O Tannenbaum and Christmas Lobster

I’ve often been asked about Christmas in South Africa. The ambiance is strikingly similar to that in Seattle, or other parts of the United States. We share many of the same decoration, Christmas songs and icons.

Christmas trees are as popular here as they are there, although it often requires some typical South African creativity and ingenuity. I’ve seen Christmas trees of feathers, metal and beads and a variety of other forms. I picked up a lovely Christmas tree that makes me giggle each time I see it. It isn’t the typical Douglass or Noble fir to which I have grown accustom, but it is lovely none the less!

As I drive through town I smile at the lighted Christmas decorations surrounding the city. Images of Santa Clause, bells and snowmen make me giggle a little to myself about the similarities of Christmas icons around the world. Particularly the snowmen and snowflakes make me laugh, and it reminds me what a small world it is. It also reminds me how much of Western culture -much, if not all, of it originating from the northern hemisphere- has infiltrated other parts of the world.

As I drive through town, I admire the other decorations. There are Christmas candles, gingerbread men, reindeer and…. Lobster, whales and kites? I guess Christmas icons can take many forms.

Tiba: happy endings

As I make the final preparations to leave, a car drives up. It is fairly early in the morning and most people are not up yet. I walk over to the gentleman who exited the car and greet him. He asks for the owners of the homestead. I take him to the main house and leave to allow their conversation. As I pack up my car, several gentlemen enter the home where I am staying. They are carrying something… something familiar.

One of the men unzip the red carrying case and ask if the contents are mine. It is my laptop. I am totally stunned. I reluctantly reach to touch it, afraid that physical contact my make it disappear once again. I open it and start it up to see if my contents are there. I immediately go to the file where I store all the documents for my research project. Everything is there. I check again, afraid to believe what I see. I can’t believe it.

Apparently what had happened is that the perpetrator had put the laptop and a variety of other stolen goods in an empty house on the homestead. It is likely that his fear about being caught with stolen goods was greater than his use for my laptop. There was nobody he could sell it to in his community, and he likely didn’t have the connections to sell it in town. Besides, it was more than likely that members of the community would find it at some point or another. I guess vigilantism still works in some parts of the world, and that makes me smile.

Stunned, exhausted and delighted I finish packing my car and head back home to Cape Town, re-enacting the events of the last few days.

Tiba: african food

The meals over the last several days have included delicious sampling of rice with gravy, mashed butternut squash, fried cabbage, meat, fried potatoes and a variety of other dishes. It also included Umnqusho (samp and beans in English), a very traditional meal of dried maize and beans cooked over several hours to create a thick soup. Often sour milk is served in the morning, which is pap (fine maize mealy meal) with soured milk poured over the top. To me it tastes a bit like gritty cottage cheese.

But meat is definitely the focal point of all meals. I’ve been strictly informed that a meal without meat is no meal at all. Chicken has been served with each meal cooked, but the several slaughtered goats, in addition to the large cow leg hanging in the sleeping room when I arrived, provided the bulk of the meal. While it is delicious, it is very heavy and not the type of food my digestive system can handle three times a day.

Eating is the pinnacle of hospitality in African culture, so it is difficult, it possible to decline a meal. Meals are always dished and served, and it isn’t appropriate for me to request to withhold the meat. Not to mention that the fact that meat is exalted in African culture, therefore declining meat would potentially cause significant suspect. Also, since I’ve eaten there so many times in the past, it is probably that it would be particularly offensive to decline.
I’m not sure if the pattern is showing, but it really equates to enourmous amounts of food which is often fried and very heavy. My poor digestive system doesn’t stand a chance. Although the case regarding my laptop is still open, I decide I must get back to Cape Town. My digestive system in full arrest, I dream of green salad. I prepare that afternoon to leave the following morning.

Tiba: mmmmm... goat liver

The evening was quickly approaching. The storm had once again come and gone; the cabbage was cut and cooked. I mill around chatting with people. At some point, I was told to go into the rondeval. I assumed there was some sort of ritual that was going to happen, because that is usually the only reason that one enters the traditional structure. The rondeval is large and round, probably several hundred square feet. There are no windows. The only opening is the doorway, which is only a mere cut-out in the wall. There is no door. It is one large room with nothing in it except a few tattered chairs, scattered around the perimeter, two large metal bowls in the center and… you guessed it, next to it a full bottle of brandy.

I see that all the women are sitting to my left, the men to my right. There are probably twenty-five or thirty people in the room. I walk across the rondeval to the end and sit with the women. Some brought reed mats to sit on. Everybody is sitting on the floor. When everybody is inside, the older gentlemen share the stage. The men speak eloquently, seemingly building on each other’s statements. The wedding attendees at this point provide a report about the events of the ceremony. They explain that we were well received by the groom’s family and that the ceremony went well. Some thank the immediate family for allowing their attendance and involving the community in the event.

Earlier, a goat was slaughtered. Apparently the goat, and that brandy, was a gift from the groom’s family. This is a customary, although not obligatory, gift indicating a positive relationship between the bride and groom’s families. It also signifies that the wedding event went well and that those form the bride’s family represented the family well. This part of the wedding process is important because the bride’s parents are not allowed at any part of the ceremony.

After a half hour or so shots of brandy are offered to everybody. Then the bowls are passed around. One is for the men. One is for the women. The bowls are filled with the liver of the goat that was just slaughtered. When I receive the bowl, I look up at the elderly woman questioningly. I ask which one is a good piece. I’m not sure exactly why, but I do. She fingers the hot organ bits and pulls out two pieces and hands them to me with a smile. I take a bite. Delicious! …But maybe it was just the brandy talking.

Tiba: cooking duty

The men slaughtered the goat and cooked the liver for the ritual. Now it was time to prepare the rest of the meat. According to custom, for this ritual the men ask the women who they would like to prepare the meal. In this case, as is often (apparently), the women asked the men to do the cooking, and they obliged.

The only reason I know this is because I have complained about constantly seeing the women hurriedly cooking these massive meals for thirty, forty, or more, people while the men, from my perspective, sit around in the shade practicing some ritual over bottle after bottle of brandy. While I have the deepest respect for the rich cultural practices, I have to say that it often appears to me like the men are having a big party while the women work their tails off! I’ve brought up this concern on several occasions. And my frustration came out a couple times already.

This time, the men take and prepare the meat. They stand over the large pots over the open fire and cook each and every part of the goat. In the meanwhile, the women sit together and chat. All afternoon we drink tea and enjoy being served by the men once the meat is prepared. When the ground dries up we all head outside, some choosing to sit in the hot African sun and others the shade. I enjoy the female camaraderie. …My feminist side feeling somewhat vindicated.

Ode to Sour Cream

One of the most challenging day to day activities is shopping. I, for the life of me, can not find a logical pattern to where items are located in the store. Often there will be cheeses in three different areas of the store, for example. The SAME types of cheeses in different areas. And the stores are all layed out very differently. It takes me an eternity to find something. And sometimes a store will carry something in stock, and sometimes it doesn’t. NOBODY in the store knows why or when the item may arrive again. They either have it or my dinner plans must be changed.

The other frustration I have is that specialized products are difficult to find. There are no “one-stop” shopping marts. An electronic store may have televisions and car alarms, but won’t carry car stereo’s. And googling an item in hopes that a shop that sells it will pop up isn’t effective. This is the advantage of the fervour American business have to find your wallet, at least they can be easily found when necessary! Here, you need to know somebody who knows a shop that carries the item. Or embark on an endless search through a random neighbourhood in hopes that somewhere nearby a shop has what you need.

For example, after an exhaustive search for over four months, I finally found the cool and creamy, delicious and delectable sour cream. Up to date I’ve tried sour milk, sour cream, full cream, French cream in various brands. But to no avail. It only resulted in pouring chunky, outdated milk onto my pasta (Sour [spoiled] milk is a Xhosa delicacy and sold in stores; it is actually one of Nelson Mandela’s favourite foods). I dumped the equivalent of whole milk on my baked potato. And I’ve added sweet cream to my burrito. I had virtually given up, until I went to a grocery store nearby that I rarely go to. There is was: ‘cultured’ sour cream. Apparently the others just weren’t sophisticated or well-travelled enough.

Tiba: african vigilantism

I am exhausted when I get back to Rabula. All I want to do is sleep and let the rest seep into my bones to help me make sense of all that has happened in the past 24 hours. I quickly check in with those I’m staying with to let them know I am back safely. I can see the anger and determination in the eyes of my friends. I am told that another house was also robbed and that a couple of community meetings had already been held in attempt to address the situation.

There are a couple of suspects. It is understood that the person or persons responsible had to be from the village, that is the only way one would know that the homes would be vacant. In addition, somebody from another village just doesn’t have means to travel this far. The whole community was infuriated. While I was getting the police involved, there was a dramatic community response to the events that occurred. I’m touched, and a little unnerved, with the active intervention. I gently probe into this whole African vigilante justice thing.

I guess it comes with rural living where everybody knows everybody else, even across fairly wide geography. One’s reputation and status in the community is the most important asset available to one. In addition, the African family is by no means the nuclear family of the United States. The sense of family, and family responsibilities, extends both to those who share community space as well as those who share ancestral genealogy. An offense to one in the community is considered a violation to the community itself.

Justice is exposing the wrong-doer and subjecting him or her to a diminished reputation…and probably a bit of whipping as well. All of this makes my head spin and I insist on going to bed to try to reconcile all that has happened. My head dreamily hits the pillow and I am out like a light for the rest of the night.

