A TRIP TO CINTSA

Lately we’ve been a bit too consumed with teaching and admin so a night out sounded like a jolly good idea. Last Saturday, the weather looked gloomy but it didn’t stop us from a road trip to Cintsa or however far we got.

The 15 km to the Kei River was bumpy on the XT but I’ve long ago accepted that bike shocks are a luxury I’ll be doing without. At least the gravel road was dry even though grey clouds loomed overhead. We crossed the ferry to Kei Mouth village and on tar roads from there, we headed for Morgan Bay. We were hoping to meet up with the interesting people who we’d met there in December. A bit of drumming and alternate conversation would have been good for my soul. No such luck, so we pushed on to Cintsa. Gee, had I realised it was that far away, I would definitely have signed up for a beer pitstop but since it had started raining and we were getting soaked, we pushed on till we hit Cintsa. At first the rain was a dam nuisance and all I wanted to do was stop somewhere and dry off but eventually a person accepts that there is nothing to do so you might as well sit tight and accept it.

The east side of Cintsa had a caravan park, one or two business’s but most importantly, we spotted a quaint little pub which we made a bee line for. My rain soaked pants had almost dried a few kilometres back when the rain let up and the wind had a chance to air dry my pants glued to my knees. My feet squelched in an inch of water which had run into my sockless takkies. It was a toss up over a cup of hot coffee or a cold beer but Theo ordered two Rum and Cokes which quickly solved that problem and my frozen tootsies were soon forgotten. Our timing was perfect, since the local brewer, a friendly, soft spoken guy, who just happened to be delivering a keg to the pub, got chatting to us and we spent the afternoon hearing about his popular Emerald Vale craft beer which, by the way, tasted really good. Later, armed with directions from the two chatty, barefooted, surfer barmen how to get to Buccaneers Backpackers, we headed off to the west side of Cintsa.



Bucaneers was buzzing with young people from all over the world. Some surf, some do volunteer work at the local crèche or just hang out for a day or 3 but mostly, everyone was on a holiday tour of the east coast of SA starting from Joburg and ending in Cape Town. Bucaneers is on the Baz Bus route so even though the place might seem remote, it’s a very popular hotspot for overseas young people and offers lots of activities and socializing.

We shared a dinner table with a young couple on holiday from Russia. He was British, working there as a lawyer and she was an American TEFL teacher. Our idea was to forget about teaching for a day or two but I found myself enjoying talking about education. By the end of the weekend I was sourcing volunteer teachers and was giving tour advice.

The highlight of my evening was a drumming session led by a comical Xhosa guy. I got a thrilling chance to thump out a rhythm on an African drum. Five of us where led by the leader, who’s hands blurred above his drum as he rhythmically kept us in beat. The sound vibrated right through me and the room became alive with the beat of our drums.

I’m thinking of making my own drum in the style which the locals here make theirs; from an old paint drum with a piece of leather stretched over the top. Maybe if I’m able to beat a rhythm I might get invited to the next sangoma’s beach party.

In the meantime, I’m looking for an excuse to go to Cintsa for another pint of Emerald Vale.

HEY TEACHER, LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE

This year our days are jam packed with teaching, teaching and more teaching. Our day starts at Siseko JSS which is about 10 km’s from here, so every morning a taxi bakkie collects us and as we bounce to school on the gravel roads, I practice my Xhosa on the driver. His English isn’t too wonderful but he enjoys helping me build up my Xhosa vocabulary and laughs at some of my pronunciation attempts.

We really enjoy teaching at Siseko JSS as the principal is serious about education. The classrooms are tiny and 2 grades are squashed up in a single classroom. Many learners sit 3 to one desk. Some desks are broken or have tops made of hardboard which is disintegrating at the corners and some students can’t fit their legs under the low tables. None of these factors make writing an easy mission. One grade face their teacher in the front while the other half face their teacher at the back of the classroom. I can’t imagine how this situation works effectively. The grade 1’s don’t have desks, just a plastic chair, many of which are broken so writing is not an option. Their little faces light up when I enter the class and I always bring a teddy bear, a coloured ball, a floppy hat, home made alphabet flashcards or some sort of realia to make the lessons interesting. They love pleasing me and they are so eager to shout out the answer and sometimes they can’t contain themselves and they rush forward, shouting missy missy, with their little arms reaching up and their face scrunched up as they shout “f for fish”. As cute as they are, I prefer teaching the Grade 5 and 6 class since, even though there are a few boys who don’t really try and can’t really read, never mind speak English, I find it easier to teach them since, as a class, they are able to understand me much better and I teach them grammar in fun activities with realia, role playing and they absolutely love competitions.

Its difficult teaching 2 grades at a time since they are not all at the same level of competency and I can’t use their prescribed English work books since each grade’s book is different. I therefore have to create my own lesson plan every day. Generally, they need basic sentence structure lessons since they’ve had no experience expressing themselves in English.

The principal is very keen to improve teaching at his school but the challenges are tough. The teachers are keen to welcome his new rule as of this year, based on ideas which we’ve presented to him, using English in all lessons as the first change but unfortunately their grasp of English is very poor. Do the maths! They are not very imaginative in creative lessons and games such as Eye Spy are as foreign to them as umfino, the much loved wild leafy vegetable, was to us.

