Scooters and planes and other things strange

Scooters and planes and other things strange




It’s a long weekend, like that makes a difference to life out here in Qolora village Transkei, but it’s a good enough excuse to treat ourselves to a braai. Theo marinated a couple of warthog chops to slap on the fire and we sat in the sun drinking a few long Black Labels. The wind didn’t blow as it so often does out here so we had a lazy afternoon just sitting, watching the birds and we enjoyed our view of the surrounding hills and grasslands.

I watched a little plane circle overhead and I smiled to myself, happy that we’d gone mushrooming on the airstrip the previous morning. We often see small planes going by as some of the wealthy people travel by air to hotels or lodges rather than have to negotiate these gravel roads. The grass airstrip over the hill is used by the owner of Trennerys hotel and probably the odd guest as well. The grass is short so it’s a great spot for hunting mushrooms, and the shaggy parasols which Theo fried up for breakfast with his bran and onion bread were delicious. The airstrip is not so good for landing a plane if the cows are chewing the cud on the strip cos then the pilot has to circle overhead a few times while someone from the hotel pops down to chase them away. I guess it’s easier dodging a patty than a cow or goat. Vehicles are not allowed on the airstrip but its fun making a dash for it on our bike. Not the kind of thing a responsible grandmother should be doing I suppose but what the heck, I don’t think many grandmothers live in a hut teaching English in a rural village either.

Theo had a hairy experience on the bike the other day. He gave Zolani, a high school teacher a lift home. A storm was brewing as they left and Zolani hung on for dear life. It was his first experience on a motorbike and he was recovering from a hip operation so his one leg stuck out at a bit of an angle and he wedged his walking stick in between them. He waved a bit nervously as they left and I heard him shouting to me asking where he should hold onto but Theo raced off before I could answer. He was in a big hurry to beat the dark rainclouds gathering overhead. He is kak bang of lightening and prefers to be safely indoors, nowhere near water and the laptop unplugged and packed away when nature decides to slice open the sky with powerful bolts of electrical energy. Out here when lightening strikes across the open grasslands it’s quite a spectacular show as the earth lights up in surreal flashes while thunder cracks deafeningly all around you. It even beats front row seats at a Metalica concert since you don’t walk around with a zinging buzz in your head for the next 12 hours. Mind you it doesn’t leave you feeling as frisky as watching four muscular guys flexing their godlike torso’s with guitars draped across their bare chests, their sweaty biceps bulging as they pluck their instruments and hypnotise you with their gaze. (We didn’t have front row seats and I didn’t wear my glasses but it was something close to that).

I stood at the door watching mother nature’s show and waiting for the bike to appear. Theo was not admiring the beauty around him on this particular day though. He rode as fast as he dared on the slippery gravel roads, rain pelting down and running into his eyes. It’s fun not having to bother with ever wearing a helmet around here but I guess it does have its uses other than preventing your skull from cracking open. Eventually I spotted him through the rain, crouching as low as possible under the handle bars. He arrived home sopping wet and shouted above the roaring thunder that by lying flat on the seat he’d made himself lower than the goats and cows which he passed and prayed that any stray lightening bolts would rather fry them before finding his low profile. It worked because he seemed to escape the wrath of God who did not strike him down for not picking up his dirty socks off the floor.

I’m really looking forward to the free summer thunderstorm shows but the mud, well thank goodness for wellies.

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

Fowl Play

Fowl Play




Picture this, Transkei, 1948, a peaceful day in the hills of Qolora. Well today its 2012 and not a thing has changed except that Theo and I are in the picture. Us and our chickens.

Lately I’ve been feeling quite sorry for the two little hens as they have to tolerate the rooster who constantly tries to jump them. He carries on like a teenager at a free for all rompus with the chicks. He has not yet learnt to be a gentleman but his focus these days is to either jump the hens who flee in fear or he practices his favourite pass time - crowing. Last week he forgot how to crow properly (what with his mind preoccupied with tail feathers) and his half hearted one liner cock a doodle doo trailed off so pitifully that the hens gave him a disdainful smirk and the neighbours’ rooster didn’t even bother answering his pathetic call. Maybe his testicles dropped or something. I don’t know what goes on under all those feathers but I suspect his goonies to be in the same position as an elephants’ - internal. Just rather different sizes. Ever heard of elephant peertjies as a starter? Nor have I, but I digress.

