IT’S BEEN A HARD DAYS WORK

We were excited about an upcoming overnight trip to East London to meet a bunch of influential big shots with oodles of money. We packed an overnight bag and left the lullies for the big city. 10 km’s before reaching East London we got a flat tyre and realized that the puncture which Theo had repaired with craft Genkem glue the week before, didn’t hold. Oh well, improvisation has its moments. We phoned Gwyn, the guy who had arranged the meeting and who generously offered to put us up while we were in EL. He organized a bakkie to pick us up and sort us out. What a nice guy.

He didn’t blink an eye when we finally arrived at his plush upmarket office, lugging our helmets with visors which are taped on with pieces of duct tape, the bike’s topbox, a rucksack while my helmet hair stood at all angles and my right boot was coated in oil.

He gave us the exclusive use of his house which had a massive flat screen DSTV and a jacuzzi bathtub. He even paid for the punctured tyre repair. Unfortunately the clutch housing broke when the bike got strapped onto the back of the bakkie so the trip cost us more than we planned especially since we decided to put a new front tyre on since we were in EL which rarely happens.

The meeting went well and everyone seemed quite impressed with our story of the work we do here and we walked away with many leads and have already had a follow up offer of 50 dictionaries which we are thrilled about. The next day we visited ITEC Learning Centre and met management staff who run a well established resource training centre in East London.

They are mostly involved in community programmes which develop young learners up to grade R but they also run a community library. They have set up programmes from empowering mothers to nurture their babies, setting up mobile libraries for schools as well as train crèche teachers.

Children visit their wonderful library where they, assisted by Xhosa volunteers, offer story book reading sessions, craft sessions such as drawing and making their own books. Children go there to read books or have short sessions on the 2 computers with internet access. Their centre was such an inspiration and we left there with more ideas, leads and a sense of achievement knowing that we weren’t just floundering, grasping at straws but in fact we had really achieved quite a lot and were headed in the right direction. If we could get our centre anywhere close to resembling theirs, I’d be thrilled.

Seeing so many people, walking the busy streets, popping in at all the shops, eating different food and chilling on a couch watching TV was refreshing. Telling our story over and over to interested people during the few days we were in EL made us feel alive and gave us a new zest to continue with our work.

Back at Qolora we attacked our admin with the same fierce urgency which seemed to have become a routine over the past few months. We finally finished our website which had been excruciatingly frustrating and tiring work. We’d also networked with many people and even visited the Department of Education which proved to be just as fruitless as we expected but at least now we have introduced ourselves to them. They asked the same question many people here ask, which is “what can you do for us?” or “what have you brought us?”

It’s always give me give me. Isolomzi SSS on the other had have reached success by helping themselves and we cant but help falling over our feet trying to promote their school and assist them. They are trying to get their computer lab up and running and we have started training the teachers who want to be equipped to follow it through to their learners.

We’ve become special members of their School Governing Body (SGB) which is quite an honor but more importantly, we have seen the principal be recognized by influential people who will continue helping him to reach his ever increasing new goals making education a success.

And that’s what makes another day in Africa, a day to smile about.

All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth

So recently I needed to visit a dentist. The gums around my back molar started swelling to such an extent that it was affecting my intake of food, which led to a loss of appetite which led to the fantastic realization that I might loose a few kilos. That was the upside of dealing with a throbbing jaw. The downside was I couldn’t pop down to the local Medi Cross Centre and flick through a 5 year old copy of Fair Lady missing the back page with smells of novacane wafting around the waiting room before a man in a white coat could cause more pain and take all my money.

I had three options. One; an overnight trip to East London to see a dentist who would probably take ex-rays and charge exorbitant fees for his services. Two; a trip to Butterworth to a Chinese dentist who the locals here recommended but who I had reservations about since I didn’t know what to expect. Three; a visit to the local igqirha (medicine woman) who I was told by a village teacher treated toothache by dripping juice of a certain bush down a smoking twig into the problematic tooth cavity. I didn’t have a whole lot of money for option 1 or an actual hole in my tooth to be filled the African homeotherapy style remedy so I settled on option 2.

The bike trip to Butterworth took my mind off my throbbing jaw and in fact my whole body shuddered so much I thought the trip might be fruitless as I feared the molar, which had slightly loosened over the past few days, would fall out of its own accord by the time we arrived. The combination of our old 550 XT Thumper which has seen better days and the gravel road to Centane which is deteriorating badly makes for a horribly bumpy ride. I can’t make the full 15 km’s without having to stop a couple of times and get off the now seemingly shockless bouncing back tire, stretch my aching semi metal knee, wipe the oil which leaks from the engine onto my shoe causing my foot to continually slide off the footpeg and finally realign my bifocal glasses and wedge them back into my helmet at the correct angle so that when I arrive at my destination I don’t have a headache from vision which alternates between near and far sightedness at the speed of the bikes piston, causing me to be more squint than usual.

