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.

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.

Daars a hoener wat a eier nie kan lê.


Theo’s rooster is getting cock sure of himself. About a month ago, we acquired 2 hens and a cock. During the day the little black hens walk around pecking at things on the ground and chasing each other around under the assumption that anything the other one finds must be worth stealing. The rooster, now that he has settled, spends his time trying to cross our doors’ threshold. He seems to think we have bugs inside and he is determined to come in and find out where we keep our factory of dung beetles who industriously roll their balls crisscrossing our rondavel floor. Theo has taken to hiding behind the door with a dishtowel and when the rooster ventures too near, he jumps out of his hiding place to scare him away. I don’t keep score. Initially we weren’t sure if these fluffy black jobbies were hens or cocks since they showed the beginning signs of a growth thingie on their heads like that useless flappy thing cocks have. A month down the track and now it’s easy to see that they definitely are hens by the way they daintily dart around and they take their dust baths more femininely than the rooster. At night, the three sleep in a huge container which is a bit of a metal eye sore outside our door. Also, it has a toxic sign stuck on the outside. I don’t know what it was once upon a time used for but if we end up having green eggs with ham for breakfast then I guess there was a reason for the toxic sign. Anyway, about a week ago, the cock crowed for the first time. He was inside the container at the time and his crowing echoed extra loud. When Theo opened up to let them out, Mr Rooster strutted around, puffed up like some bigshot with a torch in his pocket. A bit like the Xhosa boys around here, who apparently after initiation suddenly think they are men and act all windgat. Well I s’pose if I survived a stunt in a hut with nothing but a blanket and a piece of dry bread while nursing my injured chopped penis I’d probably also feel I had the right to stick out my chest afterwards. The whole initiation thing is a touchy subject actually. It’s probably one of the few customs that are still a very important part of any teenage boy’s life especially here in the rural community. The boys must go through it to be recognised by the community as a man otherwise they will never command respect or find a wife. The way it interferes with school education is a big problem (besides the whole issue of it being done under unclinical conditions which could lead to fatal infections or Aids from using the same blade). The ritual usually takes place in December when a bunch of school boys go off for their “manhood training”. It is such a big buildup in their lives that it carries much more weight than year end exams at school. I’ve heard talk of fighting between the boys at this time as they suddenly feel the urge to display their manhood and puff up like Theo’s rooster.

The initiation is secretive to outsiders especially to women so I haven’t exactly been able to go up to any male students and together with a couple of hand signs thrown in to explain my English say “howzit man, so are you looking forward to your circumcision?”

During their stay at the special hut, the umkhwetha (the person who trains them) teaches the initiates about the responsibilities of becoming a man and once they have passed the test, they eat meat and go home men, free from their mothers’ apron strings. I understand their training is quite intense and the painted initiatives get little food and less sleep since they have to make sure that the fire burns throughout the night. I’ve also read that they shave their heads and that the hair gets burnt or buried in case a bird uses it to build a nest which is guaranteed to make you go mad. (I think the hair bit is relevant to anyone getting a haircut actually.) At the Arts and Culture Festival, a teacher told me that the boys who were dancing did similar dancing during the ritual and also that many mothers were unhappy that their boys had become disrespectful towards them after going through their rites and in fact came home smokers and drinkers. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find out more about this passage of rites the longer we stay here.

In the meantime, Theo’s rooster is getting too big for his hormonal boots. Just because the neighbouring roosters are answering his calls these days, without him having to step into his “auditorium” container for special effects, he now thinks he is entitled to jump the little fluffy hens who squeal with fright and try to run away. They are too frightened to dip their heads to eat when he’s around since it makes their bums stick up in the air like an invitation flag. I’ve noticed that they often stand with their backsides up against the wall while chewing the cud. If the rooster keeps this up I’ll send him with the next group of boys to the grass hut so that he can be trimmed down to size or mind you he’ll probably get cooked.

Those poor hens are in for a bum deal so I hope they figure out the pecking order to survive Cocky Locky’s rites.