This week the poor fowl had a most frightening experience. There they were, minding their own business, pecking at the grass, and keeping a beady eye on the rondaval door in case anything edible gets thrown out with the dishwater. The next moment we heard the rooster squawking like mad and he came running home like a bat out of hell, his little road runner legs flying over cow dung landmines and his flappy red mohawk thingie plastered flat against his head. His beak was stretched wide open and his tongue beating against his cheek. Well ok, he was frightened. Theo rushed out, grabbed the whip (the same one which he used to defend himself against the one eyed Cyclops) and dashed towards the commotion. One hen came rushing towards him at a frantic pace screeching in alarm while a flock of swallows who live in the neighbouring rondavel roof were mobbing a bush, sweeping low again and again. Theo cracked his whip around his head as he raced towards the bush to investigate. A buzzard had the other poor little hen in its clutches, pinned to the ground and her life was about to be extinguished. Theo managed to chase it off and the bloodied chicken escaped and ran off to hide. The other hen frantically dashed around like a headless chicken while the rooster made it back to the container where he hid in fear. The frustrated buzzard circled overhead while Theo whipped at the air, protecting his potential egg factory like a madman. Anyone passing would have mistaken him for a crazy lunatic herding his mixed avian flock.

The chickens survived their ordeal but these days they duck whenever a bird flies overhead. These days the rooster has a much more confident crow, except the 2am one which sounds like he might be sleep crowing and which keeps me awake as I lie listening to hear whether his opponent over the hill responds. He has learnt to protect his females as he chaperones them around the field and even calls them when he finds food.

I wish I knew what he and the neighbours rooster continually call to each other. Could it be “hey buddy I’m still around and this is my bit of fluff so don’t even think of coming down that hill”, or is it a more friendly “hey buddy, you still there, any danger your side at the ok corral? Or is it just howdy doody? Guess I’ll never know the answer.



Fowl, Qolora, chickens, hens, Rooster, chicks, crowing, cock a doodle doo, testicles, egg

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.

The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Music

I don’t think many (if any) white people get to spend the whole day as we did today, experiencing the Xhosa culture performed by the children of this region.

We were so lucky to have been invited to the interschool Arts and Culture Festival which took place in Centani. The trip there took an hour on the bad dirt road with 3 of us in the front of a bakkie and about 15 kids squashed in the back, with their props and costumes on their laps. The rest followed in 2 more crammed bakkies. Everyone, us included, was super excited. We piled out at a building with no toilets but the 1 000 or so participants and a dozen or so teachers didn’t seem to mind. In fact I don’t think they noticed. You lift your skirt and wee behind the building facing the back road. When in Rome.



The day was quite an emotional one for me. Most of the teachers were dressed in their traditional outfits and the cultural ambiance was quite something. The theme was Human Rights and the morning opened with various drama scenes acted out by the children depicting their rights to education, food, social services, freedom of choice of faith and marriage. I was quite moved to realise that what they were portraying was real for some of them. The short plays were all performed in English so we understood everything. Watching children act scenarios of being too poor to afford school clothes which denied them access to a school while their mother sat at home drinking out their government grant money, touched a sensitive note. Other plays were about orphaned children living with other family members and being abused. This was their lives for many I presume. I don’t really know what goes on in their homes but I do know that most come to school with clean but broken school clothes, many have shoes tied together with string, and when they queue for their samp and beams for lunch I often wonder if it’s the only meal for some?

Then the singing began. Those kids just sing so beautifully and when they do that pumping thing with their arms and shuffle their feet from side to side and their voices harmonise so beautifully I had to keep swallowing back a lump as their voices resonated though to my soul.

Then the angry poetry followed which we couldn’t understand but there was lots of viva South Africa and waving of sticks as they shouted their proclamations.

Late afternoon they performed their traditional Xhosa dancing and I sat on the edge of my seat, goose bumps all over as the dancers captivated me. It was just so wow. The girls danced bare breasted, wearing string skirts and beads around their necks and ankles and they kept a beat by clapping while others stomped and shuffled and kicked and I felt the music coursing through my body. Some danced to traditional music played through speakers while others kept a beat on a drum or banged on a bucket. One group even had a bucket with a wet plastic rope attached inside which they pulled hard and created a deep sound together with their drum. I was enthralled by them. The boys added whistles, kuduzelas, guitars, safety hats and tattered clothes combined with animal skins to their acts. They were amazing.

