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.

WITH A CLUCK CLUCK HERE AND A CLUCK CLUCK THERE.

 Our hen is having an identity crisis. We left the chickens alone (besides a friend feeding them daily) for six weeks and now the oddest thing has happened. When we returned, Diablo, the only chicken we named out of the three, had doubled in size. Her beady yellow eyes which glare fearsomely at you, earned her the name. The other black hen is not nearly as greedy as her, but the rooster has always treated his 2 hens equally as far as courtship and calling them to share food. Only the smaller hen pops out her egg every morning much to Theo’s delight, but Diablo doesn’t seem to have the same desires to contribute towards our breakfast.

Well, the other morning, we were still in bed; I was enjoying listening to the birds and filtering through my thoughts which these days are limited to creating fun lesson plans, or recalling skipping songs from files which have long ago been abandoned to file 13 in the bottom drawer of my whiskey saturated brain. Anyway I have limited time to arrange these thoughts before Theo turns the radio on to listen to the traffic report in Cape Town or what poultice Tannie Sannie recommends to treat Boet’s recurring athlete’s foot calamity on Radio Sonder Grense. So there we were, 30 seconds into some or other Afrikaans singer belting out something about “ek wil styf langs jou lepel lê” when the rooster gave his usual “I got it all this morning crow” when clear as daylight, we heard an answering call in a deep voice right outside the door to our rondavel.

It definitely was not the neighbour’s rooster answering as used to before we left for Cape Town and I can only assume that he was eaten over the holidays, (probably to celebrate someone being circumcised) and now our rooster has to strain his ears to listen for an answer from another adversary over the hill. Anyway, Theo jumped up to investigate and true as bob, Diablo was out there crowing. WTF? Was it possible? Was Diablo messing with our rooster’s manhood, or more perturbing, was she a he? Surely the rooster would not have tolerated a rival on his property? She’s bigger than him these days and he can’t catch her for his mandatory bonk but since she has started crowing, the rooster is disgusted with her and he and the other hen have teemed up and poor Diablo is being ostracised. Well all I know is if it turns out that we have two roosters, one potentially to reach the size of a goose on steroids, then one of them will have to end up in the cooking pot and what a pleasure it will be to eat meat other than Russians.

I’m gatvol of Russian sausages. Theo’s culinary abilities have been put to the test in his attempts to disguise the taste of yet another meal of processed Russians. Slicing, dicing, braaing, boiling, drying and the latest way of mincing them and adding to soups, stews, and bolognaise served with rice, samp and beans or pap have been on the menu every day since we’ve returned. He has yet to pickle them. Last night he made lasagne, with home made pasta which was yummy so maybe there are more inventions to come.

Anyway, the chickens better figure out who’s who, since the latest advice is to take our rooster to the 90 year old mama who lives over the hill and who specialises in castrating roosters. This apparently will curb his lusty desires and become less aggressive but if you ask me, all that will do is encourage Diablo to blow her own horn. I researched this rooster castrating business and apparently it’s not as bizarre as I imagined, but slicing a chicken’s groin open to pop out his internal goonies just doesn’t sound right at all. I’ll rather let nature play out its course and if that doesn’t work, I could seek out a Sangoma for advice regarding our chicken problem. Chances are I’ll be told to bury a bundle of herbs in the yard to restore harmony in the coop. That seems to be the general advice I’m told, whether to heal a sick person, change your bad luck, or get rid of a persistent itch in your groin, burying a bundle of herbs will do the trick I’m told.

On the other hand, the Sangoma might cleverly tell me to bury a dead chicken instead and that would be the end of my problem of having two roosters. The next step is finding someone who will catch it, slaughter it and pluck it cos I sure as hell am not gonna be able to. I’m holding thumbs we will find two eggs in their coop some time soon.