Sometimes I can’t see the forest for the trees

Sometimes I can’t see the forest for the trees

I’ve been feeling a bit dissolutioned lately but on reflection, maybe it’s me who’s loosing the plot again. It’s easy to fall into the trap. The pathetic schooling system really fails the children here and it’s driving me insane trying to work with a system that is non existent. Besides the fact that school only takes place Monday to Thursday mornings; afternoons are a bit wishy washy since it depends on which teachers aren’t in a meeting. Some afternoons the teachers who are at school, leave work on the blackboard for the students to do on their own but usually the students just amuse themselves. Friday’s the teachers go home from 10am and the learners clean the classrooms.  When it rains, many learners can’t get to school as the river flows stronger than normal but they don’t miss much.  Lessons are taught in Xhosa by teachers who don’t have a clue about dedication and the principal is about as much of a token trophy as we are.  The kids have no discipline but mind you they are pretty good at making coffee for the teachers.

Last week we attended a big party at school.  The grade R’s graduation and the grade 9’s farewell.  The parents/ grandmothers and the elders were there to proudly cheer the 6 year old’s dressed in hired white dresses and suits and cloaked in their graduation gowns.  The grade 9’s looked like matrics in their fancy suits and shiny dresses all dressed to the nines.  The school spent a fortune to feed everyone who attended and there were no lessons for the whole week what with students having their hair done, others cleaning classrooms and teachers off shopping for groceries for the occasion.    

Last month at the school sports day, another huge chunk of school cash was spent on meat and booze to feed the teachers.  The students were given their usual samp and beams although the guest soccer team were treated to hunks of bread and a slice of polony.  The teachers took loads of left over meat home and we were given our share as well.  The guest school went home with a few bottles of Johnny Walker red label and I went home with a lump in my throat.  

So.  What am I missing here?  The whole forest actually. The above are all the reasons why education in Transkei sucks but I’m not a politician and I didn’t come here to change the course of education in Transkei.  I’m just somebody living in a rural village, helping at the school and our library while learning about the Xhosa nations’ lifestyle.    

Actually, I enjoyed spending the day at the functions with the other teachers in the kitchen chopping vegetables.  I got to know them a little better. I was intrigued by their practical method of cooking 2 huge bags of butternut.  Peeling all the butternut took some time but no one complained and they sang songs and did the occasional dance when it got boring.  Cooking seemed to be part of the party.  Then they put all the peeled butternut slices back into the big orange bags which they came in and tied the bags up again.  They boiled the bagged butternuts in a huge black pot for an hour or 2 on the fire.  Then they took the bags out and hung it on the fence for all the water to drain off for a half an hour or so - somewhere out of reach of passing livestock.  A nifty way to handle bulk portions of food.  I took my own chopping board in since I haven’t mastered chopping carrots and vegetables into miniscule blocks in the air above a bowl.    

They boiled a pig in a huge black pot on the fire.  Everything got cut into massive blocks, chops, hocks, the whole damn thing.  No water was added at all and the meat just cooked in its own juices with some spices.  It was quite tasty. Another huge pot was filled with hunks of seasoned beef steaks, stewing meat and sirloin all stirred into one pot and also cooked only in its own juices on the fire.  It was just as tasty. 

Luckily we are not fussy eaters and have sometimes been invited to join the teachers over lunchtime when they eat boiled pigs heads and such like.  I ended up with a piece of ear once which was a bit too cartilagy for me so I kinda sucked on it and nibbled on it until a respectable amount of  time had passed and I could politely put it down on a plate. The way to eat meat, fat or afval is to pass a knife around and cut chunks off which you eat with your hands.  This is the Xhosa way which we are becoming comfortable with.  In the beginning I tried acting casual and took my piece of stomach or whatever it was handed to me and bit into it as you would a chop.  I felt a bit like a Neanderthal gnawing and yanking on my kill until someone passed me a knife while the teachers all continued jabbering loudly around me. 

I’m learning that when Xhosa people get together for a party it makes white people’s parties look like a stuck up affair.  The graduation was much more of an interactive event and the mammas got quite carried away with spontaneous singing as they hailed the next speaker. Some ululating to show appreciation of a child’s performance was quite in order.    