Then the dancing changed from girls dancing to their interpretation of older women dancing. Young girls show their breasts and wear flimsy skirts when they dance but older women wear colourful wraps and skirts with aprons as well as headgear. They shake their big backsides in a certain way which some of the girls did excellently. The teachers who ululated throughout the day at any acts which did well really belted their tongues cheering at these girls.

After the traditional dancing came the free style dancing and I was amazed to see the same children, girls who had just been dancing bare breasted on stage were now wearing jeans and T Shirts and shaking their pelvises to kwaito rhythms.

We arrived back in Qolora by the sea school at about 8 o clock that evening. It was already dark. The kids excitedly made their way home, barefoot, following foot paths in the dark to their homes scattered over the hillside. Theo and I had a good laugh as we too made our way home in the dark, camera over our shoulder and passed a man whistling along and carrying a pick axe over his. How different we were.

The day at the Arts and culture Festival was one I will never forget and I consider myself extremely lucky to have been able to see the children perform their singing and dancing.

As the Stomach Turns (If you can remember which TV programme that line comes from, you’ve scored Brownie points)


Our daily life here in Qolora is not that different to life back in Cape Town, well other than logistics and a few finer details like earth, wind, fire and water. Otherwise life here is pretty similar to being in the concrete jungle. For instance, on washing days my UDD (underarm dingle dangle) flaps around vigorously as I manually spin my very upmarket Sputnik washing machine through its wash and rinse cycle. The makeshift table which develops a life of its own when the Sputnik is in full swing, tries desperately to worm its way down the hill in pursuit of the goats, with me in tow. To stabilize everything, I have to pin the table down with my foot, hold the machine in place with my left hand and spin like mad with the right. I get an upper body workout without having to fork out gym fees. I don’t mind carrying pots of boiling water and traipsing back and forth to the garden tap and in fact I consider myself lucky that I don’t have to hunch over a bucket or make a fire to boil the water.

We also have baking days. How else do you think we get bread? As long as it’s not windy, we can fire up Theo’s “boer maak ‘n plan” oven. He gave a 25 litre thinners drum a facelift by cutting the lid off to become to door which we open or close with a pair of pliers. He rammed a wire rack inside and tada. He makes a fire underneath, adds extra coals on top and our oven is set to go. So long as it’s not too windy so that the coals blow away. On those days Theo cooks pap or flapjacks inside. I’ve even baked biscuits and an end of the month version of lasagne using macaroni and soya in our eye level oven. We save a fortune on oven cleaner!!

The upside of living in our cosy rondavel is that there’s no major housework to do. There is a downside to living in one room though. Being woken up at 3 in the morning by a roving beam of light sweeping across the room similar to a police raid, can be disturbing. When Theo wakes up in the middle of the night he tiptoes to the kitchen corner so as not to wake me and with his head torch on full beam, he scans the shelves looking for ingredients to cook dishes such as curry afval. The first time the swooping lights woke me, I ducked my head under the blankets, fearing the inevitable. We all know the aliens will arrive some day and I thought this was it. The body snatchers were hovered above our hut scanning for my perfect vessel to be beamed up and used for reproduction and probably they’d stick probes with flashing lights up my bum. But then the smell of Theo’s afval wafted up my nostrils and I knew I still had more time on Earth before I was needed elsewhere.

Our rondavel roof is propped up with a centre pole (which is actually off centre) but unfortunately it’s too gnarly to wrap my limber self around for pole dancing. I’d consider climbing it and doing a swan dive onto our wobbly bed if the woodwork was not so rickety. Someone has mounted a ceiling fan (which is not connected to electricity) in the most peculiar way up at the top of said pole. I’m not sure which came first - the fan or the pole but the intriguing device will never serve to cool anyone down. I’m posting a picture of it.

Most days we can collect water down at the garden tap and we’ve run a 40 m cable from across the way for electricity so what can I say, we’re pretty comfortable.

Now I’m off to mix some dugga from mud and water as I’ve seen the mammas doing around here. That’s how you repair a leaking grass roof it seems and ours drips when it rains. Oh well at least we wont have to budget for handyman call out fees.

Lately there are just not enough hours in a day to get to everything but I’m as happy as a tick on a cow.

