The Library

The Library





The Library is open but I don’t seem to have a stream of kids coming here to read books yet. During the school holidays three kids, Grade 1, Grade 4 and grade 6 came around to the library a few times. The first time the siblings stood at the gate, loudly singing the Yeeha Yeeha Ho from Old Mac Donald (which has become our signature calling card) in the hopes of catching my attention. They came running when I called them over and were very excited but shy about coming into the library. I gave them a 30 piece puzzle to build which they really struggled with but had fun trying while I tried some English on them but not too successfully. The next day they were back to build puzzles and I gave them each an English 1st Language Grade R activity book to colour in, since I had just unpacked a whole boxful. On the 3rd day, I told them they were each allowed to take one reading book home, which they did but that’s the last I saw of them. I think there’s a communication problem still.



The following week a high school student walked here from over the hill to visit an aunt from this community. Everyone around here has many aunts it seems. Also, I suspect the word “aunt” is used much the same as in Afrikaans where everyone is your “tannie”. Anyway his aunt told him about the library and the computer classes we offer. He spent the afternoon at the library while I showed him some features in the typing programme, although he did have some experience using a computer. We chatted in English which I think is good experience for the youth to build up their confidence. He shared a little of his family situation with me which really made me sit up and think. He is 17 years old, in grade 10 (that’s Std 8 if you are from my era) and lives in the shanty part of Butterworth which is the hustle bustle “city” 50 km’s from here. Last year his mother died so now it’s just himself and his younger brother who he has to raise. He wants his brother to be proud of him and his strong faith in Jesus, has guided him through life, and he prays he will be able to provide a respectful existence for himself and his brother. His face radiated happiness as he spoke, despite his hardships. I wonder if he will be able to finish school as he hopes or will he have to give it up to seek employment. He also told me that a few of his aunts were helping him out but he was disappointed in the one who lived in Gauteng because according to him, she could afford to buy him a laptop yet she wouldn’t. I scratched my head, having a bit more insight into how Ubuntu works. It seems family or neighbours help each other when necessary but I was surprised to realise that it is in fact expected of them. Perhaps that’s why sometimes Xhosa people look at some white people who have things, expecting them to share, since it’s the way they were brought up, to look after each other. White people on the other hand don’t generally practice the whole Ubuntu thing as a norm. We sometimes are too busy to even know our neighbours names, let alone help them financially and it sure isn’t expected of us to help put their kids through school.



In the meantime, it’s been 2 weeks and the books are all sitting pretty on the shelves in the library. I’m frustrated and wish the people would come here so that I can teach them to read. I can’t wait to share my knowledge but I have to learn that this is Africa. This is a place where time is measured by a slow sunset and not by the race of a heartbeat.

And so the sun sets on another day in Africa.

Ek’s ‘n Dapper Dapper Muis, Kyk Hoe Stap ek Deur Die Huis

Ek’s ‘n Dapper Dapper Muis, Kyk Hoe Stap ek Deur Die Huis


Two nights ago I woke up again with a jolt. Sometimes I get woken up by Theo when he turns over (which he does every 15 minutes or so) causing the bed to vibrate as if the devil himself is trying to shake me from my pleasant slumber. It’s no fun being woken up expecting a faceless hooded figure clutching a sickle to be standing at your bedside. You see our beds are 2 singles which we’ve pushed together but the wooden framework is a bit rickety so every time Theo shifts his body, my side of the bed rocks violently. Anyway, this time it was different. My eyes flew wide open and I lifted my head slightly off my pillow as my ears stood to attention, listening. The noise I heard sounded like an overgrown Tomcat chewing his way through a packet of brandy snaps next to the food cupboard. What the…?!? We didn’t own a tomcat or have any brandy snaps. Did we? A few days ago Theo had successfully caught a mouse in a trap and since the mouse had probably gone to mouse heaven where he would have been issued with a miniature neck brace, we thought our problem was sorted. The noisy scratching in the middle of the night had stopped and it was only the bed tremor jolts which occasionally woke me up again from my dreams and nightmares. Or so I thought. I didn’t fancy dealing with a wild animal with vampire fangs who had finished crunching his way through 20 kg’s of dry raw macaroni and was now ready for some flesh. I lay there for a while, but eventually managed to drift back to my very vivid dreamland. Theo slept through my near death experience since when I turn over at night I don’t create an avalanche with each move.



