Earth, Air, Fire and Water

 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

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.

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!

Ehlu-who?

I officially take back whatever I said about Ingwavuma and eManyeseni being 'the sticks' now that I've been to Ethluhlene...the true rurals. Forget running water, there was no water there period when we arrived. The people were waiting for it to rain, and all up and down the gravel roads were spigots and bore holes leering up from the dry earth, between bristly bullrushy weeds, dry as dust. They carted water in from the surrounds, slung around donkeys' necks, to be transferred to pails and garrafons and placed outside peoples' rooms for cooking and bathing.

I was doing some mental calculations with Fana the other day about the whole water issue, and discovering how it really oppresses people. Let's say that in Canada it takes 10 minutes for a shower, 5 minutes to run the dishwasher, 5 minutes to load the washing machine and one minute to turn on the tap...that's twenty minutes. In rural South Africa, it takes me 20 minutes to fill the garrafon from the JoJo tank, 15 minutes to haul it up the mountain, 5 minutes to pour and heat water to wash dishes (and then another 15 to wash them), 5 minutes to pour and heat water for the basin (sponge bath), 15 minutes to bathe, another 5 minutes to heat and pour water to do the laundry basins, and a good 30 minutes to wash, rinse, and hang to dry. And God Forbid you want to wash your hair or shave your legs...forget about it. So that's almost 2 hours. Six times as long. No wonder people have no time for anything else, like studying or reading. And with no electricity, your day is done by six pm. It's time to go to bed. Ish! I was reading a book (by candlelight! Trying not to set myself on fire!) that talked about how Apartheid ended only to be replaced by a type of economic Apartheid. I completely agree with that. It's one thing to say Whites and Blacks can ride the transport together, but what transport!? All the white people have 4 x 4's and the rest are left to their own devices.

When Fana and I were coming back to Ing from Durbs, we had to wait in the combi for it to fill, because that's the system here. When the bus is full, the bus goes. Do you know how long it takes a combi to fill with people who want to go to Ingwavuma? I'll tell you -- three and a half hours!  Then, trying to get back from Richard's Bay, I got stuck at the Chicken Licken' (which closed at 6!) outside this petrol station in Empangeni where the transport guys were telling me to 'hike' (hitchhike) with all my bags along the side of the road, because the transport here finishes at six. Everything bloody well packs in at six. Thank God I knew Gama's friend Kanganipo who swung by to pick me up and book me into an overpriced B&B for the night. It did have about 300 cable stations though. Exciting!

The more time I spend here the more conscious I become of the huge disparities in wealth. For example, I know a guy here who is multi-lingual, has experience in a range of careers, possesses fantastic technological acumen and shows initiative and leadership in his job, yet his direct supervisor is getting paid eight times his salary. Professionals here live with no running water, and outhouses. They are spending a quarter of their salaries to live in one-room cement houses. It's absolutely ludicrous. The other thing making my blood boil these days is the whole lobola (bride price) issue. One of our team members isn't allowed to come to the schools anymore because she is pregnant out of wedlock and it's considered hypocritical to be preaching about safe sex, when in her condition she obviously didn't practise it. I find the whole thing to be a hypocritical crock. She's an adult in a committed relationship and just to give you an idea of how lobola works...it's about eleven or twelve cows for lobola here. At 5000 rand a cow, that's about 60 000 rand. Let's say a person here makes about 2000 rand a month. Take away rent (400), transport (350), and food (800), and the person is left with 450 rand of disposable income per month. That's not including trips out of Ing, airtime, clothing or entertainment. Even if the person saved every rand of that 450 rand, it would take them 11 years to raise that kind of capital. And that's assuming they even have a job. And you're telling people they should get married before having kids? These poor Ehluhlenian teenagers; they have no electricity and no books. No disco. No movie theatre. Is it any wonder there's so much HIV and teen pregnancy? It's funny how your connotations of things change. When I used to see people with wedding rings in Canada, the word that sprang to mind was 'traditional'. When I see people with wedding bands here, the word that springs to mind is 'rich'.