Next month we have been invited to an initiation and I can’t wait.  I think Theo is a bit worried about the fact that he will be the only male there over the age of 25 with a foreskin but I don’t think they will be doing a spot check. 

I’ve decided it’s more fun enjoying the ride through the forest than worrying whether someone checked the brakes.

I’ll play my drum for you pa-rum pum pum pum

I’ll play my drum for you pa-rum pum pum pum




Gee whizz. We’ve been sitting here without any physical contact with the rest of the world for 3 months but suddenly we’ve been quite the social busy bees. We arrived back from our first trip to East London and away from rural life and the next day Theo’s folks arrived for a visit to see where in the world us wallys are. They found the roads here a bit of a challenge in their new little bakkie but I think they enjoyed their visit and now they have an idea of what our lives are like although it was school holidays. We picked wild plums, visited the quaint Trennery’s hotel and went mushrooming. I’m sure the bags of clothes they brought with will be well appreciated by the needy here.

A few days after they left, my old school buddy, Charlene, who has long since been living in Ireland, came for a visit with 2 of her Irish pals. Unfortunately we had bum weather and grey skies and in fact the whole Eastern Cape was flooded from too much rain and has been declared a disaster area. I guess those ancestors must be upset with someone for not planting their mielies on time. Someone better own up and fix things cos I’m getting tired of squelching around in wellies and not having clean running water. We have a backup rain tank but showering in brown murky water is not the greatest but here I am complaining and everyone else in the village only has a bucket to wash in.

Anyway it was great having Charlene, Sarah and Tim around for a few days. Tim has a house in Morgan Bay (how coincidental is that – meeting someone all the way from Ireland who owns property a short distance from us) so we joined them at his holiday home for a few days. I’ve gotten a bit caught up with the library, preparing lesson plans and the whole school thing so I’ve forgotten about other things in the world so it was really nice spending time with them and meeting Tim’s friends at Morgan Bay. Tim, Sarah and Charlene all practise various forms of natural healing as their livelihood (when they are not travelling) and they are connected by therapy dance movement which they do and the people I met from Morgan Bay were not your average 9 to 5ers either. Professor Mark has designed and built a vegetable garden which is self sustainable and runs on human poo. Quite an involved system by which he used algae in a couple of small dams to clean up the poo which then gets used to water the garden which, by the way, was flourishing. He and Dave were in the process of getting funding and have plans to improve some crappy long drop systems in rural schools to become more user friendly. They have successfully already built a few such systems for schools which they funded from their own pockets. Maraina is passionate about fighting back against Monsanto’s policy of forcing the world to buy GM (genetically modified) seeds. She goes around informing farmers about the facts which Monsanto omit to tell them. Things such as GM seeds only produce one crop which will force them to buy more seeds from Monsanto the next season. Monsanto is busy controlling the whole worlds crops by suing farmers who won’t fall into their trap. She told us that 25 000 farmers in India have committed suicide because they have now become financially ruined. I googled it, and was horrified to find out that its true. Did you know that Monsanto (who already genetically modifies plant DNA) have recently bought a pharmaceutical company which experiments with human DNA. I guess we will soon be able to buy carrots in the shop which can make your eyes blue or cure cancer so everyone will want to give them another Nobel award but no-one mentions that they will have control of manipulating how your body functions without you realising it. So if in a few years time people notice that everyone has to buy lets say hayfever tablets or pills to replace calcium to keep themselves healthy and the pharmaceutical companies keep getting richer then they might wonder why. We, the man in the street, do not think about these things and only raise an eyebrow if the apples at the veggie shop aren’t nice and perfectly crisp and juicy. I might be green but at least I’m not a cabbage can take on a whole new meaning.



Anyway, besides having intellectual conversations, they also all had a zen side to them which I found stimulating. They hauled out a couple of drums and a bag of rattles and shaking thingies and massive cow bells and stick things and we made music. Clearly they do this often but I’m not musical although I can shake my booty around a dance floor (even better after a few tequilas) but this was a new experience for me. I grabbed something to shake which didn’t look too complicated and I tried to keep in time with the drummer who controlled the beat. Someone else clapped in time and hummed a weird noise in my left ear while another guy shuffled around the room knocking sticks together in a hari krishna sort of way. Oh and Sarah gaily played the flute and occasionally freely expressed herself by letting out a noise which sounded like a banshee whatever that might be. This whole musical expressive thing was a bit new to me but somehow it worked and we sounded cool. I’d love to do more and learn to express myself freely other than with words.

