Another Year Of Eunuch Life In Transkei

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my beaded shell window thingie

my decorative door thingie

my beaded curtain thingie

 

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

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, HOME IS SO REMOTE

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep




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



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

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



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



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

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

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

Three Blind Mice (a couple of spiders and a magic broom)

Today I facebooked a friend who lives in the north and was reminded how diverse South Africa is. Being a Capetonian, I broadly refer to any province north of the Cape as “The North”, a place where elephants and lions roam the bushveld. Three years ago, before exploring “The Great North”, (which I then called the Transvaal, (and there I go giving my age away) I imagined it as a countryside infested with mine dumps and the leaders of SA business. I thought the Kruger Park was a little camped off area somewhere near Joburg which you could drive through for the day and spot a leopard or a rhino the same way our family used to drive through High Noon Reserve in the Cape searching for Springbok or a lonely Ostrich.



After contacting my friend I smile to myself. I will always associate Joe and Jonelle with the bushveld since we met them during our Field Guide Course which we did together “Up North”. The one month course was extremely educational and gave me insight about nature and during this time got to view and study many wild animals. I finish typing the message to her and lie back on my bed to watch two huge spiders scurrying along the beams which hold up our grass roof. This about encompasses the total of my wild life viewing here in Qolora Village. Well, besides the big spiders, there is a mouse who has recently moved into our rondaval but who I’ve only seen once. It was not a cute little 3cm field mouse that dashed across the floor either. He was bigger and blacker and has managed to eat the food out of the mouse and escape unharmed. I hope I don’t put a shirt on one day to find my boob sticking out of a gaping hole where he’s gnawed off the fabric to make a nest for a family of 20 in my clothing cupboard.



Rather than game viewing, I am learning some fascinating things about the Xhosa people here in rural Transkei. For instance, yesterday Mandisa told me about her neighbour’s problem with bees. Apparently a swarm of bees moved into their house. The local medicine women (probably the same ones we saw flapping their arms around on the hillside last week) were summoned to do their thing at the bee infested house. After their visit, the bees duly left. The family were so happy that they decided to slaughter a cow and have a big celebration and a chat with their ancestors. The Xhosa people have a very high regard for the spirit world and confer with their ancestors about all important matters. Being a Christian Xhosa definitely does not exempt you from such beliefs as one must always please the ancestors to ensure good fortune. I’ve thought about it and to me it’s much the same as you or I would occasionally talk to a deceased loved one. They just take the whole business more seriously. Modern man lives in a world engulfed in superficial crap where it’s each man for himself whereas I think the Xhosa people here in rural Transkei have a simpler, slow evolving lifestyle therefore their old beliefs still carry weight and haven’t been thrown away in exchange for vanity and power.



As a white person, I must say I do find some of their customs rather strange yet very intriguing. A custom which is still practised here which I confirmed with the locals is the broom and boobjob thing they do. Apparently, when a young girl starts showing signs of puberty and her breasts start appearing, she has to have them swept. An aunt or grandmother will take her outside before sunrise and using a straw broom, will brush her naked breasts to prevent them from growing too big too quickly. So there you go girls, if you are worried about ending up with an uncomfortable double D bra size and you happen to be outside in the garden blowing a troublesome wart to the moon, you can just as well grab the garden broom to brush your boobs and see what happens. Mmmmm, I wonder how loudly the Xhosa locals would laugh if I told them that many white don’t walk under ladders, open umbrellas indoors and have a thing about salt.



So, on that note if Theo can’t catch our resident mouse I might have to spit in a bowl and stir in some powdered tree bark, sprinkle in some sugar and leave an inviting Hansel and Gretel trail to the door as I exit backwards for the mouse to follow me out and the spirits to not follow me in. If that doesn’t work I’ll have to ask the medicine women in white to come do their magic here before the mouse extends his family to an uncomfortable size. I haven’t got a cow to slaughter afterwards to celebrate but I do have a few sheets of rice paper which I still have left over from our Japanese food stash and which I’m still trying to figure out how to wrap tripe in. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have a Savanna, it might be dry but I can drink it.