A sidenote about the aforesaid airtime: Airtime here is the greatest industry. Everyone here is pretty much using pay-as-you-go, and SMSing here is an adrenaline-sport. On 'Dancing with the Stars South Africa' they have to constantly remind people of the 20-text maximum, and all the soapies and life insurance commercials tell you to SMS them your favorite character or life insurance concerns. Airtime is sucked up so fast you have to get right to the point when you call people, and there is no time for pleasantries like 'hello' and 'goodbye'. They do have this night shift promotion whereby you can earn points to talk free from Vodacom to Vodacom from midnight to five a.m. so whenever Fana and I want to talk to each other, we have to stay up or set the alarm for midnight and sometimes the network is so busy you can't even get through. So talking on the phone here is pretty much a bust. But let me tell you, airtime is inelastic demand. People with no shoes all have vodacom vouchers and Nokias.
But getting off my rants and back to Ethluhlene, I think that place has been the most eye-opening so far. Most of the children don't speak English, so I tried to communicate by showing them the Zulu childrens' book I was reading, or skipping with them. They would crowd around me in huge throngs. I felt like a rock star, but I also felt responsible to say good morning to each and every one of them when doing my morning runs, as I didn't want anyone to feel slighted or left out. They come to school along kilometres of dusty mountain roads between the donkeys, carrying sticks to make firewood and old Coke bottles filled with water. Once when I was running, a young girl offered me a Heinekin bottle. I was really confused until I realized it was only housing water. The children here are completely poor, often without shoes, and they tie dusty bits of rags together to make skipping ropes.

I was doing the workshops with Cebi in a Grade Seven classroom and had the idea that, like in Canada, they'd be mainly 11 and 12 year olds, but because many of them start late, or 'abscond from classes' as the South Africans say, the students span from 11 to teenagers. There was even a twenty-one year old in the class! I was trying to explain how it's different in Canada, but I think they didn't understand the whole IEP thing, and just thought Canadian students are wildly successful, so in the magic circle at the end of the day, this twenty year old made a fervent promise to me that by the time I returned, he WOULD be in high school. God bless that boy (man?) for even showing up to class!

One cool thing we got started in Ehluhlene was a Spoken Word competition. Nonhlanhla and I had seen a Poetry Slam in Jo'burg, and were inspired, so I did a mini workshop on Spoken Word and made my own Spoken Word poem (about water) as an example. We decided to have a little competition with the team, so I rounded up some judges (the Fakuda brothers Mpo and Mlu, and MGomezulu), got some prizes and refreshments, and a hall for us to perform. I wasn't sure what to expect, as this was really new for the Drama Team, but they really blew me away. Cebi and Sifiso did their poetry in English, Cebi about lovers and liars, and Sifiso about grout! (he lays tiles as a second job.) Nonhlanhla, Mbali and Muzi did theirs in Zulu on Tradition, AIDS and love, respectively. They got costumes and props and the delivery was really passionate. I was so impressed. Mbali's seemed really fascinating and I asked her what it was about. She said, "Ai, Jenny, you didn't understand it?" I have tried to explain to Mbali that unless it involves cows, goats, danger, or running, I pretty much don't understand Zulu, but she continues to show me elaborate SMS messages she receives on her phone and asks for my interpretation.

Anyway, after Ehluhlene, we went on a road trip straight to Durban for the Drama for Life Conference, which was really inspiring: Verbatim Theatre, Playback Theatre, performance art and installations, and we ended up meeting this student Dumelo, who got us into a Poetry Slam event with her student card. These slammers were incredibly good, and the lecture hall was filled. The MC was tickled pink to have guests from "Ingwa...where are you guys from again?" and insisted we go up. I was trying to convince Mbali to go up, and Fana, who is able to make up these lucid and rythmic hiphop rhymes on-the-spot, I've discovered, but they refused unless I went up first to do a rap in Zulu. I'd made up this Zulu rap as a kind of in-joke amongst the team, so they dared me to go on the stage and do it. So I did, and even though it was short and silly, the Zulus are always so flattered to have you try to speak their language, so they were really supportive. Mbali and Fana both went up afterwards and I was so touched because I could tell how nervous and overwhelmed they were by all these funky, worldy city-slicker scholars, but they did it. This whole experience is making me realize how powerful poetry, and in particular Spoken Word, is and makes me think that something like this could fuel frustrated teens in remote places like Ehluhlene. It's entertaining, potentially 'lucrative' (if you award prize money) and it's a potent outlet for political and cultural expression. Not to mention the sense of community it fosters through oracy and word play.

