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.

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

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.

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, HOME IS SO REMOTE

 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.

Scooters and planes and other things strange

Scooters and planes and other things strange




It’s a long weekend, like that makes a difference to life out here in Qolora village Transkei, but it’s a good enough excuse to treat ourselves to a braai. Theo marinated a couple of warthog chops to slap on the fire and we sat in the sun drinking a few long Black Labels. The wind didn’t blow as it so often does out here so we had a lazy afternoon just sitting, watching the birds and we enjoyed our view of the surrounding hills and grasslands.

I watched a little plane circle overhead and I smiled to myself, happy that we’d gone mushrooming on the airstrip the previous morning. We often see small planes going by as some of the wealthy people travel by air to hotels or lodges rather than have to negotiate these gravel roads. The grass airstrip over the hill is used by the owner of Trennerys hotel and probably the odd guest as well. The grass is short so it’s a great spot for hunting mushrooms, and the shaggy parasols which Theo fried up for breakfast with his bran and onion bread were delicious. The airstrip is not so good for landing a plane if the cows are chewing the cud on the strip cos then the pilot has to circle overhead a few times while someone from the hotel pops down to chase them away. I guess it’s easier dodging a patty than a cow or goat. Vehicles are not allowed on the airstrip but its fun making a dash for it on our bike. Not the kind of thing a responsible grandmother should be doing I suppose but what the heck, I don’t think many grandmothers live in a hut teaching English in a rural village either.

Theo had a hairy experience on the bike the other day. He gave Zolani, a high school teacher a lift home. A storm was brewing as they left and Zolani hung on for dear life. It was his first experience on a motorbike and he was recovering from a hip operation so his one leg stuck out at a bit of an angle and he wedged his walking stick in between them. He waved a bit nervously as they left and I heard him shouting to me asking where he should hold onto but Theo raced off before I could answer. He was in a big hurry to beat the dark rainclouds gathering overhead. He is kak bang of lightening and prefers to be safely indoors, nowhere near water and the laptop unplugged and packed away when nature decides to slice open the sky with powerful bolts of electrical energy. Out here when lightening strikes across the open grasslands it’s quite a spectacular show as the earth lights up in surreal flashes while thunder cracks deafeningly all around you. It even beats front row seats at a Metalica concert since you don’t walk around with a zinging buzz in your head for the next 12 hours. Mind you it doesn’t leave you feeling as frisky as watching four muscular guys flexing their godlike torso’s with guitars draped across their bare chests, their sweaty biceps bulging as they pluck their instruments and hypnotise you with their gaze. (We didn’t have front row seats and I didn’t wear my glasses but it was something close to that).

I stood at the door watching mother nature’s show and waiting for the bike to appear. Theo was not admiring the beauty around him on this particular day though. He rode as fast as he dared on the slippery gravel roads, rain pelting down and running into his eyes. It’s fun not having to bother with ever wearing a helmet around here but I guess it does have its uses other than preventing your skull from cracking open. Eventually I spotted him through the rain, crouching as low as possible under the handle bars. He arrived home sopping wet and shouted above the roaring thunder that by lying flat on the seat he’d made himself lower than the goats and cows which he passed and prayed that any stray lightening bolts would rather fry them before finding his low profile. It worked because he seemed to escape the wrath of God who did not strike him down for not picking up his dirty socks off the floor.

I’m really looking forward to the free summer thunderstorm shows but the mud, well thank goodness for wellies.

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

As the Stomach Turns (If you can remember which TV programme that line comes from, you’ve scored Brownie points)


Our daily life here in Qolora is not that different to life back in Cape Town, well other than logistics and a few finer details like earth, wind, fire and water. Otherwise life here is pretty similar to being in the concrete jungle. For instance, on washing days my UDD (underarm dingle dangle) flaps around vigorously as I manually spin my very upmarket Sputnik washing machine through its wash and rinse cycle. The makeshift table which develops a life of its own when the Sputnik is in full swing, tries desperately to worm its way down the hill in pursuit of the goats, with me in tow. To stabilize everything, I have to pin the table down with my foot, hold the machine in place with my left hand and spin like mad with the right. I get an upper body workout without having to fork out gym fees. I don’t mind carrying pots of boiling water and traipsing back and forth to the garden tap and in fact I consider myself lucky that I don’t have to hunch over a bucket or make a fire to boil the water.