The next morning I didn’t see any traces of a monster or an Indian hiding in the cupboard, so I soon forgot about my horrible experience. Lo and behold, the next night I nearly fell out of bed as Theo sat bolt upright and yanked me from my peaceful place to a state of disorientation which I’m quite familiar with. Once the bed stopped swaying and I got my bearings, I realised what was happening. The monster from hell was back. This time my ears told me that the gnarly creature with a mouthful of teeth the size of bricks had squeezed his scaly body into a giant Shoprite packet and was devouring a giant sized packet of Nick Nacks. In the dark, my dumb eyes offered nothing to contradict this thought and I wasn’t about to argue with myself. I do that too often during the day as it is. Theo bravely jumped out of bed, but with great difficulty I must add. You see, besides the fact that our wooden beds are rickety, we also have 2 mattresses on each base. The thin mattresses are weird because when you lie down for a while your body leaves its imprint in the centre while the rest of the mattress sticks up in the air around you so you sort of have to climb up over the sides to get out of bed. Also, a few days ago, we hung our mosquito net from the roof above our love nest and it drapes around our bed, keeping the mozzies out but it makes it difficult clambering from your sunken hollow and then you still have to fight your way through meters of netting draped all around the bed. Mind you I wouldn’t want to trade the hassle of groping around trying to reach the bunkie next to the bed to put my book and glasses down before I drift off at night purely cos I get a kick out of going wela-kapela to the mozzies as they relentlessly buzz 6 inches from my ear but on the outside of our safe dome while I listen safely from the inside for a few hours some nights. We wedge the water bottle between the beds as it’s easier than trying to reach a glass through the net at 3 o clock in the morning although I wonder if would work well as a water purifier.

Anyway, once Theo eventually emerged from the boudoir arena, he bravely ran the gauntlet naked and barefoot across the rondavel floor without encountering any venomous spiders in his pathway. He was armed only with a whip and a panga to fight off the one eyed Cyclops who was by now chewing his way through the fridge door. The power was off once again, so my gladiator husband gripped the torch between his teeth and hoped to either blind the Cyclops or attack him the second he blinked his big puss oozing eye. The crunching noise abruptly stopped. Not a sound was heard as Theo stood poised, ready to strike. Eventually after 15 minutes of nothing happening I got bored and fell asleep.

This morning Theo announced that we had another mouse in the house but that during the night he had chased it out the door and this morning he hammered a plank to the bottom of the door covering the tiny gap where previously anything shorter than a half a centimetre could pass underneath.

Oh well, now I must help Theo to grease the legs of the bokkies which hold up our makeshift kitchen table. We have ants which seem to find their way into everything, even the dam butter and I’m getting tired of spreading the stray ones onto my sandwich and waiting for them to run off before I can take a bite. Theo reckons the ants won’t be able to cross the greasy bottoms of the table legs but we’ll see what antics they are capable of tomorrow.

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.

It’s just the bare necessities, the simply bare necessities of life.

It’s just the bare necessities, the simply bare necessities of life.


I wonder if I’ll ever understand the ways of the Xhosa people here. I’ve only been here a month so naturally it’s way too soon to even imagine that I’m close to knowing what makes them tick.

