travelling through the Wild Coast, the Sunshine Coast and the Garden route --a surreal transformation from impoverished rurals to opulent suburbs. I feel a bit discombobulated, being sprung into the lap of luxury this way. Actually, I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, having fallen down the rabbit hole and somehow ending up at the Queen of Hearts' garden party, playing croquet on an immaculate green lawn. It feels like at any moment the running water might disappear and the marble tiles beneath my feet give way beneath an uprising of termites.
This is the land of smooth cool marbleentryways and granite countertops, swimming pools, Keith Harrington prints, remote controlled gateways and pets napping languorously in patches of tiled sunlight. After a week of chillaxing in Durban, waiting for my Indian visa to come through, I hopped on the Baz Bus to travel through the Transkei and former 'homeland' of South Africa. You hear all kinds of horror stories about this stretch of wild, but it really reminded me of Ingwavuma, propelled onto a ribbon across the sky. The rondawels dotting the landscape tend to be a verdant aqua, with aluminum rooves instead of thatching. We did see an overturned bus on the route, with people scrambling out over the hillside, but no one seemed worse for the wear. We did all our travelling in the day, though our driver did tell us that when he used to be a transport driver travelling nights, he was hijacked and shot at, and actually killed a man once (in self-defense...but that's what they all say...)
I spent a night in Coffee Bay at the Coffee Shack, this rural backpackers with swinging hammocks and pool tables next to pebbled coves. The local Xhosa girls brought their beadwork for sale and performed dances and chanting while we ate warm maize bread and beef stirfry with red wine. I bonded with a couple from the Netherlands roasting marshmallows over the campfire and before we'd even introduced ourselves, they were inviting me to stay with them in Cape Town (which I took them up on.)
In Port Alfred, a small coastal village, my friend Trevor set me up with his in-laws, who live in a beachside home with gorgeous architecture. Windows stretching from floor to ceiling overlooking a huge expanse of garden, leading out to the sea, and a beautiful bedroom loft overlooking the living room. They have an incongrous duo of dogs, Stuker, this gorgeous russet Ridgeback who's very mellow, and Chica, an animated dachshund who yips and nips and circles around her companion like a Mexican jumping bean. The two are both pups, and they love wrestling in the yard. Stuker sometimes picks up the little one by the scruff of his neck, in his jaws, and drags him about the yard. I had fun running the beach with these two. They're such curious little critters, nosing bits of seaweed, and carrying strange prizes home in their jaws. It's a real change to run along the coast instead of mountains. It feels so liberating to breathe in the salt air and take a refreshing dip after a sweaty run. Graham and Helen were the perfect hosts. Helen and I went craft shopping and out for tea and rolled cinnamon-and-lemon pancakes; Graham took me 4 x 4'ing over russet red roads through the green, green bushveld on a mystery tour, and over to see the springboks bounding across the golf course. We had a braii outside on the patio, and ate roosterbrood (my spelling might be off there) [toasted garlic buns] and sausage and delectable pork cutlets marinated in some amazing special sauce. Helen was telling me about how they were robbed one night. Some youths came in over the wall, and she saw the security light flash on so knew something was up. She debated telling her husband but didn't want to wake him and knew it would be safer not to disturb the intruders, so rolled over and went to sleep! When her husband woke the next morning and exclaimed, "We've been robbed" upon going downstairs, she calmly replied, "I know." The robbers took their laptops, cell phones, food from the fridge and teatree oil! Now they have fences, gates, security, and the two dogs. Their son lives next door and is a surfer. They were telling me a frightening tale of how their son was out surfing with a mate, dangling his legs off his board, waiting for the next great wave, when he threw his hands up in the air and howled. His friends thought he was glorifying the waves, but he'd actually been bitten by a shark. They managed to rescue him and get him to hospital where a surgeon patched him up, but the shark had bitten both his legs and one was quite badly mangled at the time. It's weird how I decided to go surfing after hearing that story...
It happened like this. In Knysna, there was an ad for surfing lessons, so I decided to give it a whirl. Let me tell you, surfing is nothing like that Kate Bosworth movie, "Blue Crush". Actually, the part where she hit her head on the rock and was catapulted by the sea -- it was a lot like that part. First of all, the phrase 'surfing teacher' is a bit of an oxymoron. I don't really get it, because surfing I've discovered requires a lot of mental acuity and dexterity, but surfers seem to be tuned into some far-away galaxy that the rest of us aren't a part of. Our instructor showed the German girls and I how to get up on the surfboards by practising in the sand. It involves doing a kind of push-up while going on pointe with your big toe and pivoting into a lunge. A natural movement that you might find yourself doing in everyday life. The two German girls got it (they were like machines, man) but when he observed me, his comment was, "Nah, man. That's messed. Don't do that. Just in one movement, like." Once you take the board out onto the water, it's a lot like doing the burpees my trainer was always getting me to do, but on a moving board, while the sea attacks you. It is much harder than it looks, and my back and arm muscles were aching the next day. Standing up is a bit of a feat unto itself. I didn't really get it, and when I asked the surfing instructorfor pointers, he said, "Just like you did it in the sand, bru!" I said, "But you didn't like what I was doing in the sand!" The sea tossed me this way and that, and used my own surfboard as an instrument against me. I lost a contact lens and was surfing half blind, which didn't help my case. I got clobbered in the arm, the neck, the back. I fell off the board and was trapped in this whirlwind of a wave, ass over teakettle, not knowing which way was up or down. As soon as I made it up I was knocked flat by the next wave. Then the board came at me and cut right across my jugular, proving to me just why that would be an effective self-defense strategy when confronted by a robber. I managed to stand up once. Once! But I did find riding the waves on my knees to be a good thrill. At the end of it all, Don was grinning, "Ya had a great time, did ya, Jenny!" Jay-sus. I am going sandboarding in a couple of days. Let's hope I'm an Earth sign. That said, I learned a really important lesson that day. I wish I could remember what it was.