Tiba: you strike a woman, you strike a rock

I’m awoken early but a rapping at the door. It is early and sleep pokes at my eyes as I squint through my glasses. At the door I find the woman of the house, who is standing doggedly in the doorway, unaffected by the driving rain outside. She says I must take her to this boy’s house so she can search his room for the stolen items. Apparently one of the women in the village had mentioned she thought it could be her son who was the thief. She wanted to know, now. I stare incredulously, but catch myself doing so and soften my face. This woman cooks and cleans for twenty hours a day it seems and I’ve never seen her be anything but docile and gracious. I can tell she means business.

I smile and reluctantly nod, but I feel a bit uncomfortable with this whole thing. I take my time getting ready. I still have the plastic tub and electric tea kettle in my room so I take it to the living area, where there is electricity to warm the water in the kettle, to make myself a bath. My mind whirs about the whole situation. I must have taken quite some time. By the time I go to her house on the homestead, I am told she left. “She what!?” I ask. By now, outside is a torrential downpour and the dirt roads look like filling streams of dirty water. I know that I am the only person with a car, so she must have walked. I offer my phone and ask that somebody call her to tell her that I am on my way to get her now.

I find her a mile or so down the road. I sheepishly apologize for my delay and wait to hear her response. She tells me that the police had already picked the boy up by the time she got there. She is unaware if any stolen items were recovered. Although, I did get my hopes up a bit that perhaps by some small chance she would find my laptop I am also a bit glad she didn’t catch the culprit. I would pity the person who crosses her.

Tiba: fire hazard

In light of the situation and the pending police investigation, I stay in Rabula another couple days. This morning’s rain storm led way to a beautiful sunny afternoon. By noon I was called and told that the conclusion of the wedding ceremony is at the bride’s parents’ home and I am to go there to help. I’m already tired from this morning’s episode, but I don’t want to offend anybody. Besides, I could use something to get my mind off the fact that months of my research is now lost. Dizzy from the events of the first couple days, it didn’t even phase me that there is MORE to this whole wedding thing. I walk up to path to return to the place where I washed the pots just a couple days earlier.

At first I was instructed to help the women I know best, who were preparing meals in large cast iron pots over an open fire. But after serious deliberation amongst the mamas, I am told that I must stay inside the house and cut cabbage. Unsure of the reason behind this change, I say “ndicela, ndifuna ukungaphandla” (please, I want to go outside [to help]). In my mind, for whatever reason, it felt like a bit of a demotion. And I wasn’t pleased with the decision to isolate me from the women of the village that I know the best.

I approach one of the mama’s (again, this is a respectful term for anybody older than I and married) in the house. I explain that I want to be helpful and ask why my task was being changed from helping to cook to cutting cabbage. She smiled warmly and motioned to another to help explain in English the reasoning behind the change. She told me that they were afraid my hair would catch fire and that my skin would turn dark from the smoke. I laughed out loud, but immediately correct my laughter when I see the seriousness in her face. “For real?!” I think to myself all the campfires I’ve been around my whole life. And then I think of the attention the texture of my hair often receives. It is different; and unfamiliar to the women in the village.

Determined not be excluded because of my ‘white’ hair and skin, I suggest that I put my hair in a ponytail. I demonstrate by pulling my hair back with my hands for effect. Now, they laugh as if I just pulled a really good party trick. A little deflated, I look outside and noticed that the weather was again taking a quick turn for the worse. What was a humid, sunny afternoon was now threatened by dark clouds accompanied by the roar of thunder from far away over the Transkei. It became obvious to me at that moment that another storm was imminent. I decide not to argue. I smile at the women and begin cutting cabbage.

I felt appreciative but also slightly disheartened. Once again I was treated differently because of my racial makeup. I understood the decision derived from their concern for my safety, but still I felt unsettled. Upon a second reflection, I became sad and resentful that I took advantage of that privileged position to avoid sitting outside in the cold and rain with the women I knew best. Not that I could have done anything otherwise, but the revelation was depressing. I spiritlessly cut cabbage as I contemplate my whiteness as a fire hazard.

Tiba: good morning brandy

I wake up at about 6:00am. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and study my environment to be sure I have a grasp on what is going on. One friend that I came with is asleep in the back seat. His wife is gone, I’m certain she is preparing breakfast for the whole lot. I don’t see anybody else I know. I get out, stretch and see the sun is just peaking over the mountain. Trickles of hot sun pour through gaps in the mountain caps onto the rolling African fields. The sight is beautiful and makes me smile.

I dizzily mill around until I find somebody that I know. I was told then that I missed the best part of the wedding. I’m thinking “when exactly did this occur?”. I had heard about this part of the wedding. There is an on-going friendly rivalry between the bride’s side and groom’s side. Often before the wedding ceremony takes place there are a variety competitions. One competition is based on traditional dancing. I was told it was a great showing, but the bride’s side lost. I guess I’ll catch the next one.

Just then, I feel a tug. I look over my shoulder and am told to go immediately to the rondeval up the hill. “Are you sure?” I probe suspiciously. This news is suspect because last night I was told that I was strictly allowed only in certain areas; areas designated specifically for the bride’s family. And there was a rumour, which was later confirmed, that one of the bride’s guests wandered out of bounds and was caught. He was taken by the groom’s family- an embarrassment for the bride- only to have the elders from the bride’s family negotiate “bail” for his release. “I’m not falling for this one”, I think. I gaze into his eyes ensuring his honesty. My gut tells me it is now al right to do so, however I’m not sure why. I walk up the steep dirt road squinting as I face the sun now fully peaked over the mountains.

Outside the rondeval I am directed to be quiet and to go inside and sit on the right. I walk in and the room is full. Mostly full of ‘younger’ people (under 50 years or so). Some of the occupants are wearing traditional dance wear and I assume most didn’t get the luxury of the three hour nap that I had. But the people were vibrant and intent as they watched one after another stand up and vehemently argue... well, something that seemed very relevant and profound. I realized shortly afterward that I was instructed to sit on the right because the right side was the bride’s side and competition of oratory mastery was taking place. The Xhosa was too deep for me to understand much of it, but I could tell by the body language and intonation of the orator as well as the body language of the audience that our side was doing well.

Upon conclusion, a gentleman from the right side of the room greeted somebody from the left side of the room. They spoke briefly then the first gentleman seized the unopened bottle of brandy that had been lying in the center of the rondeval. Again, he spoke some words. Then he took a tot. Tots were then passed around and offered to everybody on the right side, the winning side. When everybody who chose to had their fill, the bottle was then given to those on the other side of the room. Afterwards, we leave to our separate compounds to prepare for the ceremony.

Tiba: the ceremony

I avoid breakfast by retreating to my car. I find my toiletry bag, grab my toothbrush and toothpaste and a bottle of water. I feel much better and, remarkably, full of energy for the day. After washing my face and reapplying my make-up I head out again to try to get the scoop on what is going down today. Nobody seems to know exactly. I keep being told things like “you’ll know when the time comes”. I have no idea what that means. We wait most of the morning. Finally, I’m told to change into my dress. I pop into a room and change quickly.

Then we all walk to the ceremony, which is being held in a large yellow tent. The funny thing is that until that very moment when the ceremony started, I didn’t even consider the fact that the whole ceremony would be in Xhosa. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I was looking forward to hearing what is said during the wedding ceremony. I thought it would provide priceless insight into the value and perception of marriage and representation of family and community in Xhosa culture. And, I’m pretty sure it would have… had I been able to understand it! Sure, I picked up words here and there. And the nice gentleman next to me explained a couple things that he thought may be important, or at least amusing, to me. But the nuances I was hoping to pick up certainly were not there. Funny how, even in the most foreign of contexts, I still automatically assumed my language as the default mode of communication.

After about two and a half hours, my zeal for this cultural experience has considerably waned. The weather is terrible and the pounding rain on the tent makes it nearly impossible for me to make out any Xhosa words. A large stream of water has collected at my feet. I tuck my dress under my thighs and extend my legs so that my shoes don’t get wet. I’m tired, cold and wet. My body contorted as to avoid as much of the dripping and draining rain as possible. By this time, I’ve looked several times for people I know. They are nowhere to be seen. At first, I think maybe they are just in the back. Finally I realized that they probably ditched this gig an hour ago. I spot an escape route and make a break for it while everybody is standing and singing a song.

I find the bulk people I know sitting cosily in a warm car… drinking what is left of the brandy. Anxious for warmth, I join them.

Tiba: arrival back in Rabula

I decide to leave early. By this time, the ceremony had been droning on for over four hours. My dress of heavy cotton is heavy from the rain and I am freezing. Besides, there is a long, steep hill on the dirt road and I don’t totally trust that I’ll be able to make it up in my little Opel after too much longer. After a brief consultation with those I came to the wedding with, I hop in the car with three different passengers than those that I came with. I engage in the obligatory salutations and head off.

I drop the one passenger off, the other two are going to the homestead where I stay. I warily go into the house, happy to finally be somewhere familiar. There is no heater in my room, but I smile at the thought of cuddling in my warm blankets tonight. There isn’t much daylight left, and my room doesn’t have a light, so I decide to organize my things for the evening. As I look around, I get an odd feeling. I look under that mattress where I put my lap top. It is gone. My purse had been gone through. Some clothes were also missing. I go next door to the main house, where I had just dropped off one of the teenage children. They, too, had been broken in to.

