Makoti

I keep saying that I want a Zulu wedding because I love how inclusive it is—anyone who wants to come and share your happiness, comes. Unfortunately this is not really possible in the States. Where is it not likely that the entire neighborhood and all female friends are likely to spend the entire weekend happily cooking for all these people.
If the wedding in itself is not hard to bring state-side, the traditions are. I already told you all about beading ucu and putting up the white flag, paying labola and the umbondo ceremony, but I seemed to have forgotten an important part of this process—being a makhoti. Perhaps I let this slip my mind because if future in-laws did decide they wanted to do things Zulu-style, I would be in trouble.
Before a woman is to become a man’s wife, she endures the makhoti period. In essence, I guess “makhoti” could stand in for the western “fiancé,” but it comes with more responsibility. It is a trial period for the wife-to-be, living alone with her future in-laws and abiding by their every wish. This includes waking up early every morning to make their tea, iron their clothes, draw their baths. Tasks can include re-plastering their floors—floors that are made by relayering it with cow dung every year. The makhoti answers to her in-laws every beck and call. If they chose, their makhoti can become close to a slave, but I am sure they are usually not that cruel. This lasts until the parents decide that the bride-to-be is a fit for their family and can handle the tasks that might await her.
Eek! It is kind of funny, but probably because I don’t have to do it [I don’t think?].

What made me think of this was last Sunday at Mtho’s party. I wore a scarf on my head, which traditionally married women are to wear, but also makhotis—and with my young face, I looked like I was a makhoti, as all the older women insisted on telling me. I wrapped my hair because 1. I couldn’t figure out how to wash my hair while crouching in that little tub and trying to bathe myself, and 2. because if I showed all the signs of being married, perhaps no one [i.e. men] would talk to me.
Well, my plan was only a bit successful as a guy being introduced to me said, “Ngiyakuthanda” within 30 seconds of shaking hands, expressing his love for me before proposing. Of course he was joking. But his mother, who I met a few hours later, was not.
“Hello, I am Denti. I would like to be your friend. Can we exchange phone numbers?” phone numbers are exchanged. “That right there is my son.” I notice her pointing to the guy with the machete, hacking at the slaughtered cow, and then realize he is the same guy who proposed to me earlier. “Yes, my son. That is my son. He is very nice, yes, very nice. He is going to the University of Natal! To get his degree! Yes, yes. That is my son, right there. You see him? He is strong. Very, very strong. Did you meet my son?” A smile from her as she takes my hand and leads me closer to the skinned cow and the young man cutting it. “Yes, right here, this is my son. Very nice, very strong.”

Weekend Update: Last Weekend in KwaZulu Natal!

Let’s start with Friday. On Friday I officially said goodbye to the Thandanani staff. I gave a presentation on Thandanani as an organization and what improvements I felt could be made—this included recommendations for new volunteers and staff members in the future [these were per the director’s request]. Then I went into the more personal impact my experience had on me, called “Lessons from Thandanani: Things I didn’t know to expect.” This included expecting friends, expecting family, expecting hardships, expecting changes, expecting the unexpected… overall, I tried to convey what I had learned and applaud them for the work that they do. I ended my presentation with a R3,000 [$400 USD] donation to Thandanani’s community projects in Snathing, where I had done the Umhlaba Wami workshops. Much of the donated money came from donations to the Umhlaba Wami program, so for those of you who contributed, thank you. :)


The staff responded with memories we shared, and positive words about me being there. I am leaving knowing that I actually made an impact, and very happy that I came. I really am going to miss the comfort and the friendships made, and especially the work that I was doing in the communities. Below you see a picture with most all of the staff at Thandanani that day… and you can see why they call me “the mlungu” [white person], despite the fact that I think my skin is pretty tan.

Agnes, a staff member at Thandanani, decided that she wanted to take me home that weekend. We went to her house in the township of Dambuza, where I had gone with her in the beginning of my stay to do Thandanani home visits with caregivers. The next night we went to Elanskop, a more rural township where her husband lives and a place where the frost bite of winter is even more apparent. I learned the ins and outs of fetching water and pit toilets, and how to cook Zulu food [pap, steamed bread (aka “dumplings), cow intestines, and cow stomach lining…. Yum?]. I also realized I had bathing troubles—in Indonesia [volunteered as an English teacher there, summer of 2006] things were quite easy as there is a bucket of water with a cup and you pour the water over you like a shower. The water splashes all over the floor and flows into the drain. In both places you warm the water up in the kettle so you have some hot water. But here, you actually stand in your bucket, and you are bathing in the middle of the bedroom, so you cannot splash all over the floor. Plus, it is a freezing cold 4-degrees Celsius… and you are standing unclothed in a bucket, desperately trying to figure out how to not splash on the floor while still managing to wash anything above your ankles.

