A TRIP TO CINTSA

Lately we’ve been a bit too consumed with teaching and admin so a night out sounded like a jolly good idea. Last Saturday, the weather looked gloomy but it didn’t stop us from a road trip to Cintsa or however far we got.

The 15 km to the Kei River was bumpy on the XT but I’ve long ago accepted that bike shocks are a luxury I’ll be doing without. At least the gravel road was dry even though grey clouds loomed overhead. We crossed the ferry to Kei Mouth village and on tar roads from there, we headed for Morgan Bay. We were hoping to meet up with the interesting people who we’d met there in December. A bit of drumming and alternate conversation would have been good for my soul. No such luck, so we pushed on to Cintsa. Gee, had I realised it was that far away, I would definitely have signed up for a beer pitstop but since it had started raining and we were getting soaked, we pushed on till we hit Cintsa. At first the rain was a dam nuisance and all I wanted to do was stop somewhere and dry off but eventually a person accepts that there is nothing to do so you might as well sit tight and accept it.

The east side of Cintsa had a caravan park, one or two business’s but most importantly, we spotted a quaint little pub which we made a bee line for. My rain soaked pants had almost dried a few kilometres back when the rain let up and the wind had a chance to air dry my pants glued to my knees. My feet squelched in an inch of water which had run into my sockless takkies. It was a toss up over a cup of hot coffee or a cold beer but Theo ordered two Rum and Cokes which quickly solved that problem and my frozen tootsies were soon forgotten. Our timing was perfect, since the local brewer, a friendly, soft spoken guy, who just happened to be delivering a keg to the pub, got chatting to us and we spent the afternoon hearing about his popular Emerald Vale craft beer which, by the way, tasted really good. Later, armed with directions from the two chatty, barefooted, surfer barmen how to get to Buccaneers Backpackers, we headed off to the west side of Cintsa.



Bucaneers was buzzing with young people from all over the world. Some surf, some do volunteer work at the local crèche or just hang out for a day or 3 but mostly, everyone was on a holiday tour of the east coast of SA starting from Joburg and ending in Cape Town. Bucaneers is on the Baz Bus route so even though the place might seem remote, it’s a very popular hotspot for overseas young people and offers lots of activities and socializing.

We shared a dinner table with a young couple on holiday from Russia. He was British, working there as a lawyer and she was an American TEFL teacher. Our idea was to forget about teaching for a day or two but I found myself enjoying talking about education. By the end of the weekend I was sourcing volunteer teachers and was giving tour advice.

The highlight of my evening was a drumming session led by a comical Xhosa guy. I got a thrilling chance to thump out a rhythm on an African drum. Five of us where led by the leader, who’s hands blurred above his drum as he rhythmically kept us in beat. The sound vibrated right through me and the room became alive with the beat of our drums.

I’m thinking of making my own drum in the style which the locals here make theirs; from an old paint drum with a piece of leather stretched over the top. Maybe if I’m able to beat a rhythm I might get invited to the next sangoma’s beach party.

In the meantime, I’m looking for an excuse to go to Cintsa for another pint of Emerald Vale.

HEY TEACHER, LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE

This year our days are jam packed with teaching, teaching and more teaching. Our day starts at Siseko JSS which is about 10 km’s from here, so every morning a taxi bakkie collects us and as we bounce to school on the gravel roads, I practice my Xhosa on the driver. His English isn’t too wonderful but he enjoys helping me build up my Xhosa vocabulary and laughs at some of my pronunciation attempts.

