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.

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.

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.

COMPARING APPLES WITH APPLES AND FORESKINS WITH LION SKINS

So I find this whole coming of age thing quite interesting.  Turns out the passage of rites is more involved than a Xhosa boy loosing his foreskin somewhere in the bush or a 13 year old Jewish boy suddenly capable of understanding the Torah after his bar mitzvah.

The difference between Xhosa youth in Transkei and white boys in Limpopo is quite evident.  Here in rural Transkei, becoming a man is the most important event in a boy’s life.  There is a lot of psyching up before the initiation and after a hearty 3 week chat from the old men in the village who visit the boys who are tucked away in a secret hut, their foreskin is chopped off.  Depending on the boy’s father’s financial position, he slaughters a goat or a chicken but preparing a meal of samp and beans often clinches the deal.  From that day on, he is expected to act responsibly as well as attend family funerals which takes up most of their Saturdays. Young men display their newfound manhood by wearing a checked jacket and/or a floppy flannel beret.  This outfit from the 50’s probably confuses onlookers into thinking the wearer’s limped shuffle, prompted by a recent slice and dice, is a carefree swagger.

Boys in Limpopo on the other hand, are treated to a weekend away with their dad, dad’s buddies, and as much brandy and coke that can fit next to the rifles and ammo packs in the back of the bakkie as they head off to the nearest game farm to find an animal to kill and turn into biltong.  Once the boy has made his kill, he smears the dead animal’s blood all over his face and eats a piece of its intestines.  He straddles his kill for a photo shot and sometimes the initiate takes the head home to mount against the lounge wall to remind everyone of his manhood.  His swagger is brought on by brandy and coke as he celebrates his newfound manhood.       

Even Japanese people, both male and female have a coming of age day.  It’s celebrated on the 2^nd Monday of January and everyone who turns 20 that year is allowed to vote, drink and smoke.  Perhaps men walk around asking everyone for a light to show their newfound manliness even though they are the size of an average 9 year old Benoni boy.  20 Year old girls probably peer at you from smouldering almond eyes as they pluck out a cute, miniature cigarette, wrapped in origami paper decorated in Hello Kitty designs which they keep in a cute little box stuffed up their kimono sleeve.         

American Indian boys go off to pray in a sauna and afterwards, a special spirit, who appears in their dreams, protects them for the rest of their life and they are rewarded with a new adult name like eagle eye, big bear or hopping rabbit.

Young men of the Buddhist faith go to a monastery for between 3 days to 3 years, depending on how dedicated they are in trying to levitate. After abstaining from sex and food but thriving on praying, you are primed for adult married life and cooled down enough to attract a woman.

In Australia, Aboriginal tribes get together for a Bora ceremony where singing, dancing and storytelling is performed.  After sacrificing something to the spirits, boys loose their foreskins, a finger or a tooth to signify their manhood.

In the Amazon, the Satere Mawe tribe push pain levels to the extreme as boys have to wear a glove of ants whose bite is excruciatingly painful but they have to repeat the exercise 20 times before becoming a man with a swollen hand.

On the Pentacost island, a little place in the south pacific, boys do bungee jumping on land with a length of jungle vines and hope to survive the fall.  If they do, their yam crop will be good but the trick is all about the length of the vine and I imagine how much impact your head can take.

In New Guinea, timid Matausa tribesmen injure themselves in order to let their mother’s woosie blood bleed out of their bodies.  They stick sharp reeds up their noses, down their throats and repeatedly cut their tongues with arrows.  Once they’ve spat out all the bad blood, they are certified brave men and probably from then on speak with a forked tongue.

Maybe you think these rites of passage are unusual and outdated.  I think that although some are a bit extreme, the concept of a passage of rites is important for many primitive communities.  To be acknowledged as a man within these communities and honouring their tradition keeps hierarchy levels in order, respect for the elders is kept alive and separates the boys from the men. 

On the other hand, every year modern, first world Danish teenagers trap hundreds of dolphins in a bay and butcher them to death.  I find this demonstration of manhood much more shocking and barbaric.