We teach at Qolora By Sea in the afternoons for an hour but unfortunately by then, the teachers at this school are either in some sort of meeting or something or other and the learners are unruly which makes teaching there not very pleasant. We are barely into the year and we feel demoralized having to deal with this schools lack of interest in dedicated teaching. The only thing keeping me there are the little ones who run to meet us at the gate and fight for a chance to hold our hands. My skin and hair are quite a fascination point with all the young kids at both schools. We would much rather teach at Isolomzi, the high school over the hill, where that principal is doing a wonderful job of offering his learners a good education. He has a team of dedicated teachers and the first rule of the school is that only English is spoken after entering the school gates. Mr Butshingi, the principal, is not very popular with the other schools and is considered a tyrant but he just produced a matric pass rate of 75% and many distinctions to boast of. He only has about 25 learners per class since not many students around here want to attend his school as the expectations are too high for them. Alternatively, Tjali High, which is over the other hill, is a totally different setup. They are fed by about 5 junior schools in the area. They have 6 grade 12 classes, each with 80 plus learners per class, 4 grade 11 classes, also with about 80 learners per class and not much less grade 10’s. Teachers go there to do crowd control more than teach.



We open the Qolora Education Centre from 3 to 5pm during the week for the local kids who come around. Some just come because they enjoy being there and have nothing better to do but some enjoy the English and Maths handouts which we’ve been giving them to do lately. I’ve gotten the little ones to read to me in the past, but as of yet, none of the older children have shown any real interest in actually reading a challenging book. At 5 o clock I tutor a couple of students from Tjali high school, 2 walk the 10 km’s 2 or 3 times a week for my English lesson (and computer lessons) which I give them before walking all the way back home again. I’ve asked them what challenges they face at Tjali High School and they tell me that besides sharing desks, some students don’t have textbooks. Also, some students stay after school to hide a chair for themselves to use the next day. Half of the first period is usually wasted by teachers trying to resolve chair ownership issues. I guess some students just have to stand for the lesson due to the shortage of chairs. I believe the one and only maths teacher will be leaving in a month or two and will not be replaced. Abongile also told me of her concerns that when it rains, the long drop toilets get flooded and can’t be used.

Many learners drop out along the way. I can’t imagine why, can you?

WITH A CLUCK CLUCK HERE AND A CLUCK CLUCK THERE.

 Our hen is having an identity crisis. We left the chickens alone (besides a friend feeding them daily) for six weeks and now the oddest thing has happened. When we returned, Diablo, the only chicken we named out of the three, had doubled in size. Her beady yellow eyes which glare fearsomely at you, earned her the name. The other black hen is not nearly as greedy as her, but the rooster has always treated his 2 hens equally as far as courtship and calling them to share food. Only the smaller hen pops out her egg every morning much to Theo’s delight, but Diablo doesn’t seem to have the same desires to contribute towards our breakfast.

Well, the other morning, we were still in bed; I was enjoying listening to the birds and filtering through my thoughts which these days are limited to creating fun lesson plans, or recalling skipping songs from files which have long ago been abandoned to file 13 in the bottom drawer of my whiskey saturated brain. Anyway I have limited time to arrange these thoughts before Theo turns the radio on to listen to the traffic report in Cape Town or what poultice Tannie Sannie recommends to treat Boet’s recurring athlete’s foot calamity on Radio Sonder Grense. So there we were, 30 seconds into some or other Afrikaans singer belting out something about “ek wil styf langs jou lepel lê” when the rooster gave his usual “I got it all this morning crow” when clear as daylight, we heard an answering call in a deep voice right outside the door to our rondavel.

It definitely was not the neighbour’s rooster answering as used to before we left for Cape Town and I can only assume that he was eaten over the holidays, (probably to celebrate someone being circumcised) and now our rooster has to strain his ears to listen for an answer from another adversary over the hill. Anyway, Theo jumped up to investigate and true as bob, Diablo was out there crowing. WTF? Was it possible? Was Diablo messing with our rooster’s manhood, or more perturbing, was she a he? Surely the rooster would not have tolerated a rival on his property? She’s bigger than him these days and he can’t catch her for his mandatory bonk but since she has started crowing, the rooster is disgusted with her and he and the other hen have teemed up and poor Diablo is being ostracised. Well all I know is if it turns out that we have two roosters, one potentially to reach the size of a goose on steroids, then one of them will have to end up in the cooking pot and what a pleasure it will be to eat meat other than Russians.

I’m gatvol of Russian sausages. Theo’s culinary abilities have been put to the test in his attempts to disguise the taste of yet another meal of processed Russians. Slicing, dicing, braaing, boiling, drying and the latest way of mincing them and adding to soups, stews, and bolognaise served with rice, samp and beans or pap have been on the menu every day since we’ve returned. He has yet to pickle them. Last night he made lasagne, with home made pasta which was yummy so maybe there are more inventions to come.