We really enjoy teaching at Siseko JSS as the principal is serious about education. The classrooms are tiny and 2 grades are squashed up in a single classroom. Many learners sit 3 to one desk. Some desks are broken or have tops made of hardboard which is disintegrating at the corners and some students can’t fit their legs under the low tables. None of these factors make writing an easy mission. One grade face their teacher in the front while the other half face their teacher at the back of the classroom. I can’t imagine how this situation works effectively. The grade 1’s don’t have desks, just a plastic chair, many of which are broken so writing is not an option. Their little faces light up when I enter the class and I always bring a teddy bear, a coloured ball, a floppy hat, home made alphabet flashcards or some sort of realia to make the lessons interesting. They love pleasing me and they are so eager to shout out the answer and sometimes they can’t contain themselves and they rush forward, shouting missy missy, with their little arms reaching up and their face scrunched up as they shout “f for fish”. As cute as they are, I prefer teaching the Grade 5 and 6 class since, even though there are a few boys who don’t really try and can’t really read, never mind speak English, I find it easier to teach them since, as a class, they are able to understand me much better and I teach them grammar in fun activities with realia, role playing and they absolutely love competitions.

Its difficult teaching 2 grades at a time since they are not all at the same level of competency and I can’t use their prescribed English work books since each grade’s book is different. I therefore have to create my own lesson plan every day. Generally, they need basic sentence structure lessons since they’ve had no experience expressing themselves in English.

The principal is very keen to improve teaching at his school but the challenges are tough. The teachers are keen to welcome his new rule as of this year, based on ideas which we’ve presented to him, using English in all lessons as the first change but unfortunately their grasp of English is very poor. Do the maths! They are not very imaginative in creative lessons and games such as Eye Spy are as foreign to them as umfino, the much loved wild leafy vegetable, was to us.

We teach at Qolora By Sea in the afternoons for an hour but unfortunately by then, the teachers at this school are either in some sort of meeting or something or other and the learners are unruly which makes teaching there not very pleasant. We are barely into the year and we feel demoralized having to deal with this schools lack of interest in dedicated teaching. The only thing keeping me there are the little ones who run to meet us at the gate and fight for a chance to hold our hands. My skin and hair are quite a fascination point with all the young kids at both schools. We would much rather teach at Isolomzi, the high school over the hill, where that principal is doing a wonderful job of offering his learners a good education. He has a team of dedicated teachers and the first rule of the school is that only English is spoken after entering the school gates. Mr Butshingi, the principal, is not very popular with the other schools and is considered a tyrant but he just produced a matric pass rate of 75% and many distinctions to boast of. He only has about 25 learners per class since not many students around here want to attend his school as the expectations are too high for them. Alternatively, Tjali High, which is over the other hill, is a totally different setup. They are fed by about 5 junior schools in the area. They have 6 grade 12 classes, each with 80 plus learners per class, 4 grade 11 classes, also with about 80 learners per class and not much less grade 10’s. Teachers go there to do crowd control more than teach.



We open the Qolora Education Centre from 3 to 5pm during the week for the local kids who come around. Some just come because they enjoy being there and have nothing better to do but some enjoy the English and Maths handouts which we’ve been giving them to do lately. I’ve gotten the little ones to read to me in the past, but as of yet, none of the older children have shown any real interest in actually reading a challenging book. At 5 o clock I tutor a couple of students from Tjali high school, 2 walk the 10 km’s 2 or 3 times a week for my English lesson (and computer lessons) which I give them before walking all the way back home again. I’ve asked them what challenges they face at Tjali High School and they tell me that besides sharing desks, some students don’t have textbooks. Also, some students stay after school to hide a chair for themselves to use the next day. Half of the first period is usually wasted by teachers trying to resolve chair ownership issues. I guess some students just have to stand for the lesson due to the shortage of chairs. I believe the one and only maths teacher will be leaving in a month or two and will not be replaced. Abongile also told me of her concerns that when it rains, the long drop toilets get flooded and can’t be used.

Many learners drop out along the way. I can’t imagine why, can you?

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.

PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON, LIVED BY THE SEA

Living in rural Transkei, I’m reminded daily that Africa is a continent so very different to the rest of the world. I’m not referring to the fact that here women carry their groceries, luggage, wares, pots, firewood or a chicken balanced on their head as apposed to young ladies in the Swiss Alps balancing a book called Etiquette For Young Ladies on perfectly practiced poised heads. Nor am I referring to the extensive range of cutlery which the French endeavour to confuse diners with compared to the locals here who have simplified table settings down to a dessert spoon, your fingers and a shared knife. Life has not evolved at the same pace as other continents and I find it pleasing. Unfortunately, poverty and hunger seem to be part of the package which is the reality of many people who make up the population of Africa.

