I sat listening to KUOW this years end. I smiled when ‘The Conversation’ was reading Haiku’s that listeners had submitted about their personal experiences in
2010. I smiled not only because there is something fun and intriguing about the short stanzas, but because it conjured pleasant memories of my own Haiku creating endeavours. It reminds me of my thirtieth birthday party when several haiku’s were created in my honour. I also vividly remember, on several occasions, sitting with friends at a party or in a bar creating haikus. I laugh out loud when I picture the sight: several of us sitting silently, visibly counting syllables on my fingers and squinting quizzically and raising a finger for each syllable iterated silently to ourselves. I’m sure it looked quite odd from the outside. I thought it a nice exercise to write some myself, so my year end haikus follow.
Salty air collides
With the weather worn mountains
A beautiful sight
Dark as the night’s sky
Encompassed by loneliness
Me, myself and I
Ndiyalithanda (I love it)
eMzantsi Afrika (South Africa)
Khululekile (freedom- [freedom of the soul])
I breathe in deeply
The air feeds my soul with joy
Today, I am me
OK, now I DARE you. What is your Haiku for the year 2010…? You can add yours to the comments section- I look forward to it!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
You've Goat to be Kidding and Hogwash
I have to admit, I’ve eaten some pretty interesting foods here. I’ve already explained that African culture exalts meat, and that means ANY type of meat. I recall during a ceremony in the Eastern Cape, a sacrificial goat was slaughtered. That type of thing really used to bother me, but I’m getting used to it now. I’ve really grown to admire, and even envy, the skill and aptitude one must have to properly prepare an animal. The ease and swiftness some people have at skinning the animal is admirable. But I think what I really appreciate is the care and precision taken with each part of the animal. Everything, and I mean everything, is eaten. And certain internal organs must be organized together and others must be separate. In addition, regardless if it is ceremonial or just a party, some, such as elders or women, will demand some certain specific organs or innards. To me, all those innards just look like a pile of slimy mush, but the preparers must know each and every organ.
During one particular occasion I was able to observe the creation of goat head stew. The hooves and skull are put directly onto the fire until charred, then the skull is split open. Once charred, the skin cleans off quite easily and they are boiled over an open fire until tender. A short time later I was offered some meat. Knowing that I can be a bit squeamish, I asked them to give me the most delicious part, but not to tell me what it is until after I ate it. It was, as they promised, delicious. Tender dark meat that was only very slightly gamey. It was the flesh of the goat’s cheek.
Another occasion had me sitting in a shebeen when a woman carrying a large bowl wandered inside, apparently selling the goodies in the bowl. I didn’t take a very good look, as it all looked to me like its most suitable use would be to be hid in the properties of an American hot dog! Regardless, one of my friends bought a piece. The meat itself was wrapped in newspaper so I was unable to see it. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but after several offers I finally agreed to eat a piece. It was a nice, fatty piece of pork and was quite to my liking actually. When offered again, I easily obliged. I put this piece in my mouth and immediately spat it out, not knowing exactly what it was, but certain I should not be eating it. A quick glance of the meat I spat made me realize it was the actual snout of the pig. I apologized… and declined and subsequent offers.
During one particular occasion I was able to observe the creation of goat head stew. The hooves and skull are put directly onto the fire until charred, then the skull is split open. Once charred, the skin cleans off quite easily and they are boiled over an open fire until tender. A short time later I was offered some meat. Knowing that I can be a bit squeamish, I asked them to give me the most delicious part, but not to tell me what it is until after I ate it. It was, as they promised, delicious. Tender dark meat that was only very slightly gamey. It was the flesh of the goat’s cheek.