Charlene brought puzzles, CD’s and flutes for the children at the library and now that they have taught 2 students to play Campfire’s Burning (Umsi Watcha), the rest spent today quite happy to blow their lungs out in my other ear, not the one which got zenned out. Perhaps I’d better try and learn a note or two and we can have a music session at the library.



In the meantime there is more rain on the way so I guess those thousands of frogs which croak outside can keep the bass beat and lull me to sleep.

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.

Ouma en oupa sit op die stoep

Ouma en oupa sit op die stoep


We have become grandparents. I don’t feel any different, just very excited. The bundles of joy, note I used the plural, are the tiniest, cutest, most perfect little twins on this earth. Unfortunately they live across the ocean in the faraway country of Japan so I have to go googoo gaga over the airwaves. Thank goodness for technology which enables us to see them and watch them grow. Kyro and Aoi are keeping me updated from Japan. Kyro read up about every aspect of every stage of Aoi’s pregnancy and before her first trimester was over he informed us that babies can communicate from a very young age and that he planned to teach them to sign so that he can understand their needs and requests. Marine is waving on the one photo so I guess she was saying “hi granny, look, I’m even cuter than a panda bear. I have long fingers so I’ll soon be able to use chopsticks to eat my rice for breakfast.” Sky has a good set of lungs on her as I heard in the video clip while she got her first bath so I guess she’s gonna be communicating verbally instead. I could have them mixed up already in fact I wonder how their parents can tell them apart. I would love to visit them sometime in the future but I think only once they are past the jelly stage and I can play with them. Perhaps they will come out here for a visit and I will teach them how to be a South African and eat mielie pap, rip meat off the bone and sing Sarie Marais. Maybe they will even want to go hare hunting with Theo on the airstrip at night. Maybe not. Theo really did try it once but he can home hareless. His own hair (all 16 of them) had a slight wave though since it was a windy night.

We recently made a trip into East London for a long weekend to skype Kyro and his new family. Funny how after 3 months of living here in the village, you’d think I’d enjoy seeing a bit of the rest of world. Well, I haven’t missed the traffic, the shops or the people all doing those things which city people do. And when we returned I felt a sense of belonging as we neared our new home at Qolora Village. We bought some lettuce and cabbage seedlings to plant in Theo’s slow growing vegetable garden. He had planted beans, spinach, and carrots from seeds and they were all coming along ever so slowly in his organic garden. The potatoes were doing the best and were up to the second tyre. Anyway someone, I assume one of the woman who occasionally slap mud on a roof to fix a leak or mop the shower floor, must have gone into the garden to take their wheelbarrow. Problem is they left the damn gate open and not only did the chickens have a feast but so did a damn donkey. Not a single blade of anything green is left. Theo will have to start all over again.

Oh well, it looks another month of mielie pap, afval and Theo’s imagination.

Scooters and planes and other things strange

Scooters and planes and other things strange




It’s a long weekend, like that makes a difference to life out here in Qolora village Transkei, but it’s a good enough excuse to treat ourselves to a braai. Theo marinated a couple of warthog chops to slap on the fire and we sat in the sun drinking a few long Black Labels. The wind didn’t blow as it so often does out here so we had a lazy afternoon just sitting, watching the birds and we enjoyed our view of the surrounding hills and grasslands.

I watched a little plane circle overhead and I smiled to myself, happy that we’d gone mushrooming on the airstrip the previous morning. We often see small planes going by as some of the wealthy people travel by air to hotels or lodges rather than have to negotiate these gravel roads. The grass airstrip over the hill is used by the owner of Trennerys hotel and probably the odd guest as well. The grass is short so it’s a great spot for hunting mushrooms, and the shaggy parasols which Theo fried up for breakfast with his bran and onion bread were delicious. The airstrip is not so good for landing a plane if the cows are chewing the cud on the strip cos then the pilot has to circle overhead a few times while someone from the hotel pops down to chase them away. I guess it’s easier dodging a patty than a cow or goat. Vehicles are not allowed on the airstrip but its fun making a dash for it on our bike. Not the kind of thing a responsible grandmother should be doing I suppose but what the heck, I don’t think many grandmothers live in a hut teaching English in a rural village either.