We also have baking days. How else do you think we get bread? As long as it’s not windy, we can fire up Theo’s “boer maak ‘n plan” oven. He gave a 25 litre thinners drum a facelift by cutting the lid off to become to door which we open or close with a pair of pliers. He rammed a wire rack inside and tada. He makes a fire underneath, adds extra coals on top and our oven is set to go. So long as it’s not too windy so that the coals blow away. On those days Theo cooks pap or flapjacks inside. I’ve even baked biscuits and an end of the month version of lasagne using macaroni and soya in our eye level oven. We save a fortune on oven cleaner!!

The upside of living in our cosy rondavel is that there’s no major housework to do. There is a downside to living in one room though. Being woken up at 3 in the morning by a roving beam of light sweeping across the room similar to a police raid, can be disturbing. When Theo wakes up in the middle of the night he tiptoes to the kitchen corner so as not to wake me and with his head torch on full beam, he scans the shelves looking for ingredients to cook dishes such as curry afval. The first time the swooping lights woke me, I ducked my head under the blankets, fearing the inevitable. We all know the aliens will arrive some day and I thought this was it. The body snatchers were hovered above our hut scanning for my perfect vessel to be beamed up and used for reproduction and probably they’d stick probes with flashing lights up my bum. But then the smell of Theo’s afval wafted up my nostrils and I knew I still had more time on Earth before I was needed elsewhere.

Our rondavel roof is propped up with a centre pole (which is actually off centre) but unfortunately it’s too gnarly to wrap my limber self around for pole dancing. I’d consider climbing it and doing a swan dive onto our wobbly bed if the woodwork was not so rickety. Someone has mounted a ceiling fan (which is not connected to electricity) in the most peculiar way up at the top of said pole. I’m not sure which came first - the fan or the pole but the intriguing device will never serve to cool anyone down. I’m posting a picture of it.

Most days we can collect water down at the garden tap and we’ve run a 40 m cable from across the way for electricity so what can I say, we’re pretty comfortable.

Now I’m off to mix some dugga from mud and water as I’ve seen the mammas doing around here. That’s how you repair a leaking grass roof it seems and ours drips when it rains. Oh well at least we wont have to budget for handyman call out fees.

Lately there are just not enough hours in a day to get to everything but I’m as happy as a tick on a cow.

The Library

The Library





The Library is open but I don’t seem to have a stream of kids coming here to read books yet. During the school holidays three kids, Grade 1, Grade 4 and grade 6 came around to the library a few times. The first time the siblings stood at the gate, loudly singing the Yeeha Yeeha Ho from Old Mac Donald (which has become our signature calling card) in the hopes of catching my attention. They came running when I called them over and were very excited but shy about coming into the library. I gave them a 30 piece puzzle to build which they really struggled with but had fun trying while I tried some English on them but not too successfully. The next day they were back to build puzzles and I gave them each an English 1st Language Grade R activity book to colour in, since I had just unpacked a whole boxful. On the 3rd day, I told them they were each allowed to take one reading book home, which they did but that’s the last I saw of them. I think there’s a communication problem still.



The following week a high school student walked here from over the hill to visit an aunt from this community. Everyone around here has many aunts it seems. Also, I suspect the word “aunt” is used much the same as in Afrikaans where everyone is your “tannie”. Anyway his aunt told him about the library and the computer classes we offer. He spent the afternoon at the library while I showed him some features in the typing programme, although he did have some experience using a computer. We chatted in English which I think is good experience for the youth to build up their confidence. He shared a little of his family situation with me which really made me sit up and think. He is 17 years old, in grade 10 (that’s Std 8 if you are from my era) and lives in the shanty part of Butterworth which is the hustle bustle “city” 50 km’s from here. Last year his mother died so now it’s just himself and his younger brother who he has to raise. He wants his brother to be proud of him and his strong faith in Jesus, has guided him through life, and he prays he will be able to provide a respectful existence for himself and his brother. His face radiated happiness as he spoke, despite his hardships. I wonder if he will be able to finish school as he hopes or will he have to give it up to seek employment. He also told me that a few of his aunts were helping him out but he was disappointed in the one who lived in Gauteng because according to him, she could afford to buy him a laptop yet she wouldn’t. I scratched my head, having a bit more insight into how Ubuntu works. It seems family or neighbours help each other when necessary but I was surprised to realise that it is in fact expected of them. Perhaps that’s why sometimes Xhosa people look at some white people who have things, expecting them to share, since it’s the way they were brought up, to look after each other. White people on the other hand don’t generally practice the whole Ubuntu thing as a norm. We sometimes are too busy to even know our neighbours names, let alone help them financially and it sure isn’t expected of us to help put their kids through school.