I never go to sleep hungry so perhaps I have a romantic view of life here on the southern tip of Africa where customs and traditions have not given way to the race of technology and its disastrous side effects which breeds greedy corporations indifferent to consequences and don’t give a rats arse about human life.

Now that I’ve got my philosophical opinions off my chest, let me elaborate about the uniqueness of life in Africa, Transkei in particular. I’ve discovered a fascinating myth while digging a bit deeper to discover the reasons why the Xhosa people take their bottles of sea water back home to the city with them over the Christmas holidays. It seems that the sea water is used comparable to what I would call a new year’s resolution. As you wash your face with the sea water and drink some, to flush out your system, (referred to as Spuits) you are washing away any bad omens of the year which has ended and you can start the new year fresh.

The intriguing part is still to come. Even though Xhosa people here in rural Qolora carry cell phones and like to wiggle to the beat of Kwaito music and hiphop, they still believe in and fear the myths of the witches who live at the bottom of the sea and any other deep body of water. These witches are way more powerful than the Loch Nest Monster and more real than mermaids who sunned themselves on rocks and octopi which swallowed whole ships when Bartholomew Diaz crossed unchartered waters. People on other continents fear a red skinned beast with horns, a long tail, armed with a pitchfork and lives in a big fiery cave slap bang in the centre of the earth. The witches, mermaids, underwater nymphs, spirits, sea people, deities, call them what you like, are just as real to the rural Xhosa people and just as frightening.

The story of people living in the sea has been confirmed to me by qualified school teachers and young adults and strangely, mostly practicing Christians. They tell me it’s a myth but in fact some are even afraid to talk about these witches for fear of inviting bad omens. I reassured a 19 year old guy that I understood his concerns and told him that people of my culture who dabbled in evil things like Ouija boards are considered just as foreboding by others and many people don’t like to talk about it or want to have anything to do with it.

Land witches are safe from the sea witches and I believe Sangomas sometimes go down to the beach at night to a specific spot to communicate with them, about what, I still haven’t discovered and quite frankly, I don’t fancy crouching behind a dune in the dead of night to find out what these sea creatures have to say for themselves. Anyway, apparently if you happen to be at the beach at the wrong time, these sea people will appear to you and can call you into the sea. They will lure you into the water and the sea will swallow you up and no one on shore will be able to prevent it from happening or be able to pull you back. A teacher recounted a story of a young girl who was taken by these sea witches a few years ago somewhere in East London. The Sangomas slaughtered a white cow (emphasis on white) which was led down to the same place where she walked into the sea, and they performed the necessary ritual which appeased the sea witches and the girl magically walked out of the ocean again. I’ve confirmed her story with others here in the village. The teacher did not believe the part which was retold that ants came out of the girls mouth or that she spoke in tongues once back on dry land, not believing it to be possible but the fact that she came out the water after having disappeared for days was not something to be scorned at since everyone knew it was true. Apparently these sea witches are most fond of young children so mothers keep their children away from the sea and even adults don’t go down for a swim even on hot days.

I think that by believing in something, you give it the power to make it real, be it good or bad, and so, the witches are given what they seek. Story telling is a way of keeping these myths alive and modern man’s alternative forms of entertainment have not overshadowed the art of keeping these stories and history of the Xhosa nation alive. Not yet anyway, but I wonder how long before these captivating customs and myths are totally buried with grandparents and replaced with the growing alcohol abuse or the desire to mimic the life of a movie star.

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, HOME IS SO REMOTE

 Life in Qolora is back to normal. The holiday makers have all buggerred off again and life has returned to the rhythm that Africa functions on. I only have to share the beach with one or two stragglers who have stretched their hard earned yearly break to a little longer than the rest, before checking out of Trennery’s Hotel and heading back home in their flashy 4 x 4’s, revitalized but minus their bonus from a startlingly high bar tab of too many Mojitos, perhaps a frozen fish in their cooler box and the women all sporting a tan to show off at the office.