Speaking of words and writing, back in eMan, I got it into my head that it might be a good idea to write an article (not that anyone's commissioned me or anything), so started interviewing the staff and students. When I was interviewing the Deputy Principal, a small child came in to pull on Mrs. Mantenjwa's sleeve and remind her that she was expected in a meeting just then. The Deputy responded by pulling the child aside, and whispering conspiratorially, "Tell them I am with a WHITE LADY, and that I am very busy!" I asked for a couple of 'well-spoken' students to interview and ended up interviewing two shy 'yes, ma'am' students (suspiciously both with the surname Matenjwa, though let's be honest, 50% of eMan. have this surname), so I pulled Nonhlanhla, the classroom teacher, aside and said, "Listen Nonhlanhla, those were good interviews (I was lying), but I'm wondering if you don't have some naughty students I could interview, just to get a different kind of outlook." [It cracks me up the way South Africans use the term 'naughty'. I picture a boy stealing cookies from the cookie jar, or someone dressed as a seductive nurse. Here they mean hardened juvenile delinquents stealing their deceased father's shotguns, and scoffing money from their sleeping gogo's.] Nonhlanhla sighed at my request and said, "Ai, Jenny, you are too late. They took five naughty learners to the jail yesterday. They must appear before the magistrate on Monday."
Nonetheless, Nonhlanhla did manage to procure me one naughty boy who had managed to escape arrest. Of course, being a naughty learner, he wasn't much of a studier, so his English left a little to be desired, as evidenced by his answer to my question: How do you think theatre gets learners talking and thinking about issues?
Response: If a girls gets raped to the bush, they must drain the sperm.
We eventually got on track, though I think he was worried I was trying to out him at first. He kept saying, "No, not I. I am not to do these bad things!"
I said, "No, no, of course not. Not you. Others! What are 'the others' doing?"
Then I hit paydirt and heard all about the absconding from classes to go swimming in the dam, smoking in the toilets, spinning for money, stealing from the gogo's...

In my spare time, I continued the s'more tradition and hanging out with my GQ chicken-slaying friend, Dieudonne. I was trying to crazy-glue my sunglasses one day, and I think after reading the warning label, Dieudonne was seriously considering crazy gluing his eyelids as an entertainment option. He is getting cabin-fever, I think, and wants to go live in Canada. Dieudonne always reminds me of a gay French designer, but he is none of the above. Ironic.

In other news (izindaba)...Mbali got a disturbing phone call at 4 a.m. one night while we were camped out in our erstwhile slumber party 'cottage' at Ehluhleni. One of her neighbors murdered his wife by stabbing her to death, seemingly over i.d....but I think something may have got lost in the translation there. In other local violence, one day at Zisize the boys were playing soccer on the grounds, when a dispute broke out and one youth came after the other with a machete. (Personal view: too many people have machetes here.) They eventually calmed him down and escorted him home, but when they held the town meeting outside the Tuck shop the next day with the Induna, they decided that as penance he would have to pay the victimized boy one goat and that would settle the score.

On the running front, I am developing the hamstrings of a mountain goat and even ended up running all the way to Mtabayengwe with Gama one evening, which it turns out is 24km! (my new high score). Two months ago, I was only running 5-8km.

Okay, I am wrapping this up, because along with inelastic demand airtime, the inelastic demand internet time is killing me. I think I've accidentally deleted this log about five times.
Sale kahle!
Jenn

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.