Anyway, the chickens better figure out who’s who, since the latest advice is to take our rooster to the 90 year old mama who lives over the hill and who specialises in castrating roosters. This apparently will curb his lusty desires and become less aggressive but if you ask me, all that will do is encourage Diablo to blow her own horn. I researched this rooster castrating business and apparently it’s not as bizarre as I imagined, but slicing a chicken’s groin open to pop out his internal goonies just doesn’t sound right at all. I’ll rather let nature play out its course and if that doesn’t work, I could seek out a Sangoma for advice regarding our chicken problem. Chances are I’ll be told to bury a bundle of herbs in the yard to restore harmony in the coop. That seems to be the general advice I’m told, whether to heal a sick person, change your bad luck, or get rid of a persistent itch in your groin, burying a bundle of herbs will do the trick I’m told.

On the other hand, the Sangoma might cleverly tell me to bury a dead chicken instead and that would be the end of my problem of having two roosters. The next step is finding someone who will catch it, slaughter it and pluck it cos I sure as hell am not gonna be able to. I’m holding thumbs we will find two eggs in their coop some time soon.

PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON, LIVED BY THE SEA

Living in rural Transkei, I’m reminded daily that Africa is a continent so very different to the rest of the world. I’m not referring to the fact that here women carry their groceries, luggage, wares, pots, firewood or a chicken balanced on their head as apposed to young ladies in the Swiss Alps balancing a book called Etiquette For Young Ladies on perfectly practiced poised heads. Nor am I referring to the extensive range of cutlery which the French endeavour to confuse diners with compared to the locals here who have simplified table settings down to a dessert spoon, your fingers and a shared knife. Life has not evolved at the same pace as other continents and I find it pleasing. Unfortunately, poverty and hunger seem to be part of the package which is the reality of many people who make up the population of Africa.

I never go to sleep hungry so perhaps I have a romantic view of life here on the southern tip of Africa where customs and traditions have not given way to the race of technology and its disastrous side effects which breeds greedy corporations indifferent to consequences and don’t give a rats arse about human life.

Now that I’ve got my philosophical opinions off my chest, let me elaborate about the uniqueness of life in Africa, Transkei in particular. I’ve discovered a fascinating myth while digging a bit deeper to discover the reasons why the Xhosa people take their bottles of sea water back home to the city with them over the Christmas holidays. It seems that the sea water is used comparable to what I would call a new year’s resolution. As you wash your face with the sea water and drink some, to flush out your system, (referred to as Spuits) you are washing away any bad omens of the year which has ended and you can start the new year fresh.

The intriguing part is still to come. Even though Xhosa people here in rural Qolora carry cell phones and like to wiggle to the beat of Kwaito music and hiphop, they still believe in and fear the myths of the witches who live at the bottom of the sea and any other deep body of water. These witches are way more powerful than the Loch Nest Monster and more real than mermaids who sunned themselves on rocks and octopi which swallowed whole ships when Bartholomew Diaz crossed unchartered waters. People on other continents fear a red skinned beast with horns, a long tail, armed with a pitchfork and lives in a big fiery cave slap bang in the centre of the earth. The witches, mermaids, underwater nymphs, spirits, sea people, deities, call them what you like, are just as real to the rural Xhosa people and just as frightening.

The story of people living in the sea has been confirmed to me by qualified school teachers and young adults and strangely, mostly practicing Christians. They tell me it’s a myth but in fact some are even afraid to talk about these witches for fear of inviting bad omens. I reassured a 19 year old guy that I understood his concerns and told him that people of my culture who dabbled in evil things like Ouija boards are considered just as foreboding by others and many people don’t like to talk about it or want to have anything to do with it.

Land witches are safe from the sea witches and I believe Sangomas sometimes go down to the beach at night to a specific spot to communicate with them, about what, I still haven’t discovered and quite frankly, I don’t fancy crouching behind a dune in the dead of night to find out what these sea creatures have to say for themselves. Anyway, apparently if you happen to be at the beach at the wrong time, these sea people will appear to you and can call you into the sea. They will lure you into the water and the sea will swallow you up and no one on shore will be able to prevent it from happening or be able to pull you back. A teacher recounted a story of a young girl who was taken by these sea witches a few years ago somewhere in East London. The Sangomas slaughtered a white cow (emphasis on white) which was led down to the same place where she walked into the sea, and they performed the necessary ritual which appeased the sea witches and the girl magically walked out of the ocean again. I’ve confirmed her story with others here in the village. The teacher did not believe the part which was retold that ants came out of the girls mouth or that she spoke in tongues once back on dry land, not believing it to be possible but the fact that she came out the water after having disappeared for days was not something to be scorned at since everyone knew it was true. Apparently these sea witches are most fond of young children so mothers keep their children away from the sea and even adults don’t go down for a swim even on hot days.

I think that by believing in something, you give it the power to make it real, be it good or bad, and so, the witches are given what they seek. Story telling is a way of keeping these myths alive and modern man’s alternative forms of entertainment have not overshadowed the art of keeping these stories and history of the Xhosa nation alive. Not yet anyway, but I wonder how long before these captivating customs and myths are totally buried with grandparents and replaced with the growing alcohol abuse or the desire to mimic the life of a movie star.