GOT TO HAVE KAYA NOW
Bubbling with excitement we hit the N2 and headed up towards Butterworth where we planned to turn towards the coast through Cantani and then explore a couple of villages which were nestled in the hills close to the sea, all as per John’s helpful directions. We reached the busting town of Butterworth about 100km’s later that day, we measure our days in distance not time, since we are not directed by time but rather by how much diesel we need to pump into our fuel guzzling truck. 5km’s to the litre isn’t bad but when you’ve clocked 1300 km’s and more to go with no bank account to continually replenish the trucks addiction to fuel, then every km counts. It was Saturday and everyone from far and wide was their doing their shopping at Shoprite, Lewis or Pep Stores. 50km’s further we arrived at Cantani and everyone who wasn’t in Butterworth was doing their shopping there. The main road was lined with little shack shops where people could buy mieliepap, get a haircut, buy airtime or chickens. We made a mental note that we could definitely stock up on vitals in Cantani since it would probably be the nearest town from us and there was a grocery shop. Taxi’s weaved across the roads, loaded with people and their heavy 50kg bags of pap and sugar. We grinned. It felt good. This was rural and we loved it. Viva Africa. I was relieved to see that the younger women in the villages and towns were wearing jeans and T-shirts. I had been a bit concerned that women were expected to dress conservatively and not wear shorts or long pants but only dresses or skirts as stipulated by the elders and I didn’t own a single such feminine article of clothing. We got directions for a place called Ngobla or Ngura or Ngani or something like that. Anyway it was a name which we clearly had trouble with cos when we hung out the truck window clicking away with our tongues, asking for directions, no-one seemed to know where we were headed. Eventually after getting cheek tied, we were told to follow a gravel road which looked more like a dirt track than anything else and we hoped it led somewhere. The road was as pock marked with embedded stones as a hormonal teenagers’ pimply face. We rattled on for about 30 km’s over hills and dales, passing goats, cows, the odd person and clusters of colourful homes, some were mud rondavels, others were hexagon shaped brick houses and many were painted bright blue or green. The Xhosa women which we saw had painted white circles around there eyes and coloured in cheeks and I assumed it must mean something but I wasn’t sure quite what. It definitely did not indicate a bride to be as these big mammas did not conjure up pictures of virginal youth as they surveyed us through a cloud of billowing dust left by the truck. I waved but they didn’t seem too enthusiastic to wave back. Tatomkhulu’s neatly dressed in their Sunday best, their crinkled faces tucked under their weather beaten hats didn’t hide their questioning eyes as we rattled past them down the bumpy narrow road. Here and there we saw children playing or working in vegetable gardens in front of houses which were closer to the roadside. They stopped to stare from big blank eyes concealing their thoughts as we passed.
We arrived at the Kei river mouth and decided to stay right there for a day or two while Theo tried to catch a fish. Palm trees grew up to the beach front which was abundant with 100’s of oyster shells the size of rocks big enough to knock a tent peg into the ground. Across the water we could see a hill, sprinkled with white peoples’ holiday houses and a resort, all nestled in pockets of sub tropical forest. This side, a few Xhosa people stood around, laughing and jabbering loudly, waiting for the pontoon to carry them across the river. They were still returning from their days’ shopping it seemed and had a lot of exciting things to discuss. Some were on foot and others squeezed into their bakkies together with their groceries, babies, children and a bunch more people in the back. A couple of holiday makers from EL in their 4 x 4’s crossed the river and a few local Xhosa mammas, selling beads and beautifully woven baskets, comfortably sitting flat on their bums, legs spread out straight in front of them, feet neatly pointing upwards, in that customary way which seems to come naturally for them but which I, as a white person, just can’t do, well not without some kind of back support.
Monday morning we left the waterside and headed up the hill to explore the next village. The truck struggled up the hill, and much to my dismay, didn’t make it to the top. We panicked for a minute and thought we were gonna slide back down but luckily Theo was able to back down the truck successfully although the clutch smelt funny. We tried again in a lower gear and whew, relieved, the colour returned back to my face, fingernails digging chunks out of the seat and Theo probably needed to change his underwear but we reached the summit. Now that’s one way to get your adrenalin pumping on a Monday morning. Who needs peak hour traffic! We headed off to Qolora village, sometimes referred to as Trennery, named after the old colonial hotel established there in 1908. We arrived in the village with a good feeling about the place. There was construction road works happening on the way in, which was most unexpected and we passed a cluster of deserted, some dilapidated rondawels with Qolora B & B, KITCHEN and SHOP written in big letters across the bright orange painted walls. We stopped to find out whats what. Imagine if we could park our truck there, re-establish the veggie garden, maybe get a cultural craft thing going with the local mammas or sell local food or or or….. The potential was endless as we let our minds run away at a pace fast enough to try out for the Olympics. We needed a place to park the truck and check out this village which had definitely peeked our interest. A road took us up a hill to the coolest, deserted braai picnic area, surrounded by dense tropical forest pockets with winding pathways to follow to yet another river mouth and a strip of beach which stretched as far as we would see. We decided to park the truck right there.