The cultural village rondavels where we are staying has given me lots to mull over. A few years ago some or other concern, I think it was the department of water conservation, pumped a lot of money into this development centre and it seems as though this place pumped. There is a massive woodwork rondavel where they made cupboards, chairs, blinds and screens from bamboo. At the leather rondavel, it seems as though hundreds of leather shoes, key rings, book covers and bags were produced. The dusty filing cabinets filled with fishmoth riddled paperwork indicates that different skills were taught here but when the development group left, for what ever reason I don’t presume to know, things just stopped. The fence has fallen down around vegetable garden which is now a field but the nursery is still standing although the sprinkler system doesn’t work anymore and in fact none of the taps around here work since apparently the road construction diggerloader rode over and broke all the irrigation piping at the project rondavels. The handful of crafter women left over from the project just sit around waiting for a miracle or for someone to fix things. That’s the way things appear to be from an outsider point of view. When I questioned Mandisa, who is making a desperate, albeit futile, effort to get things going again in some way, about the possibility of selling the machines for scrap and using the money constructively she showed concern that the people who ran the programme before, might return and demand their equipment back. The programme ended in 2004, which was 8 years ago and the sewing machine, the pattern press and the R100 000 or R200 000 woodwork saw is now a scrap of rusty metal from rotting outside in the rain ever since that rondavel roof caved in. About 4 or 5 women, Mandisa’s team, still come down here occasionally. They have made a few crafts and planted a few seedlings in the nursery which they want to sell but don’t have an offset. We mentioned to Faneka, one of these women that there is an opportunity right here on our doorstep to cook food for the 20 or so construction workers who are building a road here and who Mandisa rents out a few rondavels to for a site office and accommodation for couple of the workers. She seems very keen and wants to learn to cook but has missed out on the past 6 months that the workers have been here. There’s no electricity in the kitchen here but there is a lovely big gas stove and an empty gas bottle. She doesn’t have the know how or the money to lay out to get started. We hope to get this project going soon and I will write about its progress.

A lawyer from Cape Town has sometime ago, kindly sponsored stacks of books and computers which are in another rondavel here. I don’t know why but no-one ever bothered unpacking the books before so this week Theo and I helped ourselves to some of the dusty bamboo shelves from the woodwork rondavel and I’ve unpacked all the boxes, sorted and alphabetized all the books. The library now has one whole rack of wonderful reference books, another with great fiction books and a third with lovely story books for the younger children. There are even another two racks of high school text books which I’ve unpacked as well as a bunch of puzzles for the kids to do. Apparently during the school term, the high school kids come down here to use the computers but there’s no-one around to teach them so I don’t know how much they get used.

So, as a 1st world city person you are probably shaking your head, tsking away about the backward way things happen here. Let me tell you about a few other things which have come to my notice recently. A few days ago I asked Mandisa where she lived, assuming her house was over the road or down past the general dealer since, when she does pitch up here, she arrives at about 9 o clock in the morning and her 3 kids go to school where we teach which is down the road next to the general dealer. She turned around and pointed to the hill in the distance and told me that her house was way over there, more than 5km’s away and that’s why sometimes her children can’t go to school because when it rains, they can’t cross the river. Wow. So they don’t just jump into their double cab and drop the kids off at school when the weather is bad like the folks do back home. A few afternoons ago, 2 matric students pitched up at the computer room to see what was happening after hearing that we were here. They stayed a while, fiddling on the computers, playing music and we chatted in English. I offered to help them with homework projects etc when school starts again in 2 weeks time. Soon thereafter they said they had to leave before it got dark since they had to walk home. They live 10 km away from here so I guess they will spend a huge chunk of their afternoons walking to and from the library in their efforts to get their homework done to pass matric. No internet access at this library or in their bedroom at home so that they can cut copy paste like the kids do back home who prepare for the same matric paper. Today being Saturday is shopping day for many people here. It was raining so I stood in my rondavel doorway watching the countryside get wet and I noticed 3 women walking in the distance. They were on their way over the hill, laden with shopping balanced on their heads and clutching bags in both arms. I wondered how far they had walked already or how far they still had to go or whether they first needed to make a fire to cook dinner since I doubted they were carrying take away Pizzas to feed their families. Every day this week I’ve seen a bunch of kids with buckets on their heads off collecting water somewhere. Half the village’s water has been off for nearly a week again and it’s the 2nd time since we moved in here but luckily there is a rain tank here at the nursery where Theo fills our 20 litre plastic containers. I’m waiting for the water to come on again before I can do my washing in my fancy Sputnik washing machine which I proudly showed to some of the women here who admired it. Many of the people here do have those big green rainwater tanks but they don’t exactly run through to a tap in their kitchen or bathroom like they do in the city so you fill a bucket manually to wash dishes or your body. We have electricity in our rondavel (well we run an extension lead from the site office 60m away) so I’m thankful that I can quickly first boil my water and not have to make a fire first every time.