In Port Elizabeth, I stayed with Trev's schoolmates, Bryan and Leisha. Their house was incredible. They showed me where my room was and I couldn't even find it again, after hanging out in the lounge. They have flat screen TVs, a private bar, a gorgeous dining room table that would house the Knights of the Round Table and their families, and paintings the square footage of my rondawel in Ingwavuma. They have three daughters (and a menagerie of pets including two dogs, a cat and two parrots!) and for the one daughter's 13th birthday, they hosted a 'Pink Party' so when you enter the garage, it's painted in flourescent pink and black checkers, illuminated by a black light. Bryan works in robotics and animation and Leisha is a Corporate Safety Consultant. Talking to them was very illuminating. Leisha was telling me about the group dynamics of working with some of her clients. In particular the way certain tribes respond to royalty. She was working with the Princess of Venda, (the fourth wife) and when she became obstinate and passive-aggressive towards the workshops and walked out, the others would all follow, at the risk of losing their own jobs. I had encountered a similar group mentality situation in the rurals, so it was fascinating for me to hear her talk. When she confronted the others of the group without the Princess present, they all admitted that they didn't respect the Princess' actions or her persona, but that they had to show respect and complicity due to her royal status, although she had no 'real' power over them. Leisha pointed out that although she is not royality, she has more import over their jobs as they could lose them if she reports they are wasting company money (thousands of dollars) by absconding workshops. They all agreed this was logical, but tradition sometimes is so ingrained it trumps logic. Even when this Kingdom no longer officially exists under the new regime.
She was also telling me of two Hydroponics projects introduced into the townships on either side of Port Elizabeth. Same groups, culturally, economically, geographically. Yet one hydroponics plant was well-maintained, well-run and profited, while the other fell into ruin, rusted by the sea, leaving the tunnels derelict. They tried motivating, coaching, teaching in the failed hydroponics project and even brought in people from the successful hydroponics project to model strategies, and took the unsuccessful project managers to the other plant for a tour. Yet nothing changed. People, man.
Sometimes I do get confused by the very evident and continued subjugation of the poorer people here. Yet I've noticed something that I call 'occurence'. It's as though with some people, it occurs to them that they can have a brighter future, and they take measures to ensure that it happens, while others stay locked into the same gridlock of 'how it always was, and how it always will be.' For example, Fana went to invest in some MTN stock the other day and the man told him, "You know, you're the first person from Ingwavuma ever to have done this." Granted, the post-Apartheid era is still young, and integration and success don't happen overnight, but you do see some people seizing the day, while others continue to be sublimated. I asked a server at a restaurant the other day if she could tell my friends I wouldn't be able to meet them at 12 if they came by the restaurant. She became flustered, and told me to speak to the manager. Another time, I was at the movie house, but I was 7 rand short. I asked if I could still see the movie and bring the 7 rand in the next day. She became flustered, and told me to speak to the manager. There's still an attitude of 'White Man Knows Answer' and a lot of black faces behind the counters, while the white people dine. I've also seen the domestics, on their hands and knees scrubbing at marble floors which are non-pourous and easy to clean with a simple swipe of the mop, but I think old habits die hard.
I finished my coastal journey in Cape Town, where I stayed with my new friends from the Netherlands, Liz and Jan. Liz is a Corporate Executive for Shell who travels a lot on business and Jan runs two entrepreneurial businesses from home, one to deliver innovative vocabulary-learning through podcasting and the other to provide hosted, as opposed to 'in-house' servers for new and emerging companies in South Africa. He is living a terrific lifestyle as he can work from home and go to the beach twice a day. Liz and Jan have two pets, a black border collie named Snoop whom they got from the Rescue, and a beautiful black cat called Holly. Jan introduced me to the world of Kitesurfing. I watched him and his mate, Stein gambol in the waves as I ran alongside, downwind. What a young boy's dream, it's like being carried up in the wind by a balloon, and then deposited back on a wave. It's quite something to see all these bright crescent kites carving the sky, and the boarders doing suspended skateboard tricks, hovering over the choppy waves. We took Snoop out for some games of catch and toss on the shore, which he never tired of, and ate sampler salads and hot chocolate on the Boardwalk patios. Their home is beautiful too, a U-shaped structure encasing an outdoor courtyard and pool. I had my own wing!
I have definitely seen the other side of life here in South Africa, staying at all these palatial homes. It's still hard to take in, like running your fingers along a stone motif, tracing all the figures, concave and convex, undulating shapes, some carving in, some protuding out, and it all makes one picture, if you can just stand back far enought to see it. You wonder what the key is for the 'have nots'. Education, culture, belief, occurence? The Indian population, though brought here as indentured labourers, have now risen to the upper echelons of society and are some of the wealthiest South Africans. You see in Port Alfred these 3 million rand summer homes, sea-encrusted and abandoned, rising like monikers up on the coastline, while 2 kilometers away are all the RPD homes, where families crowd into one house to be able to rent out the neighbouring one. Sometimes the poorer people are employed as domestics, but when I ask the locals if the domestics can live there year-round and do maintenace on these houses while the owners are away, they emphatically respond, "No. Then there would be twenty people living here when the owners got back." So they stand like beautiful empty sea shells, while families crowd into alumninum shacks.