Once we were settled in and after exploring our immediate surrounding area, we visited the hotel and met the friendly couple who either ran or owned the place. Its not a hotel in the true sense but much quainter, very colonial style cute little bungalows tucked under cool date trees and other thick vegetation, and I half expected to find guests playing crocket on the perfect lawns shaded by more tropical trees or drinking tea and eating cucumber sandwiches in the pretty garden. I could almost taste the history of the place.
The next day we put clean clothes on, Theo even shaved and we rode the bike down to the village school to meet the principal and find out if they needed our help. Maria, the principal was very enthusiastic and pleased and called a quick meeting with the other 6 or so teachers, and it was settled. We would start the next day. WOW! We crapped ourselves. This was really happening. Now we needed to meet the headman and ask him if we could stay somewhere for free. We did suggest the rondavels but anywhere would work so long as we had access to running water and be able to plant a veggie garden so we could grow some of our own food. The idea of eating fish wasn’t panning out quite yet since Theo hadn’t had any luck so it looked like he would become a vegetarian after all. Yeah right! Anyway, a nervous little 6 year old boy walked us towards the sub headman’s house and shyly pointed us to his door. The old man’s English and our Xhosa was not good enough to communicate so the 3 of us walked back to the school for the principal to help translate our requests. The 2nd in charge told us that he would take it to the meeting and that he was very happy to have us.
We were ecstatic and nervous about our first lesson. We realized we better start working on a lesson plan for the next day since it looked like we were jumping right in feet first and would have a roomful of Xhosa children to teach. Yeehaa!
Bubbling with excitement we hit the N2 and headed up towards Butterworth where we planned to turn towards the coast through Cantani and then explore a couple of villages which were nestled in the hills close to the sea, all as per John’s helpful directions. We reached the busting town of Butterworth about 100km’s later that day, we measure our days in distance not time, since we are not directed by time but rather by how much diesel we need to pump into our fuel guzzling truck. 5km’s to the litre isn’t bad but when you’ve clocked 1300 km’s and more to go with no bank account to continually replenish the trucks addiction to fuel, then every km counts. It was Saturday and everyone from far and wide was their doing their shopping at Shoprite, Lewis or Pep Stores. 50km’s further we arrived at Cantani and everyone who wasn’t in Butterworth was doing their shopping there. The main road was lined with little shack shops where people could buy mieliepap, get a haircut, buy airtime or chickens. We made a mental note that we could definitely stock up on vitals in Cantani since it would probably be the nearest town from us and there was a grocery shop. Taxi’s weaved across the roads, loaded with people and their heavy 50kg bags of pap and sugar. We grinned. It felt good. This was rural and we loved it. Viva Africa. I was relieved to see that the younger women in the villages and towns were wearing jeans and T-shirts. I had been a bit concerned that women were expected to dress conservatively and not wear shorts or long pants but only dresses or skirts as stipulated by the elders and I didn’t own a single such feminine article of clothing. We got directions for a place called Ngobla or Ngura or Ngani or something like that. Anyway it was a name which we clearly had trouble with cos when we hung out the truck window clicking away with our tongues, asking for directions, no-one seemed to know where we were headed. Eventually after getting cheek tied, we were told to follow a gravel road which looked more like a dirt track than anything else and we hoped it led somewhere. The road was as pock marked with embedded stones as a hormonal teenagers’ pimply face. We rattled on for about 30 km’s over hills and dales, passing goats, cows, the odd person and clusters of colourful homes, some were mud rondavels, others were hexagon shaped brick houses and many were painted bright blue or green. The Xhosa women which we saw had painted white circles around there eyes and coloured in cheeks and I assumed it must mean something but I wasn’t sure quite what. It definitely did not indicate a bride to be as these big mammas did not conjure up pictures of virginal youth as they surveyed us through a cloud of billowing dust left by the truck. I waved but they didn’t seem too enthusiastic to wave back. Tatomkhulu’s neatly dressed in their Sunday best, their crinkled faces tucked under their weather beaten hats didn’t hide their questioning eyes as we rattled past them down the bumpy narrow road. Here and there we saw children playing or working in vegetable gardens in front of houses which were closer to the roadside. They stopped to stare from big blank eyes concealing their thoughts as we passed.