J'aime Beaucoup Johannesburg

Recently, Nonhlanhla and I had the cool experience of travelling to Johannesburg to participate in the Drama For Life Conference in good ol’ Joburg. We arrived there by taxi, by which you might be picturing deluxe and comfortable, but you would be wrong. Instead you should picture a combi, jam-packed with people, blankets, tarps, squawking chickens, Cozy Cozy Mr. Price blankets and babies, for ten hours of rickety-rackety gravel roads. With what I can only define as ‘Afro Gospel House’ pumping over the speakers. There was a woman sitting next to me with her one-and-a-half year old baby bouncing on her lap who went seamlessly from breastfeeding to gnawing on a KFC drumstick. Not that seamlessly though, since the baby threw up all over the cab.


The Conference was nothing short of spectacular. They had thirteen hours a day of programming, including Keynote speakers, Round-table discussions, panel talks, workshops, one-man shows, Spoken Word, and music motifs. We had tea about four times a day, with a smorgasbord of brownies, samosas, sandwiches, sausage bites and croissants. Three meals a day to boot and the whole thing only cost about fifty dollars.

Networking was incredibly fantastic as the people attending this conference were art therapists, clinical psychologists, artistic revolutionaries, drama practitioners, doctors without borders, and Gestalt therapists. There were people from Zimbabwe, Cameroon, Nigeria, the UK, Trinidad and Tobago , Mozambique, one doctor from Canada!, the USA, and Nigeria. I met this really cool guy from Senegal who is a fisherman-cum-political- revolutionary who spent some time in jail due to his beliefs, who now uses Paolo Friere type drama with the locals to education on HIV awareness. He only spoke French, and though my French is butchered and bastardized, somehow between talking to Diol and Dieudonne all the time, it’s coming back in fits and starts. Ironically, they asked me to translate this puppet workshop into French for him, and that was interesting as we got into this three-way contentious discussion with a woman from Holland about the global release of this childrens’ book on HIV/AIDS. Diol was not digging the book (alluding to HIV as a dragon in the bloodstream) and he was letting the Dutch woman know it. It was quite interesting trying to translate that.

Nonhlanhla and I presented on “Socio-drama and HIV/AIDS – Transformational Dialogue Through Group Body Images” (title courtesy of Jenny and Steve); I have to say that after working with sometimes recalcitrant ten-year-olds, doing this workshop for academics was a whole different ball game. The incredible images these people formed with their bodies and the kaleidoscopic discussions that came out of it, took things to a whole new level. It was fascinating peeling back the layers of their human sculptures, and launching off different tangents of discussion. Also, the chair for our session, Tonderai Chinyindiko, may be the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life. We hung out on the patio with Tonde, and our photographer, Evaristo afterwards; they are very cool artists themselves.

At night, there was always something going on. One incredible performance art piece took place on Constitution Hill at the old Fort Prison. As we toured the cells where such people as Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu were incarcerated, various actors performed tortured soliloquies of rape, torture and solitary confinement. The Blacks, Afrikaaners, and ‘Coloureds’ were all represented, as were prison guards and prisoners. It was haunting and wrenching. Two years ago I only read the placards and visited the cells with their shifting ghosts, but to have the stories reenacted was compelling.

I have to mention that we had the privilege of listening to Albie Sachs on one of the panels. He’s a human rights activist and lawyer who defended people charged under racist statutes and repressive security laws. He was placed in solitary confinement without trial for two detention spells, for violating a banning order. He was in exile for awhile, teaching and studying in England and then Mozambique, and in 1988 South African security agents planted a parcel bomb in his car in Maputo. He lost his arm, and the sight in one eye, but never stops to pity himself, and soldiers on in his convictions. He was instrumental is preparing the new democratic Constitution for South Africa and establishing South Africa’s constitutional democracy. He served on the Constitutional Court as a judge, and as he is now retiring, is embarking on a career in documentary film. He said he has to say that out loud to as many people as possible so he’ll be forced to do it. He’s committed to a December deadline for his first film. Imagine how inspirational it was to listen to this man speak.

