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.