Hickory Dickory Dock, A Mouse Went In The Pot

Funny how we are put into a certain group by the kind of food we eat. In fact, specific diets represent whole nations. If I say Pizza, everyone thinks Italian. If I say feta cheese, everyone thinks Greek. Sauerkraut – Germany, Christmas pudding – England and so on and so on.

Recently, I’ve been introduced to the idea of mice on the menu.

I always ask the kids at school if they did anything interesting over the weekend and I usually get the same answer “I play soccer” or “I wash my clothes” or “I go church”. One boy in grade 4, who is more confident than the rest of the class has surprised me by putting up his hand to tell me that he shoots birds with his catty when I popped the question.

A few Mondays later he caught my attention as he was giggling excitedly. I moved closer and he pointed to his friend seated next to him and said, “he eat puku”, meaning “he ate a mouse”. Luckily, prior to this, my new Zimbabwean friend had told me that eating mice and huge rats were common back home and that kids would often catch mice as a pass time which they cooked on a fire. She said the big rats were a meal for the whole family, some being the size of small pigs. If you went to bed without washing your hands after eating, you ran the risk of rats gnawing away at your fingers in your rural hut.

The sweet embarrassment of the boy in the class who was put on the spot had nothing to do with the fact that he had eaten a mouse but rather that he was now expected to speak English. I licked my lips exaggeratedly and said “really, did you make a fire to cook it?” which made everyone giggle and he nodded yes and grinned.

I’ve recently heard about people eating mice in Zambia. This particular woman boiled her mice in a pot and ate them whole, as in head, hair, guts and all. Eeuw. That’s a bit rough for me to want to try.

Marius, who I mentioned in my previous post, popped around on his way home the other day. His bush survival stories are enthralling so, wanting to impress him, I recounted the story of munching on boiled mice. He listened patiently as I hurried to the part about the hair still being on, then he slowly tapped his Gouloise on the cigarette box a few times, and said it reminded him of the time he won a Mercedes Benz at a festival in Namibia. His was jonk en jukkerig and at a fair with a girl who he had the hots for. A few beers later, she fluttered her eyelashes at him, offering him the promise of a good time if he took part in the competition to win a brand new Merc. The catch was, contestants had to swallow a mouse and keep it down for five minutes. The real catch was that the mouse was still alive. Contestants held their mouse which was dipped in syrup, by their tails and swallowed it without chewing.

Marius remembered being more worried about throwing up the beer which he had just spent good money on but the R20 ticket to take part in the competition, which was a lot of money in those days, was money well spent since a young girl waited excitedly on the sideline. Of the 16 contestants, a few were able to successfully swallow the live mouse smothered in syrup but no-one was able to keep them down for the full 5 minutes except for Marius. He resisted the urge to part with the contents of his stomach long enough to receive the keys to a brand new Merc. Only then, green at the gills from the strange sensation in his stomach, keys safely in hand, did he throw up.

He got the girl and the car of his dreams which in fact wasn’t the Merc but the old man’s Voxaul which he had his eye on for some time. He traded the Merc for the Voxaul, and with the fathers blessings walked away a very happy man.

HERITAGE DAY

Last week I celebrated Heritage Day with a difference. Originally Heritage Day meant a day off from work for me to do chores, shopping or relaxing. Usually there was a braai involved, as many South Africans tend to naturally look for any excuse to make a fire and braai in the outdoors. Heritage Day evolved into National Braai Day for the nation as most city people of all colours, found themselves doing the same. A fire, a braai and a beer in your hand pretty much sums up most South Africans I think.

This year was different. Living in rural Transkei and involved in education, we were invited to Isolomzi SSS Heritage Day celebrations and for the first time, I experienced the true meaning of Heritage Day. The day was extra special because Rondebosch Boys High School had spent the week on an outreach programme, where their top Grade 12 students, led by the head of the maths department, who had initiated the programme, were giving maths tuition to Isolomzi Grade 12’s in preparation for their final exams. Our Qolora Education Centre works closely with Isolomzi SSS after identifying this poor, yet very exceptional school in our rural area.