From Centane to Butterworth the 17 km's of tar is smoother but by then the damage was done to my body so I sat on the back and tried not to think about the dentist visit which I dreaded. I focused on keeping my lower jaw stretched as far away from my top jaw as possible to give my teeth a rest from the hour of clamping they had been through which is a good way to prevent your tongue being bitten when your body vibrates at that speed but the enamel coating on my teeth is wearing thin. I also had to focus on not actually opening my mouth while doing this as I didn’t want to scare the dentist by presenting him with squashed bugs all over my pearlys.

We arrived at the Chinese dentist and I took a seat in the sparsely furnished waiting room with a dozen or so other patients while Theo went shopping. The friendly Xhosa women all chatted away around me and after 4 hours, I’d picked up the rhythm of how things worked at this dentist surgery. By then I’d poked my head into the room next door since there wasn’t a receptionist, where the friendly Dr Chang and his Chinese assistant, who was probably his wife, asked about the tooth and after a quick exchange of hand signs, their limited English and me trying to talk with my mouth open for him to see my swollen gum from the doorway, I returned to the waiting room for the long haul.

An old Xhosa man directed people from the surgery room to the bathroom at the back of the building where you rinsed your mouth but generally people seemed to know where to go. The patients seemed to be business people and chatted away except those who came out of the surgery room. They sat clutching tissues against their lower faces, waiting for the injection to kick in while the dentist peered into the next patient’s mouth in his surgery. My turn eventually arrived and the dentist told me that it was too late to save the tooth and that after pulling it, the huge abscess would drain by itself. I settled back in the waiting room for about 10 minutes after a quick trip to the back bathroom to rinse my mouth and squeezed past the generator for a quick pee. Just as the drool was about to run down my chin, escaping the provided tissue, I was called back in to have the job finished. The dentist had a lovely jaw side manner and put my mind at rest before the extraction which wasn’t half as bad as I’d expected. I’d once nearly punched a dentist who hurt me. It was an instinctive action as my clenched hand automatically shot out when he carelessly groped around in my mouth with his sharp tools. He was not a nice dentist at all. This guy was totally different and in fact afterwards we even tried chatting although it was really difficult since by then, we not only had a language barrier but my limp mouth made it impossible for me to articulate coherently. I paid my R100 and left, relieved and with a lopsided grin.

The trip going back wasn’t so bad as my body seemed to be more relaxed, from the adrenaline surge probably or maybe because I rode half the way with my leg stuck out straight but we still stopped just as many times for me to spit mouthfuls of blood out and to replace the surgical wad which I was biting down on with a fresh one tucked away in pocket which the dentist's wife had sent me home with.

That’s a dentist I don’t mind going back to but if I do get a cavity and the Igqirha is off duty, I’ll try a recently recommended option by a woman who said her parents treated their farm labourer's tooth aches by sticking a hair dryer nozzle into their mouth to dry it, followed by a blob of quick set Pratley putty pressed into the hole.

Hopefully I won’t need to look for my hair dryer stuck in a cupboard in the truck any time soon. My appetite is also back so the 2 kg's I thought I'd lost have found their way back to my middle again. Oh well.

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.

Rondebosch Twinning

A crisp morning breeze whipped around my face as I waved my goodbyes to the last of the Isolomzi students as they headed home. The workshop had come to an end and the 14 Isolomzi students were left with memories and experiences never to be forgotten. I felt privileged to be a part of it.

It all started a while back when Theo and I visited Isolomzi High and found a competent principal at the helm of his exceptional school and things just snowballed from there. Word reached Rondebosch Boys High in Cape Town via Jock and the following Easter holidays Rowan, the Maths guru from Rondebosch High and Marion, his better half, offered to visit our centre and get a feel for the challenges faced by schools out here in Transkei. They brought hundreds of text books and maths papers with to distribute to students who visit our centre. There are 2 high schools in the Qolora area fed by about 15 junior schools. Tyali High is a typical overcrowded high school and learners struggle to get a proper education whereas the charismatic principal of Isolomzi High saw the opportunity and after Rowan and Marion visited his school, ties between Isolomzi and Rondebosch High were established.