Today is my last day in South Africa and it is a bit heartwrenching. I have to say good-bye to Fana (and it's his birthday today, too) and my friends in Ingwavuma. I'll miss asking people for directions and have them wave their hand like a beached fish. I'll miss hearing "Only with pleasure" when I ask for small favours. I'll miss seeing people named for virtues: Beauty. Confidence. Assurance. And I'll miss people sweeping in small circles around me wherever I go. Like right now. Brooms and cell phones. Inelastic demand.
Next stop: Namibia.
This is the land of smooth cool marbleentryways and granite countertops, swimming pools, Keith Harrington prints, remote controlled gateways and pets napping languorously in patches of tiled sunlight. After a week of chillaxing in Durban, waiting for my Indian visa to come through, I hopped on the Baz Bus to travel through the Transkei and former 'homeland' of South Africa. You hear all kinds of horror stories about this stretch of wild, but it really reminded me of Ingwavuma, propelled onto a ribbon across the sky. The rondawels dotting the landscape tend to be a verdant aqua, with aluminum rooves instead of thatching. We did see an overturned bus on the route, with people scrambling out over the hillside, but no one seemed worse for the wear. We did all our travelling in the day, though our driver did tell us that when he used to be a transport driver travelling nights, he was hijacked and shot at, and actually killed a man once (in self-defense...but that's what they all say...)
I spent a night in Coffee Bay at the Coffee Shack, this rural backpackers with swinging hammocks and pool tables next to pebbled coves. The local Xhosa girls brought their beadwork for sale and performed dances and chanting while we ate warm maize bread and beef stirfry with red wine. I bonded with a couple from the Netherlands roasting marshmallows over the campfire and before we'd even introduced ourselves, they were inviting me to stay with them in Cape Town (which I took them up on.)
In Port Alfred, a small coastal village, my friend Trevor set me up with his in-laws, who live in a beachside home with gorgeous architecture. Windows stretching from floor to ceiling overlooking a huge expanse of garden, leading out to the sea, and a beautiful bedroom loft overlooking the living room. They have an incongrous duo of dogs, Stuker, this gorgeous russet Ridgeback who's very mellow, and Chica, an animated dachshund who yips and nips and circles around her companion like a Mexican jumping bean. The two are both pups, and they love wrestling in the yard. Stuker sometimes picks up the little one by the scruff of his neck, in his jaws, and drags him about the yard. I had fun running the beach with these two. They're such curious little critters, nosing bits of seaweed, and carrying strange prizes home in their jaws. It's a real change to run along the coast instead of mountains. It feels so liberating to breathe in the salt air and take a refreshing dip after a sweaty run. Graham and Helen were the perfect hosts. Helen and I went craft shopping and out for tea and rolled cinnamon-and-lemon pancakes; Graham took me 4 x 4'ing over russet red roads through the green, green bushveld on a mystery tour, and over to see the springboks bounding across the golf course. We had a braii outside on the patio, and ate roosterbrood (my spelling might be off there) [toasted garlic buns] and sausage and delectable pork cutlets marinated in some amazing special sauce. Helen was telling me about how they were robbed one night. Some youths came in over the wall, and she saw the security light flash on so knew something was up. She debated telling her husband but didn't want to wake him and knew it would be safer not to disturb the intruders, so rolled over and went to sleep! When her husband woke the next morning and exclaimed, "We've been robbed" upon going downstairs, she calmly replied, "I know." The robbers took their laptops, cell phones, food from the fridge and teatree oil! Now they have fences, gates, security, and the two dogs. Their son lives next door and is a surfer. They were telling me a frightening tale of how their son was out surfing with a mate, dangling his legs off his board, waiting for the next great wave, when he threw his hands up in the air and howled. His friends thought he was glorifying the waves, but he'd actually been bitten by a shark. They managed to rescue him and get him to hospital where a surgeon patched him up, but the shark had bitten both his legs and one was quite badly mangled at the time. It's weird how I decided to go surfing after hearing that story...
It happened like this. In Knysna, there was an ad for surfing lessons, so I decided to give it a whirl. Let me tell you, surfing is nothing like that Kate Bosworth movie, "Blue Crush". Actually, the part where she hit her head on the rock and was catapulted by the sea -- it was a lot like that part. First of all, the phrase 'surfing teacher' is a bit of an oxymoron. I don't really get it, because surfing I've discovered requires a lot of mental acuity and dexterity, but surfers seem to be tuned into some far-away galaxy that the rest of us aren't a part of. Our instructor showed the German girls and I how to get up on the surfboards by practising in the sand. It involves doing a kind of push-up while going on pointe with your big toe and pivoting into a lunge. A natural movement that you might find yourself doing in everyday life. The two German girls got it (they were like machines, man) but when he observed me, his comment was, "Nah, man. That's messed. Don't do that. Just in one movement, like." Once you take the board out onto the water, it's a lot like doing the burpees my trainer was always getting me to do, but on a moving board, while the sea attacks you. It is much harder than it looks, and my back and arm muscles were aching the next day. Standing up is a bit of a feat unto itself. I didn't really get it, and when I asked the surfing instructorfor pointers, he said, "Just like you did it in the sand, bru!" I said, "But you didn't like what I was doing in the sand!" The sea tossed me this way and that, and used my own surfboard as an instrument against me. I lost a contact lens and was surfing half blind, which didn't help my case. I got clobbered in the arm, the neck, the back. I fell off the board and was trapped in this whirlwind of a wave, ass over teakettle, not knowing which way was up or down. As soon as I made it up I was knocked flat by the next wave. Then the board came at me and cut right across my jugular, proving to me just why that would be an effective self-defense strategy when confronted by a robber. I managed to stand up once. Once! But I did find riding the waves on my knees to be a good thrill. At the end of it all, Don was grinning, "Ya had a great time, did ya, Jenny!" Jay-sus. I am going sandboarding in a couple of days. Let's hope I'm an Earth sign. That said, I learned a really important lesson that day. I wish I could remember what it was.