Theo and I arrived at the school and we were ceremoniously waved in by a group of women dressed in traditional Xhosa outfits, ululating, singing and dancing. I felt special in my improvised version of a traditional Xhosa outfit and wore as many beads as I had. Trying to rustle up a kappie, a pair of veldskoen and a voorskoot to represent my mixed English and Afrikaans heritage would have been difficult but anyway, it was fun dressing in Xhosa culture instead. We brought food to represent our heritage and Theo’s wasgoedbondeltjies and sweetcorn fritters were placed in the centre of the group for everyone to see, while he was asked to explain the recipes. Everyone was intrigued by the fact that Theo had cooked it and not me, and they loved the concept of “washing bundles”. Some Xhosa traditional food was brought forward and explanations were done for us before we moved to an area where music played for people to dance and mingle. Later we were all seated and the festivities of traditional dancing and praise singing were performed by Isolomzi SSS students. Rondebosch Boys hauled out their guitars and a Jembe drum and wowed the crowd with a few songs of their own. A Xhosa woman took the floor and explained a little about their background and I was please to hear her announce that these days, Xhosa people were buying too much food as apposed to in the old days when they grew their own food and had fewer sicknesses. Gifts and thank you speeches were given and finally a group, lead by the headman showed us their customary dance performed when young initiates return from initiation rituals. The dance included singing, feet shuffling and a sort of hissing sound which the headman directed. I was captivated by the day’s entertainment and finally we all moved into a beautifully decorated tent where the food was laid out with name tags in English and isiXhosa. Everyone in the village had brought food to share and seeing Ubuntu work and being involved in it, was a fantastic experience. I had no idea that mielies could be cooked in so many different ways, nor did I realize that home made ginger beer is also a traditional Xhosa drink.

Spending Heritage Day around a braai is great, but sharing the day with people of different cultural backgrounds which make up our unique rainbow nation, making South Africa a special place, is the way to bring the country together. Embracing these different cultures and proudly showing the world our wonderful heritage is a positive step which each individual can do. By learning about your neighbours and having some insight into their background can only result in better relations I think.

FINGER CLUCKING GOOD

The fate of our eunuch rooster was finally decided. We’d been considering turning him into a Sunday lunch for some time, and Philen assured us that slaughtering a hen was old hat to him. Theo had previously been indecisive, claiming that he wasn’t prepared to do all the dirty work while I profess to be an animal lover yet am quite prepared to eat the meal so long as I don’t get my hands dirty. I have no qualms about keeping animals for meat so long as they are respected and cared for during their time on earth. In fact I support eating chickens that roam the yard as apposed to those kept in a cage no bigger than their body for the short duration of their life. Clearly Theo was not listening as usual or perhaps he needed time to figure out how to catch the rooster.

So Philen’s visit brought the dispute to an end and our longing for some delicious tasting Xhosa chicken sealed the deal.

The eunuch rooster, who, I’ll now refer to as “Curry” surveyed us with one beady eye but he seemed much more aware of the red rooster, who I’ll call Cocky Locky for now. Cocky Locky came sprinting across the yard to chase Curry away from little Henny Penny who pecked daintily at some mielies. Her alluring tail fluff had long been the cause of Cocky Locky and Curry’s conflict. Curry, even though he was 3 times the size of Cocky Locky, was very wary of his adversary and clearly had no balls, pardon the pun.

Theo and Philen plotted their attack by arming themselves with weapons of mass destruction. I grabbed the camera. Curry was way too clever for the boy’s initial attempt to lure him with their Hansel and Gretel mielie trail so they tried a more direct approach. Philen stalked Curry with his rope lasso and a towel at the ready which he planned to through over the rooster, confuse him and then pounce.

Theo in the meantime had positioned himself behind my dangly door thingie with his bow and arrow drawn and ready. The hunt was on. (I’ll elaborate on Theo’s home made bow and arrow at a later time). I stood between Curry’s retreat pathway with my camera poised while inconspicuously trying to heard Cocky Locky and Henny Penny out of Theo’s target range in case of a stray arrow. Curry sensed there was fowl play at hand.