A one week workshop was planned by a Rondebosch team for the June holidays and everyone was pretty excited about things to come. Jock and 4 teachers drove 8 Rondebosch city boys all the way up from Cape Town to meet 14 selected students from rural Isolomzi High. Jock opened his house and his heart and the Cape Town crowd settled into his holiday cottage while the Isolomzi students moved into 2 accommodation rondavels here at our centre.

The Rondebosch boys were soon to learn how privileged they were to have access to a good education on their doorstep, running water, money and a functional home. The Isolomzi students were given a window into the lives of white city boys and learnt about cultures in a rural village.

Monday kicked off with a meet and greet and students from both schools had their first opportunity to get to learn a little bit about each other. Everyone seemed relaxed and short before long they were kicking a ball around outside and things just flowed from there.

Our days were filled with activities, tour guided outings and free time for the students to relax. The Rondebosch boys were jovial and entertained us with their light hearted banter while the Isolomzi students were more academically orientated and grabbed every opportunity to learn as much as they could. They were thrilled to all get email and facebook accounts and hopefully they will stay in touch with each other.

Ross, the aspiring Rondebosh Boys High chef, prepared most meals for us, except the samp and beans (umngqusho) which the city boys found a bit too unpalatable for their taste buds. On the other hand, the Isolomzi students were not accustomed to western style of cooking and not everyone enjoyed Ross’s delicious garlic mussels, broccoli and cheese sauce and even green beans were too exotic for most of them.

We went on 2 informative guided tours, one to the home of an igqirha (medicine woman) and the second one was a short hike and a boat trip to the Gates, a picturesque geological fissure through which the Qolora river runs. We were told about Xhosa history and interesting information about traditional uses of plant life. The igqirha showed us how to pound mielies, winnow them into different sizes for different dishes and some of us brave ones tasted a white frothy concoction which she pounded from tree roots and which keeps evil spirits away. Bjorn was the only one brave enough to get elbow deep in fresh sloppy cow dung and smear it over the floor, a tradition still practiced once a week in many homes here. Johan, the photographer, captured all the memorable moments on his camera, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he blackmailed the boys for their hilarious attempts at singing, making animal noises and beat boxing during the talent show. Johan is also a professional swimmer and gave the Isolomzi boys a swimming lesson in the lagoon. Both Jordan and Eddie’s loud mouths kept the party alive at all times.

Isolomzi beat Rondebosch at every single competition from the debate, topic being fracking, to the beautiful gospel singing at the talent show. Eddie was beaten by Anathi at chess and Isolomzi even beat Rondebosch on the sports field in a relaxed game of soccer and a casual game of touch rugby.

Tinei, from the Isolomzi group, showed leadership qualities and directed a short movie about the life of a rural girl. I would love to see it completed, edited and posted on Youtube.

Theo entertained us with a fantastic fire poi show and I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t burst into flames as it was his first time ever.

The maths teachers gave a workshop at our centre and the place was packed with additional Isolomzi students who arrived for the lessons, all dressed smartly in their school uniforms.

Two of the maths teachers organized a session for the girls to create dream posters where we had fun cutting and sticking magazine clippings which we found inspiring.

We ended the week with a lovely 3 course dinner for everyone at Trennery’s Hotel on Friday night after spending the day at Isolomzi High school for a special function. Representatives of the Department of Education were invited to the school function as well as a large group of influential guests, all connected to Rondebosch Boys High who coincidentally happened to be staying at Trennerys hotel on holiday and were keen to attend. The Xhosa culture at the school function was evident in the beautiful singing and as always, I swallowed a lump in my throat as the room swelled with the melodies of praise singing. The students captivated the audience with a few skits. The theme was anti drugs and the importance of education and even though the message was serious, they managed to humour the crowd and had us in stitches. Of course there was traditional dancing by the boys who kept the beat with a guitar, drums and a kuduzela. The girls received supportive ululating as they stomped around in time to the makeshift drum and all looked stunning dressed as mamas in their beautiful traditional outfits and painted faces.

Pride swelled from Mr Butshingi and for the first time I saw the man almost, but not quite (I don’t think that’s possible), lost for words. Years of hard work, alienation from surrounding schools, opposition from parents and elders, personal attacks on his character, lack of support from previous teachers, union interference, having to educate students from junior secondary schools who fail to come close to preparing students for high school, poverty, faction fighting and lack of resources are all issues which he has faced at his school. His hard work paid off and for a day he felt like a prince as everyone congratulated him on his success. Later that night at the Trennery’s dinner, I heard promises of further support from the other Rondebosch guests and the possibility of twinning Rondebosch Prep with other schools in the area was even mentioned.