In Port Elizabeth, I stayed with Trev's schoolmates, Bryan and Leisha. Their house was incredible. They showed me where my room was and I couldn't even find it again, after hanging out in the lounge. They have flat screen TVs, a private bar, a gorgeous dining room table that would house the Knights of the Round Table and their families, and paintings the square footage of my rondawel in Ingwavuma. They have three daughters (and a menagerie of pets including two dogs, a cat and two parrots!) and for the one daughter's 13th birthday, they hosted a 'Pink Party' so when you enter the garage, it's painted in flourescent pink and black checkers, illuminated by a black light. Bryan works in robotics and animation and Leisha is a Corporate Safety Consultant. Talking to them was very illuminating. Leisha was telling me about the group dynamics of working with some of her clients. In particular the way certain tribes respond to royalty. She was working with the Princess of Venda, (the fourth wife) and when she became obstinate and passive-aggressive towards the workshops and walked out, the others would all follow, at the risk of losing their own jobs. I had encountered a similar group mentality situation in the rurals, so it was fascinating for me to hear her talk. When she confronted the others of the group without the Princess present, they all admitted that they didn't respect the Princess' actions or her persona, but that they had to show respect and complicity due to her royal status, although she had no 'real' power over them. Leisha pointed out that although she is not royality, she has more import over their jobs as they could lose them if she reports they are wasting company money (thousands of dollars) by absconding workshops. They all agreed this was logical, but tradition sometimes is so ingrained it trumps logic. Even when this Kingdom no longer officially exists under the new regime.
She was also telling me of two Hydroponics projects introduced into the townships on either side of Port Elizabeth. Same groups, culturally, economically, geographically. Yet one hydroponics plant was well-maintained, well-run and profited, while the other fell into ruin, rusted by the sea, leaving the tunnels derelict. They tried motivating, coaching, teaching in the failed hydroponics project and even brought in people from the successful hydroponics project to model strategies, and took the unsuccessful project managers to the other plant for a tour. Yet nothing changed. People, man.
Sometimes I do get confused by the very evident and continued subjugation of the poorer people here. Yet I've noticed something that I call 'occurence'. It's as though with some people, it occurs to them that they can have a brighter future, and they take measures to ensure that it happens, while others stay locked into the same gridlock of 'how it always was, and how it always will be.' For example, Fana went to invest in some MTN stock the other day and the man told him, "You know, you're the first person from Ingwavuma ever to have done this." Granted, the post-Apartheid era is still young, and integration and success don't happen overnight, but you do see some people seizing the day, while others continue to be sublimated. I asked a server at a restaurant the other day if she could tell my friends I wouldn't be able to meet them at 12 if they came by the restaurant. She became flustered, and told me to speak to the manager. Another time, I was at the movie house, but I was 7 rand short. I asked if I could still see the movie and bring the 7 rand in the next day. She became flustered, and told me to speak to the manager. There's still an attitude of 'White Man Knows Answer' and a lot of black faces behind the counters, while the white people dine. I've also seen the domestics, on their hands and knees scrubbing at marble floors which are non-pourous and easy to clean with a simple swipe of the mop, but I think old habits die hard.
I finished my coastal journey in Cape Town, where I stayed with my new friends from the Netherlands, Liz and Jan. Liz is a Corporate Executive for Shell who travels a lot on business and Jan runs two entrepreneurial businesses from home, one to deliver innovative vocabulary-learning through podcasting and the other to provide hosted, as opposed to 'in-house' servers for new and emerging companies in South Africa. He is living a terrific lifestyle as he can work from home and go to the beach twice a day. Liz and Jan have two pets, a black border collie named Snoop whom they got from the Rescue, and a beautiful black cat called Holly. Jan introduced me to the world of Kitesurfing. I watched him and his mate, Stein gambol in the waves as I ran alongside, downwind. What a young boy's dream, it's like being carried up in the wind by a balloon, and then deposited back on a wave. It's quite something to see all these bright crescent kites carving the sky, and the boarders doing suspended skateboard tricks, hovering over the choppy waves. We took Snoop out for some games of catch and toss on the shore, which he never tired of, and ate sampler salads and hot chocolate on the Boardwalk patios. Their home is beautiful too, a U-shaped structure encasing an outdoor courtyard and pool. I had my own wing!
I have definitely seen the other side of life here in South Africa, staying at all these palatial homes. It's still hard to take in, like running your fingers along a stone motif, tracing all the figures, concave and convex, undulating shapes, some carving in, some protuding out, and it all makes one picture, if you can just stand back far enought to see it. You wonder what the key is for the 'have nots'. Education, culture, belief, occurence? The Indian population, though brought here as indentured labourers, have now risen to the upper echelons of society and are some of the wealthiest South Africans. You see in Port Alfred these 3 million rand summer homes, sea-encrusted and abandoned, rising like monikers up on the coastline, while 2 kilometers away are all the RPD homes, where families crowd into one house to be able to rent out the neighbouring one. Sometimes the poorer people are employed as domestics, but when I ask the locals if the domestics can live there year-round and do maintenace on these houses while the owners are away, they emphatically respond, "No. Then there would be twenty people living here when the owners got back." So they stand like beautiful empty sea shells, while families crowd into alumninum shacks.
Today is my last day in South Africa and it is a bit heartwrenching. I have to say good-bye to Fana (and it's his birthday today, too) and my friends in Ingwavuma. I'll miss asking people for directions and have them wave their hand like a beached fish. I'll miss hearing "Only with pleasure" when I ask for small favours. I'll miss seeing people named for virtues: Beauty. Confidence. Assurance. And I'll miss people sweeping in small circles around me wherever I go. Like right now. Brooms and cell phones. Inelastic demand.
