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.

Three Blind Mice (a couple of spiders and a magic broom)

Today I facebooked a friend who lives in the north and was reminded how diverse South Africa is. Being a Capetonian, I broadly refer to any province north of the Cape as “The North”, a place where elephants and lions roam the bushveld. Three years ago, before exploring “The Great North”, (which I then called the Transvaal, (and there I go giving my age away) I imagined it as a countryside infested with mine dumps and the leaders of SA business. I thought the Kruger Park was a little camped off area somewhere near Joburg which you could drive through for the day and spot a leopard or a rhino the same way our family used to drive through High Noon Reserve in the Cape searching for Springbok or a lonely Ostrich.



After contacting my friend I smile to myself. I will always associate Joe and Jonelle with the bushveld since we met them during our Field Guide Course which we did together “Up North”. The one month course was extremely educational and gave me insight about nature and during this time got to view and study many wild animals. I finish typing the message to her and lie back on my bed to watch two huge spiders scurrying along the beams which hold up our grass roof. This about encompasses the total of my wild life viewing here in Qolora Village. Well, besides the big spiders, there is a mouse who has recently moved into our rondaval but who I’ve only seen once. It was not a cute little 3cm field mouse that dashed across the floor either. He was bigger and blacker and has managed to eat the food out of the mouse and escape unharmed. I hope I don’t put a shirt on one day to find my boob sticking out of a gaping hole where he’s gnawed off the fabric to make a nest for a family of 20 in my clothing cupboard.



Rather than game viewing, I am learning some fascinating things about the Xhosa people here in rural Transkei. For instance, yesterday Mandisa told me about her neighbour’s problem with bees. Apparently a swarm of bees moved into their house. The local medicine women (probably the same ones we saw flapping their arms around on the hillside last week) were summoned to do their thing at the bee infested house. After their visit, the bees duly left. The family were so happy that they decided to slaughter a cow and have a big celebration and a chat with their ancestors. The Xhosa people have a very high regard for the spirit world and confer with their ancestors about all important matters. Being a Christian Xhosa definitely does not exempt you from such beliefs as one must always please the ancestors to ensure good fortune. I’ve thought about it and to me it’s much the same as you or I would occasionally talk to a deceased loved one. They just take the whole business more seriously. Modern man lives in a world engulfed in superficial crap where it’s each man for himself whereas I think the Xhosa people here in rural Transkei have a simpler, slow evolving lifestyle therefore their old beliefs still carry weight and haven’t been thrown away in exchange for vanity and power.



As a white person, I must say I do find some of their customs rather strange yet very intriguing. A custom which is still practised here which I confirmed with the locals is the broom and boobjob thing they do. Apparently, when a young girl starts showing signs of puberty and her breasts start appearing, she has to have them swept. An aunt or grandmother will take her outside before sunrise and using a straw broom, will brush her naked breasts to prevent them from growing too big too quickly. So there you go girls, if you are worried about ending up with an uncomfortable double D bra size and you happen to be outside in the garden blowing a troublesome wart to the moon, you can just as well grab the garden broom to brush your boobs and see what happens. Mmmmm, I wonder how loudly the Xhosa locals would laugh if I told them that many white don’t walk under ladders, open umbrellas indoors and have a thing about salt.



So, on that note if Theo can’t catch our resident mouse I might have to spit in a bowl and stir in some powdered tree bark, sprinkle in some sugar and leave an inviting Hansel and Gretel trail to the door as I exit backwards for the mouse to follow me out and the spirits to not follow me in. If that doesn’t work I’ll have to ask the medicine women in white to come do their magic here before the mouse extends his family to an uncomfortable size. I haven’t got a cow to slaughter afterwards to celebrate but I do have a few sheets of rice paper which I still have left over from our Japanese food stash and which I’m still trying to figure out how to wrap tripe in. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have a Savanna, it might be dry but I can drink it.