After a half an hour we eventually gave up to regroup and re-evaluate our situation. We were hungry and tired of being out manoeuvred by a sharp-eyed chicken. Luckily, just then, a friend phoned and invited us to join him for a chicken potjie and a bottle of whiskey. We welcomed the drinks so the three of us squeezed onto the XT and headed down the road to Marius’s house. I haven’t mentioned him before, although he is an unusual character; an ex rekkie who has been hiding out from the SWAPO team since he left South West Africa in a big hurry a number of years ago and has been hiding in the hills here in Transkei ever since. His extraordinary life story, washed down with a couple of whiskeys, always captivates his audience and on this day, he recounted his Rekkie training days. By the time we left, we were all revved up and rearing to go. We raced home the 3 km’s on the bike, and jumped into action within seconds of arriving home. Theo and Philen marched over, had the rooster down, slit its throat and minutes later I was plucking it.

By the time the adrenalin and whiskey wore off, the bird was ready for the pot and looked just like the chickens you buy from the supermarket all cleaned up and ready to eat. Well almost, the feet, still attached and quite a delicacy here, was the only visible tell tale sign that it wasn’t a watered down, hormone injected, bland tasting excuse for meat.

The bird weighed 3 kg’s and was more than enough for 2 cookings. Philen made a delicious curry, feet, giblets and all which simmered a few hours that day and Theo made another yummy curry the next day with the other half.

I still have a bag of feathers to stuff a pillow or do something useful with. In fact ive just thought of a damn good idea – we can stick them on owl masks next project day at the centre.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND - PHILEN NAIDU AUTHOR OF MY LIFE MY AFRICA

Yesterday we got a face book message which made me squeal with delight.  Philen Naidu, author of My Life My Africa asked if he could visit us for 3 weeks and of course we jumped at the offer.  Having someone here to talk to, share ideas with and take some pressure off our workload would be wonderful but imagine that someone being a traveller who spent 5 years on foot travelling to Zambia while experiencing life on grass roots level with the locals and then writing a book about his life experience. It just sounded too good to be true.

I haven’t actually read Philen’s book even though I knew of him, so the anticipation was all the more exciting.  The day arrived and he got off the third bus from Jozie, tired from 36 hours of travel but we greeted him with a cold beer and a big grin. I expected someone taller and of a bigger frame but then again I also expected he’d have a funny Indian accent and bring a bag of chillies tucked under a sarong.  He did bring some spices but he was more blown over to find Theo’s kitchen fully stocked with Tamarind, smoked chillies and every spice necessary to sustain his love of cooking. 

I’d spent the morning wondering whether our first encounter would be a braai in the shade of my new granny panties, (the ones I spoke about in an earlier blog) which flapped on the washing line like a big cerise tarpaulin.   He arrived on Theo’s birthday so naturally a braai was a given.  I soon realised that we’d be eating chillies with every meal, which was up Theo’s alley but I puckered up for a steady 3 weeks of anticipated ringsting.  We spent the first night sloshing down a few beers and excitedly figured out that we were on the same page about life, the universe and things that make us tick.  Three weeks are not going to be enough time to discuss our passions and interests since the topic of food from different cultures requires a whole chapter of its own. His zest for life is like a fresh breeze blown in from the north and revitalized my soul, leaving a curry trail and old negative thoughts in its wake.  

I working on ME again and I’m filled with joy and vigour.  Damn it’s good to be alive.              

IT’S BEEN A HARD DAYS WORK

We were excited about an upcoming overnight trip to East London to meet a bunch of influential big shots with oodles of money. We packed an overnight bag and left the lullies for the big city. 10 km’s before reaching East London we got a flat tyre and realized that the puncture which Theo had repaired with craft Genkem glue the week before, didn’t hold. Oh well, improvisation has its moments. We phoned Gwyn, the guy who had arranged the meeting and who generously offered to put us up while we were in EL. He organized a bakkie to pick us up and sort us out. What a nice guy.

He didn’t blink an eye when we finally arrived at his plush upmarket office, lugging our helmets with visors which are taped on with pieces of duct tape, the bike’s topbox, a rucksack while my helmet hair stood at all angles and my right boot was coated in oil.