Where do the children play

…….”I know we’ve come a long way, changing day to day but tell me, where do the children play.”……..

Well gee whiz.  Talk about a roller coaster ride of emotions. 2 weeks ago I was feeling sorry for myself cos no-one came to the library.   This week I barely have had time to wipe my….. nose. The word has spread and the children have discovered the library.

– Yeeehaaa. 

I’ve assisted a high school student with his project, Theo and I have given a few school teachers computer lessons (which will be ongoing), and the primary school kids come around every single day now.  They do puzzles, type in English on the computers, play computer games, play the music keyboard (note to self: need to get headphones for the keyboard) while I talk to them all in English.  I even spent an afternoon helping the Grade R teacher with her college assignment.

Today was special.  For many reasons actually.  Mostly because an 8 year old boy took the initiative, selected a book and started reading it all by himself.  I had been walking around, assisting at the “puzzle table” and at the computers when suddenly I saw him.  He was sitting on a bench in front of the children’s books, engrossed in a book which he was reading and I could see he was enjoying the story.  I was thrilled.  Generally the children don’t come to the library to read as they prefer to play solitaire and pinball on the computers or type.  I’m just happy that they come to the library at all.  I don’t want to frighten them off by pushing the books on them too much.  Anyway, I sat down next to him and listened to his reading as he read the story aloud and I helped him with a word or two when he asked me to. I had to restrain myself from hugging him every 20 seconds. Occasionally he pointed out a picture to me and he was amused when he questioningly pointed to a word in the story, “Eeeeee” the sound which the mouse made.  The printed word really intrigued him and each time he read it slowly and extra loud.  Now doesn’t that just make it all worth it?  I felt like I’d been given a Christmas present which I was unwrapping each time he turned a page. What a wonderful feeling.  And the best part is he took a second book home and I bet he’ll be back for more.

I had a lovely afternoon chatting to a high school student.  She told me she wants to become a pilot if she passes matric next year.  She also told me that she enjoys dancing and singing and her dancing instructor in Butterworth has told her that she is good.  I considered that she has a better chance of making a career on stage than in the air but naturally I didn’t tell her that.  I’ve told her to come back and I will help her with some English grammar exercises at the library.  The high school is about 15 km’s away and we don’t teach there but the students come to the library if and when they can get here. 

Clinton who is 12 is typing a letter about himself at the library.  He likes cabbage but hates samp and beans and would like to become a teacher one day.  Taylor who is also l2, likes BMW’s, his community, his brothers and sisters and wants to become a doctor one day.  Big dreams. 

Little things that give me great pleasure are when small people have big smiles.  3 days ago a grade 1 pupil, walked home with Theo and I.  He held my hand all the way and we sang songs like “This is the way I brush my teeth” as we walked.  He giggled like mad when I got stuck singing Inkosi Sikele.  After singing the first few lines I mouthed the rest with him while he giggled like crazy and sang it right through. 

Besides the library keeping me busy every single day now, we are also really getting stuck into the lessons at school.  The teachers seem to put a heck of a lot of time into their meetings which I don’t understand and the classes are often left unsupervised.  The term started slow, in fact a week late due to bad weather and more meetings.  We don’t give as many lessons per day as I would like, especially since the children are way, way behind in their English. I hope the teachers don’t think we are trying to take their jobs away or that we know better than them because we don’t.  They teach all the subjects from English textbooks to students who’s home language is Xhosa, including the teachers themselves so it must be really difficult.  I sympathise with them.  Theo and I are just here to assist with English.  I wish we could pick up the pace a bit, i.e. on Friday’s, school closes early because many of the teachers go home to their families in East London so we don’t go in at all.  Perhaps as I get used to teaching I will also learn to utilize my time in the class more effectively.  The children love playing I spy, hangman and teamwork which they take very seriously.  They really enjoy doing the excercises, showing their capabilities, and they are so keen to please. I’ve been mostly focusing on listening and speaking English which they are shy about but I think its time to buckle down and help them with grammar since they are sooooo far behind and it obviously affects all their subjects. 

Theo has connected the schools’ computer and is showing the teachers the spreadsheet which is the new system for ordering books as per the department of education.  

I’ve really enjoyed spending time with the students these past two weeks and I’m slowly getting to know them. 

 Finally I feel I have a purpose.