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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)