All in all, besides my laptop, my belt, T-shirt and a little cooler box was taken from my room. In the main house, a large kettle, dishes, meat from the freezer and milk were gone. We were flabbergasted. The whole village knew we all would be gone, but this sort of thing just doesn’t happen here. Besides, this is the homestead of not just anybody, but the chief of the village.

I am beside myself. The reason I brought it in the first place is because I needed to keep working on writing my research report. I often email myself drafts, but I wonder when the last time I did that was? How much will I have to recreate? All of my notes of typed up on my computer. I’d have to re-read all the books in order to get that information again. I am devastated, but try to keep a strong face. There is nothing I can do about it at this point.

Now I am thankful for the tour of QoboQobo and of the local police station. I head there immediately to make a report.

Tiba: friday's test

It’s Friday and I just arrived yesterday afternoon. Today I sit and try to engage in conversation with the women, while the men are off doing… well, ‘man’ things, I guess. I offer my help, and they accept. They ask me to wash the large cast iron pots. They are huge and heavy round pots with three short legs and are placed directly over hot coals for cooking. I happily oblige, in part because I like being helpful and staying busy means potentially avoiding awkward conversations or being directed to do tasks I have no idea how to do. Washing pots, even ones as awkward as these, I think I can do.

I am instructed what to do in English, Xhosa and through a lot of body gestures. I am told that water boiling in a similar pot on the fire is to be used to clean it. I am shown the cloth and soap and then pointed in the direction of where the washing occurs. I pour my pot about half full of the boiling water, look up towards a mama (which is how married women of their stature are always referred to) with raised eyebrows as if asking “is this the correct amount?”. She nods approvingly. I carefully carry to pot about ten yards away, where I was shown the washing occurs, and begin to wash. I happily clean pots until I run out of water.

When that happens, I am told to go to the pump and fetch a bucket. The pump is about three hundred feet away. I grab a bucket. A nice woman who is at least sixty says she’ll accompany me. She is a married woman and therefore wearing the tuc wrapped tightly around her head and a sash around her waist and over a brightly coloured skirt and blouse. We take a five gallon bucket and head to the pump.

Upon my return, one of my male friends wistfully walks around the corner to check in on me. He’s carrying a beer and a large smile. I am carrying a five gallon bucket of water and a head full of perspiration. After a deep glare at my friend I announce rhetorically to the women “it must be nice to be a man!”. As I am speaking, I know that my outburst will not be well received, but I really don’t care. Seriously, from my standpoint the men get to booze all day while the women toil all day cooking and cleaning. I was not pleased, and didn’t even look for the response of the mama’s at my inappropriate outburst.

However, later, I find out the expression that I interpreted as a smile, was actually a look of confusion. Apparently it is outside custom for women to fetch water during these ceremonial meals. The boys are instructed to stay nearby in effort to assist with those types of tasks. What I interpreted as a smile was actually an assessment a scene that was foreign to him. He later told me that he suspects I was asked to do the task just to test me. I just hope I passed that test.

Tiba: the negotiation

I am with the bride’s side of the family, which, I learned, has considerable more implications than just what side to sit on during the ceremony. I also learned that the days’ events weren’t just merrymaking. That the meals cooked in the large pots I had cleaned were for special occasions. Today, the day before the wedding, was a very special day.

Those of us already at the bride’s homestead wait and wait all day. Then it became dark. And we still wait. I begin to wonder if this thing is really going to happen. Finally, two large vans carrying at least twenty people arrive, followed by several cars full of people. The two vans and a couple trucks are pulling empty trailers. It is about nine o’clock at night. It is pitch black.

People busily begin to load objects onto the trailer and hurriedly make the final preparations to leave. After a couple of hours, the trailers are loaded and I am instructed to get in my car and follow the procession that is beginning to pour down the dirt road. The procession is heading to a nearby town, about twenty five miles away. We are all travelling to the groom’s homestead.

There must be over twenty five cars and trucks in total, so to keeping everybody together requires the occasional stop to regroup. Each time the caravan stops, people rush out of the car and sing and dance wedding songs unique to the family. The jubilation was extraordinary. As additional cars caught up, more people would pour out and join the singing and dancing on the side of the two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere. Then, as abruptly as we had stopped, the first car would thrust forward and people hurriedly ran back to the vehicles from which they came. And off we went again. The drive takes over an hour.

Upon arrival, we wait outside the gate to the groom’s family homestead. I am puzzled and ask those in my car what is going on. By this time we’ve been waiting over fifteen minutes, and I’m getting tired from the anticipation. I am told that there is a negotiation that must take place between the bride’s family and the groom’s family. I say, only half sarcastically, “But the families are all aware there is a wedding tomorrow, right?”. I am told that this is a part of the process of the family members showing off their negotiation prowess. The ability to negotiate and articulate and argument well is culturally very highly regarded.

The groom’s family must be convinced to allow the bride and her posse onto their property. Of course, my snide response is that if I was the bride I would handle it within minutes, which apparently is exactly the wrong thing to do. The bride herself can not reveal herself because once the bride is found then the groom can turn away all of the bride’s family. After all, the groom only needs a bride. The rest of us are superfluous. Frustrated and confused I sit in my car and wait some more, careful not to say anything so naïve again.

Finally, at about midnight, we are allowed in to the compound. Now the fun begins…

Tiba: wedding's eve

Upon arrival at the groom’s homestead we are ushered out of our vehicles. Men head one direction and women and children are pointed to another. I hear the men singing and chanting in the distance. I walk into a room about 400 or 500 square feet, rectangle with cement walls. In the far corner as sheet hangs to conceal a small mattress. A large cow leg, fully skinned, hangs next to the sheets. A small pile or cushions and reed mats lay on the floor.

The mama’s quickly move to the back and lay claim on the best cushions. I try to sneak out but am pulled back one of the women and instructed to sit and take one of the better cushions. I smile and do as I am told. After most are settled in, I note that there are two benches sitting adjacent to one another in the corner. Sitting on them are older men. The men take turns standing and talking. First a men from the one bench, then a man from the other. Later, I learned that each bench held senior members from the bride and groom’s side, respectively. I sit and stare at the enormous chunk of raw meat and bone hanging on the wall.

We are probably about thirty or forty people jammed into this little room. We are served bread, then tea. People chat and laugh. For the most part, people are very nice to me. Many try to engage me in conversation, and we have varying degrees of success. I still hear the singing outside and long to be in the cool fresh air surrounded by song rather than squished in this room with old women and children and a piece of cow. I try to scope out a path to make a break for it, but the room is thick with people and everywhere I look there is a body. Just as I tell one of the mama’s I am closest to that I would like to leave for some fresh air, the men come in and people turn their attention to the front of the room.

They are carrying something… well, fluffy. Ooops, make that WAS fluffy. They carefully roll out the fully skinned carcass of a sheep. It is wrapped like a baby in its former woollen outer covering. The men display it on the ground on the grounded room. Certain organs are carefully separated and placed into metal bowls beside the carcass. Some of the men remove the cow leg from the wall and exit the room. Everybody sits down, making the small room even cozier.

The older men on the bench begin to speak again. Small children who giggled in the corner are hushed. I stare wide-eyed at the hunk of cow leg, still hanging on the wall, then at the disembowelled sheep lying on the floor in front of me. The men talk, first one, then another. Then brandy is passed to everybody who chooses to partake. I chose to partake. After a couple hours of talking, eating, and drinking some of the people are starting to sleep. It is obvious now that this is the area where everybody is to spend the evening before the wedding. Now, I can understand why claiming a good spot is so important. I use it as a chance to slip away.

I walk outside and appreciate the fresh cool air. I find the men in a rondeval next to the large sleeping room. The room is filled with smoke. They are braaing meet on the coals as well as in large cast iron pots, like the ones I cleaned earlier in the day. I chat with them a bit. I ask what they are cooking and they say cow. “Oh, that’s where it went!” They offer me a bite, and I start to decline, but change my mind and graciously accept the offer. It is actually delicious. Later, I stand outside amused at myself for being in Africa eating cow leg off the wall of a room where the bride and her family sleep the day before she weds. It's late and it all feels very surreal. Finally at about 3:30am I walk to my car and hop in for a quick nap before the wedding day begins.

Tiba

Many of you know that I was invited to a traditional African wedding in rural Eastern Cape a couple of weeks ago. Over the next few weeks I will post stories about my experiences at that wedding. I will post them in consecutive order (roughly anyway) so that you can follow them as I may also post other blogs during the same time that are unrelated.

I need to say, that writing these stories have been particularly challenging. One of my greatest challenges is finding the most accurate and appropriate vocabulary to describe the experience. What I personally find is that so many terms still hold often antiquated and even inaccurate meanings, therefore the appropriate vocabulary often evokes meaning that is relevant or even incorrect. I continually struggle to reconstruct the meaning of words to better reflect my experiential reality.

As an example, when I think about the word ‘village’ I immediately have the image of a series of rondeval houses that form a circular pattern around an area that typically contains the sheep or cattle when they are not grazing. I often imagine a village in the rolling and barren hills or desert surrounded by nothing else for miles and miles. I STILL hold that image, even though I have visited several places that identify themselves as a ‘village’. I know through experience that places around the world that identify themselves as a ‘village’ are varied in many ways.

I have attempted to use the best and most descriptive vocabulary I can muster, but so many times it feels like it falls short of truly describing the complexity and nuanced experiences I had during my several days attending the wedding. I will try to include pictures as often as possible to assist, but I feel it only fair to acknowledge my own biases as a human and shortcomings as a writer before I start posting.