Another night, there was a Spoken Word competition by the students at Wits Uni. I couldn’t believe the prowess with which these students performed this Poetry Slam, given it’s their second or third language. They can manipulate and break the words, use alliteration, onomatopoeia, interior rhymes, puns, allusions to literature, all with finesse and ease. And their sense of style is so funky and cool, layered plaids and stripes and tipped tweed hats. There was one rep from KZN who did a bilingual rap in Zulu and English. I wish I could have understood it, but the clicking sounded like elves tapdancing on cobblestones. There was also a drag queen, Miss Diversity, who did a piece. Nonhlanhla was cracking me up, she was maybe a bit overwhelmed by the Jo’burg Jive and I think Miss Diversity threw her for a loop. She left right afterwards and missed the Zulu rapper. She also was tittering uncontrollably at the one-man-show “I’m Here” during which the man disrobes to complete nudity. That said, when we’re back doing Forum Theatre in Ingwavuma, she has no problem disrobing to change into exercise gear in front of her male co-workers, so I always tease her by asking her what the difference is and whispering “I’m Here” in her ear.

When we returned to the Backpackers each night after the Conference, Nonhlanhla would go straight to bed, no passing go, no 200 Rand. I would sometimes chat with the other Backpackers and lounge around. Actually, one day Sofia (a German girl) and Gordon (an Aussie) had visited the iAfrica Tower, (broad daylight) and were mugged by a team ‘of four to six’ (their words:P) youths. Gordon managed to wrestle them off cause he’s a tough guy, but Sofia got choked by one of them and he made off with her camera, money, and more importantly her journal. Luckily she had taken out the full memory card from her camera the day before and had her passport back at the ranch. It’s unfortunate that happened to them though as that was her last day in South Africa and it left a bad taste in her mouth. Gordon was supposed to have spent another 2 weeks in South Africa but he changed his ticket and flew out the next day. Xenophobia being what it is, the South Africans say, “Yes, but those were not South Africans who attacked you. They must have been the Zimbabweans!” This tale illustrates why I follow the advice of my South African friend Matt: Travel with the locals, wear a black hoodie, hood up, chin down, hands in pockets,no cell phone, no camera,no bling. And this is why you will see no pictures of Johannesburg from me, only shots of the rurals! If you want to know what Joburg looks like you will have to look it up online.

That said, I do have a couple of local friends in Jo’burg that I was anxious to see. Unfortunately, I couldn’t catch up with Karina, my crazy Jozi journalist friend as she was under deadline from her big bad editor boss. I guess there’s a lot to report on what with the Black Magic Serial Killers, the usual crime, the Strike (which has finally lifted by the way, if only for a 21-day contemplative hiatus), and the ‘what, what’, what’. But I did manage to connect with my friend Eben. Funny story: I met Eben two years ago in Joburg when I first arrived, fresh off the plane. He was holding a sign up for ‘Jane’ and I was looking for my pick-up so we agreed that if his pick-up and my pick-up ditched, I could be his Jane. We got to talking and he is a performance artist/actor/puppeteer/arts practicioner. He gave me his business card, which I found while cleaning out my apartment in July. On a whim, I sent him an SMS not sure he would remember me, but it all worked out and he took me out for a night on the town, showing me all the glitz and glory of Jo’burg, replete with political and geographical history, over cocktails at ‘The Cat’s Pajamas’.

Returning from Jozi, we got a taxi at the Bree Taxi Rank, but the demand to go to Ingwavuma – not so high. The combi goes, when the combi is full. While you’re waiting, you get every kind of vendor rapping the windows selling everything from sweets, and juice, to giant elastic bands (?), airtime, and battery-operated multi-chargers. When I got home, I was dying to get a huge glass of milk and watch ‘How I Met Your Mother’, but wouldn’t you know it, some mentors from eManyeseni used the rondawel in my absence and took off with the keys. You might think there would be a set of extra keys, but you’d be wrong. It took Simon (uBaba Meni) and MKalipi an hour and a half to break me in using machetes, butter knives and some weird wires they twisted off the fence by the road to Spar. So you know the rondawel is (somewhat) secure. Then I realized the fridge was switched off so everything in the fridge was rotten. I had no electricity and no running water. (No milk for you). And that’s how I knew my city life was over!

