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.