That said, the title of the series of stories is called Tiba. Tiba was chosen because it is the clan name of the bride’s family.

Tiba: the decision

I was recently offered the opportunity to go to a traditional Xhosa wedding in rural Eastern Cape. I was initially delighted, not only about the potential experience but also just to have received the invitation. But as I thought about it, many concerns arose. I’ve been out there enough times to know how it goes; it isn’t an easy excursion.

For one thing, I rarely understand what is going on, both because of the language barrier as well as the very unfamiliar cultural context. I never what is happening minute to minute. This, is extremely frustrating, particularly when I am driving around and expect to go one place, the store for example, and end up running errands for a dozen people along the way. It, in all honesty, is a fair request of me. The store is probably four or five kilometres away from most places and it is straight up hill. Getting a loaf of bread doesn’t have near the same ease as it did when I was in Seattle, or even Cape Town.

I am often in positions where I need to engage in conversation with people I don’t know. I clumsily muddle through Xhosa and am embarrassed by my ineptitude. Either I am able to fumble through a brief conversation or the person unwittingly gives up and begins speaking English or Afrikaans. Either way I am ashamed to pressure this individual to speak a second, third or fifth language in their own village. It even gets more complicated when one tries to speak Afrikaans and they don’t understand why I don’t know it because it is commonly believed that all white people in South Africa speak Afrikaans.

It’s also a challenge because of the food. The food is delicious, but a battle for my defective digestive system. It is rude to decline food, and any host must offer food upon arrival and at every mealtime thereafter. At this point, I can’t say I don’t eat meat because I have eaten meat with them many times before. But even the accompaniments are very heavy and it is a real struggle not to feel very ill after only a day or two. I’m just not used to eating so much heavy foods and so often.

Then there is the gender thing. I continue to experience great conflict between being a feminist and having great deal of respect and admiration for the enduring strength of African culture. The women I have seen in the rural areas work very hard. It appears to me that they are cooking or cleaning the whole day. The men, however, go off with a bottle of brandy only to return with an empty bottle of brandy. The appearance of such a significant gender imbalance of power and responsibility bothers me.

Furthermore, because I am a woman, I am most often expected to stay with the women. This is fine, except that the people that I am most comfortable with are guys. To complicate the situation, women typically know less English so the communication barrier is even more difficult. So I am often with people I don’t know as well, asked to do tasks I’ve never done before in a tongue I barely understand. It is a real struggle.

But the intrigue of attending such an event conquers all my concerns, and I decide to go. All I know is the process takes several days, that it will include spending at least one evening at the groom’s homestead and the copious amounts of brandy and meat will be a part of the process. The next several blogs will describe this experience….

Tiba: shopping

I arrive late on Thursday evening. I know the wedding ceremonies begin Friday and I wanted to have a good night’s sleep. Friday morning I wake and realize I need to go to the store for water and grab a couple vegetables for me to munch on. I’ve learned to bring some vegies and water with me because I don’t have the opportunity to choose when or what I eat. And I’ve never in my life thought about what a luxury it is to expect to be able to eat when and what I want.

Now, going to the store is an ordeal. Having transportation is a big luxury that most don’t have. So when I announce I am going to the store, it is always followed by much discussion about what other errands need to be run. I try to pick up on as much as I can. But I know that soon enough I will be at the store and along the way I just go with the flow.

This trip several people accompany me. They want to take me to Keiskammahoek (Afrikaans name), or QoboQobo (Xhosa name). I have not been to this town, as I usually go to the larger nearby town. But I take it as an opportunity to see another part of South African and gladly follow their directions. I drive along, vacillating between listening to the melodic conversations in Xhosa, trying to pick up the gist of the conversation, and silently enjoying the beautiful scenery.

We travel along roads riddled with potholes where the rain indiscriminately flows down and across the road, creating large fissures I attempt to negotiate in my little car. We go through to a village to woman who, after ten or fifteen minutes of waiting, produces a black plastic bag and hands it to my compadres with me. Then we had to several stores, where water seems to be in short supply. After a few communication breakdowns, I find a store with water and feel happy to have achieved that success. Then we go through the town of QoboQobo and I’m offered a short tour. I was encouraged to go out of my way to pass by the police station… little did I know that I would become very acquainted with that station in the near future.

Finally, after a couple of hours of driving here and there we return back home. I am exhausted just from my attempt to procure a measly bottle of water. And it is only the beginning.

Home Sweet Home: A follow up response

I received a myriad of questions in regards to my new apartment. My response is as follows:

1) Yes, I have a bathroom. (See attached photo)










2) Yes, I do have a plan for evenings when I may arrive home late. My theory that if I can make it up the five flights of stairs (there is no lift/elevator in my building) from the underground parking garage to my flat, then I think I can make it up the spiral staircase.
Plan A: Walk slowly and carefully
Plan B: sleep on couch.
Plan C: sleep in car.

3) No, I have not yet fallen down the stairs or over the balcony. But, yes, at some point I probably will. To further follow up on that note: yes, I have medical insurance.

Afrikaans and Concord

For years I have been trying to learn to speak Xhosa, a traditional African language unique to southern Africa. It is predominantly spoken in the Eastern Cape but has proliferated in the Western Cape after generations of migration to the urban Cape Town and surroundings. However, I have been resistant to learning Afrikaans.

I’ve not been resistant because it isn’t a beautiful language, because it is. Nor because I don’t know people who speak it, I do. And certainly not because it doesn’t have practical use in South Africa, because it does. But, upon reflection, I realize this is because of my association with it and the inexorable cultural connection between Afrikaans and the Apartheid ideology and regime. I’ve had to examine this resistance more thoroughly as I spend more time here with wonderful people whose language and cultural background is Afrikaans.

I’ve realized that while I have little problem disassociating new-found friends with the Apartheid movement. (Most openly chastise Apartheid’s monstrous wrongdoings and most were very young during it implement.) However, I continued to be lodged in this connection with their home language and the loathsome actions of Apartheid.

I’ve realized (at least) one shortcoming of my prejudice. I have been unconsciously accepting of the evolution of the culture and of those who identify as Afrikaans. Particularly, I am sure, because it would be ideologically impermissible for me to associate with individuals whose values are aligned with what I regard as irrefutably detestable. And not resolving that internal conflict would create considerable discord in relationships that I value.

However, I’ve been unable to, in practice, detach the language from Apartheid. There may be some logical reasons for this if understood in historical context (Soweto: June 16th 1976, for example). However, as I reflect on it I am not sure that this association has any practical use. Demonizing a language will neither change the atrocities of the past nor will it lead to a more non-racial, peaceful future.

South Africa, as I and many others have said before, is a land of profound paradoxes. Another lessen I’ve learned is that moving forward, in the sense of social and personal change, requires developing and subscribing new meanings to old concepts. I think it means letting go of antiquated inscriptions while persistently remembering the atrocities of the past. Paradoxical, perhaps, but probably necessary... for me anyway.

The Little Things: Banking

I think it is interesting to take note of the little differences here in South Africa. It nearly took an act of God to get me a bank account here, but once I did I was impressed by the efficiency and security. One of my first impressing scenarios is the integration of technology with banking. The ATM’s offer a deposit service where cash is inserted directly into the machine, counted and deposited in real time (no envelope required). Not only do I have online access (as one would expect nowadays) but every bank transaction sends an SMS (text message) to my cell phone.
In fact, if I am getting cash from an ATM my phone will ring with an SMS from the bank letting me know of the transaction before I even get my money.

In addition, each time I log into my bank account via the internet I am sent not only a message but a “one time PIN” or OTP. The OTP is necessary for me to make any type of payment or transfers from that account, ensuring another step to secure my account. The new SMS system has taken me a bit to get used to, but now I rely on it, particularly since my balance is also sent to me whenever I make a transaction. So my balance is always available to me on my phone- brilliant! For a place with a reputation for being behind in so many things, including technology, I have been pretty impressed.

The Spirits Move in Circles

I, feeling a little embarrassed for noticing, commented on the fact that I person I was introduced to didn’t look or sound anything like the ethnic and cultural background of her cousin. It is the accent that always gives the most information as to a South African’s cultural background. It has taken me a while, but now I am fairly good at recognizing the different accents. My friend smiled in recognition of my ability to differentiate the woman’s accent. And then, my friend who is the perpetual joker, had a really wonderful response.

It all has to do with circles, he told me. He explained that the two women are cousins because during introductions and the initial conversation, an extended family history is provided. One may start introductions with providing a first name, but then continue on to a surname, clan name and even deeper into ones ancestral history. Often, as with the two cousins, at some point a common relative is identified. Regardless of how far down the family lineage, they are then considered family.

My friend, simply and profoundly, physically demonstrated this by placing his two index fingers together to represent two individuals meeting and greeting each other. Then through the conversation as they speak the conversation moves out and away from each individual until finally the lineage comes closer together again until the lineage meets to complete the circle.

Needing to know more about the significance of circles, I began to ask around. I learned that the traditional rondevel (a picture is posted on my blog already), for example, is circular for both symbolic as well as practical reasons. The rondeval represents the circular nature of life. Spirits also are understood to move in circles. The circular rondeval is supposed to be a welcoming space for the ancestral spirits to enter and move about. In African culture, life is understood to be circular in the sense that it is believed that one’s spirit returns to earth to provide ancestral guidance and support. The circle is also symbolic of an existence that is eternally intact with no beginning or ending, therefore unbreakable.

