The musk of braai smoke and sweet mixture of rooibos and coconut oil are the first memories of the morning as the days continue to get shorter and the nights clear cold. But we still stand over our fires, rubbing hands together over our meat late into the night. As exams come to a close and some of the international students begin to make their tracks back to the U.S., I say “sobanana” and continue on my epic journey with Alexis. Our latest adventures have had us squished on taxis (or mini buses as some call them) with absurd amounts of mamas and children as African house music bumps out the back speakers and we make our way to Gelvandale to feel the fresh hip hop as it comes straight out the mouths of the young Coloured men that stay there. This neighborhood sits at the top of the northern hills in Port Elizabeth and has view over the whole city as the sun sets over us and our vast philosophical conversations and some speculation of extraterrestrials. Conspiracy theory is a common topic of talk. The sky sears at the horizon and our potjie sits in a three-legged pot over our slow burning fire. This absolutely delicious concoction is a mixture of any and all vegetables one can muster, potatoes, meat and some mouth-watering spices. It simmers well past dusk and into a star spangled night for hours until the meat falls off the bone and burns our lips. I have happily gotten used to using my index and middle fingers to roll the food into bite size nibbles with the help of my thumb. This food is finger licking good. Unfortunately Gelvandale is not known for the hospitality that it consistently shows Alexis and I, but rather for its poverty, crime and informal settlement that shelters a population of immigrants. Many are shocked when I tell them that I am roaming those hills with friends who invited me to experience life on the other side.
These past four months have had me winding my self on several spools that I had little experience with previously. I found a nitch as a photographer that has provided ample opportunity for networking and leading me on a path to incredible experience. I have established myself as a woman who speaks her mind and still respects others opinions in a culture that this is not always readily accepted. Although this occasionally does not work in my favor, it has also allowed me to slip into tin shacks, wooden shelters and cement boxes that aren’t easily accessible for the average white woman. I am currently learning bit and pieces of three out of the eleven official languages here in South Africa to pay respects to those who welcome me into their homes. I consistently am smirking at my partner in adventure, Alexis, with disbelief at we are truly here.
My next adventures will take me on road trips with my family and then two girlfriends, Tania and Sadie, across this beautiful country. After numerous crazy stories are accomplished with these people I will be moving to Cape Town in August to begin my work at the District 6 Museum and hopefully starting up a local newspaper in Luwandle, a township right outside of CT. This will a be true test of my independence and knowledge of South African culture and history. Happy Youth Day kanene!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Abantwana
My maternal instincts were switched on heavily as entered Kwazakele, a township just east of my residence, and danced into a birthday party of two girls, one 10 year old and the other 1. It was another escapade of Alexis and I but this time we gathered four other American girls to join us as we found ourselves surrounded once more by the soulful beauty of Xhosa women singing. Losa and Sino were the lovelies of honor that Bantu’s Granny’s house was decked out for. Confetti covered the ground, cakes sat patiently in front of the even more patient children with birthday hats cocked over braids and mini afros. Mothers, Aunts and Grannies sat with babies strapped to their backs as the prayers were sung to praise the two young girls and make every hair on my body raise salute to the beauty of their song. Gifts were given, poppers popped and champagne shared before we were all released to the outdoors to toss play catch with home made balls and dance to house music for hours. Immediately I was covered in dirt, the sweet sweat that accompanies children and the humidity of the evening. I swayed under the weight of jiving girls upon my shoulders and slipped in to the splits to “sika icake”, just about the only move I could perform that impressed these little booty shakers. The street was covered in the chaos of joyful screams and laughter as us American women got down and learned how to jive and thetha in Xhosa from afternoon until the moon was high overhead. These children were so incredible and welcoming, only a few spoke English but that was no barrier in our playful communication. They taught us their multiple syllabic names that took complete concentration of the tongue and we had them singing super calafragalistic expialadocious. It was a cheek aching day that left me sore and blissful.
Considering that I am studying abroad, I thought I should mention the fact that I am preparing myself for exams that will be occupying the next three weeks of my life before I welcome my family to my life here in PE.
Considering that I am studying abroad, I thought I should mention the fact that I am preparing myself for exams that will be occupying the next three weeks of my life before I welcome my family to my life here in PE.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Female Friends At Last!