Last night we visited at Tim’s house (our new friend who I’ll tell you all about later) for a braai and a welcome shower. One of his workers, Doemesan, who had lingered a little later than usual and didn’t go home when the rest did, ended up hanging around for about 3 hours waiting for the moon to come out. He had to walk home, I don’t know how far but I do know that he also lives over the hill and had to walk through the river and his only light was the full moon which only rose at about 10 o clock. There’s a bus which runs to Kentani then on to Butterworth daily but that’s at 7 in the morning so great if you work there (I doubt anyone here does) or need to go there for shopping but otherwise around here after work (the lucky handful who do while the rest live on a government grant) you walk home no matter how far it is. Doemesan said we are teaching at the wrong school and that we should rather come over the hill nearer to his house to teach at the poor school where his kids go. I didn’t even know that there was another primary school other than the high school 15 km’s from here so I wonder if it’s as modern as the one we teach at which has an actual building and even has electricity in most of the 8 classrooms.

I haven’t even scratched the surface yet of finding out what these peoples dreams or ambitions are or what makes them happy or sad so I know that I have a lot to learn. What I have figured out so far is that the Xhosa people here have basic daily needs to attend to, like being able to get to school, access to water, collecting firewood and a simple thing which I take for granted such as the time of day is pertinent to going somewhere on foot like the library to learn how to type and still make it home before dark and definitely not what time the Cape Town Museum closes or what time the next episode of National Geographics is shown on the dish. Fanciful and complicated ideas like starting ones own business or the desire to know the diet of Eskimos are not high on the list of the adults here in Transkei. I on the other hand, once again forgot to close the door down at the ablution rondavel and now the goats have left what looks like 5 kg’s of chocolate coated raisons all over the floor. Oh Dear.



So, look for the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities of life. Forget about your worries and your strife. I mean the bare necessities, old Mother Nature’s recipes that brings the bare necessities of life. Wherever I wonder, wherever I roam I couldn’t be fonder of my big home.

Hey Diddle Diddle, The Cow Jumped Over The Moon

Hey Diddle Diddle, The Cow Jumped Over The Moon



Life here is different to city life in so many different ways. For instance, in the city when your neighbours’ dog continually poops on your lawn, there are a number of ways to deal with these unwanted deposits. If, after politely asking your neighbour to keep their dog on a lease while you grind your teeth with a smile fixed across your botoxed face and the problem persists well then, how you tackle the problem depends on your character I suppose. I saw a movie about a guy who got so irritated by his neighbours’ dog continually pooping on his lawn that he marched over, dropped his pants and promptly took a dump right there in the middle of his neighbours front lawn in broad daylight. Hilarious movie but I wouldn’t suggest it as a solution unless you don’t mind running the risk of being locked up for indecent exposure or have to spend afternoons with a room full of other people who can’t cope with traffic and find it necessary to drive around with a baseball bat under their seat or others who put their fist through their TV because the bokke aren’t awarded their 4 points when Scalk Burger dives for the tryline and the referee calls foul.