The Xhosa people who all came home to see their children and extended families for the Christmas holidays, have also left by the bus loads. Local villagers were excited to receive gifts of food which the Xhosa city dwellers ranging from cleaning ladies, mine workers to successful businessmen brought with them for everyone to feast on. Not as many cows, goats and pigs roam the countryside as some of them complemented the celebrations by being slaughtered in backyards for feasts and to honour ancestors. Well, you don’t really have back yards or front yards here, just inside or outside. Slaughtering, chopping up the carcass and cooking the meat all take place outside while eating and drinking all take place both in and outside. Women gather in kitchens to noisily catch up on news since there’s no party co-ordinating to be done, in fact cutlery doesn’t even feature. Anyway, after returning to their roots and honouring their ancestors, everyone waved their goodbyes till next Christmas, and left with a bottle of seawater to drink back in the city to cleanse out their insides. I wonder why it’s so important to use seawater to make themselves throw up as apposed to a glass of tap water and Cerebos salt. I wonder how long ago this custom started. Could it be a tradition passed down from a clan who understood the properties of water?

Some boys became men over the December holidays and spent time in the hills, hidden from women and being taught the ways of men before losing their foreskins. We were lucky enough to see the beginnings of these initiation ceremonies before we left for Cape Town. Over a few weeks, the older teenage boys gathered in groups and paraded through the village, singing songs of bravery for the soon to be circumcised boys. Their outfits resembled colourful gumboot dancers’ but they also carried their sticks and occasionally they performed displays of traditional stick fighting while the rest noisily chanted and sang in high spirits. Stick fighting is a dying art in the cities but here in rural Qolora they still proudly show off their skills. Two opponents, each armed with two long sticks and both of their blocking arms wrapped up in their shirts, skilfully fight each. Their sticks connect noisily as they hit and block at a fast pace. Apparently faction fighting between initiation groups from different villages has been known to take place but all I ever saw were a lot of excited young men happy to have a reason for partying. I heard a pig being slaughtered at a neighbouring house the day that the elders led a teenage boy into the forest. He was all wrapped up in a white cloak and the entourage of boys were signing much more solemnly in honour of their elders and their custom. The rest of the people at the house had a big fat party and ate the whole pig and drank beer.

Our chicken’s, who a friend was feeding daily while we were in Cape Town, did not end up in anyone’s pot over the holidays and in fact the one hen has grown twice the size of the rooster and is not the dainty lady we left behind. She either fattened herself up to avoid the rooster’s courtship demands or to avoid being eaten by the monitor who has moved into a hole under the container. The chicken feed attracts mice which attract snakes but the rock monitor hopefully will keep the snakes at bay. The two metre long reptile will eat the chicken eggs if given the chance so everyone has a win win situation except us since one chicken egg a day doesn’t quite satisfy Theo’s dietary requirements.

The other day at school, we ate a chicken which tasted really good. Proper meaty chicken which made the stuff you buy in the shops taste like bland, white, artificial meat. The toughness of the meat actually contributed to its tastiness but I struggled to hack off a piece of the bird with a blunt knife which four of us shared. After the chicken we were each given a big plate of samp and beans. As payment for teaching, we get lunch at our new school every day, usually pap and cabbage, so its great but the biggest reward is watching the kids faces light up when they are able to successfully repeat an English sentence.

Meanwhile, my days are getting busier and busier out here in rural Transkei. And here I thought my life in Africa would be laid-back.

WE’RE ALL GOING ON A SUMMER HOLIDAY

Us Wine Tasting with Charlene

Scarecrows at Mooibege Strawberry Farm

At mothers 70th Birthday Spitbraai party

WE’RE ALL GOING ON A SUMMER HOLIDAY

December school holidays rolled around and we decided to treat ourselves to a trip to Cape Town.  Well actually it was supposed to be a profitable breakaway since we planned to sell corn dogs at a 4 day new years music festival and make some money while we were there but plans didn’t worked out accordingly.  Before leaving, we spent 2 days pushing the wheelbarrow back and forth, emptying the cupboards in the truck to make space for more things to bring back. 