After nearly three months of making friends and adventures out of them, it has been made clear how much easier it is to befriend the gentle and rougher men alike and not the beautiful women of South Africa. They had the habit of making themselves scarce and “mildly” unapproachable to Alexis and I as we embarked upon escapades, constantly introducing ourselves to the curves of this country only to find that we weren’t wamkilekele (welcome)…yet. I can happily announce that recent events have altered our path to finding a group of women that can share the joy of foreign females and laugh at our differences rather than despise them. I can give my glorious guardian angel, Bantu, credit once again for introducing me to the most incredible experiences that I have ever had the pleasure to enjoy when he joined the forces of two white curly q’s with Lelethu and her sister Nothukela at Soul Elevator in P.E.’s opera house. Soul Elevator was a two-day event that displayed local fashion designers, hip hop artists, dancers, soul, jazz and blues singers and core-shaking poetry. Needless to say, I was already in heaven but when I heard these two women perform their poetry, my heart grew wings, fluttered into inspiration and I’ve been writing like mad a woman ever since. After massive applause and shared smiles, we were invited to share the festivities of Lelethu’s graduation the following Tuesday at her house. We were honored and eagerly accepted the offer. Tuesday rolled around as the weather transformed long seasons into hourly temperature changes and everyone seemed to fighting off the exhaustion and sickness that occurs from these days. But Bantu, Alexis and I trudged the two taxi rides (remember that these are white vans packed with 15 or so people, blasting house music) to be pleasantly surprised with a house full of proud sisis, bhutis, mamas, tatas, makhulus, tamkhulus and an umntwana, this baby girl had the softest little afro I’ve felt.
After politely shaking the hands of Lelethu’s brother’s wife, the magnificent cook of the feast would soon consume, we sat very out of place in a lounge occupied by the elders, purcussing and clicking their way into a conversation that remains so foreign to me. Then a thunder of horns came booming upon the house as Lelethu rolled up. The car stopped, she jumped out and we ran to greet to her. As if we were in a well-choreographed musical, everyone broke out into the same song and dance, all ages alike. Lex and I immediate jumped in with our attempted version, emphasizing our important role as the “clappers” as we could barely even pronounce most of the words they harmonized with grace. This beautifully proud Xhosa tradition paraded around the house and continued inside in the form of gospels and praises to the woman who had worked so hard for her degree and all those who had paved the path to make this all possible. Ancestors and martyrs were paid respect and we all ate large dinner portions; I did so with an umntwana on my lap, grabbing pieces of carrot, mashing them in her toothless mouth and kindly giving them back to me. Thanks kiddo. Then the age grades separated like water and oil as we young women snuck out of the presence of the head-dresses and weathered smiles and into Lelethu’s room where we drank ???, the traditional beer, out of a tin bucket and snuck glasses of wine between sips of the thick, smoky liquid that they have been brewing for thousands of years.
As usual, Alexis and I were stark white in a room full of smooth dark skin but it wasn’t the difference in appearance that was so apparent as the contrast of familial structure and celebratory tradition; once again culture was kickin’ in. They giggled about the men they dated, which were kept quite secret from their parents, and the liquor they consumed in confidence. They spoke honestly of their emotions; the only dancing around was the subject of whether or not they would raise their children the same way they themselves were brought up.
The neighborhood in which Lelethu lives was a white community during apartheid and thus the legacy continues as every other family in her street shows the history through skin color. This house is rich in Xhosa tradition with generations of laughter and prideful movement. The air is smooth with musk of meat and the everlasting sweetness of rooibos and vanilla. Although this is all so foreign, it is comfortable and welcoming to the two of us as we giggle our way through the rooms of thick-lipped smiles.
These are the good people I am going to miss with my most recent decision to move locations and take flight with new opportunities that I just cannot pass up… Explanations to come when the excitment has settled and the truth has surfaced!
After politely shaking the hands of Lelethu’s brother’s wife, the magnificent cook of the feast would soon consume, we sat very out of place in a lounge occupied by the elders, purcussing and clicking their way into a conversation that remains so foreign to me. Then a thunder of horns came booming upon the house as Lelethu rolled up. The car stopped, she jumped out and we ran to greet to her. As if we were in a well-choreographed musical, everyone broke out into the same song and dance, all ages alike. Lex and I immediate jumped in with our attempted version, emphasizing our important role as the “clappers” as we could barely even pronounce most of the words they harmonized with grace. This beautifully proud Xhosa tradition paraded around the house and continued inside in the form of gospels and praises to the woman who had worked so hard for her degree and all those who had paved the path to make this all possible. Ancestors and martyrs were paid respect and we all ate large dinner portions; I did so with an umntwana on my lap, grabbing pieces of carrot, mashing them in her toothless mouth and kindly giving them back to me. Thanks kiddo. Then the age grades separated like water and oil as we young women snuck out of the presence of the head-dresses and weathered smiles and into Lelethu’s room where we drank ???, the traditional beer, out of a tin bucket and snuck glasses of wine between sips of the thick, smoky liquid that they have been brewing for thousands of years.
