Life in Qolora is back to normal. The holiday makers have all buggerred off again and life has returned to the rhythm that Africa functions on. I only have to share the beach with one or two stragglers who have stretched their hard earned yearly break to a little longer than the rest, before checking out of Trennery’s Hotel and heading back home in their flashy 4 x 4’s, revitalized but minus their bonus from a startlingly high bar tab of too many Mojitos, perhaps a frozen fish in their cooler box and the women all sporting a tan to show off at the office.
The Xhosa people who all came home to see their children and extended families for the Christmas holidays, have also left by the bus loads. Local villagers were excited to receive gifts of food which the Xhosa city dwellers ranging from cleaning ladies, mine workers to successful businessmen brought with them for everyone to feast on. Not as many cows, goats and pigs roam the countryside as some of them complemented the celebrations by being slaughtered in backyards for feasts and to honour ancestors. Well, you don’t really have back yards or front yards here, just inside or outside. Slaughtering, chopping up the carcass and cooking the meat all take place outside while eating and drinking all take place both in and outside. Women gather in kitchens to noisily catch up on news since there’s no party co-ordinating to be done, in fact cutlery doesn’t even feature. Anyway, after returning to their roots and honouring their ancestors, everyone waved their goodbyes till next Christmas, and left with a bottle of seawater to drink back in the city to cleanse out their insides. I wonder why it’s so important to use seawater to make themselves throw up as apposed to a glass of tap water and Cerebos salt. I wonder how long ago this custom started. Could it be a tradition passed down from a clan who understood the properties of water?
Some boys became men over the December holidays and spent time in the hills, hidden from women and being taught the ways of men before losing their foreskins. We were lucky enough to see the beginnings of these initiation ceremonies before we left for Cape Town. Over a few weeks, the older teenage boys gathered in groups and paraded through the village, singing songs of bravery for the soon to be circumcised boys. Their outfits resembled colourful gumboot dancers’ but they also carried their sticks and occasionally they performed displays of traditional stick fighting while the rest noisily chanted and sang in high spirits. Stick fighting is a dying art in the cities but here in rural Qolora they still proudly show off their skills. Two opponents, each armed with two long sticks and both of their blocking arms wrapped up in their shirts, skilfully fight each. Their sticks connect noisily as they hit and block at a fast pace. Apparently faction fighting between initiation groups from different villages has been known to take place but all I ever saw were a lot of excited young men happy to have a reason for partying. I heard a pig being slaughtered at a neighbouring house the day that the elders led a teenage boy into the forest. He was all wrapped up in a white cloak and the entourage of boys were signing much more solemnly in honour of their elders and their custom. The rest of the people at the house had a big fat party and ate the whole pig and drank beer.
Our chicken’s, who a friend was feeding daily while we were in Cape Town, did not end up in anyone’s pot over the holidays and in fact the one hen has grown twice the size of the rooster and is not the dainty lady we left behind. She either fattened herself up to avoid the rooster’s courtship demands or to avoid being eaten by the monitor who has moved into a hole under the container. The chicken feed attracts mice which attract snakes but the rock monitor hopefully will keep the snakes at bay. The two metre long reptile will eat the chicken eggs if given the chance so everyone has a win win situation except us since one chicken egg a day doesn’t quite satisfy Theo’s dietary requirements.
The other day at school, we ate a chicken which tasted really good. Proper meaty chicken which made the stuff you buy in the shops taste like bland, white, artificial meat. The toughness of the meat actually contributed to its tastiness but I struggled to hack off a piece of the bird with a blunt knife which four of us shared. After the chicken we were each given a big plate of samp and beans. As payment for teaching, we get lunch at our new school every day, usually pap and cabbage, so its great but the biggest reward is watching the kids faces light up when they are able to successfully repeat an English sentence.
Meanwhile, my days are getting busier and busier out here in rural Transkei. And here I thought my life in Africa would be laid-back.
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The Xhosa people who all came home to see their children and extended families for the Christmas holidays, have also left by the bus loads. Local villagers were excited to receive gifts of food which the Xhosa city dwellers ranging from cleaning ladies, mine workers to successful businessmen brought with them for everyone to feast on. Not as many cows, goats and pigs roam the countryside as some of them complemented the celebrations by being slaughtered in backyards for feasts and to honour ancestors. Well, you don’t really have back yards or front yards here, just inside or outside. Slaughtering, chopping up the carcass and cooking the meat all take place outside while eating and drinking all take place both in and outside. Women gather in kitchens to noisily catch up on news since there’s no party co-ordinating to be done, in fact cutlery doesn’t even feature. Anyway, after returning to their roots and honouring their ancestors, everyone waved their goodbyes till next Christmas, and left with a bottle of seawater to drink back in the city to cleanse out their insides. I wonder why it’s so important to use seawater to make themselves throw up as apposed to a glass of tap water and Cerebos salt. I wonder how long ago this custom started. Could it be a tradition passed down from a clan who understood the properties of water?
Some boys became men over the December holidays and spent time in the hills, hidden from women and being taught the ways of men before losing their foreskins. We were lucky enough to see the beginnings of these initiation ceremonies before we left for Cape Town. Over a few weeks, the older teenage boys gathered in groups and paraded through the village, singing songs of bravery for the soon to be circumcised boys. Their outfits resembled colourful gumboot dancers’ but they also carried their sticks and occasionally they performed displays of traditional stick fighting while the rest noisily chanted and sang in high spirits. Stick fighting is a dying art in the cities but here in rural Qolora they still proudly show off their skills. Two opponents, each armed with two long sticks and both of their blocking arms wrapped up in their shirts, skilfully fight each. Their sticks connect noisily as they hit and block at a fast pace. Apparently faction fighting between initiation groups from different villages has been known to take place but all I ever saw were a lot of excited young men happy to have a reason for partying. I heard a pig being slaughtered at a neighbouring house the day that the elders led a teenage boy into the forest. He was all wrapped up in a white cloak and the entourage of boys were signing much more solemnly in honour of their elders and their custom. The rest of the people at the house had a big fat party and ate the whole pig and drank beer.
Our chicken’s, who a friend was feeding daily while we were in Cape Town, did not end up in anyone’s pot over the holidays and in fact the one hen has grown twice the size of the rooster and is not the dainty lady we left behind. She either fattened herself up to avoid the rooster’s courtship demands or to avoid being eaten by the monitor who has moved into a hole under the container. The chicken feed attracts mice which attract snakes but the rock monitor hopefully will keep the snakes at bay. The two metre long reptile will eat the chicken eggs if given the chance so everyone has a win win situation except us since one chicken egg a day doesn’t quite satisfy Theo’s dietary requirements.
The other day at school, we ate a chicken which tasted really good. Proper meaty chicken which made the stuff you buy in the shops taste like bland, white, artificial meat. The toughness of the meat actually contributed to its tastiness but I struggled to hack off a piece of the bird with a blunt knife which four of us shared. After the chicken we were each given a big plate of samp and beans. As payment for teaching, we get lunch at our new school every day, usually pap and cabbage, so its great but the biggest reward is watching the kids faces light up when they are able to successfully repeat an English sentence.
Meanwhile, my days are getting busier and busier out here in rural Transkei. And here I thought my life in Africa would be laid-back.
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