He gave us the exclusive use of his house which had a massive flat screen DSTV and a jacuzzi bathtub. He even paid for the punctured tyre repair. Unfortunately the clutch housing broke when the bike got strapped onto the back of the bakkie so the trip cost us more than we planned especially since we decided to put a new front tyre on since we were in EL which rarely happens.

The meeting went well and everyone seemed quite impressed with our story of the work we do here and we walked away with many leads and have already had a follow up offer of 50 dictionaries which we are thrilled about. The next day we visited ITEC Learning Centre and met management staff who run a well established resource training centre in East London.

They are mostly involved in community programmes which develop young learners up to grade R but they also run a community library. They have set up programmes from empowering mothers to nurture their babies, setting up mobile libraries for schools as well as train crèche teachers.

Children visit their wonderful library where they, assisted by Xhosa volunteers, offer story book reading sessions, craft sessions such as drawing and making their own books. Children go there to read books or have short sessions on the 2 computers with internet access. Their centre was such an inspiration and we left there with more ideas, leads and a sense of achievement knowing that we weren’t just floundering, grasping at straws but in fact we had really achieved quite a lot and were headed in the right direction. If we could get our centre anywhere close to resembling theirs, I’d be thrilled.

Seeing so many people, walking the busy streets, popping in at all the shops, eating different food and chilling on a couch watching TV was refreshing. Telling our story over and over to interested people during the few days we were in EL made us feel alive and gave us a new zest to continue with our work.

Back at Qolora we attacked our admin with the same fierce urgency which seemed to have become a routine over the past few months. We finally finished our website which had been excruciatingly frustrating and tiring work. We’d also networked with many people and even visited the Department of Education which proved to be just as fruitless as we expected but at least now we have introduced ourselves to them. They asked the same question many people here ask, which is “what can you do for us?” or “what have you brought us?”

It’s always give me give me. Isolomzi SSS on the other had have reached success by helping themselves and we cant but help falling over our feet trying to promote their school and assist them. They are trying to get their computer lab up and running and we have started training the teachers who want to be equipped to follow it through to their learners.

We’ve become special members of their School Governing Body (SGB) which is quite an honor but more importantly, we have seen the principal be recognized by influential people who will continue helping him to reach his ever increasing new goals making education a success.

And that’s what makes another day in Africa, a day to smile about.

All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth

So recently I needed to visit a dentist. The gums around my back molar started swelling to such an extent that it was affecting my intake of food, which led to a loss of appetite which led to the fantastic realization that I might loose a few kilos. That was the upside of dealing with a throbbing jaw. The downside was I couldn’t pop down to the local Medi Cross Centre and flick through a 5 year old copy of Fair Lady missing the back page with smells of novacane wafting around the waiting room before a man in a white coat could cause more pain and take all my money.

I had three options. One; an overnight trip to East London to see a dentist who would probably take ex-rays and charge exorbitant fees for his services. Two; a trip to Butterworth to a Chinese dentist who the locals here recommended but who I had reservations about since I didn’t know what to expect. Three; a visit to the local igqirha (medicine woman) who I was told by a village teacher treated toothache by dripping juice of a certain bush down a smoking twig into the problematic tooth cavity. I didn’t have a whole lot of money for option 1 or an actual hole in my tooth to be filled the African homeotherapy style remedy so I settled on option 2.

The bike trip to Butterworth took my mind off my throbbing jaw and in fact my whole body shuddered so much I thought the trip might be fruitless as I feared the molar, which had slightly loosened over the past few days, would fall out of its own accord by the time we arrived. The combination of our old 550 XT Thumper which has seen better days and the gravel road to Centane which is deteriorating badly makes for a horribly bumpy ride. I can’t make the full 15 km’s without having to stop a couple of times and get off the now seemingly shockless bouncing back tire, stretch my aching semi metal knee, wipe the oil which leaks from the engine onto my shoe causing my foot to continually slide off the footpeg and finally realign my bifocal glasses and wedge them back into my helmet at the correct angle so that when I arrive at my destination I don’t have a headache from vision which alternates between near and far sightedness at the speed of the bikes piston, causing me to be more squint than usual.