As usual, Alexis and I were stark white in a room full of smooth dark skin but it wasn’t the difference in appearance that was so apparent as the contrast of familial structure and celebratory tradition; once again culture was kickin’ in. They giggled about the men they dated, which were kept quite secret from their parents, and the liquor they consumed in confidence. They spoke honestly of their emotions; the only dancing around was the subject of whether or not they would raise their children the same way they themselves were brought up.
The neighborhood in which Lelethu lives was a white community during apartheid and thus the legacy continues as every other family in her street shows the history through skin color. This house is rich in Xhosa tradition with generations of laughter and prideful movement. The air is smooth with musk of meat and the everlasting sweetness of rooibos and vanilla. Although this is all so foreign, it is comfortable and welcoming to the two of us as we giggle our way through the rooms of thick-lipped smiles.
These are the good people I am going to miss with my most recent decision to move locations and take flight with new opportunities that I just cannot pass up… Explanations to come when the excitment has settled and the truth has surfaced!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Uthetha noMaddy
So y’all know I love to dance, in fact I have probably shared numerous monumental moments with most of you on the dance floor. It is my therapy, the coping mechanism of choice for the good, the bad and the awkward situations that arise with new experiences. Here it is a way of life. The music of my new home is constant whether it is blasting out of a dusty speaker or vibrating out someone’s mouth, there is always a rhythm to groove to, and thus the dance party never ceases. In the car, at the gas station, strollin’ the streets, during my lectures, on the glass-covered floor of any given club, and the bathroom, which is anything and everything one can urinate on. The sound and movement continue like they have been for thousands of years, although the form is forever changing to acclimatize the new into the traditions of the past and future.
This weekend I jived with all sorts, attempting to keep up with the grind that falls so naturally into the hips and feet of these people. They had me line dancing, rolling in the dirt and breakin’ my back until the wee hours of the night blossomed mornings and I passed out with exhaustion, achy and joyful. I had my first experience with the township nightlife besides the hip-hop shows that I have been attending in Zwide. It all started in Motherwell early Saturday night with brandy and a multi-generational dance session that lasted hours until the clubs of New Brighton called us. It was of course Alexis and I that ventured into the scene of Africans that many would claim to be sketchy as all hell, being in the most impoverished part of the city, but when we weighed risk versus reward, it was obvious the victor. We stood out like two fishes in a desert, wiggling our way into the hearts and memories of those we encountered.
My second term of school has begun with great success as I discuss Voltaire and Rouseau at 8am, applied cultural ethics at 10 and what it means to be human midday.
My anthropology modules are as entertaining as they are varied. One class is 10 people, consisting of all South African social work majors with a young woman who sits with us as she teaches, instead of speaking at us from the front of the classroom. The air is just and affable, thus discussions are inclusive and innovative. A man who might as well be speaking Xhosa because his English is so thickly accented teaches my next anthro course. A full lecture hall of first years sits passing notes and giggling as the overhead changes and more definitions are projected. I laugh as the teacher negotiates test dates and class assignments all together on the same day. These South Africans really know how to gather a set of demands and reach the ultimate goal of procrastination and compromise with the professor.
I have just finished my costume for my “anything but clothes” birthday party for Andrea, another American from Maryland. I have created a stylish, and some how very French, outfit from garbage bags, lots of white tape, yarn, a scarf and an abalone shell. Oh yes, I also have a boa made from little balloons and my date is wearing a matching tuxedo from black garbage bags with white tape piping. I am too proud, eh? I am quite curious how the rest of the folks attend…cultural interpretation is always hysterical! Our groovin’ moves are bound to be bizarre at best!
So the weekend passed in a whirlwind of mostly naked beer-clutching fools (at my ABC party) and some seriously badass b-boy sessions (that’s break dancers for those who don’t know) under the florescence of an empty parking garage. I completed another photography gig for my school’s hip hop society where I yelled at rappers for making the same face in EVERY picture I took. I told them to use their imagination. They gave me the middle finger and looked like angry mannequins. It was quite a scene.