Home Sweet Home

OK, so your first question probably is: “Can she afford this?” The answer is “well, no, of course I can’t. I’m unemployed! I can’t afford anything.” Now that we’ve put that to rest, I need to say that this flat is a real treasure in a plethora (somebody please tell Joe Sears that I once again used plethora appropriately—I used it in his last annual evaluation in regard to his skills and he made specific note of my vocabulary) of dilapidated flats in my price range.

I actually really wanted to stay in, or at least near, the city. I searched high and low for a place that I could afford that had some of the luxuries I wanted. For example, a stove. Or perhaps a door that a two year old couldn’t break into. I then expanded my search to the Southern suburbs: Newlands, Wynberg, Rhondebosch, Constantia etc. They were all either next to the train, didn’t have a stove/oven/fridge… or really any space for one, or looked like they had been recently raided by the police or at least would soon. Yikes!

So I finally had to look a little further. Muizenberg is a little beach town about 35 minutes from the city. It is on False Bay. Until about the 1950’s it was a major destination for the wealthy, but once that fad was over it became a bit rundown and gained a poor reputation. The last decade or two there has been a lot invested in revitalizing the area. Now it is a becoming a vibrant surfers town. It isn’t city living, but the False Bay area offers a lot of fine eats and fantastic beaches. I think it’s a fine place to call home.

There are more pictures to the right... I just learned how to add photos to the blog text. I think my latest trend of fiascos with my computer has turned me into a techy!


P.S. The couch is a sleeper sofa…. (hint, hint)

Adventures in Mexican Cooking

I was really craving Mexican food. There are actually a couple of Mexican restaurants in Cape Town. The best is the Fat Cactus, which is in the upmarket Kloof street area in town as well as just south of the city. But being on a budget I thought I’d save a few rands and eat at home. After all, the fajitas are about R90(about $12) and making them myself will give me something to munch on for the next few days.

So I go to the store for a little shopping. I find tortillas. They are R50 (nearly $8!), but I figure I can make quesadilla’s and other things with them. So I purchase them. I then look for beans. Black beans or pinto beans will suffice. Unfortunately there is nothing like it. I do, however, find a can of “Mexi-Beans”. Unfortunately they are R23. A can of ANY other type of beans or canned product is going to be about R8. So R23 is very expensive. But I’ve already invested in the tortillas and I really want these enchilada’s now.

Of course, there is no such thing as enchilada sauce so I have to make up my own. I try to think about the flavors in the sauce. A bit of tomato paste, chicken broth, and cayenne pepper and other spices may do the trick. So there’s another R20 spend on ingredients for the sauce. I buy onions, sour cream (which isn’t really the sour cream in the United States… but that is a different story), avocado’s, and tomatoes. So by now I’ve spent nearly R110. But I am determined to make those dog-on enchiladas!

Excitedly, I start preparing to make the enchiladas. I open the tortillas. They are so old that they crumble when I try to pull them apart. If I had the gumption, I’d take them back. But I am worn down by my ambition for a homemade enchilada. I go to a different store. Amazingly, they have them for R29. When I bring them home, they are perfectly fine.

Next, I nervously look at this can of “Mexi-beans” and wonder what surprises lurk for me in this can. I examine it for clues. As I read the can I look to see where they were imported from. Perhaps Guadalajara? Even Los Angeles would make sense. But, no! They are imported from New Zealand. (Somebody please tell me how THAT works!). Now I’m getting nervous. I open them to find pinto beans that seem to be seasoned with a little Cheyenne pepper. Delicious!

I prepare the enchiladas and more than three hours after I started my quest for enchiladas they are ready to eat. I am ravenous with anticipation and hunger. Alas, they are delicious! But for several hours of my time and R139 I think I’ll go to the Fat Cactus next time!

Mountain Majesties

Several years ago while talking with a South African who was visiting SeattIe I suggested she see Mount Rainier because, after all, South Africa doesn't really have mountains. She looked at me incredulously. She commented that South Africa has beautiful mountains. And it does. But it is interesting how different they are from the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, which accounts for at least some of my ignorance.

The mountains of the Pacific Northwest are striking and majestic. They are a sight to behold as they ascend high into the sky. They have gorgeous, pointed, snow-tipped caps. On the other hand, South African mountains are old and eroded by centuries of wind and weather. They wore but wise. They have a presence that is steadfast and enduring, so indicative of human life here.

In Cape Town you are surrounded by them. No matter where you are, the mountain is there. It is amazing. I am mesmerized each and every day by them. They don’t present themselves with the grand beauty of the Cascades or the Olympics, but they have an air of erudition. It reminds me how beauty, even of the same build, can take so many forms.

Their Ship Came In

I was in rural Eastern Cape visiting friends recently. I sometimes (still) struggle with the accent, particularly in the rural areas. I don’t know if it is because English is used much less frequently there or if the accent is different because they speak a “deep” isiXhosa that hasn’t been as affected by the external cultural influences that urban isiXhosa speakers have been exposed to in Cape Town. Either way, I do find it challenging. At Nolungile’s home, an older woman who is considered an elder in the village, she excited told me that she was awaiting her son who was bringing a ship. “A ship?” I ask bewilderedly. She explains that her son is coming now with a ship that he won. “He won a ship? And he is coming now with it?” I repeat. “Yes,” she says while smiling proudly.

Now I am puzzled. There are no large rivers or lakes that I am aware of near there. Nor can I imagine what he would have at his disposal that would transport this ship to water. Furthermore, very few people have cars and I wonder exactly how he’ll be carrying a ship. I, as humbly as possible, turn to another person sitting with us. I realize that I am missing something, but I’m not sure quite what, and I repeat what I heard. “Her son is on his way with a ship… that he won? And he’s coming now?” I speak steadily and carefully articulate each word to be sure I am understood. “Yes! We must wait for them!” she says. I engage in another conversation until a different person walks in that I know. I discretely, but fastidiously, ask him about the ship. He confirms. He says the village soccer team won their rival team and they are coming here with a ship. I try to conceal my confusion and emulate his enthusiasm. “Well, this should be interesting,” I think to myself. I image a boys’ soccer team carrying a large wooden ship down the kilometers of dirt road riddled with pot holes.

Then I hear it. It is the magical melody of boisterous vocals chanting in celebration. Everybody jumps up and bellows typical undulating African yelps. As they come closer and the chanting gets louder. Others in neighboring houses also come out to chant and sing in victory. I am encouraged to go to the road to get a picture. As the group of boys emerge from the darkness of the unlit dirt road, they carry in tow a prize much more valuable than a ship. A large and lethargic sheep leads the way and attracts the envy of the audience. She is a laudable reward for a game well done.

Cultural Reflection

So I’m researching the discipline of Disability Studies in search of theoretical framework and some smart passages I can site in my research essay. Naturally, the idea of how individuals and groups perceive their surroundings enters the picture; with that, a nice over view of culture. I read it a couple times. By the second time I realized I wasn’t reading it for my research anymore; this was personal.

It defined culture as a ‘purposeful act’ which imposes an artificial order upon social life, calls that order natural, right and desirable, and works to maintain that order at the expense of alternatives which it represents as inferior and disorderly.” It is an activity that imposes “certain frameworks upon the ways in which we relate to each other, to establish boundaries between what is right and wrong, acceptable and unacceptable, proper and improper, normal and abnormal”. Perhaps that is part of the deep sense of loss and intense loneliness I feel. I have in many ways left the safe and familiar confines of my culture.

But it reads to add something else I find apropos and timely. It then goes on to say that culture is “a necessary activity; without culture there would be no guidelines for understanding either who we are, where we have come from, what we should do, or where we are going.” I know where I came from and who I am because of the rich and profoundly important relationships I've had, and continue to have. I am deeply grateful for that. It continues to say that “what distinguishes us from those around us is much less that what connects us.” Even while on another continent.

Dancing African Languages

Language is beautiful, both for its utilitarian benefits as well as its artistic aspects. It’s hard for me to get over all the different languages that are spoken feely here. It never ceases to amaze me when I listen to friends whose Mother Tongue differs.

In such a multi-lingual society the language spoken is nearly as fluid as the words themselves. Conversations don’t stay rutted in one language, confined by the terms and phrases of a single system. A conversation, like any other organic process, moves and flows with the rhythms of the moment. During many times I have been a part of a conversation when others in the conversation will swiftly and seamlessly roll into a different language.

It is even more fascinating to me as I begin to learn the differences between the languages. I am able to at times discern when they change. This is particularly true between Tswana to Xhosa, for which I have several friends who speak both. They are both beautiful, but very different African languages. Tswana is characterized by sweet, soft, rolling tones accentuated by subtle German sounds. In contrast, Xhosa is melodic and dances with tonal inflections with the addition of clicks that provide irregular and exotic drum beats to its tune.

On many occasions I have been a part of a conversation where one individual is speaking Xhosa while another is speaking Tswana. All individuals speak both languages and, if one didn’t know they were different languages, there was no irregular syntax in the conversation. Then, if I listen carefully, I will hear bits of English or of other languages. Sometimes the conversation will switch entirely to one language or another, and then back again to speaking separate languages. It continues to amaze me.

It must be wonderful to have the full grasp of several languages to fully express oneself. Not being bi-lingual it is difficult to fully understand. But I do know that many times I have heard that one phrase or another just doesn’t translate. On a few occasions, I haven’t been able to fully express an English idiom. What a fantastic gift to have the ability to manipulate so many languages.