The workshop was a great success towards building further relations and plans are already under way for September holidays when teachers will return to assist with winter school at Isolomzi.

The students of Isolomzi High have to work 3 times as hard as other students to achieve their outstanding results and their dedication and efforts have been acknowledged and the rewards will follow. The pride I felt for these students and their wonderful school makes me feel blessed. How lucky am I to have been involved.

The igqirha (medicine woman) performing a ritual on me to prevent evil spirits from entering my body 

Bjorn getting down and dirty

A day of maths at the centre (note the Isolomzi students neatness)

The boat trip

Theo doing fire poi

The Rondebosh Boys team

Interaction at the centre

Johan giving swimming lessons in the lagoon

Isolomzi girls fashion shoot

students and a ball - what more can I say

The whole team - with Jock a happy man in the front

The buzzing of the bees, the paper trees and the big rock candy mountain

Yesterday, after school, we were heading back to our recently revamped rustic rondavel when our taxi hit a swarm of bees that were on the move. We weren't going very fast, what with the bumps and stones and potholes and all, so a whole bunch of bees buzzed in at Theo’s window, past me in the middle and out at the drivers side. The taxi came to a screeching halt and Theo and the driver jumped out waving their hands around their heads. This encouraged a couple of bees to dive down Theo’s shirt, making him jump around even more vigorously until he eventually got stung. The incident led to a new fascinating discovery which I shall share.

It seems that bees have a special place in Xhosa culture. I bet you didn't know that if bees decide to enter your house and make a nest, you are not allowed to remove them, harm them or smoke them out. In fact, the visiting bees are actually your ancestors making a house call and the only way to make them leave, is to kill a cow.

I’m getting to know the Ngidi family through school since Mrs Ngidi is a teacher while her husband is our contracted taxi driver. He is one of the few people around here who farm their land and they are one of the more respectable wealthier families in the area. Their 2 sons have been to college and their daughter is in Grade 3 and has the most confident voice in the whole school. Mrs Ngidi is a Christian, as is her daughter, Viwe, but her husband is more old school Xhosa and follows traditional ways, as do their sons. Mr Ngidi talks to his ancestors at his kraal whenever a decision needs to be made but he is a bit sceptical about some of the powers of the amaqiga (sangoma). For instance, he doubts that a person can be made invisible so as to avoid being hit by bullets as was reported on the radio recently. Anyway, some time ago, some bees entered the Ngidi home and decided to make a nest in their couch right in the middle of the lounge. The couch was carried outside and a structure was erected above it to protect it from the rain. Two years later, Mr Ngidi, decided he wanted his couch back so the local elders were called in and of course a cow was slaughtered. The elders spoke to the bees, who listened, and after the conversation, the bees (their father’s father’s father) buzzed off and all was well. The ancestors were happy to see that a cow was slaughtered in their honour and left the family in peace.

Bees found in nature are regular bees and are not your reincarnated uncle. Some small boys bravely collect honey from natural bee hives by covering a arm and hand in a plastic bag and with a balaclava pulled over their head, they help themselves to chunks of honey comb. I like the fact that inadvertently, the bees are protected around here, but I just wish more farmers would plant vegetables and give the bees something more than wild cherry guava trees to pollinate.

my beaded shell window thingie

my decorative door thingie

my beaded curtain thingie

 

As to our recently revamped rustic rondavel, I've been in a bit of a creative mood lately and besides moving furniture around, I've created some dangly thingies to hang in front of the tiny window as well as another threaded bamboo thingie to hang in the doorway. It’s pretty to look at and I'm proud of my handy work although it hasn't kept my ancestors out of our mud hut. They have tracked me down here in Transkei and if slaughtering a whole herd of cattle will get rid of them, I’m game. You see, my ancestors have taken the form of mozzies and I suspect they are here to stay, whispering sweet nothing in my ear until I answer them or go dilly.

Granny panties

So it finally happened. The day I’ve been dreading with great anxiety and the day which became a milestone turning point for me. I am mortified to admit that I now own 2 pairs of giant sized granny panties. In my defence, I must explain the reason how I came to own these gigantic knickers with cerise blossoms splashed all over them.