This Sunday I skipped church (oops) and enjoyed a delicious, Momma-cooked meal in Park Side, one of the Coloured communities here in Port Elizabeth. Yes, the politically correct term is Coloured, which I had one hell of a time getting used to. I still try to avoid the word all together because of our history in the States. But here it refers to the ancestors of the KhoeSaan people who flourished along the north west coast of South Africa before the first Dutch settlers came and forced them to breed a new race of honey brown skin Afrikaans speakers, a sister language to Dutch. Over time these people have developed their own culture and vernacular that stems from the original Afrikaans. Because of the legacy of apartheid here in South Africa, the neighborhoods are seriously segregated still so when I go to the Townships (the African neighborhoods) or Coloured ‘hoods, my white skin gets the “what the f**K” look, which I have oddly become accustomed to. I smile, introduce myself and charm most of them into friendship. More on the histories later…I need to nurse my health as usual on Monday.
This weekend I jived with all sorts, attempting to keep up with the grind that falls so naturally into the hips and feet of these people. They had me line dancing, rolling in the dirt and breakin’ my back until the wee hours of the night blossomed mornings and I passed out with exhaustion, achy and joyful. I had my first experience with the township nightlife besides the hip-hop shows that I have been attending in Zwide. It all started in Motherwell early Saturday night with brandy and a multi-generational dance session that lasted hours until the clubs of New Brighton called us. It was of course Alexis and I that ventured into the scene of Africans that many would claim to be sketchy as all hell, being in the most impoverished part of the city, but when we weighed risk versus reward, it was obvious the victor. We stood out like two fishes in a desert, wiggling our way into the hearts and memories of those we encountered.
My second term of school has begun with great success as I discuss Voltaire and Rouseau at 8am, applied cultural ethics at 10 and what it means to be human midday.
My anthropology modules are as entertaining as they are varied. One class is 10 people, consisting of all South African social work majors with a young woman who sits with us as she teaches, instead of speaking at us from the front of the classroom. The air is just and affable, thus discussions are inclusive and innovative. A man who might as well be speaking Xhosa because his English is so thickly accented teaches my next anthro course. A full lecture hall of first years sits passing notes and giggling as the overhead changes and more definitions are projected. I laugh as the teacher negotiates test dates and class assignments all together on the same day. These South Africans really know how to gather a set of demands and reach the ultimate goal of procrastination and compromise with the professor.
I have just finished my costume for my “anything but clothes” birthday party for Andrea, another American from Maryland. I have created a stylish, and some how very French, outfit from garbage bags, lots of white tape, yarn, a scarf and an abalone shell. Oh yes, I also have a boa made from little balloons and my date is wearing a matching tuxedo from black garbage bags with white tape piping. I am too proud, eh? I am quite curious how the rest of the folks attend…cultural interpretation is always hysterical! Our groovin’ moves are bound to be bizarre at best!
So the weekend passed in a whirlwind of mostly naked beer-clutching fools (at my ABC party) and some seriously badass b-boy sessions (that’s break dancers for those who don’t know) under the florescence of an empty parking garage. I completed another photography gig for my school’s hip hop society where I yelled at rappers for making the same face in EVERY picture I took. I told them to use their imagination. They gave me the middle finger and looked like angry mannequins. It was quite a scene.