Theo had a hairy experience on the bike the other day. He gave Zolani, a high school teacher a lift home. A storm was brewing as they left and Zolani hung on for dear life. It was his first experience on a motorbike and he was recovering from a hip operation so his one leg stuck out at a bit of an angle and he wedged his walking stick in between them. He waved a bit nervously as they left and I heard him shouting to me asking where he should hold onto but Theo raced off before I could answer. He was in a big hurry to beat the dark rainclouds gathering overhead. He is kak bang of lightening and prefers to be safely indoors, nowhere near water and the laptop unplugged and packed away when nature decides to slice open the sky with powerful bolts of electrical energy. Out here when lightening strikes across the open grasslands it’s quite a spectacular show as the earth lights up in surreal flashes while thunder cracks deafeningly all around you. It even beats front row seats at a Metalica concert since you don’t walk around with a zinging buzz in your head for the next 12 hours. Mind you it doesn’t leave you feeling as frisky as watching four muscular guys flexing their godlike torso’s with guitars draped across their bare chests, their sweaty biceps bulging as they pluck their instruments and hypnotise you with their gaze. (We didn’t have front row seats and I didn’t wear my glasses but it was something close to that).

I stood at the door watching mother nature’s show and waiting for the bike to appear. Theo was not admiring the beauty around him on this particular day though. He rode as fast as he dared on the slippery gravel roads, rain pelting down and running into his eyes. It’s fun not having to bother with ever wearing a helmet around here but I guess it does have its uses other than preventing your skull from cracking open. Eventually I spotted him through the rain, crouching as low as possible under the handle bars. He arrived home sopping wet and shouted above the roaring thunder that by lying flat on the seat he’d made himself lower than the goats and cows which he passed and prayed that any stray lightening bolts would rather fry them before finding his low profile. It worked because he seemed to escape the wrath of God who did not strike him down for not picking up his dirty socks off the floor.

I’m really looking forward to the free summer thunderstorm shows but the mud, well thank goodness for wellies.

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.


Theo’s rooster is getting cock sure of himself. About a month ago, we acquired 2 hens and a cock. During the day the little black hens walk around pecking at things on the ground and chasing each other around under the assumption that anything the other one finds must be worth stealing. The rooster, now that he has settled, spends his time trying to cross our doors’ threshold. He seems to think we have bugs inside and he is determined to come in and find out where we keep our factory of dung beetles who industriously roll their balls crisscrossing our rondavel floor. Theo has taken to hiding behind the door with a dishtowel and when the rooster ventures too near, he jumps out of his hiding place to scare him away. I don’t keep score. Initially we weren’t sure if these fluffy black jobbies were hens or cocks since they showed the beginning signs of a growth thingie on their heads like that useless flappy thing cocks have. A month down the track and now it’s easy to see that they definitely are hens by the way they daintily dart around and they take their dust baths more femininely than the rooster. At night, the three sleep in a huge container which is a bit of a metal eye sore outside our door. Also, it has a toxic sign stuck on the outside. I don’t know what it was once upon a time used for but if we end up having green eggs with ham for breakfast then I guess there was a reason for the toxic sign. Anyway, about a week ago, the cock crowed for the first time. He was inside the container at the time and his crowing echoed extra loud. When Theo opened up to let them out, Mr Rooster strutted around, puffed up like some bigshot with a torch in his pocket. A bit like the Xhosa boys around here, who apparently after initiation suddenly think they are men and act all windgat. Well I s’pose if I survived a stunt in a hut with nothing but a blanket and a piece of dry bread while nursing my injured chopped penis I’d probably also feel I had the right to stick out my chest afterwards. The whole initiation thing is a touchy subject actually. It’s probably one of the few customs that are still a very important part of any teenage boy’s life especially here in the rural community. The boys must go through it to be recognised by the community as a man otherwise they will never command respect or find a wife. The way it interferes with school education is a big problem (besides the whole issue of it being done under unclinical conditions which could lead to fatal infections or Aids from using the same blade). The ritual usually takes place in December when a bunch of school boys go off for their “manhood training”. It is such a big buildup in their lives that it carries much more weight than year end exams at school. I’ve heard talk of fighting between the boys at this time as they suddenly feel the urge to display their manhood and puff up like Theo’s rooster.