I recently went to Centane and did some shopping. Centane has the hustle and bustle of a “town” and I love shopping there even though there is not much variety. At the deli in Shoprite you can buy a piece of fried chicken, chicken feet, a quarter loaf of bread with a fried egg slapped on top, giblets and pap or red viennas. They cater for Xhosa taste buds so you won’t find things like croissants, lasagne or corn dogs. Back in Cape Town you have to dodge eager charity workers who shake their coin tins in front of shop entrances hoping you will part with your spare change for the blind, the needy, paraplegics or cancer patients. Here you have to dodge chickens, goats, mangy dogs, garbage and the wheelbarrow brigade who offer to carry your groceries to the nearest taxi.

You will find Pep Stores in every remote corner of South Africa clothing our nation, keeping skin moist with Dawn body cream, Black Like Me hair oils and underwear in large, XL and XXL sizes. These days their rival Chinese shops are also opening up in every corner of Africa selling every imaginable plastic item, shoes and clothing but they cater for midgets which are not the average size of most African women.

Anyway, there I was, scanning the underwear shelf and musing over how my taste in underwear seemed to have changed over the years. It seemed like only yesterday that G-strings and floss were quite comfortable to wear. Somewhere along the way, I gained a few kilos and I discovered wonderfully comfortable stretchy boy leg brooks work better at covering cellulite. The transition happened comfortably except I noticed Theo didn’t find my new Lycra skin colour briefs as enticing as the previous lace thongs.

The sound of Xhosa women babbling away around me brought me back to reality and I found myself staring at the more functional knickers. You know, the florally ones which come in packs of 3 which Woolworth s have been selling since the days when the castle in Cape Town was still a tent. Anyway, I grabbed a pack of what I thought was bikini size but instead it turned out to be full size. Very full size indeed as I discovered a few days later when I opened the packet and unrolled meters and meters of floral cerise printed cotton. I stepped into two gaping holes while the shocking pink flowers expanded across my arse and half way up my back where the cerise blossoms finally ended inches below my armpits.

I’ll need at least 6 pegs to hang my granny panties on the wash line for all the world to see. But do you wanna know a secret? They fit as snug as a bug in a rug.

ALL FOOLS DAY

So tomorrow is April Fools day and it got me thinking about dates and calendars and months of the year and I’ve come to the conclusion that our present so called calendar is a bit of a joke.  In fact, it’s so messed up that the whole idea of April Fools pranks originates from the mix up. 

In the beginning God made day and night and soon after, man made the calendar since people needed a reminder when the next full moon rolled around so that everyone could plant their seeds.   

Later, after societies were replaced by modern man who had learnt how to write on paper they decided to redraft the calendar using words instead of pictures, making it easier to carry a pocket diary.  The first modern calendar was made by the Romans, who had an 8 day week, (the 8^th being market day).  This was BC and since the Bible was not in circulation yet, they still based their calendar on the moon which they considered to be important for planting and named months after planets and when to plant, chop wood and make love.

Next came the Julian calendar and they shuffled a few days around and added a month, which they named after Julius Caesar himself. Then finally, came the current Gregorian calendar which we still use today. In between all this a few other calendars such as an Asian one also featured in other countries just to complicate issues and to create employment for people who worked out daylight saving time.

The current calendar used in many countries today, (not all mind you) came about in 1752.  Imagine, there you were, happily making bottles of apricot jam and meebos to sell at the castle to the Dutchies who stopped off with the post every other month and bam, suddenly your calendar, neatly folded up and safely kept in the back of your Bible, was no longer valid.  All the dates on your pickling bottles needed changing and never mind the confusion of when a person was supposed to celebrate King James VI birthday anymore.  There must have been utter chaos with taxes and imagine the chaos that import export companies in the Cape harbour would have had to deal with.  Imagine trying to keep track of dates of the Cape Pinotage leaving for kings on foreign shores.  Its no wonder scurvy was such a problem since no one knew the right date of a barrel of oranges sent out to sea.  

You see, not only did the calendar change from Julian to Gregorian, they changed the kick off date. All along the 1^st day of the year started on the 25 March and then suddenly from the next year, it started on 1^st of January.    

Half a year was written off by some countries, and tough if you had a big event planned on the 23 of September. Some countries were still working Old Style system and others changed to New Style.  A whole bunch of days couldn’t be accounted for anyway since even though Julius Caesar’s data capturers where pretty good, they just wrote off a day every now and then to catch up to the moon’s cycle.  Anyway it was such a deurmekaar mix up that since new years celebrations always lasted a whole week i.e. from 25 March to 1 April, some people were celebrating new year while others hadn’t heard the news and were waiting for 1^st January.  They teased the Old Style people who clearly were not with the program and that’s how Aprils Fool started.

So where does that leave you and I today?  Well it probably doesn’t matter since I’m pushing 50 no matter which way you look at it.