Next stop: Namibia.
Monday, October 4, 2010
A Swazi Wedding, A Zulu Wedding and A White Wedding
So, remember how way back when I witnessed what I have come to call THE INCIDENT WITH THE CHICKEN and was considering vegetarianism (before I took full note of the putrid state of veggies in the Spar)? Well that is small potatoes compared to what I've now witnessed about The Process of Creating Meat at these traditional, rural weddings. But first, we must start at the beginning.
The first wedding I went to see was a Zulu wedding, which goes on for a couple of days. The first day I didn't see too much as I just went up the mountain with Cebi to drop off my gift. We ate a little stiff pop, pork, and intestines washed down with swizzles of Grape Fanta, watched some traditional dancing, and listened to Shakira's 'Africa' song on a loop. Cebi's five-year-old son, Zhotani was dancing around and I said, "Who did Zhotani come here with?" (since he hadn't come with us). Cebi clucked her tongue and replied, "That's just the sort of boy Zhotani is, he's up and down and around and goes everywhere. Very independent." There were announcements that combi-taxis would be taking people to the home of the groom in the bush on the way to Jozini starting at 4 am , where the next day's festivities would commence. Cebi and I had a plan to call each other at 4 and meet up, but the Night Shift Program being what it is, the network was insane and we never got through, so I headed up on my own, where Nana's mother took me under her wing and ushered me into the combi crowded with people singing and dancing in a manner suspiciously reminiscent of the Elaine-dance on Seinfeld. Once we got to the bush, the men and women took to different sides of the road (men and women are always separated at these things) and the men took out the ubiquitous machete to hack a clearing in the bush. A girl I've never seen before, in a shiny magenta dress, Nomthebo, pulled me over with the girls, where ironically, we all curled up under a cozy-cozy blanket and took a nap (making me wonder why I'd dragged my ass out of bed at 3 am) but no worries, I had a nice nap there in the bush and was woken up by women bringing us steaming Milo and fatcakes.
Then the real festivities began. The guys dragged this lovely salt-and-pepper goat up from the bush for the sacrifice. I thought Dieudonne slaying the chicken was rough; this was far worse, seeing this poor goat have his throat seesawed off. It seemed to take far too long, I don't know if that's because the youth didn't have experience, I was seeing it in slow motion or due to the fact that they sharpen their knives on the sides of rocks. I will never get the image of the severed throat tendons out of my head. Oh, but this was just the opening act. In Act III, we see a pick-up truck spurting up the hill, with a cow dragging along behind it. At least that killing was fast (screwdriver to the soft spot), but what happened next had a macabre fascination for me. They skinned the entire cow and plucked out its organs one by one. I've never seen anything like it.
They slid the knives under its skin and it peeled off like the brown skin of a kiwi fruit, exposing the pulpous white skin of the cow beneath. I had no idea cows were so white inside. Then, they slid the membranous part of the skin off, (like the outside skin of a boiled egg once the shell has been removed). That's when it got interesting, because we saw the cow's stomach leering up at us like a giant bulbous eyeball. They slit the stomach, and you could see everything the cow had consumed, like sloppily masticated bails of hay. After dessicating the stomach, they pulled back the skin to reveal the intestines, surrounded by this mucousy mass of slime, like worms writhing in spit. As they removed each organ, they would sling it in the branches of a nearby tree, and once the intestines were dangling there, they slit them with knives to let all the excrement drip out. Lovely. They wash these later in a basin of water. Ignominiously draped next to the intestines were the poor bull's bollocks. Upon further investigation (because it's not every day you see this kind of stuff) I realized there were miniscule turquoise and aqua bugs that looked like tiny crabs all over the testicles. My first thought was: My Lord, this cow had an STI. Followed by: Wait. Can cows get STIs? And then: How will I even know which part of the cow they are serving me? (Because you know that as the only foreign guest everyone's going to be studying you, seeing how you react to everything). Fana later laughingly reassured me that they were tics, hmmm...
Slaughters aside, the wedding was very merry. The guys and gals were outfitted in animal hides and bare legs with wrist and ankle cuffs. The bride had to be 'hidden', leading up to the ceremony, so was surrounded by an enclave of women obscuring her with cozy blankets, and umbrellas. During the actual ceremony there was a lot of dancing and chasing each other around with knives, and at one point they all ended up in the coral dancing, and shouting and doing the 'Elaine dance' with some scissor kicks to the forehead, and squats. I'm not going to pretend I understood any of it, but it was great fun. At one point (I don't think this was part of the official ceremony), they threw me into the coral where an old man grabbed me and kissed my cheek and everyone laughed.
Then, there was the presenting of the gifts, loaded up by truck and brought to the groom's house (sideboards, beds and glassware). The bride's family must buy all of the members of the groom's family blankets, so there were piles and piles of cozy-blankets in the back of the pick-up, looking like the bed from the Princess and the Pea.
Everyone was very welcoming, ushering me into the kitchen and feeding me warm maize drinks with sugar and Coca Cola. For dinner, we were served in a large tent: maize, salad and (yup), beef and intestines. I was saved by the bell there though as Gama and Lucky appeared at that moment and helped me out with the meat a bit. Then, a crazy drunk guy grabbed my plate and stuffed all the remnants of beef and gristle down his throat. Power to yah, bud.
I left the twelve hour wedding with Gama and Lucky, wandering down the gravel road to the istolo to buy airtime and water. Sifiso sent me an SMS from across the road at the T-Junction, so we finished the day by splitting some beer outside the Bottle Store, and then hitching a ride back to Ing at sundown, where we made sandwiches of Polony, tomato and strawberry yogurt and hung out at the Rodawel.