The initiation is secretive to outsiders especially to women so I haven’t exactly been able to go up to any male students and together with a couple of hand signs thrown in to explain my English say “howzit man, so are you looking forward to your circumcision?”

During their stay at the special hut, the umkhwetha (the person who trains them) teaches the initiates about the responsibilities of becoming a man and once they have passed the test, they eat meat and go home men, free from their mothers’ apron strings. I understand their training is quite intense and the painted initiatives get little food and less sleep since they have to make sure that the fire burns throughout the night. I’ve also read that they shave their heads and that the hair gets burnt or buried in case a bird uses it to build a nest which is guaranteed to make you go mad. (I think the hair bit is relevant to anyone getting a haircut actually.) At the Arts and Culture Festival, a teacher told me that the boys who were dancing did similar dancing during the ritual and also that many mothers were unhappy that their boys had become disrespectful towards them after going through their rites and in fact came home smokers and drinkers. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find out more about this passage of rites the longer we stay here.

In the meantime, Theo’s rooster is getting too big for his hormonal boots. Just because the neighbouring roosters are answering his calls these days, without him having to step into his “auditorium” container for special effects, he now thinks he is entitled to jump the little fluffy hens who squeal with fright and try to run away. They are too frightened to dip their heads to eat when he’s around since it makes their bums stick up in the air like an invitation flag. I’ve noticed that they often stand with their backsides up against the wall while chewing the cud. If the rooster keeps this up I’ll send him with the next group of boys to the grass hut so that he can be trimmed down to size or mind you he’ll probably get cooked.

Those poor hens are in for a bum deal so I hope they figure out the pecking order to survive Cocky Locky’s rites.

The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Music

I don’t think many (if any) white people get to spend the whole day as we did today, experiencing the Xhosa culture performed by the children of this region.

We were so lucky to have been invited to the interschool Arts and Culture Festival which took place in Centani. The trip there took an hour on the bad dirt road with 3 of us in the front of a bakkie and about 15 kids squashed in the back, with their props and costumes on their laps. The rest followed in 2 more crammed bakkies. Everyone, us included, was super excited. We piled out at a building with no toilets but the 1 000 or so participants and a dozen or so teachers didn’t seem to mind. In fact I don’t think they noticed. You lift your skirt and wee behind the building facing the back road. When in Rome.



The day was quite an emotional one for me. Most of the teachers were dressed in their traditional outfits and the cultural ambiance was quite something. The theme was Human Rights and the morning opened with various drama scenes acted out by the children depicting their rights to education, food, social services, freedom of choice of faith and marriage. I was quite moved to realise that what they were portraying was real for some of them. The short plays were all performed in English so we understood everything. Watching children act scenarios of being too poor to afford school clothes which denied them access to a school while their mother sat at home drinking out their government grant money, touched a sensitive note. Other plays were about orphaned children living with other family members and being abused. This was their lives for many I presume. I don’t really know what goes on in their homes but I do know that most come to school with clean but broken school clothes, many have shoes tied together with string, and when they queue for their samp and beams for lunch I often wonder if it’s the only meal for some?

Then the singing began. Those kids just sing so beautifully and when they do that pumping thing with their arms and shuffle their feet from side to side and their voices harmonise so beautifully I had to keep swallowing back a lump as their voices resonated though to my soul.

Then the angry poetry followed which we couldn’t understand but there was lots of viva South Africa and waving of sticks as they shouted their proclamations.

Late afternoon they performed their traditional Xhosa dancing and I sat on the edge of my seat, goose bumps all over as the dancers captivated me. It was just so wow. The girls danced bare breasted, wearing string skirts and beads around their necks and ankles and they kept a beat by clapping while others stomped and shuffled and kicked and I felt the music coursing through my body. Some danced to traditional music played through speakers while others kept a beat on a drum or banged on a bucket. One group even had a bucket with a wet plastic rope attached inside which they pulled hard and created a deep sound together with their drum. I was enthralled by them. The boys added whistles, kuduzelas, guitars, safety hats and tattered clothes combined with animal skins to their acts. They were amazing.