Neither Red Nor Sporty

I look up on the internet used cars that fit my criteria: under R45,000. I also need something low miles that is reliable, particularly knowing I will be travelling the nine hour journey up the Garden Route from Cape Town to Port Elizabeth and back. One dealership keeps showing up as meeting these fine criteria. I show up later that day in my rental to check them out. I look around. One seems to fit my criteria so I ask to take it for a test drive.

My sales person gets in. I get in. We go. He drives around for about ten minutes while I listen for any rattles or knocks in the engine. Meanwhile, I play with gadgets to make sure the air con (South African’s shorten EVERYTHING), heat, windshield wipers etc are in working order. We pull back into the dealership. Ummmmm… “I would like to take it for drive”. “Unless,” I add with a condescending smile, “you come with the car”.

“Oh!?” he says. He fumbles around reluctantly, then mutters under his breath, “I hope you don’t scare me”. I hold my breath, not to mention my tongue, and only smile. Then he quickly calls to a nearby mechanic and orders him to go with me for a drive. I drive the car around and return. I say I am interested but want to look some more. I ask to drive another car. It’s R10,000 less and the drive proves to me why that is. “Okay, I like the first one”. Although I am nauseous from the comment, I am exhausted of spending money on a rental car. All I need is something that is reliable and in my budget. “I’ll take it”.

South Africa has a service called ‘AA South Africa’. A good friend had cautioned that any car I am interested in purchasing must be reviewed through them. I don’t know what that means, but I am aware that just mentioning it to a dealer will provide me, an obvious foreigner, a little bit of credibility. It is expensive, but I trust it is worth it- particularly because I don’t have any clue about how to purchase an automobile here.

The AA report indicates some good things and some bad things. The car is in generally good shape. It has low’ish miles; it has 130 kilometers. It hasn’t been in a major wreck, only a small fender-bender on the front-driver side. The engine is in good shape. No rust. No structural damage. But there are some things that need to be fixed. I get a final report in six comprehensive pages that describe everything from a shudder in the brakes to a loose screw in the passenger sun visor. I return to the dealership ready to negotiate.

The deal is made. They will fix everything in the report and I will buy the car. Perfect. Unfortunately, that means that I won’t get the car for a couple of days, but that is OK. Finally, I pick up the car. Hmmm… I’m no mechanic but I’m pretty sure that some of the things aren’t fixed. The car still sounds like it has an exhaust leak and the idol still waivers. This could be a problem. I take it back to AA South Africa, and for a small price they review the initial report to ensure the work was done.

Unfortunately, I was right. Virtually nothing in the report was completed. The few things that were fixed, were done improperly. The mechanic at AA South Africa takes a red pen and puts an asterisk by all the things that need to be done. He says I must go back to the dealership and tell them to fix everything with an asterisk for free. He insists I come back to tell him how the conversation went.

I find my sales person. Without the condescending smile I explain what the AA South Africa mechanic told me. He gives several inadequate excuses, which I quickly dismiss. He walks over to his manager and quietly discusses it with him. He returns and agrees to the terms. I agree to drop the car off the following day to get the work done.

I arrive the next day. It’s Friday. I let him know that I will need it back at the end of the day. He shudders. He stammers and says he can’t guarantee it will be done… that there is no way he can do that. I let him know that I won’t be without the car for the weekend and he must prioritize the work that is done and that I will be back at the end of the day to collect it. If more work is to be done, then I will bring it back Monday. Oh, and by the way, he needs to take me back to my flat in Sea Point... and pick me back up at the end of the day to collect my car. Daggers shoot from his eyes. My condescending smile returns. Of course, he agrees.

A staff from the dealership drives me to my flat about twenty minutes away and picks me up at the end of the day. I enter the dealership and sit at the desk to discuss the progress on my car. As I chat with The Sexist Pig salesman, a colleague of his looks over and says something to the effect of “you always get the pretty customers!”. I smile warmly. He, looking nauseous from the comment, glares at him and says “pretty difficult…!”. Then looks at me with a cheesy fake smile and says “just kidding”. My smile returns.

I agree to bring my car back on Monday. Again I insist they drive me to my flat and back. The same for Tuesday. By this time I am exhausted. I’ve spent two weeks purchasing this car between going to the dealership, getting my “traffic number”, licensing, AA South Africa reviews and several additional days at the dealership. Now only one thing is left. A new side mirror. I’ll be happy when it is over.

Patido's: In Location

We decide to go to Patido’s while in New Brighton, a township in Port Elizabeth. It isn’t a surprise since we always end up there at some point. It is a very festive and vibrant place. The first time I drove by I loved it immediately. It always has loud music blaring out of the speakers and you can count on this place to have good energy any day of the week. During the weekends people spill into the streets. They dance and jive to music blaring from Patido’s or from a car. A couple of street vendors call this place home and one can expect to get deliciously braai’d meat for a few rands at any hour of the night. It’s the kind of place I love to go. But coming to a place like this in location (which means in the township) has its price, too.

But I know the drill. Peruse the street until a parking spot opens that is close enough to the joint so that it can be checked on regularly. Get out of the car- all at the same time. Head in and immediately find a table. All the tables are wooden with bench seats. If one isn’t available, which is often the case, we’ll find one with one square inch of it isn’t being used and establish home base there. I always have to have a seat, though. The best tables are corner tables because they have two walls on either side. I always have to get in first, so I’m against the wall and facing the exit. One or more of the guys sits next to me and then others will sit facing me. All for security reasons.

Going to the bathroom is the worst. For what ever reason I am usually with all guys, who clearly have no clear understanding of the time it takes to use the restroom in a busy, public place. African bars and America bars have at least one thing in common: long lines to the women’s restroom. Can somebody PLEASE solve this international crisis! My journey to the restroom is usually an ordeal. It often requires an escort, which I’m not real fond of. If people are feeling secure, and the beer has properly loosened up their anxieties, then I go alone. The unfortunate case is when one of them pushes through the line of women (who already look at me suspiciously) calling my name to make sure I’m still there. “Yep! I’m still here!” Reddened in the face I usually try to say something quickly to my cohorts in the bathroom like: “they worry too much”. But I don’t dare say more or my accent gives too much away.

I have never felt unsafe while at Patido's. The worst I have ever encountered are some drunk guys trying to pick up on me. If they are being rude, it is usually in their mother-tongue-- so I don't really understand it anyway! I don't want to underestimate the importance of being safe in a country like South Africa, but honestly, I think I'd be in more danger at the Buckaroo!

However, all the while I remain in the inside of the fortress of African’s shielding me from any potential wrong-doers. I’m never really thrilled with the assigned seating or the bathroom check-in’s, but I’m appreciative of them for ensuring that my experience is always a positive one.

South African Driving Etiquette

I find it pretty easy to drive in South Africa. With the exception of driving on the opposite side of the road, things operate pretty similarly. Of course, Africans’ relaxed regard to rules, which are more regarded as guidelines, carries through to the rules of the road.

While the transportation infrastructure sometimes leaves some to be desired, I am always impressed by the efficiency of driving here. Many main roads outside of the city are two lanes and often have heavy trucks or tiny cars on them that struggle up the winding hills. This is a problem if you want to go more than 40 kilometers an hour. However, South African’s have pretty well solved this one. And nicely.

If you are driving and somebody quickly comes behind you, you are obligated to drive on the shoulder to let them pass. There is no need to slow down- just move over. The vehicle behind you will pass quickly—even if it has to cross over the line into on-coming traffic.

When I was first driving, my good friend always reminded me that “they see you!!” This meant that if passing required crossing the line it is perfectly reasonable to do so even if there is an oncoming car because… you guessed it: “they see you”. And, crazy as it is, he is absolutely right. No laws or regulations around this. It is just how it is.

Proper etiquette then requires that the passing car quickly flash his hazards once safely past as a gesture of thanks. In customary South African friendliness, a quick flash of the headlights by the driver who was passed indicates “thank you for saying thank you”. South African’s are so polite!

Crash and Burn

I turn on my laptop. Then I insert the 3G stick into the USB port so I can access internet. I’m happily working on writing the first chapter to my research thesis. Then, this yellow triangle with an exclamation point in the center appears on screen. It is telling me that it can’t find something. Frankly, it didn’t seem to have anything to do with what I wanted to do, so I delete it. It comes back up. I cancel. It comes back up, I delete. Repeat.

It’s a bit of a blur from there. That yellow triangular thingy keeps popping up. Some window pops up in the corner saying something about a security threat- although it didn’t use Bush’s color scheme of yellow, orange or red so I suppose I was confused about the level of threat. At some point a very serious-looking box pops on screen and says the computer is going to shut down. I emphatically hit cancel.

At this point, I know I’ve been beaten. I frantically try to save what I was working on, preferably on a jump drive. I hit cancel every time it threatens to shut down. It is very slow to respond to my attempts to bring up the Word document and hit “save as”. Each time I get a bit farther in trying to save the document. But the cursor responds more erratically and I am seriously offending this computer by not letting it shut down. I finally hit save and hope it is not destroyed by whatever has infiltrated my computer.

It is totally crashed. The only fortunate thing is that it only affected my ability to access internet. My documents are saved; but my access to the rest of the world has been seriously compromised.

Safely in Cape Town

I've arrived Safely in Cape Town. I'm nearly settled into the beautiful flat here in Sea Point. I am in a bustling area a block from the beach. I've spent the last week unpacking, establishing a bank account, getting internet and working on getting a car. I've had a wonderful and fully proper Cape Town welcome by many friends here, who have all been instrumental in helping me get settled.