And Thanks for all the Fish

Back on the road we passed through a quaint English town called Haenertsburg and couldn’t resist popping into the inviting pub for a beer or two and a chat with the friendly locals. Some guys were planning a 4 x 4 trip up to Mozambique which sounded really interesting. That night we somer parked the bus on the open grass common across from the pub and if the owners were looking for a cook or a bar lady we would have grabbed at the chance to stay for a while. The town is surrounded by forests, mountains and dirt roads, an offroad bikers paradise. We’d reached the tropical region and the lushness was a welcome break from thorn trees and more thorn trees. A shopkeeper suggested we could camp at the dam the next night since according to her, the fishermen often pitched tents on overnight fishing trips. We tried but unfortunately the road was too steep for the bus so we moved on to Tzaneen.

Camped at a back packers for a night where some stoned dude came over for a chat about tall fishing stories. The next day we found the municipal campsite, right on the dam and that’s where we’re staying for the next few days. Cool place, loads of trees and all to ourselves during the week except for the odd ball family behind us who’ve been here a month. It’s weekend and some locals have pulled in. Yesterday a dude brought his boep and glass of klippies and coke over for a chat while his kids, Wit Rot and Arsehole, his affectionate terms of endearment for them, caught bass in the dam. He told us he was toughening them up so that if anyone ever teased them, they’d be able to take the punch. Today is Sunday and everyone has left except the group on the waters edge with the jetski who seem to enjoy Carika Keusenkamp’s virgin like crystal clear voice singing about Die Wind in die Kaap and some other sokkie treffer band singing about Kaboe Mielies in die Nag.

Theo caught 3 pan size large mouthed bass, which he filleted and smoked. We had it for breakfast – deeevine. Kippers se moer.

He also brewed a batch of his booze in the laundry section of the ablutions on Friday, before the weekenders arrived. The sugar water yeast concoction has been fermenting since Sediba, the Indian guys place, and was ready to be fired up through the kettle. Right now I’m drinking cherry flavoured vodka with a 98 % kick for a sundowner. Eat your heart out.

My knee should be sorted by the time we get to Hoedspruit where loads of lodges are situated for job hunting but today we contemplated the options of possibly going to Mozambique for a week or so before we seriously settle down for a while at a lodge. It’s been Theo’s dream to go there to eat prawns since we left home. A bloody far way to go just for seafood if you ask me but a stop off at Jimmy’s Prawn’s won’t cut it he says. I think we’ve both been toying with the idea since our visit to the pub in Haeberstsburg the other day, after which I hauled out Justin Fox’s book - Waving With Both Hands, which clinched the deal. He is a Getaway journalist who popped over for a month to do an article about Mozambique in about 2000 when the country was just emerging from its war torn state and things were looking up for tourists although the country still has poor infrastructure. We’re thinking of leaving the bus and my bike at Gert and Louisa (friends of family) who have property in Balule, near Hoedspruit in the greater Kruger area. If we jump on Theo’s XT 550 we could take the tent, one sleeping bag, our toothbrushes, small gas cooker, a change of underwear and a Tshirt or 2 and do the trip rough and ready, biker style. Now that sounds like more of an adventure than anything to date. So long as we stay on the main roads, avoiding potholes big enough to disappear into, and the odd landmine off in the bushes, we should be ok. Apparently greasing the palm of the so called cops is to be expected and Theo’s bike certainly isn’t the latest BMW range so mobs of kids shouldn’t find anything interesting to unscrew when we’re not looking. I’m wondering about ablutions. I’m expecting a bucket. Hopefully not the same one to shower as well as to take a dump. And the highlight – lots and lots of fish.

I mentioned our plans to Theo’s mother on the phone and I could hear the panic in her voice, mind you my mother reacted the same when we left home and told her we planned to go to Mozambique as part of our travels. She feared we wouldn’t survive a trip through a barbaric cannibal nation of millions of black people who will shoot you and cut you up into small pieces and throw you into the potholes and keep your ears for muti. She suggested we rather go to Namibia where it’s safe for people to go on holiday looking for a bit of adventure and less chance of getting aids.

Theo’s prepping the bike, and we’ll replace the tyres. A slow leak caused by those blinking thorn trees is probably not the most advisable way to travel through Mozambique. I’m off my crutches as of today so luckily we won’t have to strap them on next to Theo’s fishing rod as well. I’m a bit disappointed I can’t take my bike but it will be fun traveling together, wedged inbetween him and the topbox but anyway there’s no way I can kickstart my bike now and I can’t find my ownership papers which is apparently something you need to cross the border.

Can’t wait to fill up with fish and fresh coconuts 3 times a day. Yum yum.