Putting the Man back in eManyeseni

Ingwavuma. (I know the blog title says ‘eManyeseni’ but we’ll get to that.) To describe Ingwavuma, I have to take you back to a conversation Thoko, my Zimbabwean roommate and I had one day as I was doing yoga on the top of the mountain on my bamboo mat and Thoko was wondering what my Dyna Bands were all about. [On a side note, I was using my Dyna Bands against a tree today and the gardener just clucked away in Zulu, shaking his head: ‘make work’.] I was surveying all the small village homes and commenting to Thoko, “What exactly do the people do here…farming?” I said this last part a little dubiously as the climate and terrain aren’t too conducive to agriculture. “Ai,” Thoko tutted, “Nothing.” Scrutinizing the landscape, she said “Ingwavuma. Ai! It’s a hell of a place.” Flashforward to Thoko leaving the rondawel at sunrise to catch a plane to Cape Town for 10 days.


And so it is that I inhabit the mountaintop all by my lonesome these days. All jokes aside though, Ingwavuma is a beautiful, mystical place. And I’m not totally alone in the Roundawel; I do have a new roommate, a cockroach the size of my head. So far, he’s been keeping ‘below deck’ as per our informal landlord/tenant agreement. The geckos aren’t so bad, they are like living wallpaper, but I was rooting around in a box today looking for matches, and one popped out at me like a Jack-in-the-Box! The season is at its edge and it’s prescribed burn time, though I don’t know how prescribed these burns are, when I see eight year olds setting them. The whole landscape smells like roasted marshmallow and there’s something ironically comforting about seeing these blazes scratched across the mountaintop like little campfires. I am getting slowly but surely getting into the ‘rhythm of rural’. The other day I took a walk to the market, just to see how long that would take without transport {an hour and a half}. But I really saw and noticed things and took pictures of people and places along the way.

I think I got into this more relaxed pace, back in eManyeseni. There’s something about having no electricity that really slows you down. I used to feel really stir crazy, cabin feverish, especially surrounded by Zulu all the time. I needed to read a book, write in my journal, study Zulu words, or play with the kids in the creche, until one afternoon, I was sitting outside with the Drama Team, and suddenly realized two hours had gone by. And I hadn’t done a thing, other than watch the occasional truck drift by and let the Zulu conversation of the others click clack around me. I just kind of let the day settle around my shoulders. And it felt incredibly good.

Since there isn’t electricity here, we have parafin tanks which we ignite by a match to cook and boil water from the JoJo tanks. There are also irons (made of iron!) that you can place flat on the coils to heat up and press your clothes for the day. The people here take great pride of ownership in their personal appearance and despite the dust and lack of running water, always arrive to work in pressed trousers and polished shoes. We boil water and lather up soap in big plastic tubs to wash dishes and clothes (the girls use those ropey red netted sacks you buy oranges in as loofah sponges), and hang the wet clothes where they dance on the line outside the crèche.

The Drama Team I work with are really humourous and lively. It’s so cold up here in the mountains that I have actually gotten out my ‘safety suit’ (you know those one-size-fits-all aluminum style suits they sell at Canadian Tire for when you’re stuck in your car in the wintertime, waiting for AA). I made Sifiso wear it one day on a dare, to conduct the drama workshops and he looked like the TinMan from OuterSpace. These guys have a terrific sense of humour and are always playing tricks on me. I’m trying to learn Zulu, and one day as a bunch of riotous-looking guys passed by in the back of a pick-up truck, heading into the sunset, Mbali muttered to herself, “Hambushone”, sucking on a piece of sugarcane. When I asked her what it meant, she replied, “Never look back.” I thought that was such a coolly poetic phrase, and began repeating it, motivational-style, when we would walk through the village, as in “Keep an eye to the future. Never look back. Keep on keeping on.” Mbali always snickered, but I thought she was mocking my pronunciation until one day, Nomcebo heard me saying that to someone, and said “Ai! Jenn! You cannot say that to people. It is so rude.” It turns out it means “Never come back” as in “Go to hell!” Mbali thinks it’s just hilarious, so as punishment, when we went to the Bottle Store, I made her carry the six-pack of beer covered in newspaper back through the village. It’s such a funny oxymoron how these girls can walk around the crèche topless with no worries, but they giggle nervously asking me if I have a boyfriend, or carrying beer. There is some weird stigma about alcohol here that I don’t quite get. About once a week, I’ll buy some beer for the team to have around the campfire, but the other girls never touch it, only me and the guys. When we were in the Bottle Store, Mbali was giggling like a schoolgirl and I asked one of the notorious Matenjwa’s of the village, “Excuse me, Mr. Matenjwa, but I have a cultural question. If I am here in the village to teach and do workshops but I want to enjoy a beer at night, is that viewed as okay?” At first he thought I meant can we drink while we do the workshops, and he said, “No, as a teacher, you must not drink with the students!” but once I clarified things, he said that there was no problem. However, I do notice the women completely abstain from alcohol, while the guys feel no compunction at all about taking up the slack. One day in the crèche, I noticed Mbali looking really upset. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “My boyfriend is dead!” I said, “Yeah, right”, not about to fall for that because these guys are always trying to trick me. But then Mbali burst into tears, and said “Ask them, it is true!” I felt horrible and said, “Mbali, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“He is bitten by a snake!”