This Sunday I skipped church (oops) and enjoyed a delicious, Momma-cooked meal in Park Side, one of the Coloured communities here in Port Elizabeth. Yes, the politically correct term is Coloured, which I had one hell of a time getting used to. I still try to avoid the word all together because of our history in the States. But here it refers to the ancestors of the KhoeSaan people who flourished along the north west coast of South Africa before the first Dutch settlers came and forced them to breed a new race of honey brown skin Afrikaans speakers, a sister language to Dutch. Over time these people have developed their own culture and vernacular that stems from the original Afrikaans. Because of the legacy of apartheid here in South Africa, the neighborhoods are seriously segregated still so when I go to the Townships (the African neighborhoods) or Coloured ‘hoods, my white skin gets the “what the f**K” look, which I have oddly become accustomed to. I smile, introduce myself and charm most of them into friendship. More on the histories later…I need to nurse my health as usual on Monday.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Adrenaline
Adrenaline is an enormous pump of goosebumps that you can feel flow from your heart through every artery and vein till it hits the tip of toe and finger, bounces back in less than an instant and focuses the brain on the sight, sound and sensation of a startling action. I felt it rebound against the restriction of my skin many times thus far…two months, over a dozen cities, more friends than I can remember the names of and moments upon moments of joy. The adrenaline that has been so constant in my South African adventures has been caused by the excitement of both ecstasy and fright. At the end of the day, both root the smile that brews when I tell the story around fire, letting my hair soak up the scent of musky Braai while I get my fingers sticky with smoky meat. I’ve jumped off Bloukrans Bridge, the highest bungee jump in the world at a wicked 708 foot drop. I’ve taken deep breaths of immensely different cultures as I stumble into feasts, rhythms, conversation and spirits of other tongues. I’ve watched the sun set as we rolled over the mountain range that surrounds Cape Town. I’ve climbed up Table Mountain 1000 meters in the air, gripping the trees, dirt and stone like a baboon. I’ve danced to beautiful bands afterwards in little restaurants and held my bag safe from pickpockets as I swayed to the freedom of the annual Jazz Fest in Green Market Square. My calves were burning and my joints felt like they had aged decades but music that good needed the applause of a moving body. My eyes couldn’t be wide enough to watch the lush peaks of the Garden Route pass along the coast of the Western Cape. I couldn’t squint hard enough to see the detail of orange and gray stones swirl jagged rain-induced miracles as we left the absolutely mandatory Cape Town along the N2, inland across Afrikaner farm towns and vineyards that put Sonoma to shame. Many of my adventures have been accompanied with my P.I.C. (partner in crime), Alexis, another Suzy-Q San Franciscian who laughs the dance and walks the talk. My solo stride will truly be tested in month’s time when I huddle on the red-eye bus ride from Port Elizabeth to Stellenboch on the journey to my mentor and former teacher at SF State, Trevor Getz, and his family. There I will do a bit of poking around the Afrikaner lifestyle while I drink their wine, eat their meat, butcher their language and carefully word my questions about the ever-intriguing past. Then it’s through the townships and over the hills to Long Street to make friends with the fabric sellers and sewing vendors. My fingers are itching to stretch cloth and stitch something. They have been kept mildly busy with shooting the images I’ve experienced through the means of my most beloved camera and the occasional grit of clay but man! I could really enjoy the meditative repetition of a sewing machine pounding a pattern in to place…and the most wonderful result of a new garment!
Love and happiness is what it is…there’s nothin’ wrong with it but it will drain you, especially if it pulls your heart and limbs across continents. Whew. It’s been a few minutes of deep breathing and remembering why I am here, by myself, learning what the purest form of Maddy can bring to the red dirt slate...I sleep beneath many roofs but the sky that always covers my heart continues to be a thick band of Milky Way stars and a reggae rhythm that keeps my shoulders up beat.
Love and happiness is what it is…there’s nothin’ wrong with it but it will drain you, especially if it pulls your heart and limbs across continents. Whew. It’s been a few minutes of deep breathing and remembering why I am here, by myself, learning what the purest form of Maddy can bring to the red dirt slate...I sleep beneath many roofs but the sky that always covers my heart continues to be a thick band of Milky Way stars and a reggae rhythm that keeps my shoulders up beat.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Blissful Adventures
It all began in the ceramics studio that I stroll into at my own will to play with clay and sculpt a better understanding of Xhosa culture through the help of my friends, Bantu, Scooby, Cici (her name has got some serious clicks) and Bianca. I get my hands dirty as they tell me stories of passage rights, cow intestines and bride price. We sit in the same shorts and shirts, going to the same school and living to create more positive future for all through the various forms of expression and yet their experience is far different than mine. So I asked to be shown the way of the Xhosa and Bantu, being the absolutely wonderful man he is, did just that.
After a brief but wonderful tour of the townships with my Xhosa professor the previous day, Bantu met Alexis (my partner in crime) and I at the boardwalk to escort us the far distance to the location. We piled into the steamy, white combis (or van for you yanks) and bobbed our heads to the thick percussion of South African drums that blasted through the stereo. Bantu’s voice imitated the music with his rhythmic pronunciation of Xhosa as he negotiated the destination with the driver. We got on and off several combis and stumbled through the “bus stations”, or what I would rather call the most hectic parking lots ever. It was as soon as we left Summerstrand, the suburb I live in, that we began to get noticed as two white girls but it wasn’t until we reached New Brighton, the township Bantu lives in, that I really felt like man, I’m in Africa.
