Living in Qolora takes a certain kind of person with a certain kind of character and it’s not recommended for the faint hearted. I’m not referring to the Xhosa people who stem from the Transkei and are a part of this land as the anthills, the rivers and the grasslands are. I’m referring to outsiders like myself. I absolutely love it here, and I find the simplicity of Xhosa life much more fulfilling than city life but I do miss things like a get together with a girlfriend and a glass of wine. I miss being able to have an intelligent English conversation with someone. Theo and I spend too much time together so we don’t really have much to say to each other.
Occasionally, when it’s not windy or when there aren’t any students for lessons or I’m not preparing lessons or sitting behind the computer, I get a chance to sit quietly outside our rondavel and listen to the afternoon sounds as dusk sets in and quietness settles over the village. I find the sound of children happily singing at our neighbours house 400 m away (sound travels here), boys whistling at their cows as they herd them home with a whip or a stick and the birds preparing to settle down are the most soothing noises I could imagine.
The young children, with their smiley faces are a treasure to have around, so long as it’s in a controlled environment and so long as they are not more than 6 or 7 and all wanting my attention at the same time. One particular little 8 year old girl has crept into my heart. I always get a big open arms hug from her if I haven’t seen her for a while. She has enormous eyes and a sweet croaky voice which often breaks into little giggles if I pull faces at her or mine Inkosi Sikeli after line 3 since I don’t know the rest of the words.
As rewarding as this is, we have decided that we need time out occasionally so last weekend we decided to take an overnight trip to Dwesa Nature Reserve which is about 100 km’s away and supposedly a fantastic place. The weather looked ominous once again, but this time, we were prepared and I packed my rainponcho and Theo packed his rain suit although he only found one glove so they got left behind.
After the first 50 km my bum was aching and Theo corrected my assumption that we don’t have shocks. Turns out, I sit on them. Go figure.
We arrived at Idijwa and asked for directions. We really should prepare ourselves on these long trips, especially here in Transkei where there aren’t any bike shops to stop for spares or SOS roadside assistance or a tow truck service or such like. Next time we should at least take a puncture repair kit, a cell phone charger or a map or something to make us seem a bit more organised.
Anyway, we were told that the road which turned off the N2 at Idijwa was 90 km of gravel and not too good. On impulse, since my shins were complaining already and the soles of my feet in my worn, oil coated takkies were bruised from being bounced around on the footpegs, we decided to stay on the tar road and continue to Coffee Bay instead. A bit of a spur-of-the-moment decision which turned out to be a further 220 km’s but who’s counting. Well, my bum sure was. Theo did his best to avoid the massive potholes decorating the road for the last 50 km’s before reaching Coffee Bay. We laughed at one hole which was so big that a handful of duck heads peeked out the top as they tried catching a rainwater splash bath.
We eventually arrived pooped and stiff. The trip definitely was worth it and we had a fantastic time and ended up staying an extra night to recuperate aching limbs before returning. Everyone in Coffee Bay was either a surfer, a hippi, stoned or all of the above. We felt the Ja love and it would be easy to confuse the place with Jamaica. There are close to a dozen backpackers in Coffee Bay, all doing a roaring trade from the Baz Bus regularly unloading young people from all corners of the world.
I chatted to a young German girl who was a qualified Waldorf teacher as she sat behind her sewing machine on the stoep of the back packers where we stayed. She told me she used to teach at a school locally but that didn’t last long since she didn’t agree with the techniques of the Eastern Cape schooling system. We discussed corporal punishment which still takes place in schools here. I found it shocking the first time I saw a teacher whack a kid on the back of his head in class. At our school they still get cainned on their hands with a “switch” for arriving late, not singing loud enough at morning devotion, chewing gum in class, talking in class or even not giving the right answer sometimes. I found it unsettling at first but am embarrassed to admit that it works for keeping discipline in class. Shouting and hitting students who don’t try expressing themselves in English only aggravates the problem as I’ve diplomatically tried telling the teachers but when it comes to discipline, I don’t interfere. Anyway, Beta, the German girl had hooked up with a Xhosa guy who worked at the back backers (and who is world’s apart from any of the Xhosa people from our village) and she was quite happy exploring her other talent which was sewing.
After 2 days of chilling, we headed back and were pleasantly surprised to receive a big box of crayons and stationery donated by a couple who visited us and who support our cause.