“Back in Ingwavuma?”

“No. (sobbing) Mozambique.”

I felt terrible and gave her a big hug, at which point she burst out laughing and yelled, “Hah! Jenn! I am JOKING!” and started dancing around like a twilight leprechaun. These kind of jokes went on and on and now that I think about it, they may have gotten my explanation of ‘Friday the 13th’ mixed up with ‘April Fool’s Day’. They also wanted to get back at me for the ‘Bone Incident’ wherein they gave me some root vegetable to eat but cautioned me, “Don’t eat the bone in the middle or you will ‘go to your home’.” By which they meant ‘heaven’, as in ‘you’ll die; it’s poisonous.’ Which, by the way -- not so clear. Later in the day, I said to Sifiso and Mbali, “Listen, you know that bone thing you were telling me about? I was really hungry, so I plucked it out of the garbage and ate it. You were kidding about it being poisonous, right?” Sifiso opened his eyes wide and said, “Ai. Ish. It is a problem.” I can’t believe they fell for that. Since when do I go plucking things up from the garbage to snack on!

After almost two weeks of workshopping in eManyeseni, the ongoing public servants’ strike which has been going full force in the larger cities, like Durban and Jo’burg, finally trickled out to the rurals and eManyeseni staff was told not to go to work. They mean business when they say that as teachers who do cross the line can be severely beaten. Even the private schools which are not part of the union are on strike right now as a type of enforced solidarity, since the public sector don’t want all the beaurocrats’ children getting ahead of the game on their matrics. Jabula (‘Happy’ in Zulu) invited me to her farmhouse for breakfast, since we weren’t allowed to cross into the yard, but she was chewing her lip, wanting to get ahold of her learners’ exercise books so she could catch up on marking during the strike. Since she was too nervous to enter the yard, she got hold of some of her pupils and asked them to go in through the windows to abscond the books. They followed behind us down the path with piles of exercise books in their arms like little worker ants. Jabula made us tea and toast, porridge, Milo and…chicken! Freshly slaughtered. You know it. I didn’t actually meet that chicken though, so I ate it, and I have to say, Dieudonne was right. There is something incredibly natural tasting about a freshly slaughtered chicken. I am so used to preservatives, but it tastes richer and more succulent ‘au natural’.

Right before the strike, M. Matenjwa, the Director of the School, was giving me a tour, proudly pointing out photos of herself with various renowned politicians (and here is a photo of me with an albino man!) when she took me to the Grade One classrooms to meet the students. They were grinning from ear to ear, pointing at my camera, saying ‘Shoot me’ and scuttling around their desks to come and talk to me. M. Matenjwa had them do an impromptu reading of some Zulu and English words on the board and then some of them started dancing for me. M. Matenjwa, leading me out said, “Jenny, don’t forget to rrremind me that I will have the students crrreate a perforrmance of Afrrican singing and dancing forr you, next week!” Then, clucking over her shoulder, she commented, “Not these ones! They arre all failing! As you can see.”