My next wedding was a Swazi one, and it was a little different due to the fact that a) it was Swazi, not Zulu b) it was in the city (Richard's Bay: [sidenote: although it is the city, a lot of people here go barefoot, the Whites, the Blacks, everyone, even in the shopping centres] c) it was the wedding of the sister of the guy I've been dating, so I got to meet his whole family (Pindile, Jabulo, Muzi, Gugu, Zoto, Thembile, Nobile, Sabile, Pomilile..).
When I arrived in Richard's Bay, Fana and his brother and cousin picked me up at eleven. I was a little worried, since the wedding started at twelve. But at two we were still sitting in lawn chairs at Fana's sister's friend's place drinking beer and watching the kids play soccer, so not to worry. At aroudn two thirty, we ended up going to this kind of rec. centre where the people in the wedding party started a promenade, chanting and stepping. The chants are very cool and repetetive, so although I can't understand them I can chant them. I also got to see Fana all outfitted in his traditional attire, replete with animal hides festooned aroung the waist, a colourful tassled rope with pompoms over the shoulder, and purple scarf as an armband, animal hide ankle wraps and bare feet. He also got to carry a sheath and a sword and jump around, dancing and lunging at small children. The women wear tassled skirts and bright mandarin orange scarves with the King's face on them wrapped around their shoulders, but once the promenade finishes they shun them and go topless. The promenade ended at the tennis courts outside the rec. centre where the men and women took different sides of the court to dance and continue singing. Pindile, the bride, had a giant black feathered headress and Jabulo (Happy), the Groom had on khaki pants with colourful, tassled patches sewn all over them, like a clown.
It's so bizarre to see so many ages, shapes and sizes of women so nonchalently topless. After the dancing we made our way back to a huge tent and formed an assembly line to get supper: stiff pop, rolls, Coca Cola, beef and (my favourite) intestines! They also had something similar to the Zulu wedding, where they parade all the gifts that people have given out on the tennis courts, hauled by trucks (including furniture), and place the couple's new marriage bed in the centre of the court, make it up with bedding and pillows and blankets and put the couple in it. It's really cute, as they horse around and have fun. They've been living together for five years already though, which on a technicality is not allowed, I guess. It is difficult to grasp the culture here sometimes; I try to be inconspicuous and blend in (ha!) but I'm often between a rock and a hard place, culturally. For example, Fana told me that his mom wasn't happy to see me drinking alcohol. I smacked him and said, "Then why did you tell me it was okay to drink that beer?" (offered to me by his male relatives). He just shrugged and said he didn't think it would be a problem (further corroborating my theory that the male brain is the same all over the world.) Then there is the fact that he can't tell his mom he's dating me, his brother had to do it (the indirect approach). Also, you're not supposed to show affection in public, as it's considered rude. Sometimes Fana goes with that, sometimes he doesn't. But it's strange to not be able to hold hands, yet everyone's bounding around topless. Also, drunk men are always grabbing at you on your way to the loo. Though I saw Fana's sister handle that one by slapping the guy away, and telling him off royally before storming off across the room. So I guess my approach was too understated. They also tend to congregate by sex, girls with the girls, guys with the guys, which I find tough as I naturally tend to gravitate towards the males, as they are more into action, while the girls like to gossip. Since I don't understand Zulu/Swati, I can only go so long listening to the thrum of the talking before I get restless. So I commit a lot of cultural faux-pas as I go, but it's never dull, and I can safely say that is the first time I have met a boyfriend's mom for the first time, topless.
The Swazi and Zulu weddings were so much fun, and when you think about it, the White Weddings can be so stressful, with all that attention focussed on the bride, and the bride having to be perfect. The audience are just passive observers, whereas in these weddings, everyone is dancing and mingling and cavorting together as a team. I remember the bride in the White Wedding I saw looking positively morose and despondent, like an Ice Queen (though I wasn't aware of the 'No Touch' rule at the time.) I think that would be a lot of pressure, to have to appear sad and stoic, never touching your groom, while everyone stares at you, up on a mantle, like a doll.
At the moment, Fana and I are in Durbs, aka civilization with hot running showers (only 7 minutes, but I am over the moo.) exploring UShaka world and abandoned Pirate Ships. The street names are crazy here. They changed all the names after Apartheid ended, so you have the old names (Afrikaans/English) and the new names (Zulu). Sometimes the Transport drivers/maps people go by the old names, sometimes by the new names so it's all a bit of madness trying to pair them up, remember the name and where it is. For example Windsor Street (old name) is now Dr. Langalibalele Dube (new name). I still struggle to be understood. No one understands my accent here, especially when I say words like 'water'; I have to go British. But one cool thing about Zulu culture is that people call you 'sisi' when they're cool with you (actually Zulu's often call their cousins 'sisters' and 'brothers' which was another thing confusing me at Fana's sister's wedding. His nuclear family is actually smaller than I thought.) The littering problem here continues to be out of control. I was in a combi taxi the other day eating a banana and the 'getter' was telling me to chuck it out the window. I said, "No, it's okay. I'll wait. I don't want to litter." The guy just gave me an exasperated look, clucked at me, and wrested the banana peel from my hand, chucking it out the window for me.
Speaking of banana peels, I saw the funniest thing with a piano the other day. I was talking to uBaba Myeni, the security guard at Zisize, when all of a sudden we heard this really loud thonk. There's this old dilapidated piano on the Zisize grounds which kids entertain themselves with, thumping out tunes using the exposed hammers, since the keys no longer work. Well, the guys were playing soccer and I guess Ncane was at the wrong place at the wrong time, because the piano feel right on top of him. He kind of crawled out from beneath it, like an angry worm, dusted himself off while the rest of the guys cracked up, and continued with his game. (In case you're wondering what the connection is, it's this: Slipping on a banana peel and getting thonked by a piano are both things you usually only see in cartoons.)
