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.
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.
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