On Sunday we went to Mthobisi’s house [another Thandanani staff member] for a function. Here is a way that not knowing about a culture can make you feel pretty stupid. A conversation with Mthobisi on Friday:
Brittan: Hey! I am going with Agnes and Jilleth to your party on Sunday!
Mtho: Really? That’s great, gal.
Brittan: So, what is it for exactly?
Mtho: It is my sister’s unveiling.
Brittan: So what is that? A coming of age party? Something to do with a wedding?
Mtho: No, no gal. My sister is coming home.
Brittan: Oh! So should I have an unveiling when I go back to the States? Yay! I get a party!
Mtho: What? No, no. Gal, you’re crazy.
Brittan: But I wanted a party. And I am coming home, too. So I should have an unveiling.
Mtho: No, an unveiling in my culture with a year after someone dies, you unveil their tombstone and slaughter a cow. My sister is dead, gal.
Brittan: Oh.
Yes, I felt stupid. Fortunately, we all laughed it off. Maybe I shouldn’t ask so many questions.

Mtho’s house was bulging with people when we got there on Sunday. Hundreds of people crammed into a tiny space, and on one side everyone seemed to be wearing lots of white. It is because her mom is Shembe, a very traditional Zulu religion, and they wear white—being Shembe is also why she had to have the celebration on Sunday [Father’s Day], because the Shembe do not work on Saturdays, and this would have included cooking. The Shembe women wear beautifully beaded white hats, and with so many of them around you cannot miss them. As they left, they danced away from the house with a guy playing a drum [practically made with duct tape, hitting it with an empty Coke bottle], and two girls in white playing a long horn, looking like an elongated metal vuvuzela [the Shembe claim they were the originators of the vuvuzela]. They kind of looked like the angel Moroni on top of LDS temples. The sound was simple, yet really awesome.

Unfortunately [or, perhaps fortunately] I missed the ceremonial stuff, which included the slaughtering of a cow. I watched a sheep get slaughtered at Thabani’s sister’s umbondo, but I didn’t know if I could handle a cow. But I ate the cow, and it tasted quite good. The room I was sitting in was next to the room that had the carved cow meat in there, and every time someone walked in and out of the door [which was every few seconds], I got a whiff of the raw meat smell. I couldn’t even feel sad for myself, because all this was happening in someone’s bedroom, and I have a feeling that their clothes and will smell of slaughtered cow for a very long time.

It was a good last weekend in KwaZulu Natal. I went to church that evening and said goodbye to everyone, except my Bible study group which I invited over for pizza on Wednesday. Ah! My last Sunday! This Friday I take a bus to Johannesburg, and a week later I am on a plane to America! Wow.


I know so many of you are itching for all the updates from my camping trip. Well… it will come in due time, but perhaps not until I get back to the States where I can sit in the library for hours on end and use their wireless internet to upload all the [bajillions] of photos.

Umbondo

Sorry I am writing about this a few weeks late. It is because I wanted to have pictures so I had to wait until I had a the chance to go to an internet cafe.
So a few weeks ago Thabani asked me if I wanted to go with him on the 6th of February for his sister's "pre-wedding thing." That was about all the detail I had about the occasion, but I said yes nonetheless. I had no idea what I was really getting myself into, but I was ready and waiting at 7am on Saturday morning. I jumped into the front of his truck where I saw in the middle, squished between the slim Thabani and is very large wife, the stick shift between my legs. A hot and sweaty day, we drove for what seemed like hours past small towns and into rural villages with a truckload of food we had picked up before.

Thabani parked the truck load of food on the top of the hill and all the women got out of the kombis. One by one they picked up bags of beans, rice, samp, pap, butternut, and even full crates of glass-bottled soda to put on their heads. I had the cry corn kernels of samp and flour placed on my head and I joined the line of women as we walked down the dirt road to the house of the groom. Apparently you can't just drive the food down, the women have to carry the gifts over there. This ceremony comes after the father of the groom gives labola to the brides family; this time, the brides family is giving gifts to the grooms. The women I followed not only perfectly balanced these things on their heads while wearing heels, the managed to sing and dance while they were at it. Every time we got to the grooms house the gogos there would great us with ululations and take the food from us with smiles. The men sat back and watched. This ceremony, as I am told, is a "woman thing."