Anyways, that's the African image I'll close with today!
The first wedding I went to see was a Zulu wedding, which goes on for a couple of days. The first day I didn't see too much as I just went up the mountain with Cebi to drop off my gift. We ate a little stiff pop, pork, and intestines washed down with swizzles of Grape Fanta, watched some traditional dancing, and listened to Shakira's 'Africa' song on a loop. Cebi's five-year-old son, Zhotani was dancing around and I said, "Who did Zhotani come here with?" (since he hadn't come with us). Cebi clucked her tongue and replied, "That's just the sort of boy Zhotani is, he's up and down and around and goes everywhere. Very independent." There were announcements that combi-taxis would be taking people to the home of the groom in the bush on the way to Jozini starting at 4 am , where the next day's festivities would commence. Cebi and I had a plan to call each other at 4 and meet up, but the Night Shift Program being what it is, the network was insane and we never got through, so I headed up on my own, where Nana's mother took me under her wing and ushered me into the combi crowded with people singing and dancing in a manner suspiciously reminiscent of the Elaine-dance on Seinfeld. Once we got to the bush, the men and women took to different sides of the road (men and women are always separated at these things) and the men took out the ubiquitous machete to hack a clearing in the bush. A girl I've never seen before, in a shiny magenta dress, Nomthebo, pulled me over with the girls, where ironically, we all curled up under a cozy-cozy blanket and took a nap (making me wonder why I'd dragged my ass out of bed at 3 am) but no worries, I had a nice nap there in the bush and was woken up by women bringing us steaming Milo and fatcakes.
Then the real festivities began. The guys dragged this lovely salt-and-pepper goat up from the bush for the sacrifice. I thought Dieudonne slaying the chicken was rough; this was far worse, seeing this poor goat have his throat seesawed off. It seemed to take far too long, I don't know if that's because the youth didn't have experience, I was seeing it in slow motion or due to the fact that they sharpen their knives on the sides of rocks. I will never get the image of the severed throat tendons out of my head. Oh, but this was just the opening act. In Act III, we see a pick-up truck spurting up the hill, with a cow dragging along behind it. At least that killing was fast (screwdriver to the soft spot), but what happened next had a macabre fascination for me. They skinned the entire cow and plucked out its organs one by one. I've never seen anything like it.
They slid the knives under its skin and it peeled off like the brown skin of a kiwi fruit, exposing the pulpous white skin of the cow beneath. I had no idea cows were so white inside. Then, they slid the membranous part of the skin off, (like the outside skin of a boiled egg once the shell has been removed). That's when it got interesting, because we saw the cow's stomach leering up at us like a giant bulbous eyeball. They slit the stomach, and you could see everything the cow had consumed, like sloppily masticated bails of hay. After dessicating the stomach, they pulled back the skin to reveal the intestines, surrounded by this mucousy mass of slime, like worms writhing in spit. As they removed each organ, they would sling it in the branches of a nearby tree, and once the intestines were dangling there, they slit them with knives to let all the excrement drip out. Lovely. They wash these later in a basin of water. Ignominiously draped next to the intestines were the poor bull's bollocks. Upon further investigation (because it's not every day you see this kind of stuff) I realized there were miniscule turquoise and aqua bugs that looked like tiny crabs all over the testicles. My first thought was: My Lord, this cow had an STI. Followed by: Wait. Can cows get STIs? And then: How will I even know which part of the cow they are serving me? (Because you know that as the only foreign guest everyone's going to be studying you, seeing how you react to everything). Fana later laughingly reassured me that they were tics, hmmm...
Slaughters aside, the wedding was very merry. The guys and gals were outfitted in animal hides and bare legs with wrist and ankle cuffs. The bride had to be 'hidden', leading up to the ceremony, so was surrounded by an enclave of women obscuring her with cozy blankets, and umbrellas. During the actual ceremony there was a lot of dancing and chasing each other around with knives, and at one point they all ended up in the coral dancing, and shouting and doing the 'Elaine dance' with some scissor kicks to the forehead, and squats. I'm not going to pretend I understood any of it, but it was great fun. At one point (I don't think this was part of the official ceremony), they threw me into the coral where an old man grabbed me and kissed my cheek and everyone laughed.
Then, there was the presenting of the gifts, loaded up by truck and brought to the groom's house (sideboards, beds and glassware). The bride's family must buy all of the members of the groom's family blankets, so there were piles and piles of cozy-blankets in the back of the pick-up, looking like the bed from the Princess and the Pea.
Everyone was very welcoming, ushering me into the kitchen and feeding me warm maize drinks with sugar and Coca Cola. For dinner, we were served in a large tent: maize, salad and (yup), beef and intestines. I was saved by the bell there though as Gama and Lucky appeared at that moment and helped me out with the meat a bit. Then, a crazy drunk guy grabbed my plate and stuffed all the remnants of beef and gristle down his throat. Power to yah, bud.
I left the twelve hour wedding with Gama and Lucky, wandering down the gravel road to the istolo to buy airtime and water. Sifiso sent me an SMS from across the road at the T-Junction, so we finished the day by splitting some beer outside the Bottle Store, and then hitching a ride back to Ing at sundown, where we made sandwiches of Polony, tomato and strawberry yogurt and hung out at the Rodawel.