Then the dancing changed from girls dancing to their interpretation of older women dancing. Young girls show their breasts and wear flimsy skirts when they dance but older women wear colourful wraps and skirts with aprons as well as headgear. They shake their big backsides in a certain way which some of the girls did excellently. The teachers who ululated throughout the day at any acts which did well really belted their tongues cheering at these girls.

After the traditional dancing came the free style dancing and I was amazed to see the same children, girls who had just been dancing bare breasted on stage were now wearing jeans and T Shirts and shaking their pelvises to kwaito rhythms.

We arrived back in Qolora by the sea school at about 8 o clock that evening. It was already dark. The kids excitedly made their way home, barefoot, following foot paths in the dark to their homes scattered over the hillside. Theo and I had a good laugh as we too made our way home in the dark, camera over our shoulder and passed a man whistling along and carrying a pick axe over his. How different we were.

The day at the Arts and culture Festival was one I will never forget and I consider myself extremely lucky to have been able to see the children perform their singing and dancing.

As the Stomach Turns (If you can remember which TV programme that line comes from, you’ve scored Brownie points)


Our daily life here in Qolora is not that different to life back in Cape Town, well other than logistics and a few finer details like earth, wind, fire and water. Otherwise life here is pretty similar to being in the concrete jungle. For instance, on washing days my UDD (underarm dingle dangle) flaps around vigorously as I manually spin my very upmarket Sputnik washing machine through its wash and rinse cycle. The makeshift table which develops a life of its own when the Sputnik is in full swing, tries desperately to worm its way down the hill in pursuit of the goats, with me in tow. To stabilize everything, I have to pin the table down with my foot, hold the machine in place with my left hand and spin like mad with the right. I get an upper body workout without having to fork out gym fees. I don’t mind carrying pots of boiling water and traipsing back and forth to the garden tap and in fact I consider myself lucky that I don’t have to hunch over a bucket or make a fire to boil the water.

We also have baking days. How else do you think we get bread? As long as it’s not windy, we can fire up Theo’s “boer maak ‘n plan” oven. He gave a 25 litre thinners drum a facelift by cutting the lid off to become to door which we open or close with a pair of pliers. He rammed a wire rack inside and tada. He makes a fire underneath, adds extra coals on top and our oven is set to go. So long as it’s not too windy so that the coals blow away. On those days Theo cooks pap or flapjacks inside. I’ve even baked biscuits and an end of the month version of lasagne using macaroni and soya in our eye level oven. We save a fortune on oven cleaner!!

The upside of living in our cosy rondavel is that there’s no major housework to do. There is a downside to living in one room though. Being woken up at 3 in the morning by a roving beam of light sweeping across the room similar to a police raid, can be disturbing. When Theo wakes up in the middle of the night he tiptoes to the kitchen corner so as not to wake me and with his head torch on full beam, he scans the shelves looking for ingredients to cook dishes such as curry afval. The first time the swooping lights woke me, I ducked my head under the blankets, fearing the inevitable. We all know the aliens will arrive some day and I thought this was it. The body snatchers were hovered above our hut scanning for my perfect vessel to be beamed up and used for reproduction and probably they’d stick probes with flashing lights up my bum. But then the smell of Theo’s afval wafted up my nostrils and I knew I still had more time on Earth before I was needed elsewhere.

Our rondavel roof is propped up with a centre pole (which is actually off centre) but unfortunately it’s too gnarly to wrap my limber self around for pole dancing. I’d consider climbing it and doing a swan dive onto our wobbly bed if the woodwork was not so rickety. Someone has mounted a ceiling fan (which is not connected to electricity) in the most peculiar way up at the top of said pole. I’m not sure which came first - the fan or the pole but the intriguing device will never serve to cool anyone down. I’m posting a picture of it.

Most days we can collect water down at the garden tap and we’ve run a 40 m cable from across the way for electricity so what can I say, we’re pretty comfortable.

Now I’m off to mix some dugga from mud and water as I’ve seen the mammas doing around here. That’s how you repair a leaking grass roof it seems and ours drips when it rains. Oh well at least we wont have to budget for handyman call out fees.

Lately there are just not enough hours in a day to get to everything but I’m as happy as a tick on a cow.