Now that we are rested, its time to plan the maths workshops which will take place during the Easter school holidays and which should be a great success. I wonder if the Maths teacher from Rondebosch Boys High eats mielie pap and cabbage. I’m crossing my fingers that the power and water are both on while they visit but I’m not holding my breath.
Occasionally, when it’s not windy or when there aren’t any students for lessons or I’m not preparing lessons or sitting behind the computer, I get a chance to sit quietly outside our rondavel and listen to the afternoon sounds as dusk sets in and quietness settles over the village. I find the sound of children happily singing at our neighbours house 400 m away (sound travels here), boys whistling at their cows as they herd them home with a whip or a stick and the birds preparing to settle down are the most soothing noises I could imagine.
The young children, with their smiley faces are a treasure to have around, so long as it’s in a controlled environment and so long as they are not more than 6 or 7 and all wanting my attention at the same time. One particular little 8 year old girl has crept into my heart. I always get a big open arms hug from her if I haven’t seen her for a while. She has enormous eyes and a sweet croaky voice which often breaks into little giggles if I pull faces at her or mine Inkosi Sikeli after line 3 since I don’t know the rest of the words.
As rewarding as this is, we have decided that we need time out occasionally so last weekend we decided to take an overnight trip to Dwesa Nature Reserve which is about 100 km’s away and supposedly a fantastic place. The weather looked ominous once again, but this time, we were prepared and I packed my rainponcho and Theo packed his rain suit although he only found one glove so they got left behind.
After the first 50 km my bum was aching and Theo corrected my assumption that we don’t have shocks. Turns out, I sit on them. Go figure.
We arrived at Idijwa and asked for directions. We really should prepare ourselves on these long trips, especially here in Transkei where there aren’t any bike shops to stop for spares or SOS roadside assistance or a tow truck service or such like. Next time we should at least take a puncture repair kit, a cell phone charger or a map or something to make us seem a bit more organised.
Anyway, we were told that the road which turned off the N2 at Idijwa was 90 km of gravel and not too good. On impulse, since my shins were complaining already and the soles of my feet in my worn, oil coated takkies were bruised from being bounced around on the footpegs, we decided to stay on the tar road and continue to Coffee Bay instead. A bit of a spur-of-the-moment decision which turned out to be a further 220 km’s but who’s counting. Well, my bum sure was. Theo did his best to avoid the massive potholes decorating the road for the last 50 km’s before reaching Coffee Bay. We laughed at one hole which was so big that a handful of duck heads peeked out the top as they tried catching a rainwater splash bath.
We eventually arrived pooped and stiff. The trip definitely was worth it and we had a fantastic time and ended up staying an extra night to recuperate aching limbs before returning. Everyone in Coffee Bay was either a surfer, a hippi, stoned or all of the above. We felt the Ja love and it would be easy to confuse the place with Jamaica. There are close to a dozen backpackers in Coffee Bay, all doing a roaring trade from the Baz Bus regularly unloading young people from all corners of the world.
I chatted to a young German girl who was a qualified Waldorf teacher as she sat behind her sewing machine on the stoep of the back packers where we stayed. She told me she used to teach at a school locally but that didn’t last long since she didn’t agree with the techniques of the Eastern Cape schooling system. We discussed corporal punishment which still takes place in schools here. I found it shocking the first time I saw a teacher whack a kid on the back of his head in class. At our school they still get cainned on their hands with a “switch” for arriving late, not singing loud enough at morning devotion, chewing gum in class, talking in class or even not giving the right answer sometimes. I found it unsettling at first but am embarrassed to admit that it works for keeping discipline in class. Shouting and hitting students who don’t try expressing themselves in English only aggravates the problem as I’ve diplomatically tried telling the teachers but when it comes to discipline, I don’t interfere. Anyway, Beta, the German girl had hooked up with a Xhosa guy who worked at the back backers (and who is world’s apart from any of the Xhosa people from our village) and she was quite happy exploring her other talent which was sewing.
After 2 days of chilling, we headed back and were pleasantly surprised to receive a big box of crayons and stationery donated by a couple who visited us and who support our cause.
Now that we are rested, its time to plan the maths workshops which will take place during the Easter school holidays and which should be a great success. I wonder if the Maths teacher from Rondebosch Boys High eats mielie pap and cabbage. I’m crossing my fingers that the power and water are both on while they visit but I’m not holding my breath.
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