Each tribe has a system that works for them, some just differ from others but some just are not acceptable no matter how you look at it.  

COFFEE BAY

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.

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.

WE’RE ALL GOING ON A SUMMER HOLIDAY

Us Wine Tasting with Charlene

Scarecrows at Mooibege Strawberry Farm

At mothers 70th Birthday Spitbraai party

WE’RE ALL GOING ON A SUMMER HOLIDAY

December school holidays rolled around and we decided to treat ourselves to a trip to Cape Town.  Well actually it was supposed to be a profitable breakaway since we planned to sell corn dogs at a 4 day new years music festival and make some money while we were there but plans didn’t worked out accordingly.  Before leaving, we spent 2 days pushing the wheelbarrow back and forth, emptying the cupboards in the truck to make space for more things to bring back. 

Our holiday in Cape Town was great although traffic was a bit overwhelming and I avoided those dreaded shopping centres as much as I could.  Indoor taps spurting instant hot water, glossy tiles, hallway mirrors, shiny draining boards, wardrobes and an indoor oven were a real treat.  My mother turned 70 and she celebrated the day with a wonderful spitbraai for friends and family.  4 Days later we stuffed ourselves again on Christmas day but sadly I was only able to wish Kyro and his new family in Japan via a computer screen. Rock the River music festival  turned out a complete disaster (opposite to the previous year) as traders were once again told to cater for an expected 8 000 people but only about 2 or 3 000 people turned up.  The wind howled at gale force speed the whole time and we went home with less money than we started off with and a shitload of left over Russians and Cheese Grillers which we would have to take back.

During the six weeks in Cape Town, my mothers’ friends and family dropped off bags and bags of children’s books, toys and clothes, some even from as far as Ireland which Charlene brought over.  Everything needed to be squeezed onto the truck together with our bed (the only remaining thing we owned besides our truck) which we’d stored in my mother’s garage.  We planned to ransack my mother’s garage and relieve her from any possible building material to build ourselves a new house once we returned to Transkei.  The kitchen zink got wedged next to our motorbike which stood in front of the fully loaded freezer with a donated bicycle strapped on top.  Our bed went on top of the truck in typical Transkei style and the weetbix wooden boards and boxes of left over tiles got slotted in between the caravan and the side railings.  The outside cupboards on the truck were rammed full of donated clothes, school bags, knitting needles, beads and pencils while the inside cupboards were bulging with bottles and bottles of tomato sauce, mustard and peri naise left over from the festival.  More boxes of lego blocks, teddy bears and suitcases of second hand clothes were wedged in between gallons and gallons of cooking oil, a kerm board and a broken gazebo (but still usable for a chicken run or something).  The laptops balanced on the porta potty, while the floor was stacked with crates of flour and maize meal, a couple of seedlings for our veggie garden, a toddlers scooter and a big bag of bras donated by someone who was clearly size 46 double D.  2 Bunches of bokkoms dangled above the bed disguising the ever present smell of Russian sausages.  Every time I opened the fridge the dam things were there, squeezed into every possible crevice, reminding me that we would need to eat our way through 80 kg of the stuff over the next few months.  I have an idea I’m gonna start drooling for tripe. 

The four day trip back was a tight squeeze and every time we stopped, we attracted every dog on the block and by the time we arrived back in Transkei I was already getting a bit tired of eating cold sausages since Theo couldn’t reach the stove to try and disguise the taste.

I watched the vegetation change from farmlands to fynbos to thorn trees and finally grassland.  Eventually we arrived home and I hung out the window, waving with both hands as we neared our village and passed people on the road. 

We were home.  Now all we had to do was unload the truck and bit by bit push the wheelbarrow the 50 m to our hut through lush swampy grass which had flourished in the torrential downpours of summer rainfall.  Before donning my gumboots I needed to get rid of the spiders and their webs which made our hut look like something from the movie set of Cocoon and sweep out the layers of mouldy dust, mouse droppings and sand mounds left by whatever other insects had moved in while we were away.  Theo’s job was easy - more Russians.

Ahaa, home sweet home.