THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

I’m getting more of an idea of what life is like for an average child here and it sure is nothing compared to the average kid on the block back home. The fact that there is no “block” here with a shopping centre, movie house, toy shop, café, chemist or sports centre on the next corner is the most obvious difference. No-one has a proper address, like the corner of 2nd and Main Road and I haven’t learnt the names of all the settlement villages so I just refer to someone living either over this hill or over that hill. The upside of not having an address is no junk post but the downside is not getting your online order for a new mortar and pestle delivered to your door so you go without. In fact, people here kinda go without everything which city people consider essential. If you don’t happen to have your own Kenwood to crush your plantation of mielies into maize meal , then you could always load up as many bagfuls as you can carry and go to the guy in Centane who parks his cement like contraption in front of Pep Stores and will crush your mielies for a small fee.


Most people don’t farm here anymore so they just buy their maize meal from Boxer or Shoprite in Centane. Apparently, in the past, the boys used to keep the cattle out of the mielie fields but now that they go to school (well actually not all do), no one watches the cows so over time, the people stopped farming since the cattle just ate up the crops. Putting up a fence around a vegetable garden would probably cost 2 months government grant, which is the only income for most people here. Bushes and branches used to work as fencing in the past but the people seem to have lost their desire and motivation and anyway, a government grant is much easier. I’ve been told that if the boys don’t fetch the cows in the afternoons then they wonder into the forest and die from eating plants before sunrise. Either these were muslin cows celebrating Ramadam or I lost the thread of the story. The fact that there are poisonous Ink bushes growing everywhere hasn’t come up. The Xhosa people here don’t keep their cattle the conventional way of on ones property. They open the kraal gates in the morning and the cows wander around wherever they find grazing. They are not milking cows and the vet doesn’t pop around to help during calving season or tick infestations. Animal husbandry is left to nature and the ancestors.

Going to school is the highlight of most primary school children’s day. They get to see their friends and are fed a hot meal every day. (There are limited spoons at school so I’ve gotten used to watching many of them eating samp and beans with their hands, a ruler or protractor). After school boys fetch cows or goats while girls fetch water or smear a fresh layer of dung on the floor. All children over the age of 10 have to wash their own school clothes. Most children live with their grandmothers but I’m not sure how many are because their parents have died of Aids or because their parents work somewhere else. About 40% of children drop out of school before high school (which starts at grade 10). I have recently found out that faction fighting amongst the boys from different villages definitely does exist. In fact a few weeks ago, 3 boys from our school had to deal with this problem en route to school since they walk through another village to get to school. The one who was too old (twice the age of the others in his class) dropped out of school, the other moved to another family member’s home to avoid walking through the wrong village and the third, well he is still too frightened to come back to school.

Weekends consist of church, soccer, funerals and family visits. Xhosa family is not the same as the western term of family and everyone here talks about extended family. All those excuses that your cleaning lady gave you that she has to attend her sisters funeral, are probably true. Families begin with biological members and extend to just about the whole village in fact. Clan names are more important than surnames and members of the same clan are considered family. Clan names originate by someone important and all descendants of that person, even if you marry someone and your surname changes, are family. You aren’t allowed to marry your brother or sister even though they are not necessarily biological family members but you have to, without fail, attend everyone’s funeral.

Funerals are a whole topic on their own which I’ll leave for another time. Now its time for me to do another load of washing in my fancy upmarket Sputnik washing machine.

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.