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!
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