From Centane to Butterworth the 17 km's of tar is smoother but by then the damage was done to my body so I sat on the back and tried not to think about the dentist visit which I dreaded. I focused on keeping my lower jaw stretched as far away from my top jaw as possible to give my teeth a rest from the hour of clamping they had been through which is a good way to prevent your tongue being bitten when your body vibrates at that speed but the enamel coating on my teeth is wearing thin. I also had to focus on not actually opening my mouth while doing this as I didn’t want to scare the dentist by presenting him with squashed bugs all over my pearlys.

We arrived at the Chinese dentist and I took a seat in the sparsely furnished waiting room with a dozen or so other patients while Theo went shopping. The friendly Xhosa women all chatted away around me and after 4 hours, I’d picked up the rhythm of how things worked at this dentist surgery. By then I’d poked my head into the room next door since there wasn’t a receptionist, where the friendly Dr Chang and his Chinese assistant, who was probably his wife, asked about the tooth and after a quick exchange of hand signs, their limited English and me trying to talk with my mouth open for him to see my swollen gum from the doorway, I returned to the waiting room for the long haul.

An old Xhosa man directed people from the surgery room to the bathroom at the back of the building where you rinsed your mouth but generally people seemed to know where to go. The patients seemed to be business people and chatted away except those who came out of the surgery room. They sat clutching tissues against their lower faces, waiting for the injection to kick in while the dentist peered into the next patient’s mouth in his surgery. My turn eventually arrived and the dentist told me that it was too late to save the tooth and that after pulling it, the huge abscess would drain by itself. I settled back in the waiting room for about 10 minutes after a quick trip to the back bathroom to rinse my mouth and squeezed past the generator for a quick pee. Just as the drool was about to run down my chin, escaping the provided tissue, I was called back in to have the job finished. The dentist had a lovely jaw side manner and put my mind at rest before the extraction which wasn’t half as bad as I’d expected. I’d once nearly punched a dentist who hurt me. It was an instinctive action as my clenched hand automatically shot out when he carelessly groped around in my mouth with his sharp tools. He was not a nice dentist at all. This guy was totally different and in fact afterwards we even tried chatting although it was really difficult since by then, we not only had a language barrier but my limp mouth made it impossible for me to articulate coherently. I paid my R100 and left, relieved and with a lopsided grin.

The trip going back wasn’t so bad as my body seemed to be more relaxed, from the adrenaline surge probably or maybe because I rode half the way with my leg stuck out straight but we still stopped just as many times for me to spit mouthfuls of blood out and to replace the surgical wad which I was biting down on with a fresh one tucked away in pocket which the dentist's wife had sent me home with.

That’s a dentist I don’t mind going back to but if I do get a cavity and the Igqirha is off duty, I’ll try a recently recommended option by a woman who said her parents treated their farm labourer's tooth aches by sticking a hair dryer nozzle into their mouth to dry it, followed by a blob of quick set Pratley putty pressed into the hole.

Hopefully I won’t need to look for my hair dryer stuck in a cupboard in the truck any time soon. My appetite is also back so the 2 kg's I thought I'd lost have found their way back to my middle again. Oh well.

Another Year Of Eunuch Life In Transkei

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rondebosch Twinning

A crisp morning breeze whipped around my face as I waved my goodbyes to the last of the Isolomzi students as they headed home. The workshop had come to an end and the 14 Isolomzi students were left with memories and experiences never to be forgotten. I felt privileged to be a part of it.

It all started a while back when Theo and I visited Isolomzi High and found a competent principal at the helm of his exceptional school and things just snowballed from there. Word reached Rondebosch Boys High in Cape Town via Jock and the following Easter holidays Rowan, the Maths guru from Rondebosch High and Marion, his better half, offered to visit our centre and get a feel for the challenges faced by schools out here in Transkei. They brought hundreds of text books and maths papers with to distribute to students who visit our centre. There are 2 high schools in the Qolora area fed by about 15 junior schools. Tyali High is a typical overcrowded high school and learners struggle to get a proper education whereas the charismatic principal of Isolomzi High saw the opportunity and after Rowan and Marion visited his school, ties between Isolomzi and Rondebosch High were established.