I don't have pictures yet but will post some soon. I've added a couple of new blogs on my adventures thus far. I miss everybody and will be in touch.

Revisiting the V & A Waterfront

Monday was a beautiful day. I arrived a little more than 48 hours ago and I can feel the fuzzy-headedness induced by jet lag beginning to fade away. Although I only had about four hours of sleep, I felt it would be remiss to allow the day to pass without taking full advantage of it. I had learned from friends that minibus taxis run along Main Road in Sea Point, a block from where I stay, and that it can take me to the Victoria and Andrew Waterfront in ten minutes for five rands (about 80 cents). I decide to venture out and reconnect with one of my favorite old haunts.

As I approach, it appears I am going in through an entrance I have not been through before. But I am comforted because it is an entrance to one of my favorite parts of the waterfont: the Red Shed Craft Market. However, as I approach this entrance looks a bit like a back entrance. I study it for quite some time as I approach the building. It is next to the receiving area, but there is a sign that says “no deliveries here”. But still, I don’t see anybody walking in or out. Above the door is a big sign that says “ENTRANCE”. I’m thinking to myself that this may not be a good idea; it doesn’t really look like an entrance. But my alternative is an entrance all the way around the building, and the jet lag has made me lazy. Besides, the door says “ENTRANCE”… so it must be ok.

Finally I reach the building. Standing before me are two very large sliding glass doors. I tug on the left door. Nothing. I tug again and still nothing. I look inside the oversized doors and see three men inside. They are watching me. I then deliberately look up at the sign above to confirm that this is indeed an entrance. Then, I give it a hard jerk to the left, throwing some muscle into it. Ah-ha- it slides open with a jerk. I feel triumphant over the giant doors.

Immediately as I slide the door open there is a jerk and then a very loud sound of metal hitting cement. Oh Crap! The door suddenly stops and the sound of metal ringing after bouncing on the hard cement fills the air. The three men, now directly in front of me about fifteen feet continue to stare. The sound seemed to echo through the warehouse-style craft market. I look down and I had clearly dislodged a metal rod that was placed between the doors to lock it. The metal rod, which continues to lay ringing on the floor, apparently was supposed to be in a metal-lined hole in the cement floor where then two metal loops on top of the rod held in place a large lock. The lock wasn’t on, but the metal loops had been place over protruding metal on the door. Ummmm… I’m pretty sure this isn’t an entrance.

The men still stared, looking incredulous, as I giggled and said “oops!”. I tried to engage their stare in attempt to point out the humor of the situation. I had no luck. The stares only hardened. I started talking to myself, providing step by step instructions on what to do next. That is what I usually what I do when I am nervous and in situations like that. “Okay, let’s put that metal rod thingy in the hole”. “Alright, now let’s close the door.” I look up and the men’s glares bore into me.

It was at that point that I decided it was a futile effort to recover. I grab my purse, stand straight up and head towards the men, which at this point is the only way out. I walk as deliberately and purposefully as I possibly can. I pass the men, not stopping to explain. I turned the corner of the market walkway and don’t stop until I am well around the corner out of sight. I head directly out of the Red Shed Craft Market and straight to the waterfront. There people are buzzing everywhere. I walk into the square and hear the wonderful tunes of a marimba band. I sit down and take a breath and soak in the sounds and smells of one of my favorite places in Cape Town. I do love this place.

South African sequens

I have to admit that I have, on more than one occasion, chuckled at the complaints made by Capetonians about the frigid winters. I was particularly amused when I was repeatedly told before I left Seattle to bring very warm clothing because Cape Town was experiencing one of its coldest winters ever. I checked on the weather: Highs in the low 60’s and lows in the low 40’s. Sunny. Humph- that sounds a lot like Seattle’s summer this year… except without the sun!

I’ve been here three days and I am in the flat after running some errands. I have on a T-shirt with a sweater over it and am wrapped in a soft, lime green throw and I am freezing. I walk outside. Yep, probably about 65 with the bright South African winter sun beaming from the blue sky. However, I still chilled nearly to the bone. I now realize something I underestimated: central heating. Most homes in South Africa don’t have central heating and the most common form of heat is an electric heater that, at best, warms one room at a time. Lesson number one: Cape Town winters really are cold and no more making fun of subtle complaints by South Africans anymore.

Realizing that I still have a few hours of sunlight, I heat some water in the kettle and decide to take my laptop outside where I have a little brick veranda with a plastic table and chairs awaiting. I fill a beautiful zebra-print tea pot, stuff in a couple of Rooisbos tea bags and head outside into the sunshine. I pour the hot tea into a matching zebra-print coffee mug and settle down to bath in the sun’s warmth. I feel myself warming from inside and out. The sun is warm and the tea is lovely.

After about my third drink of tea, I notice something in the bottom. A bug? Maybe a piece of glass? At a closer glance I notice four opalescent sequins at the bottom of the mug. I smile thinking that the owner of those sequins is watching over me now. I finish that cup and debate to myself whether or not I should take them out of the mug. I leave them at the bottom and pour myself another hot cup of tea, allowing the warmth to fill me.

My nemesis

On the plane ride over I read an article about Mexico City introducing a program to encourage bicycling for city transportation. The article made a point of stating that one incentive to bicycle is to avoid traffic police, which were described as the “scourge” of the residents there. In Cape Town, it is quite the opposite. In fact, I’m not even really sure we have traffic police here- at least in the sense that I would understand it. In fact, I’ve often noted cars driving past police cars at 120 kilometers per hour in an 80km zone without hesitation. Neither the most aggressive nor corrupt police officer doesn’t rival the real scourge of Cape Town.

They are everywhere and yet you never see it until it’s too late. There are even signs posted announcing one may be around the corner. Yet, those little buggers always seem to be at the right place at the wrong time. It is those damn traffic cameras. They are on every freeway and highway. Some places always have them posted in the same spot, however, most are moved regularly for obvious reasons. Most speed limit signs now have an icon of a camera threatening its presence.

It’s even worse at night. And, unfortunately, that is the best time to avoid the traffic. One can be travelling along at an easy clip of 120, driving perfectly safely down the M3 with a stunning view of Table Mountain on the left and the ocean on the right. One could be enjoying the nice, slightly salty air of a chilly evening heading back home after dinner with friends. Then BAM! A blinding light shoots from overhead like a laser from outer space. Those first milliseconds are bewildering. Am I getting abducted by aliens? Is Cape Town under attack like in Independence Day? Am I having an aneurism?

Okay, maybe it is less like that and it looks more like a snapshot of light, immediately followed by random obscenities, then slam on a the brake and a frustrating sigh because once again I’ve been caught by my nemesis- those damn traffic cameras.

It's the little things...

It is both frightening and liberating to think about leaving everything behind except for whatever can be shoved into two 70 pound suitcases and a carry-on bag. The experience has totally changed how I prioritize the minutest of day to day activities. I come home and nearly every day burn my favorite candles. The ones I specifically requested for my birthday because I'm too cheap to buy the REALLY nice smelling ones for myself. I add copious amounts of my favorite liqueur in my coffee instead of the cheaper one I bought on sale. I wear my favorite and most comfortable jeans, even if I'm just lounging around my apartment. I've already nearly eaten all of Cadbury Cream Eggs that I usually have carefully stored in my freezer, rationed out to last until next Easter. And it's only June! And, oh, my car.

So, I'm a car girl. I think I owe to my dad. I spent every Wednesday for most of my adolescence at Portland International Roadway watching the drag races. He raced cars most of his life. I really love my car. The cozy leather seats hug me lovingly. The seat heaters on a chilly morning are analogous to a hot toddy as it warms you from the inside on a snowy winter evening. The sound of it as I tap the accelerator gives me chills. I just love that sound. Mostly I like the feeling of instant power and control as I hit the accelerator, easily taking over most other vehicles and knowing there is little they can do to thwart my approach as I gracefully advance and easily swerve and pass them. Good times.

Even though I know the car is a luxury, there is still something more visceral, more intensely meaningful about knowing that in a short period of time these material objects will no longer be in my possession. There is an odd, yet comforting, relationship between the challenging emotional intensity of this whole experience and the heightened appreciation for things once taken for granted. A certain symbiotic yin and yang exists that somehow, even in the throws of what often feels like total chaos, brings the cosmos into balance. I'm leaving it all behind, but there is an amazing beauty in experiencing things again for the first time.

The Emerald City

The decision to go to Africa makes even mundane activities significant. Even a daily drive feels different. Today, as most days, I drive northward into Seattle. This is a route I've taken at least a thousand times. And I am probably not exaggerating. And, honestly, I have cherished most of them. OK, many of them. Traffic, stress and the inability of some drivers to effectively navigate wet roads in a city that rains 150 days of the year (thank you Wikipedia!) has, on occasion, turned an otherwise beautiful drive into one that includes a mild degree of profanity, a few inappropriate gestures, and me wishing that my cute sports car could turn into one of those massive monster trucks. But, I digress. It is a fact that entering the city, in my case via the Alaskan Way viaduct, is a striking Seattle experience.

As I emerge onto the viaduct, which is several stories above ground level, I arrive next to the downtown cityscape. Qwest Field and Safeco Field are immediately to your left and each present themselves as imposing and magnificent structures in their own right. (I bring up Qwest Field first as props to all my friends who are avid football fans, because in reality Safeco Field is first.) Then the full breadth of downtown appears. The Columbia Center and the Washington Mutual Tower (which may have changed names since Washington Mutual was bankrupted in 2008) dominates the sky of dozens of other skyscraper buildings dating back to early twentieth century. Then the Space Needle appears; Seattle's iconic trademark.