Not many white people visit the townships and informal settlements where the houses are built from bits of wood, tin and plaster, so the sight of Alexis and I with our crazy curly hair, sun burnt skin and big, cheeky smiles was quite a head turner. The kids laughed and pointed, the elder women held us close to their big bosoms and the men would not let us leave with out a dance…or the promise that we would return soon. I was quickly adopted by the sweetest lady who must have been close to ninety years old; we embraced and the deal was settled, I was to come back to share the joys of laughter and food as her child. Mind you, this all occurred in two minutes flat if that. I felt extremely honored.
I was promptly introduced to Bantu’s granny, a beautiful woman curvaceously fit into matching green flowered dress and head wrap. She was absolutely incredible. Not only did she welcome us into her home, cook us a traditional South African meal of cow intestines, mealy and samp and beans, but she also loaned two of her gorgeous beaded necklaces to us girls for the day. I attempted to show my gratitude through hugs and pictures but it hardly did her justice. I proceeded to meet all of Batnu’s family: bhutis (brothers), sisis (sisters), nieces, nephews and aunties. They all grinned, utterly pleased with the fact that we wanted to visit and learn more about their culture.
Bantu was a wonderful tour guide leading us through these informal bars to taste the “illegal beer” of the townships, introducing us to his friends who whole-heartedly wanted to share their experience of being Xhosa with us. Again, the people were giggling at the odd sight of us girls with our ridiculously big smirks but they all wanted to greet the female foreigners with a passionate kindness as we passed through this small and boisterous town.
As the day grilled on with the intense humidity and gray-skied heat, we stumbled upon a traditional ceremony of a young woman who was passing her first level of her quest to become a healer, or “witch doctor”. They ushered us into a tiny room, packed with people wearing red skirts and tons of beads, and a wide-eyed goat that instinctively knew its time was nearly up. The ceremony was moved outside for the burning of a few liquids and herbs, all of which I cannot pronounce, dancing and the sacrificing of the animal. It was beautiful and gruesome. The blood poured out and we danced, stomping our feet into the dust of the township ground as the drums beat and I sweat heavily. To finish it all off, we drank more of the thick, creamy beer out of bowls and topped it all with a shot of brandy. My stomach didn’t know what to make of this…but it toughed it out and keep me keen for the most beautiful part of the whole day.
Bantu then lead us into a small living room, a 2 meter by 4 meter space where a few of his friends sat calmly. Music played through the television and as soon as we were sat, they began to sing. They ran through the Xhosa song once with the TV on then it was shut off and the acapella session began. Their voices ran through my system forcefully stunning as I attempted to breath but was caught by tears and the undeniable soul that they portrayed through song. I cried, holding Alexis’s hand in that small room, swaying to the spirit of Xhosa. I had never heard anyone sing so gorgeously in my life, let alone a whole group of them. When they finished and opened their eyes, they just nodded and graciously accepted our applaud. Although I can hardly convey the experience through words to you all, I assure you it was a day I will remember for the rest of this lifetime…
To make the Saturday even more eventful, I stepped out of my dusty flip-flops and into my shiny heels for the NMMU Hip Hop Society’s extravaganza at Gondwanas. The music rocked and we rolled to sound of local MC’s and some familiar beats from home. The dancing was epic and I became thoroughly integrated into the scene on account of my photographer status. I was VIP and loving it. The event landed me the job of official photographer for the Society and creative mastermind to future events. Just in case you didn’t know it yet, I’m in heaven.
After a brief but wonderful tour of the townships with my Xhosa professor the previous day, Bantu met Alexis (my partner in crime) and I at the boardwalk to escort us the far distance to the location. We piled into the steamy, white combis (or van for you yanks) and bobbed our heads to the thick percussion of South African drums that blasted through the stereo. Bantu’s voice imitated the music with his rhythmic pronunciation of Xhosa as he negotiated the destination with the driver. We got on and off several combis and stumbled through the “bus stations”, or what I would rather call the most hectic parking lots ever. It was as soon as we left Summerstrand, the suburb I live in, that we began to get noticed as two white girls but it wasn’t until we reached New Brighton, the township Bantu lives in, that I really felt like man, I’m in Africa.