Anyway, we are back in Ingwavuma now, which seems positively luxurious with the electricity and running water. I don’t even care that it’s cold, especially after running in the mountains, but sometimes when it’s too chilly I heat up water in the kettle to pour into the basin and let the hot water stream over my shoulders. There’s something about having a limited supply of hot water that makes the whole experience positively decadent. I’ve been doing a little cooking here too. Sometimes, we’re a hard-pressed for ingredients, so I’ve had to experiment a bit. The other day, for instance, I was making pasta and realized we had no sauce, so I concocted my own using…wait for it…strawberry yogurt, mayonnaise, sugar, and carrots. You would think that would taste weird, but it is actually yummy! Thoko even added mince and ketchup to hers. Ironically, I was considering doing that myself but thought it might be ‘over the top’. The other day Thoko was about to cook some chicken and I told her, ”I’ve got some pasta on the go, if you want”, but she cocked an eyebrow and asked, “What will the ingredients be?” That said, back in eManyeseni when I brought our campfire s’mores back to the cottages for Dieudonne and Nolwazi to try, Nolwazi clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “Oh, I love the things you white people cook!”

Oh, and today Fana and I were shopping at the Spar and I discovered the most delectable invention: chocolate chip peanut butter. I had been trying to convince Fana to try a peanut butter and banana sandwich because a lot of times when people don’t want to cook here, they just eat bread. So I was trying to convince him to at least put peanut butter and banana on there to get some protein and fruit in with the carbs, when we saw the CCPB sitting like a little genie on the shelf. The sad part was when they went to scan it there was a problem with the bar codes. I don’t really get why they couldn’t just type in ’18 rand’ but the end result was: No Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter for us!

On the weekends, I’ve been taking a few road trips. Gama, Nati and I went to visit Dieudonne in Jozini one weekend where we hung out eating oranges at the market (Nati ate the whole thing, peel and all!) We went to meet Dieudonne’s friends, Ibrahim and Moses, outside their garment shop and then drank soda water at Tiger Lodge. This past weekend, I went with Fana and his family to the glitzy shopping centre at Richard’s Bay. It seemed like a bit of culture shock after a month of Ingwavuma/eManyeseni. Everything seemed so shiny. Fana wants to open up his own business and was in the market for a laminator and airtime machine. We had fun horsing around with the toys in the toystore, pretending we were a couple shopping for furniture (the salesclerk got my cell number, so she can SMS me some deals on chesterfields;), and eating at KFC.

One weekend, Thoko and I went to her pastor’s wedding. The little ring boy looked so sharp in his pressed white trousers and peach cumberbund, but the bride looked positively remorseful. When I walked into the church, I felt very much the obviously conspicuous wedding crasher, being the only white person in the congregation, but the people here are so kind. A woman took me by the hand and led me to sit with the head table, so I could have a perfect view of everything. Since the only Zulu words I really understood from the speeches were ‘umama’ and ‘ubaba’ (the other words I know like outhouse ‘indluyangasese’, rooster ‘iqhude’ and milk ‘ubisu’ weren’t in there) I spent the entire wedding weaving possible scenarios for her unhappiness, though the boisterous pastor beside me kept roaring, “She’s shy! Ai, she’s shy!”

Other than that, the team here keep trying to ransom me off to their various brothers and cousins for ‘lobolo’ (bride price). Mbali wants me to marry her brother whom I met for five minutes the other day in the yard, and Nomcebo always teases me about ‘drunken high school geography teacher’ who is a notorious hanger-onner at the Bottle Shop and always calls out little missives to me in English, such as: ‘We meet to part, and we part to meet’, from under his striped knit cap. One day I got transport back to Ingwavuma with him and he must have sploshed half a mickey of alcohol on me trying to mix a drink in the cab of Senzo’s truck.

In closing, here are some of my favorite Zulu words so far: kuqxakeka (This means ‘confused’. A useful word for me, since I often am confused, but how do you pronounce it exactly? That ‘qx’ gets me every time!)

Cow: Izinkomo (I like it because it sounds like ‘is in coma’ which is true of the cows here. They do not even blink for fast-moving vehicles.)

Angry: Nyanya. (It sounds like that mocking sound kids make, in the schoolyard.)



That is all for now, from Zululand.