Another occasion had me sitting in a shebeen when a woman carrying a large bowl wandered inside, apparently selling the goodies in the bowl. I didn’t take a very good look, as it all looked to me like its most suitable use would be to be hid in the properties of an American hot dog! Regardless, one of my friends bought a piece. The meat itself was wrapped in newspaper so I was unable to see it. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but after several offers I finally agreed to eat a piece. It was a nice, fatty piece of pork and was quite to my liking actually. When offered again, I easily obliged. I put this piece in my mouth and immediately spat it out, not knowing exactly what it was, but certain I should not be eating it. A quick glance of the meat I spat made me realize it was the actual snout of the pig. I apologized… and declined and subsequent offers.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Isitshixo
Isitshixo
It’s about 5:30 and I stop by a local watering hole to share a drink. By seven o’clock I was ready to head home. As I walk to my car, I fumble through my purse to find my keys. As I arrive at my car, I pause and take a good look in my purse. Slowly, as if I know what I am about to see next, I look up. There are my keys- in the ignition. Of course, all the doors are locked. (Place expletive of choice here.)
Just then, a man comes out from a nearby house. I ask if he has a hanger. As I explain to him that I locked my keys in the car, the needy cries of a baby pour out from the house as does the soft coo of a woman’s voice. After I explain the situation, he reluctantly enters back into the house. I’m still not certain if his trepidation was due to my request or just his lack of interest in returning to the crying infant. Regardless, he obliges and returns shortly with a metal hanger.
I awkwardly bend the hanger forwards and back, then drive it into the small crack between the door frame and window. It begrudgingly slips through. I twist and turn, trying to manoeuvre the wire to pull the lock up. I pull it out, bend the wire a different way and shove it through again. I repeat until bored- exactly three and a half minutes. Urgh! Just then I remember something.
I quickly grab my phone and dial the emergency number for my auto insurance. A person answers, (yes a REAL person), and I explain the situation. She says she’ll send somebody out. I walk back to the bar and order a drink. Within minutes, I receive a call from the insurance, who has a locksmith on the line. I provide directions. I sit back in waiting, sipping my beer. In the meantime, I get two SMS messages from the insurance updating me on the dispatched locksmith. Before I finish my beer, the locksmith arrives on the scene.
It takes the locksmith no more than five minutes to open my door- and, I’m in! And this is all a complimentary service of my auto insurance policy, which is roughly about $45 a month. I smile about the averted disaster and the little luxuries South Africa offers.
BTW- Isitshixo is the Xhosa word for keys… I just didn’t want to give away the story in the title. :)
It’s about 5:30 and I stop by a local watering hole to share a drink. By seven o’clock I was ready to head home. As I walk to my car, I fumble through my purse to find my keys. As I arrive at my car, I pause and take a good look in my purse. Slowly, as if I know what I am about to see next, I look up. There are my keys- in the ignition. Of course, all the doors are locked. (Place expletive of choice here.)
Just then, a man comes out from a nearby house. I ask if he has a hanger. As I explain to him that I locked my keys in the car, the needy cries of a baby pour out from the house as does the soft coo of a woman’s voice. After I explain the situation, he reluctantly enters back into the house. I’m still not certain if his trepidation was due to my request or just his lack of interest in returning to the crying infant. Regardless, he obliges and returns shortly with a metal hanger.
I awkwardly bend the hanger forwards and back, then drive it into the small crack between the door frame and window. It begrudgingly slips through. I twist and turn, trying to manoeuvre the wire to pull the lock up. I pull it out, bend the wire a different way and shove it through again. I repeat until bored- exactly three and a half minutes. Urgh! Just then I remember something.
I quickly grab my phone and dial the emergency number for my auto insurance. A person answers, (yes a REAL person), and I explain the situation. She says she’ll send somebody out. I walk back to the bar and order a drink. Within minutes, I receive a call from the insurance, who has a locksmith on the line. I provide directions. I sit back in waiting, sipping my beer. In the meantime, I get two SMS messages from the insurance updating me on the dispatched locksmith. Before I finish my beer, the locksmith arrives on the scene.
It takes the locksmith no more than five minutes to open my door- and, I’m in! And this is all a complimentary service of my auto insurance policy, which is roughly about $45 a month. I smile about the averted disaster and the little luxuries South Africa offers.
BTW- Isitshixo is the Xhosa word for keys… I just didn’t want to give away the story in the title. :)
Beach Walk
I have had a bit of a rough week. I’ll go into the details at a later time, but I was frustrated and sad and just emotionally spent. I took the opportunity to take a nice walk along the beach. There is a trail that goes from my building to the stretch of lovely white-sand beaches that line the bay. Today is quite breezy, as it often is, but the sun is shining and it’s very warm. I think to myself that I should take advantage of it more often, and no better time than the present.