My next wedding was a Swazi one, and it was a little different due to the fact that a) it was Swazi, not Zulu b) it was in the city (Richard's Bay: [sidenote: although it is the city, a lot of people here go barefoot, the Whites, the Blacks, everyone, even in the shopping centres] c) it was the wedding of the sister of the guy I've been dating, so I got to meet his whole family (Pindile, Jabulo, Muzi, Gugu, Zoto, Thembile, Nobile, Sabile, Pomilile..).
When I arrived in Richard's Bay, Fana and his brother and cousin picked me up at eleven. I was a little worried, since the wedding started at twelve. But at two we were still sitting in lawn chairs at Fana's sister's friend's place drinking beer and watching the kids play soccer, so not to worry. At aroudn two thirty, we ended up going to this kind of rec. centre where the people in the wedding party started a promenade, chanting and stepping. The chants are very cool and repetetive, so although I can't understand them I can chant them. I also got to see Fana all outfitted in his traditional attire, replete with animal hides festooned aroung the waist, a colourful tassled rope with pompoms over the shoulder, and purple scarf as an armband, animal hide ankle wraps and bare feet. He also got to carry a sheath and a sword and jump around, dancing and lunging at small children. The women wear tassled skirts and bright mandarin orange scarves with the King's face on them wrapped around their shoulders, but once the promenade finishes they shun them and go topless. The promenade ended at the tennis courts outside the rec. centre where the men and women took different sides of the court to dance and continue singing. Pindile, the bride, had a giant black feathered headress and Jabulo (Happy), the Groom had on khaki pants with colourful, tassled patches sewn all over them, like a clown.
It's so bizarre to see so many ages, shapes and sizes of women so nonchalently topless. After the dancing we made our way back to a huge tent and formed an assembly line to get supper: stiff pop, rolls, Coca Cola, beef and (my favourite) intestines! They also had something similar to the Zulu wedding, where they parade all the gifts that people have given out on the tennis courts, hauled by trucks (including furniture), and place the couple's new marriage bed in the centre of the court, make it up with bedding and pillows and blankets and put the couple in it. It's really cute, as they horse around and have fun. They've been living together for five years already though, which on a technicality is not allowed, I guess. It is difficult to grasp the culture here sometimes; I try to be inconspicuous and blend in (ha!) but I'm often between a rock and a hard place, culturally. For example, Fana told me that his mom wasn't happy to see me drinking alcohol. I smacked him and said, "Then why did you tell me it was okay to drink that beer?" (offered to me by his male relatives). He just shrugged and said he didn't think it would be a problem (further corroborating my theory that the male brain is the same all over the world.) Then there is the fact that he can't tell his mom he's dating me, his brother had to do it (the indirect approach). Also, you're not supposed to show affection in public, as it's considered rude. Sometimes Fana goes with that, sometimes he doesn't. But it's strange to not be able to hold hands, yet everyone's bounding around topless. Also, drunk men are always grabbing at you on your way to the loo. Though I saw Fana's sister handle that one by slapping the guy away, and telling him off royally before storming off across the room. So I guess my approach was too understated. They also tend to congregate by sex, girls with the girls, guys with the guys, which I find tough as I naturally tend to gravitate towards the males, as they are more into action, while the girls like to gossip. Since I don't understand Zulu/Swati, I can only go so long listening to the thrum of the talking before I get restless. So I commit a lot of cultural faux-pas as I go, but it's never dull, and I can safely say that is the first time I have met a boyfriend's mom for the first time, topless.
The Swazi and Zulu weddings were so much fun, and when you think about it, the White Weddings can be so stressful, with all that attention focussed on the bride, and the bride having to be perfect. The audience are just passive observers, whereas in these weddings, everyone is dancing and mingling and cavorting together as a team. I remember the bride in the White Wedding I saw looking positively morose and despondent, like an Ice Queen (though I wasn't aware of the 'No Touch' rule at the time.) I think that would be a lot of pressure, to have to appear sad and stoic, never touching your groom, while everyone stares at you, up on a mantle, like a doll.
At the moment, Fana and I are in Durbs, aka civilization with hot running showers (only 7 minutes, but I am over the moo.) exploring UShaka world and abandoned Pirate Ships. The street names are crazy here. They changed all the names after Apartheid ended, so you have the old names (Afrikaans/English) and the new names (Zulu). Sometimes the Transport drivers/maps people go by the old names, sometimes by the new names so it's all a bit of madness trying to pair them up, remember the name and where it is. For example Windsor Street (old name) is now Dr. Langalibalele Dube (new name). I still struggle to be understood. No one understands my accent here, especially when I say words like 'water'; I have to go British. But one cool thing about Zulu culture is that people call you 'sisi' when they're cool with you (actually Zulu's often call their cousins 'sisters' and 'brothers' which was another thing confusing me at Fana's sister's wedding. His nuclear family is actually smaller than I thought.) The littering problem here continues to be out of control. I was in a combi taxi the other day eating a banana and the 'getter' was telling me to chuck it out the window. I said, "No, it's okay. I'll wait. I don't want to litter." The guy just gave me an exasperated look, clucked at me, and wrested the banana peel from my hand, chucking it out the window for me.
Speaking of banana peels, I saw the funniest thing with a piano the other day. I was talking to uBaba Myeni, the security guard at Zisize, when all of a sudden we heard this really loud thonk. There's this old dilapidated piano on the Zisize grounds which kids entertain themselves with, thumping out tunes using the exposed hammers, since the keys no longer work. Well, the guys were playing soccer and I guess Ncane was at the wrong place at the wrong time, because the piano feel right on top of him. He kind of crawled out from beneath it, like an angry worm, dusted himself off while the rest of the guys cracked up, and continued with his game. (In case you're wondering what the connection is, it's this: Slipping on a banana peel and getting thonked by a piano are both things you usually only see in cartoons.)
Anyways, that's the African image I'll close with today!
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