Our holiday in Cape Town was great although traffic was a bit overwhelming and I avoided those dreaded shopping centres as much as I could.  Indoor taps spurting instant hot water, glossy tiles, hallway mirrors, shiny draining boards, wardrobes and an indoor oven were a real treat.  My mother turned 70 and she celebrated the day with a wonderful spitbraai for friends and family.  4 Days later we stuffed ourselves again on Christmas day but sadly I was only able to wish Kyro and his new family in Japan via a computer screen. Rock the River music festival  turned out a complete disaster (opposite to the previous year) as traders were once again told to cater for an expected 8 000 people but only about 2 or 3 000 people turned up.  The wind howled at gale force speed the whole time and we went home with less money than we started off with and a shitload of left over Russians and Cheese Grillers which we would have to take back.

During the six weeks in Cape Town, my mothers’ friends and family dropped off bags and bags of children’s books, toys and clothes, some even from as far as Ireland which Charlene brought over.  Everything needed to be squeezed onto the truck together with our bed (the only remaining thing we owned besides our truck) which we’d stored in my mother’s garage.  We planned to ransack my mother’s garage and relieve her from any possible building material to build ourselves a new house once we returned to Transkei.  The kitchen zink got wedged next to our motorbike which stood in front of the fully loaded freezer with a donated bicycle strapped on top.  Our bed went on top of the truck in typical Transkei style and the weetbix wooden boards and boxes of left over tiles got slotted in between the caravan and the side railings.  The outside cupboards on the truck were rammed full of donated clothes, school bags, knitting needles, beads and pencils while the inside cupboards were bulging with bottles and bottles of tomato sauce, mustard and peri naise left over from the festival.  More boxes of lego blocks, teddy bears and suitcases of second hand clothes were wedged in between gallons and gallons of cooking oil, a kerm board and a broken gazebo (but still usable for a chicken run or something).  The laptops balanced on the porta potty, while the floor was stacked with crates of flour and maize meal, a couple of seedlings for our veggie garden, a toddlers scooter and a big bag of bras donated by someone who was clearly size 46 double D.  2 Bunches of bokkoms dangled above the bed disguising the ever present smell of Russian sausages.  Every time I opened the fridge the dam things were there, squeezed into every possible crevice, reminding me that we would need to eat our way through 80 kg of the stuff over the next few months.  I have an idea I’m gonna start drooling for tripe. 

The four day trip back was a tight squeeze and every time we stopped, we attracted every dog on the block and by the time we arrived back in Transkei I was already getting a bit tired of eating cold sausages since Theo couldn’t reach the stove to try and disguise the taste.

I watched the vegetation change from farmlands to fynbos to thorn trees and finally grassland.  Eventually we arrived home and I hung out the window, waving with both hands as we neared our village and passed people on the road. 

We were home.  Now all we had to do was unload the truck and bit by bit push the wheelbarrow the 50 m to our hut through lush swampy grass which had flourished in the torrential downpours of summer rainfall.  Before donning my gumboots I needed to get rid of the spiders and their webs which made our hut look like something from the movie set of Cocoon and sweep out the layers of mouldy dust, mouse droppings and sand mounds left by whatever other insects had moved in while we were away.  Theo’s job was easy - more Russians.

Ahaa, home sweet home.

Sometimes I can’t see the forest for the trees

Sometimes I can’t see the forest for the trees

I’ve been feeling a bit dissolutioned lately but on reflection, maybe it’s me who’s loosing the plot again. It’s easy to fall into the trap. The pathetic schooling system really fails the children here and it’s driving me insane trying to work with a system that is non existent. Besides the fact that school only takes place Monday to Thursday mornings; afternoons are a bit wishy washy since it depends on which teachers aren’t in a meeting. Some afternoons the teachers who are at school, leave work on the blackboard for the students to do on their own but usually the students just amuse themselves. Friday’s the teachers go home from 10am and the learners clean the classrooms.  When it rains, many learners can’t get to school as the river flows stronger than normal but they don’t miss much.  Lessons are taught in Xhosa by teachers who don’t have a clue about dedication and the principal is about as much of a token trophy as we are.  The kids have no discipline but mind you they are pretty good at making coffee for the teachers.