I feel a special connection to the cityscape extends towards the sky on my right and the Puget Sound succumbs on my left. Jagged and protruding the Olympic Mountains frame the western-most landscape from the Seattle. Although they are not the highest mountains, they mark an important barrier between the Puget Sound and the Pacific Ocean. Passing the massive, historic and beautiful architecture on the right feels perfectly and harmoniously balanced with the natural landscape of Puget Sound and the far-off Olympic Mountains.

While vacationing in Belize, a couple from San Diego once asked: "doesn't the city of Seattle drop directly into the Pacific Ocean?” I thought it was a silly question, especially from somebody from the west coast. The couple came to vacation in Belize in part because they worked for the same organization and their inter-office romance was forbidden. The woman literally had hundreds of mosquito bites and I thought that perhaps the Calamine lotion that was white and crusted all over her body had distorted her ability to logic effectively. Regardless, the question they posed has entered my mind on several occasions since.

In many respects, the San Diego woman was correct. The imposing cityscape of Seattle does appear to lean on the edge of the Puget Sound, the surrounding mountains nestling them both in a caring embrace. The mountains and the landscape of sea water and islands is extraordinary. I can't think of any place in the world where one can experience the magnificence of industrial innovation and the wonderment of Mother Nature in one fell swoop. I've been to many cities in the world. But this city is really beautiful. The sea is sparkling, the mountains pristine and white-tipped with snow and the city a striking testimony to the wondrous achievements of humankind in the last century. The Emerald City is a sight to behold, and one that I’ll miss.

Freedoms

It's funny how a term can mean so many different things. How its historical and cultural context can shape its meaning. The Xhosa language has a variety of ways of expressing freedom. Freedom is translated as inkululeko, but to be free or feel free is khululeka. It is a beautiful word, really. The pronunciation is like most other Xhosa words so that it dances off the tongue as the inflection rises and lowers, shortens and lengthens. I've often thought about this word. Not because of its English equivalent, but because of the myriad of ways this word's meaning differs.

Once in New Brighton, a township on the outskirts of Port Elizabeth, I was with friends at a popular watering hole, Jeya's. I like this place and we often go there. It has a certain feeling of welcomeness, playfulness and diversity, yet I am often the only white person there. I would consider it a bar rather than a shebeen. Immediately as I walk through the heavy door bordered with thick brick there are large round plastic tables surrounded by plastic chairs, the kind one would often find on the back porch of a house in the Unites states. On the far left there are two pool tables. Most of the rear is a large bar area. The bar is an "L" shape and is large enough for at least six or eight barstools on each leg. But tonight is Saturday and it is too jam-packed for people to sit leisurely at the bar. Tonight bodies fill the area and press tightly together as the crowd ungulates towards the shelves of lively libations.

Sometimes they play sports on a very large screen and sometimes there are live performances. Tonight dance music is pumping through the gigantic speakers poised in each corner of the room. Some of the songs I recognize, many I don't. On more than one occasion several of my friends will break out into an audible acknowledgement of a song long forgotten. This is always followed by reminiscent dancing. They are all very good dancers. At the end of the song I may get an explanation from one of them about the song. It is usually difficult for me to know what the song is about. Songs are usually not sung in English. Often singers will mix a variety of languages. So even if I can pick up on some of the Xhosa words, it isn't unusual for words or phrases in Tswana, Zulu, Venda, Pedi or a whole slew of languages to be thrown in. Few, if any, songs would be recognizable outside of Africa or the African Diaspora. So I always appreciate background information as additional cultural education.

When people dance here the energy fills the room and every cell in my body. My friends dance with reckless abandon. They sing and move their bodies in sexy African rhythms. Then they laugh with large, vibrant smiles. And then find another groove and dance some more. For some reason on this particular day I just wasn't feeling the mood. This is not typical. Usually I easily slip into those African grooves and find myself dancing to the atypical beats before my mind even realizes that I don't know the words or have never heard the song before. But today I stood there sipping a large Black Label beer we were all sharing. I was enjoying myself. I really enjoy watching the guys dance and listening to them reminisce about old times. Apparently, my lack of participation was noticed and on several occasions my friends would ask me why I wasn't dancing. Or they'd take me by the hand and lead me into some dancing action that I clumsily attempted to follow. I still wasn't feeling it. Finally, almost in desperation, my friend demands that I be free.

It sounded more like "phrrrri", in part because in his fervor he really stretched it out and took time to properly roll the r's. Free? (Of course, I chuckle quietly to myself thinking that telling a woman that she should be "free" in America would immediately imply payment for some discretionary behavior and would be likely be followed by swift slap across the face.) But I know that is not what he means. He means I should be kululekile. A different kind of free. One that is unbound to material or monetary possessions. One that is more esoteric that the freedom's mentioned in the United States Constitution. This is a freedom of spirit and of self expression.

Its English equivalent is “free”, but it has an entirely different meaning. It means free to be one’s own unique self and fully express that self at any and all moments. I was being supported to find my groove and dance to the music. But what they wanted was for me to feel free to be. And to be to its fullest and truest extent. And to see me holding back, even though it wasn’t on purpose, was really painful for my friends. Khululeka is not about having legislative or legal framework to protect individual’s rights from being abused by other individuals. Kululekile is about having the right and the space to fully be who each of us are and not holding back… because this fragile and precious life deserves it.

The Study Permit

It’s a little odd to see the culmination of your life in a stack of old and new papers. My Birth Certificate, child immunization records, marriage certificate all mark the passing pretty major milestones in ones life. Then I have the newer documentation that I had to acquire. I now officially have a statement signed by a physician that assures that I am “generally in a good state of health” and, furthermore, am “not suffering from leprosy, venereal disease, trachoma or other infectious or contagious condition”. Well, I suppose that is a good thing. I don’t have tuberculosis or any criminal offenses that would prevent me from entering the country. Then there are letters from my university, financial statements and flight information. All in all, the packet consists of sixteen pages of a temporary residence permit application and an additional sixteen verification documents, two passport photos and my passport.

I’ve been assured that it takes about five business days to process the permit and issue me the proper visa. I was also told by my dear, sweet-speaking friends at the Consulate General’s office that I shouldn’t send it in until a month or less before I leave. The website suggests submission six to eight weeks in advance. I opted for the middle road of six weeks. I’m fairly confident it will be approved. However, there is a small wrenching in my stomach that wonders what would happen if it were denied. I’ve already given notice at my job, my apartment and with all of my friends. I’ve purchased the plane tickets. This is the only way to go about acquiring the permit. Hmph!

A very successful, spirited and wise friend recently commented that we get what we want because we put EVERYTHING into it. I smiled heartily when I read her text, fighting a tear that was trying to well up. Perhaps. I think my struggle will be having enough left in me to tend to a whole new set of challenges ahead. Because, while this experience has been extremely difficult in many ways, I have a funny feeling that ahead lay a whole new set of challenges that will again demand everything I have.

Secrets may make you sick... but sharing them is no walk in the park either

Telling my co-workers that I had decided to attempt to move to South Africa was much more difficult that I thought it would be. I had a well thought out plan to quickly announce my departure at the end of Friday afternoon staff meeting. Well, at the time it seemed like it was well concieved. Tic-toc-tic-toc... 4:30 arrives. Time to wrap up the staff meeting. People start to leave and I quickly share that I my last day will be July 16th because I have a wonderful opportunity to go to South Africa. Just as I had rehearsed. Ok, good. I field a couple questions and quickly head down the hall to my office. I work there for another hour or so until the office empties of all my co-workers. I think to myself that it went pretty well. There were a few gasps and looks of disbelief. And a couple people were sobbing a little. But I figure that is just because change is hard to accept... and the staff meeting did get a little intense.

I shut down the computer, close the blinds and meet two co-workers for a couple drinks. I had told them the news earlier in the week. I enjoy talking with them. As we talk my confidence in their professionalism and insight grows. See, things will be fine- maybe better- without me. They share some insights about the meeting with me. Including information that somebody left the meeting sobbing. They assert it was specifically because of the news I was leaving. They say some very nice things about me and my work. It felt sincere and it was very nice to hear. Yep, things will be all right.

I process the afternoon and evening as I carefully navigate the 23 miles back to my apartment. I arrive at my place nearly in tears. I open the door to my apartment and emotions explode from me like fireworks. And not just any kind of firework. It was like the kind with the cardboard tube that you gently fill with the brightly-colored, spherical explosive with the really, really long wick. The wick that you light, quickly turn and run before you hear the ka-boom of the explosive that flies super high in the air until it bursts overhead in a bazillion directions. It was like that kind.

I'm not even sure why. I think a part of me was just saddened by an overwhelming sense of loss. The loss of a job I cared about. The loss of people that I care about. And the inability to feel like I could really fully articulate to those that mattered most most to me. The loss of familiarity. At the same time, another part of me felt like I was letting people down by leaving. Not that the good work wouldn't continue, but that I was abandoning an effort, or rather a vision, and casting it aside for others to battle without me. And yet another part of me felt like I really didn't matter at all. That, really, nobody cared in the first place and my contribution's of the past would be washed away with the spring rains. The intense emotions sprayed, fell and faded only to have new ones burst. I fell asleep crying. I woke up crying; my eyes red and puffy and my cheeks crusted with salt.

The effects of telling my closest friends proved to be even more difficult and longer lasting. This isn't going to be easy.