Here in our little rondavel in Transkei, life is quite different and there isn’t much to get you riled up. Yesterday morning we opened our door and much to my delight, a steaming cow patty lay deposited on our doorstep, putting any city door to door delivery to shame. This was not left by 12 year old pranksters bearing gifts in a burning brown paper bag who ring your doorbell before dashing to hide in the bushes, giggling like a bunch of school girls as you hastily tramp out the fire and in the process squash turd all over your shoes. No siree, this was left by the unperplexed grass recycling cattle who roam around here as freely as they would like before sauntering down to the beach to laze in the sun and chew the cud while contemplating life as a fish. At first I was a bit nervous walking past these animals and gave them a wide birth while trying to scrutinize the dangly bits between their legs to check whether I was passing a cow or a bull. They all have horns you see and don’t look much like the fat spotted black and white Dairybelle milk supply cows you pass when you feel like taking a drive through the countryside around Cape Town on a Sunday afternoon if you’re tired of walking around the mall looking for new things to spend your pay cheque on after you’ve paid all your bills and there might be a few pennies left over. I soon realised these cattle weren’t concerned by my presence and barely noticed me nervously hanging up the washing 2 metres from them. * Note to Mom: I use pegs these days since I don’t fancy picking up clothes with hoof prints all over them.

Being recalled from dreamland at 5 a.m. by a cow scratching itself against your rondavel door as they try to remove the pesky ticks or a crunching sound under the window of grass being mowed with their molars is better than being woken up by police sirens screaming down the road. The free contributions which they leave around our home is most welcome towards building up our compost heap which Theo plans to put in our veggie garden.

Alternately, Theo glibly suggested that I could spread it over the rondavel floor. I sweep our cow dung floor regularly and I have noticed that lots of little grass bits seem to work themselves loose on the surface but I have absolutely no intention of getting down on my hands and knees, boobs swinging freely to polish our floor by adding fresh coatings of dung as Theo smart arsely suggested.

City people drive BMW’s to flaunt their wealth whereas the Xhosa people here in Transkei show their status by the amount of cattle they own so a Porsche would have as much value as a pair of eyebrow tweezers over here and anyway you wouldn’t get very far negotiating the dongas in the roads. Cattle are used for Labola when a man wants to marry so naturally the more cattle he has the happier he is. Cattle are also sacrificed on special occasions so if a man is prepared to offer one of his cows towards an important event like a wedding or a funeral it elevates his importance in the village much like a city man inviting his friends and family to a braai to celebrate his promotion at his work place, the only difference being the size of the braai grid.

There is a famous Xhosa story which I don’t think many white people know about involving a mass suicide and which according to the internet leaves much room for debate as to the role of the British in the event. It all started right here in Qolora village 150 years ago. In 1857 a young simple girl named Nongqwuse was told by her uncle, Mhlakaza, (who was bitter about being given the boot after many years of helping a missionary named Merriman with translation) to go to the fields near the Gxarha River to chase the birds away from the fruit trees. There in a pool, the spirits communicated with her and gave her a message which led to the downfall of the whole Xhosa tribe. They told her to tell the king that he must order everyone to kill all their cattle and burn all their fields and if they followed this advice, the British who were annihilating the Xhosa people for the past 6 years, would disappear into the sea and the Xhosa people would rise again. The Xhosa people had suffered badly over the past 6 years and to make matters worse the British had brought in their own cattle which carried a disastrous lung disease which was spreading. The people were desperate and the king gave the order and between 300 000 to 400 000 cattle were slaughtered and all the crops were burnt. Nongqwuse’s prediction didn’t materialize but instead the Xhosa nation suffered a horrific loss as 40 000 people died of starvation in a short time, the most ever recorded in history.

The British whisked Nongqwuse off to Robben Island where she spent many years but eventually returned and was buried at the Glenshaw farm, which is somewhere around here, in 1897.

So on that poignant history note, I’m off to find the spade to collect more cow dung for Theo’s veggie garden.