A one week workshop was planned by a Rondebosch team for the June holidays and everyone was pretty excited about things to come. Jock and 4 teachers drove 8 Rondebosch city boys all the way up from Cape Town to meet 14 selected students from rural Isolomzi High. Jock opened his house and his heart and the Cape Town crowd settled into his holiday cottage while the Isolomzi students moved into 2 accommodation rondavels here at our centre.

The Rondebosch boys were soon to learn how privileged they were to have access to a good education on their doorstep, running water, money and a functional home. The Isolomzi students were given a window into the lives of white city boys and learnt about cultures in a rural village.

Monday kicked off with a meet and greet and students from both schools had their first opportunity to get to learn a little bit about each other. Everyone seemed relaxed and short before long they were kicking a ball around outside and things just flowed from there.

Our days were filled with activities, tour guided outings and free time for the students to relax. The Rondebosch boys were jovial and entertained us with their light hearted banter while the Isolomzi students were more academically orientated and grabbed every opportunity to learn as much as they could. They were thrilled to all get email and facebook accounts and hopefully they will stay in touch with each other.

Ross, the aspiring Rondebosh Boys High chef, prepared most meals for us, except the samp and beans (umngqusho) which the city boys found a bit too unpalatable for their taste buds. On the other hand, the Isolomzi students were not accustomed to western style of cooking and not everyone enjoyed Ross’s delicious garlic mussels, broccoli and cheese sauce and even green beans were too exotic for most of them.

We went on 2 informative guided tours, one to the home of an igqirha (medicine woman) and the second one was a short hike and a boat trip to the Gates, a picturesque geological fissure through which the Qolora river runs. We were told about Xhosa history and interesting information about traditional uses of plant life. The igqirha showed us how to pound mielies, winnow them into different sizes for different dishes and some of us brave ones tasted a white frothy concoction which she pounded from tree roots and which keeps evil spirits away. Bjorn was the only one brave enough to get elbow deep in fresh sloppy cow dung and smear it over the floor, a tradition still practiced once a week in many homes here. Johan, the photographer, captured all the memorable moments on his camera, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he blackmailed the boys for their hilarious attempts at singing, making animal noises and beat boxing during the talent show. Johan is also a professional swimmer and gave the Isolomzi boys a swimming lesson in the lagoon. Both Jordan and Eddie’s loud mouths kept the party alive at all times.

Isolomzi beat Rondebosch at every single competition from the debate, topic being fracking, to the beautiful gospel singing at the talent show. Eddie was beaten by Anathi at chess and Isolomzi even beat Rondebosch on the sports field in a relaxed game of soccer and a casual game of touch rugby.

Tinei, from the Isolomzi group, showed leadership qualities and directed a short movie about the life of a rural girl. I would love to see it completed, edited and posted on Youtube.

Theo entertained us with a fantastic fire poi show and I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t burst into flames as it was his first time ever.

The maths teachers gave a workshop at our centre and the place was packed with additional Isolomzi students who arrived for the lessons, all dressed smartly in their school uniforms.

Two of the maths teachers organized a session for the girls to create dream posters where we had fun cutting and sticking magazine clippings which we found inspiring.

We ended the week with a lovely 3 course dinner for everyone at Trennery’s Hotel on Friday night after spending the day at Isolomzi High school for a special function. Representatives of the Department of Education were invited to the school function as well as a large group of influential guests, all connected to Rondebosch Boys High who coincidentally happened to be staying at Trennerys hotel on holiday and were keen to attend. The Xhosa culture at the school function was evident in the beautiful singing and as always, I swallowed a lump in my throat as the room swelled with the melodies of praise singing. The students captivated the audience with a few skits. The theme was anti drugs and the importance of education and even though the message was serious, they managed to humour the crowd and had us in stitches. Of course there was traditional dancing by the boys who kept the beat with a guitar, drums and a kuduzela. The girls received supportive ululating as they stomped around in time to the makeshift drum and all looked stunning dressed as mamas in their beautiful traditional outfits and painted faces.