I walk the hundred yards or so over the sand trail that is lined with green desert bushes. Arriving at the beach, I turn right- towards Simons Town. I walk and walk. The Cape winds are a force to be reckoned with, although the wind gusts only seem to give me more energy. Even the barrage of tiny grains of white sand hitting my ankles seems to invigorate me. The weather is sunny and warm, but it is a weekday morning and I only see a few lone stragglers.
It appears that high tide was not too long ago, and the water is receding now. In its wake it has left all kinds of sea creatures. I bend over and scrutinize some of the remnants. It occurs to me that these are the remains of disregarded abodes, worn down splash after splash by the relentless tide. Others, however, continue to house live creatures. The creatures are slow to reveal themselves by propping up their beautifully shaped shells on their backs and creep along the sandy beach. Mostly, though, I see jellyfish and seaweed.
The jellyfish vary in size, but are about the size of a small fist that has been squashed into the sand. Their translucent bodies seem to have a bluish tint; some are brighter than others. As I see the jellyfish creatures lay listless on the sand, I get an odd feeling. I think a feeling of sympathy. There they lay in endless wait for the next tide to take them to their next destination. At least the cautious sea creatures can crawl up or down the beach. Or several seem to enjoy burrowing themselves in the sand. But the jellyfish existence, at least for these jellyfish, is entirely dependent upon the ocean tide.
I then feel grateful. I am grateful that I don’t have to wait for the tides to take me to my next destination. I am thankful that I can chose to enjoy the salty-sweet air during my walk on the beach and can then travel off the beach and onto the pavement of Muizenberg, where the sea air mixes with the savoury smell of the boerewors (South African sausage) vendor on the corner. I appreciate the transition of damp, squashy sand to the hard, hot concrete of the sidewalk. I revel in the fact that I have the choice and the independence to experience the vastness of life. Although that choice comes with great responsibility and sometimes grave consequences, that freedom offers an abundance of opportunities- and for that I am eternally grateful.
I walk the hundred yards or so over the sand trail that is lined with green desert bushes. Arriving at the beach, I turn right- towards Simons Town. I walk and walk. The Cape winds are a force to be reckoned with, although the wind gusts only seem to give me more energy. Even the barrage of tiny grains of white sand hitting my ankles seems to invigorate me. The weather is sunny and warm, but it is a weekday morning and I only see a few lone stragglers.
It appears that high tide was not too long ago, and the water is receding now. In its wake it has left all kinds of sea creatures. I bend over and scrutinize some of the remnants. It occurs to me that these are the remains of disregarded abodes, worn down splash after splash by the relentless tide. Others, however, continue to house live creatures. The creatures are slow to reveal themselves by propping up their beautifully shaped shells on their backs and creep along the sandy beach. Mostly, though, I see jellyfish and seaweed.
The jellyfish vary in size, but are about the size of a small fist that has been squashed into the sand. Their translucent bodies seem to have a bluish tint; some are brighter than others. As I see the jellyfish creatures lay listless on the sand, I get an odd feeling. I think a feeling of sympathy. There they lay in endless wait for the next tide to take them to their next destination. At least the cautious sea creatures can crawl up or down the beach. Or several seem to enjoy burrowing themselves in the sand. But the jellyfish existence, at least for these jellyfish, is entirely dependent upon the ocean tide.
I then feel grateful. I am grateful that I don’t have to wait for the tides to take me to my next destination. I am thankful that I can chose to enjoy the salty-sweet air during my walk on the beach and can then travel off the beach and onto the pavement of Muizenberg, where the sea air mixes with the savoury smell of the boerewors (South African sausage) vendor on the corner. I appreciate the transition of damp, squashy sand to the hard, hot concrete of the sidewalk. I revel in the fact that I have the choice and the independence to experience the vastness of life. Although that choice comes with great responsibility and sometimes grave consequences, that freedom offers an abundance of opportunities- and for that I am eternally grateful.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