In the meantime, it’s been 2 weeks and the books are all sitting pretty on the shelves in the library. I’m frustrated and wish the people would come here so that I can teach them to read. I can’t wait to share my knowledge but I have to learn that this is Africa. This is a place where time is measured by a slow sunset and not by the race of a heartbeat.

And so the sun sets on another day in Africa.

Black Magic Woman

Black Magic Woman

We have moved around 3 times since coming to Qolora village.  Initially, we stayed for about 5 days at the first place which was at the awesome open field/braai spots but there wasn’t any water there (well ok there was a river mouth within walking distance) but we were a bit far from the village and we weren’t really getting to meet the locals by living on the outskirts of town.   Except one night when we got a bit spooked by three Xhosa women who could have put a spell on me.  Picture this, dusk settled over the deserted valley.  The wind pumped at a hectic speed strong enough to blow dogs down the hillside and even the cows hooked their horns into the bushes to keep from lifting off the ground and flying off.  We stayed inside while the caravan rocked and swayed.  Then we heard a faint drumming coming from across the river.  Earlier that day we had seen 3 Xhosa ladies dressed to the nines in their traditional outfits, the one woman was kitted out in a crisp white wrap around dress with a matching turban like headgear wrapped a half a meter above her head.  They spent a few hours across the field from where we were camped and I was dying to know what they were up to.  They walked around waving their arms in the air, shaking their sticks at invisible things and seemed to be anointing spirits in the way a priest performing an exorcist does in those PG18 movies when some poor child raised by obsessively religious parents living in a wooden double storey house with long creaky passages needs to be saved from evil demons who take over the child’s body and write coded messages across her stomach and spin her head around 360 degrees before making her vomit green stuff 6 metres across the room. But I digress.  These women blowing around on the field, flaying their arms and chanting, reminded me of something ominous is all I mean.  Then later when the sun slipped behind the hill, the women disappeared and that’s when the drumming started.  It beat rhythmically throughout the whole night while we lay there wondering whether there were people with sticks through their noses dancing around a big black pot suspended over a fire  and if so what was inside the pot?  Then we wondered how far away from us this scene was taking place.  It was pitch dark outside, and the howling wind and the beating drums were our only company in the dead of the night.  At 3am I eventually must have dozed off, deciding that if anyone wanted to cut out my kidneys for a ritual sacrifice there was nothing I could do about it.  The next morning we awoke and the landscape was still the same.  The wind had died and birds sang their morning song in the bushes, although how they managed to still have feathers and not look like pink crinkly naked newborn chicks after that wind sure beats me. Much to my relief, no dead goats’ heads dotted the field and no evil spirits evoked by the Xhosa women had entered my body through my nostrils while I slept.  We did find out a few days later that the women were indeed traditional healers but the night time drumming remained a mystery to us.          

Soon after, we moved from the field to a stunning little enclosure under lush vegetation behind one of the white peoples’ holiday houses.  There are about 20 such houses here, probably of which 5 are permanent residents. Anyway we loved our little Jamaican campsite under the palm trees, 5 meters from a quiet, pristine beach where Theo started catching fish more regularly and which tasted awesome.  Problem there was once again no water but we also were still not part of the village yet.  My idea of having the children visit me to help them with homework and practise their English would probably not likely happen if were settled in the “white” part of town.  We had asked the chief if we could move into the rondavels which we spotted when we first arrived in town but in Africa things happen at their own pace and we were still waiting for their response.  Eventually, after another meeting with the sub chief (the big chief had died the week before we arrived so that also left the villages with more important decisions to make than finding a home for us) we were given the go-ahead.  We could move into a rondavel and have free electricity in exchange for teaching at the school.  I was happy to pack up and move again, having just gotten my strength back after being down for 9 days with tick bite fever. It was my 3^rd time in 3 years and someone had told me that if I pushed through without antibiotics my body would fight it off for good.  I bravely sweated out a continuous headache, aching body and insides that felt like perhaps those women on the hill had removed my kidneys when I wasn’t looking.  You do think of strange things in the middle of the night when you become a bit delirious after 9 consecutive restless nights.       

So finally it was off to the rondavels which offered loads of potential in the way of getting involved in helping the villagers.  We spent two days moving into our wonderful hut with cow dung floors, grass roof and tiny windows overlooking the village on the one side and more open fields on the other.  The water pipe has burst but eventually we will get water but we have electricity, cellphone reception, some furniture and we are in the heart of things.  This is home.