Pride swelled from Mr Butshingi and for the first time I saw the man almost, but not quite (I don’t think that’s possible), lost for words. Years of hard work, alienation from surrounding schools, opposition from parents and elders, personal attacks on his character, lack of support from previous teachers, union interference, having to educate students from junior secondary schools who fail to come close to preparing students for high school, poverty, faction fighting and lack of resources are all issues which he has faced at his school. His hard work paid off and for a day he felt like a prince as everyone congratulated him on his success. Later that night at the Trennery’s dinner, I heard promises of further support from the other Rondebosch guests and the possibility of twinning Rondebosch Prep with other schools in the area was even mentioned.

The workshop was a great success towards building further relations and plans are already under way for September holidays when teachers will return to assist with winter school at Isolomzi.

The students of Isolomzi High have to work 3 times as hard as other students to achieve their outstanding results and their dedication and efforts have been acknowledged and the rewards will follow. The pride I felt for these students and their wonderful school makes me feel blessed. How lucky am I to have been involved.

The igqirha (medicine woman) performing a ritual on me to prevent evil spirits from entering my body 

Bjorn getting down and dirty

A day of maths at the centre (note the Isolomzi students neatness)

The boat trip

Theo doing fire poi

The Rondebosh Boys team

Interaction at the centre

Johan giving swimming lessons in the lagoon

Isolomzi girls fashion shoot

students and a ball - what more can I say

The whole team - with Jock a happy man in the front

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

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

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

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

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

my beaded shell window thingie

my decorative door thingie

my beaded curtain thingie

 

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

Granny panties

So it finally happened. The day I’ve been dreading with great anxiety and the day which became a milestone turning point for me. I am mortified to admit that I now own 2 pairs of giant sized granny panties. In my defence, I must explain the reason how I came to own these gigantic knickers with cerise blossoms splashed all over them.

I recently went to Centane and did some shopping. Centane has the hustle and bustle of a “town” and I love shopping there even though there is not much variety. At the deli in Shoprite you can buy a piece of fried chicken, chicken feet, a quarter loaf of bread with a fried egg slapped on top, giblets and pap or red viennas. They cater for Xhosa taste buds so you won’t find things like croissants, lasagne or corn dogs. Back in Cape Town you have to dodge eager charity workers who shake their coin tins in front of shop entrances hoping you will part with your spare change for the blind, the needy, paraplegics or cancer patients. Here you have to dodge chickens, goats, mangy dogs, garbage and the wheelbarrow brigade who offer to carry your groceries to the nearest taxi.

You will find Pep Stores in every remote corner of South Africa clothing our nation, keeping skin moist with Dawn body cream, Black Like Me hair oils and underwear in large, XL and XXL sizes. These days their rival Chinese shops are also opening up in every corner of Africa selling every imaginable plastic item, shoes and clothing but they cater for midgets which are not the average size of most African women.

Anyway, there I was, scanning the underwear shelf and musing over how my taste in underwear seemed to have changed over the years. It seemed like only yesterday that G-strings and floss were quite comfortable to wear. Somewhere along the way, I gained a few kilos and I discovered wonderfully comfortable stretchy boy leg brooks work better at covering cellulite. The transition happened comfortably except I noticed Theo didn’t find my new Lycra skin colour briefs as enticing as the previous lace thongs.

The sound of Xhosa women babbling away around me brought me back to reality and I found myself staring at the more functional knickers. You know, the florally ones which come in packs of 3 which Woolworth s have been selling since the days when the castle in Cape Town was still a tent. Anyway, I grabbed a pack of what I thought was bikini size but instead it turned out to be full size. Very full size indeed as I discovered a few days later when I opened the packet and unrolled meters and meters of floral cerise printed cotton. I stepped into two gaping holes while the shocking pink flowers expanded across my arse and half way up my back where the cerise blossoms finally ended inches below my armpits.

I’ll need at least 6 pegs to hang my granny panties on the wash line for all the world to see. But do you wanna know a secret? They fit as snug as a bug in a rug.