We arrived at the Kei river mouth and decided to stay right there for a day or two while Theo tried to catch a fish. Palm trees grew up to the beach front which was abundant with 100’s of oyster shells the size of rocks big enough to knock a tent peg into the ground. Across the water we could see a hill, sprinkled with white peoples’ holiday houses and a resort, all nestled in pockets of sub tropical forest. This side, a few Xhosa people stood around, laughing and jabbering loudly, waiting for the pontoon to carry them across the river. They were still returning from their days’ shopping it seemed and had a lot of exciting things to discuss. Some were on foot and others squeezed into their bakkies together with their groceries, babies, children and a bunch more people in the back. A couple of holiday makers from EL in their 4 x 4’s crossed the river and a few local Xhosa mammas, selling beads and beautifully woven baskets, comfortably sitting flat on their bums, legs spread out straight in front of them, feet neatly pointing upwards, in that customary way which seems to come naturally for them but which I, as a white person, just can’t do, well not without some kind of back support.
Monday morning we left the waterside and headed up the hill to explore the next village. The truck struggled up the hill, and much to my dismay, didn’t make it to the top. We panicked for a minute and thought we were gonna slide back down but luckily Theo was able to back down the truck successfully although the clutch smelt funny. We tried again in a lower gear and whew, relieved, the colour returned back to my face, fingernails digging chunks out of the seat and Theo probably needed to change his underwear but we reached the summit. Now that’s one way to get your adrenalin pumping on a Monday morning. Who needs peak hour traffic! We headed off to Qolora village, sometimes referred to as Trennery, named after the old colonial hotel established there in 1908. We arrived in the village with a good feeling about the place. There was construction road works happening on the way in, which was most unexpected and we passed a cluster of deserted, some dilapidated rondawels with Qolora B & B, KITCHEN and SHOP written in big letters across the bright orange painted walls. We stopped to find out whats what. Imagine if we could park our truck there, re-establish the veggie garden, maybe get a cultural craft thing going with the local mammas or sell local food or or or….. The potential was endless as we let our minds run away at a pace fast enough to try out for the Olympics. We needed a place to park the truck and check out this village which had definitely peeked our interest. A road took us up a hill to the coolest, deserted braai picnic area, surrounded by dense tropical forest pockets with winding pathways to follow to yet another river mouth and a strip of beach which stretched as far as we would see. We decided to park the truck right there.
Once we were settled in and after exploring our immediate surrounding area, we visited the hotel and met the friendly couple who either ran or owned the place. Its not a hotel in the true sense but much quainter, very colonial style cute little bungalows tucked under cool date trees and other thick vegetation, and I half expected to find guests playing crocket on the perfect lawns shaded by more tropical trees or drinking tea and eating cucumber sandwiches in the pretty garden. I could almost taste the history of the place.
The next day we put clean clothes on, Theo even shaved and we rode the bike down to the village school to meet the principal and find out if they needed our help. Maria, the principal was very enthusiastic and pleased and called a quick meeting with the other 6 or so teachers, and it was settled. We would start the next day. WOW! We crapped ourselves. This was really happening. Now we needed to meet the headman and ask him if we could stay somewhere for free. We did suggest the rondavels but anywhere would work so long as we had access to running water and be able to plant a veggie garden so we could grow some of our own food. The idea of eating fish wasn’t panning out quite yet since Theo hadn’t had any luck so it looked like he would become a vegetarian after all. Yeah right! Anyway, a nervous little 6 year old boy walked us towards the sub headman’s house and shyly pointed us to his door. The old man’s English and our Xhosa was not good enough to communicate so the 3 of us walked back to the school for the principal to help translate our requests. The 2nd in charge told us that he would take it to the meeting and that he was very happy to have us.
We were ecstatic and nervous about our first lesson. We realized we better start working on a lesson plan for the next day since it looked like we were jumping right in feet first and would have a roomful of Xhosa children to teach. Yeehaa!
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