Last week we attended a big party at school.  The grade R’s graduation and the grade 9’s farewell.  The parents/ grandmothers and the elders were there to proudly cheer the 6 year old’s dressed in hired white dresses and suits and cloaked in their graduation gowns.  The grade 9’s looked like matrics in their fancy suits and shiny dresses all dressed to the nines.  The school spent a fortune to feed everyone who attended and there were no lessons for the whole week what with students having their hair done, others cleaning classrooms and teachers off shopping for groceries for the occasion.    

Last month at the school sports day, another huge chunk of school cash was spent on meat and booze to feed the teachers.  The students were given their usual samp and beams although the guest soccer team were treated to hunks of bread and a slice of polony.  The teachers took loads of left over meat home and we were given our share as well.  The guest school went home with a few bottles of Johnny Walker red label and I went home with a lump in my throat.  

So.  What am I missing here?  The whole forest actually. The above are all the reasons why education in Transkei sucks but I’m not a politician and I didn’t come here to change the course of education in Transkei.  I’m just somebody living in a rural village, helping at the school and our library while learning about the Xhosa nations’ lifestyle.    

Actually, I enjoyed spending the day at the functions with the other teachers in the kitchen chopping vegetables.  I got to know them a little better. I was intrigued by their practical method of cooking 2 huge bags of butternut.  Peeling all the butternut took some time but no one complained and they sang songs and did the occasional dance when it got boring.  Cooking seemed to be part of the party.  Then they put all the peeled butternut slices back into the big orange bags which they came in and tied the bags up again.  They boiled the bagged butternuts in a huge black pot for an hour or 2 on the fire.  Then they took the bags out and hung it on the fence for all the water to drain off for a half an hour or so - somewhere out of reach of passing livestock.  A nifty way to handle bulk portions of food.  I took my own chopping board in since I haven’t mastered chopping carrots and vegetables into miniscule blocks in the air above a bowl.    

They boiled a pig in a huge black pot on the fire.  Everything got cut into massive blocks, chops, hocks, the whole damn thing.  No water was added at all and the meat just cooked in its own juices with some spices.  It was quite tasty. Another huge pot was filled with hunks of seasoned beef steaks, stewing meat and sirloin all stirred into one pot and also cooked only in its own juices on the fire.  It was just as tasty. 

Luckily we are not fussy eaters and have sometimes been invited to join the teachers over lunchtime when they eat boiled pigs heads and such like.  I ended up with a piece of ear once which was a bit too cartilagy for me so I kinda sucked on it and nibbled on it until a respectable amount of  time had passed and I could politely put it down on a plate. The way to eat meat, fat or afval is to pass a knife around and cut chunks off which you eat with your hands.  This is the Xhosa way which we are becoming comfortable with.  In the beginning I tried acting casual and took my piece of stomach or whatever it was handed to me and bit into it as you would a chop.  I felt a bit like a Neanderthal gnawing and yanking on my kill until someone passed me a knife while the teachers all continued jabbering loudly around me. 

I’m learning that when Xhosa people get together for a party it makes white people’s parties look like a stuck up affair.  The graduation was much more of an interactive event and the mammas got quite carried away with spontaneous singing as they hailed the next speaker. Some ululating to show appreciation of a child’s performance was quite in order.    

Next month we have been invited to an initiation and I can’t wait.  I think Theo is a bit worried about the fact that he will be the only male there over the age of 25 with a foreskin but I don’t think they will be doing a spot check. 

I’ve decided it’s more fun enjoying the ride through the forest than worrying whether someone checked the brakes.