Not many white people visit the townships and informal settlements where the houses are built from bits of wood, tin and plaster, so the sight of Alexis and I with our crazy curly hair, sun burnt skin and big, cheeky smiles was quite a head turner. The kids laughed and pointed, the elder women held us close to their big bosoms and the men would not let us leave with out a dance…or the promise that we would return soon. I was quickly adopted by the sweetest lady who must have been close to ninety years old; we embraced and the deal was settled, I was to come back to share the joys of laughter and food as her child. Mind you, this all occurred in two minutes flat if that. I felt extremely honored.
I was promptly introduced to Bantu’s granny, a beautiful woman curvaceously fit into matching green flowered dress and head wrap. She was absolutely incredible. Not only did she welcome us into her home, cook us a traditional South African meal of cow intestines, mealy and samp and beans, but she also loaned two of her gorgeous beaded necklaces to us girls for the day. I attempted to show my gratitude through hugs and pictures but it hardly did her justice. I proceeded to meet all of Batnu’s family: bhutis (brothers), sisis (sisters), nieces, nephews and aunties. They all grinned, utterly pleased with the fact that we wanted to visit and learn more about their culture.
Bantu was a wonderful tour guide leading us through these informal bars to taste the “illegal beer” of the townships, introducing us to his friends who whole-heartedly wanted to share their experience of being Xhosa with us. Again, the people were giggling at the odd sight of us girls with our ridiculously big smirks but they all wanted to greet the female foreigners with a passionate kindness as we passed through this small and boisterous town.
As the day grilled on with the intense humidity and gray-skied heat, we stumbled upon a traditional ceremony of a young woman who was passing her first level of her quest to become a healer, or “witch doctor”. They ushered us into a tiny room, packed with people wearing red skirts and tons of beads, and a wide-eyed goat that instinctively knew its time was nearly up. The ceremony was moved outside for the burning of a few liquids and herbs, all of which I cannot pronounce, dancing and the sacrificing of the animal. It was beautiful and gruesome. The blood poured out and we danced, stomping our feet into the dust of the township ground as the drums beat and I sweat heavily. To finish it all off, we drank more of the thick, creamy beer out of bowls and topped it all with a shot of brandy. My stomach didn’t know what to make of this…but it toughed it out and keep me keen for the most beautiful part of the whole day.
Bantu then lead us into a small living room, a 2 meter by 4 meter space where a few of his friends sat calmly. Music played through the television and as soon as we were sat, they began to sing. They ran through the Xhosa song once with the TV on then it was shut off and the acapella session began. Their voices ran through my system forcefully stunning as I attempted to breath but was caught by tears and the undeniable soul that they portrayed through song. I cried, holding Alexis’s hand in that small room, swaying to the spirit of Xhosa. I had never heard anyone sing so gorgeously in my life, let alone a whole group of them. When they finished and opened their eyes, they just nodded and graciously accepted our applaud. Although I can hardly convey the experience through words to you all, I assure you it was a day I will remember for the rest of this lifetime…
To make the Saturday even more eventful, I stepped out of my dusty flip-flops and into my shiny heels for the NMMU Hip Hop Society’s extravaganza at Gondwanas. The music rocked and we rolled to sound of local MC’s and some familiar beats from home. The dancing was epic and I became thoroughly integrated into the scene on account of my photographer status. I was VIP and loving it. The event landed me the job of official photographer for the Society and creative mastermind to future events. Just in case you didn’t know it yet, I’m in heaven.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Introductions.
The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of culture shock and academic overload. Living in a house with six Germans has me sitting at our dinner table nightly, following the conversation with my eyes, trying to read body language and inflection as if I was observing animals out of habitat. Then I exit the German household after learning a few dirty phrases and strut into a street with a Xhosan percussion of clicks and honks from white mini-buses with “sexual seduction” or “will the real slim shady please stand up” printed across the front. Modernity has really taken hold in some odd forms… Then the Afrkaans chimes in from behind thick gates, pulsing with electricity. This blends nicely with the breeze of ocean, cooling from the back of the neck down to my dusty toes. I walk a mile to school and there the other Bantu languages plus pretty much every other European tongue slips into the race of who can express themselves quicker. I slither between the noise and try to make sense of action incorporated with accents. To be honest, it’s far beyond confusing.
