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….