Where do the children play

…….”I know we’ve come a long way, changing day to day but tell me, where do the children play.”……..

Well gee whiz.  Talk about a roller coaster ride of emotions. 2 weeks ago I was feeling sorry for myself cos no-one came to the library.   This week I barely have had time to wipe my….. nose. The word has spread and the children have discovered the library.

– Yeeehaaa. 

I’ve assisted a high school student with his project, Theo and I have given a few school teachers computer lessons (which will be ongoing), and the primary school kids come around every single day now.  They do puzzles, type in English on the computers, play computer games, play the music keyboard (note to self: need to get headphones for the keyboard) while I talk to them all in English.  I even spent an afternoon helping the Grade R teacher with her college assignment.

Today was special.  For many reasons actually.  Mostly because an 8 year old boy took the initiative, selected a book and started reading it all by himself.  I had been walking around, assisting at the “puzzle table” and at the computers when suddenly I saw him.  He was sitting on a bench in front of the children’s books, engrossed in a book which he was reading and I could see he was enjoying the story.  I was thrilled.  Generally the children don’t come to the library to read as they prefer to play solitaire and pinball on the computers or type.  I’m just happy that they come to the library at all.  I don’t want to frighten them off by pushing the books on them too much.  Anyway, I sat down next to him and listened to his reading as he read the story aloud and I helped him with a word or two when he asked me to. I had to restrain myself from hugging him every 20 seconds. Occasionally he pointed out a picture to me and he was amused when he questioningly pointed to a word in the story, “Eeeeee” the sound which the mouse made.  The printed word really intrigued him and each time he read it slowly and extra loud.  Now doesn’t that just make it all worth it?  I felt like I’d been given a Christmas present which I was unwrapping each time he turned a page. What a wonderful feeling.  And the best part is he took a second book home and I bet he’ll be back for more.

I had a lovely afternoon chatting to a high school student.  She told me she wants to become a pilot if she passes matric next year.  She also told me that she enjoys dancing and singing and her dancing instructor in Butterworth has told her that she is good.  I considered that she has a better chance of making a career on stage than in the air but naturally I didn’t tell her that.  I’ve told her to come back and I will help her with some English grammar exercises at the library.  The high school is about 15 km’s away and we don’t teach there but the students come to the library if and when they can get here. 

Clinton who is 12 is typing a letter about himself at the library.  He likes cabbage but hates samp and beans and would like to become a teacher one day.  Taylor who is also l2, likes BMW’s, his community, his brothers and sisters and wants to become a doctor one day.  Big dreams. 

Little things that give me great pleasure are when small people have big smiles.  3 days ago a grade 1 pupil, walked home with Theo and I.  He held my hand all the way and we sang songs like “This is the way I brush my teeth” as we walked.  He giggled like mad when I got stuck singing Inkosi Sikele.  After singing the first few lines I mouthed the rest with him while he giggled like crazy and sang it right through. 

Besides the library keeping me busy every single day now, we are also really getting stuck into the lessons at school.  The teachers seem to put a heck of a lot of time into their meetings which I don’t understand and the classes are often left unsupervised.  The term started slow, in fact a week late due to bad weather and more meetings.  We don’t give as many lessons per day as I would like, especially since the children are way, way behind in their English. I hope the teachers don’t think we are trying to take their jobs away or that we know better than them because we don’t.  They teach all the subjects from English textbooks to students who’s home language is Xhosa, including the teachers themselves so it must be really difficult.  I sympathise with them.  Theo and I are just here to assist with English.  I wish we could pick up the pace a bit, i.e. on Friday’s, school closes early because many of the teachers go home to their families in East London so we don’t go in at all.  Perhaps as I get used to teaching I will also learn to utilize my time in the class more effectively.  The children love playing I spy, hangman and teamwork which they take very seriously.  They really enjoy doing the excercises, showing their capabilities, and they are so keen to please. I’ve been mostly focusing on listening and speaking English which they are shy about but I think its time to buckle down and help them with grammar since they are sooooo far behind and it obviously affects all their subjects. 

Theo has connected the schools’ computer and is showing the teachers the spreadsheet which is the new system for ordering books as per the department of education.  

I’ve really enjoyed spending time with the students these past two weeks and I’m slowly getting to know them. 

 Finally I feel I have a purpose.