The politics of being human caught up with me as I stood in a local karaoke bar, sweaty with the post performance glow of “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg” by The Temptations. I had just been rejected from my occasional training at the fashion department on the 2nd Avenue campus in PE, apparetnly the program is far too rigorous to be enrolled in any other classes. My disappointment was tremendous. I attempted to ease the pain with a dress, a drink and some too true red lipstick: the classic Maddy remedy. I ended up chatting with a lovely Xhosan man when an Afrikaaner decided to pour an entire pint down my back. I was not pleased so I attempted to retaliate with a beer pour down his extensive torso but I was returned with a quick twist of the wrist and a shove to the ground. He told me, “to know my place.” I told him to go to hell and left in a furry of frustration and disappointment. I found myself, once again amazed at the blantent attempt to keep the "old South Africa" alive with the mentality of apartheid. It feels like traveling back in time...but its so currant and stands so aggressively in your face from nights out on the town to class the following morning. Its a vibration that shakes through everything.
The next week followed me with decades of notes on South African history of group rights and multi-nationalism pride. It was, for the lack of a better word, weird. I traversed past the monkeys on campus, clutching my apple and into the brilliance of weekend that lead me to my first African hip hop show and a pod of 50 plus dolphins, playing in the warmth of a cloudless morning.
Zwede provided me with raw, clean material for so many stories but one truly stuck out among the up and coming African rappers of this country. This was my first African hip hop show. it was African culture influenced by African-American culture which was in turn inspired by African culture. Modernity once again, huh? It was beautiful. There were three mics, two guitars and more talent in the smallest venue I’ve ever seen. I spent six hours enjoying the company of this township and I would like to think it could say the same. I was properly introduced to AZAPO and the art of being African in South Africa…a conversation I will never forget. I wont go into detail because the whole afternoon and evening was fuzzy with the notion that change is occurring so rapidly that most times we will never catch up. I left with my Xhosa name: Ncmisa, which means “the one that makes you smile”. Acceptance has got me floating and the weight of cement rubble and tin shacks has pushed me back down to the sizzling grill of South African life.
The adventure took yet another turn when I added ceramics and I was introduced to a fully South African art class, exploring the inspirations of the beach onto molded platters for future occasions. These people are teaching me Xhosa, humor and how to sing among traditional African songs. They are awesome and one of their grandmothers is cooking me dinner next weekend. Brilliant.
The politics of being human caught up with me as I stood in a local karaoke bar, sweaty with the post performance glow of “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg” by The Temptations. I had just been rejected from my occasional training at the fashion department on the 2nd Avenue campus in PE, apparetnly the program is far too rigorous to be enrolled in any other classes. My disappointment was tremendous. I attempted to ease the pain with a dress, a drink and some too true red lipstick: the classic Maddy remedy. I ended up chatting with a lovely Xhosan man when an Afrikaaner decided to pour an entire pint down my back. I was not pleased so I attempted to retaliate with a beer pour down his extensive torso but I was returned with a quick twist of the wrist and a shove to the ground. He told me, “to know my place.” I told him to go to hell and left in a furry of frustration and disappointment. I found myself, once again amazed at the blantent attempt to keep the "old South Africa" alive with the mentality of apartheid. It feels like traveling back in time...but its so currant and stands so aggressively in your face from nights out on the town to class the following morning. Its a vibration that shakes through everything.
The next week followed me with decades of notes on South African history of group rights and multi-nationalism pride. It was, for the lack of a better word, weird. I traversed past the monkeys on campus, clutching my apple and into the brilliance of weekend that lead me to my first African hip hop show and a pod of 50 plus dolphins, playing in the warmth of a cloudless morning.
Zwede provided me with raw, clean material for so many stories but one truly stuck out among the up and coming African rappers of this country. This was my first African hip hop show. it was African culture influenced by African-American culture which was in turn inspired by African culture. Modernity once again, huh? It was beautiful. There were three mics, two guitars and more talent in the smallest venue I’ve ever seen. I spent six hours enjoying the company of this township and I would like to think it could say the same. I was properly introduced to AZAPO and the art of being African in South Africa…a conversation I will never forget. I wont go into detail because the whole afternoon and evening was fuzzy with the notion that change is occurring so rapidly that most times we will never catch up. I left with my Xhosa name: Ncmisa, which means “the one that makes you smile”. Acceptance has got me floating and the weight of cement rubble and tin shacks has pushed me back down to the sizzling grill of South African life.
The adventure took yet another turn when I added ceramics and I was introduced to a fully South African art class, exploring the inspirations of the beach onto molded platters for future occasions. These people are teaching me Xhosa, humor and how to sing among traditional African songs. They are awesome and one of their grandmothers is cooking me dinner next weekend. Brilliant.
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