The bride-to-be entered the family's rondeval on her knees, holding the hand of her young son who clenched to the traditional beadwork around her waist. The women all sat on the floor against the wall as the few men that were there sat in the chairs, drinking Zulu beer out of the traditional pot. And like every Zulu occassion, there was song. There was dance. And there was food.

I spent most of the time sweating to death as I sat on the floor of that swealtering hot rondeval. I didn't really know what was going on because everyone was speaking Zulu, but I asked questions and enjoyed learning about it. At one point they brought in a sheep. "Oh dear," I thought as I watched the poor guy shake uncontrollably in fright, "he definitely knows these are these last minutes." I secretly hoped that this was a leftover part of the labola and maybe they were just presenting the terrified animal to the family. Nope. This guy was for dinner. They took him to the back, out of site from all the women [although they told me to come along for the "cultural experience"] and the sheep was so scared that they ended up having to carry him because he wouldn't move. He knew. And a few minutes later he was no more.

Now I will admit, watching this process really changed my opinion on the "barbaric slaughtering of animals in African culture." First of all, they didn't kill the sheep just for the sake of it-- he was dinner. Just... fresh dinner, as opposed to the kind you may get from the freezer in the grocery store that was, oh, 45 minutes away? Secondly, they tried to get it over as fast and painless as possible. There was no ceremonial torture-- they laid the sheep on its side, one guy held its front legs, one held its back, one held its head, and the other cut through its throat as fast as humanly possible. Pain was minimal considering the resources available. It didn't stop me from thinking that the desperating baaaing from the corn fields a few hours later was that of a sheep looking for its friend, and realizing he wasn't coming back. Call me dramatic, but I really believe that.

Anyway, after the sheep was killed, sheered, and cooked, it came back in the rondeval and the cut the meat off the bones and served it to us with steamed Zulu bread and salt. And I ate it. Didn't like it much, though. Only had a small piece.

The father of the groom later came with some part of the intestine, the "bile" or something, and pinned it to the bride's clothes with some money. Eww. Haha.

I was really happy to be able to be a part of something like this. I love learning about other cultures, and as you saw from the Valentine's Day post, the courting process into marriage is pretty elaborate. But when you go through so much trouble to get married, this process sometimes taking years, divorce is nearly unheard of and marriage is much more valued. I like that.

Here are the pictures I took from that day in slideshow form... I will warn you that some of the pictures are graphic and I advise sensitive viewers to close their eyes. :)

I'm Married!!!

... or at least that is what I have been telling people today. [For all of you whose heart stopped upon reading the title of this blog, you can breathe now.]

Today I went with Thabani and family to a pre-wedding celebration [that I will talk about in another post]. I make myself look decent, which I rarely do here, and Thabani greets me by saying, "Oh, you are definitely getting a husband today." "I'd rather not," is my instant reply.
As I sat squashed between Thabani and his rather large wife, the stick shift between my legs, I brainstorm how to get out of this situation if it comes up. Obviously saying "Nginalo isoka [I have a boyfriend]" has yet to work, because the reply is usually about how I can have a South African boyfriend and he will never know. Maybe I should say, "I'm only 22." No... that means absolutely nothing. I could pretend that I am homosexual, but that could actually get you killed depending on who you tell. Suddenly, it dawns on me. Duh. I'm already married.Why didn't I think of this before?
"If anyone asks," I announce, "I'm married. Happily married. For the last two years."

Today I am sitting outside the rondavel, playing with 9-year old Nomcebo, when I am approached again by a stumbling man who obviously partook in the ceremonious men-drinking-until-they-can't-stand routine today. He stops to shake my hand, and for the second time today he holds on to it for nearly a minute. "Why are you so beautiful?" He asks. I just try to politely smile. "Are you married?"
"Yes."
"Where is your husband?"
"He's not here at the moment."
"Where is your husband? He isn't here?"
"No."
"Does he know how beautiful you are? He is a lucky man."
"Thank you."
"Where do you live?"
"In town. Very far away."
"I live close. Do you want to see my house?"
"No, thank you."
"Do you want to see my house? It is close. Come to my house."
"Not today."
"You know, when you talk, you sound like Mary J. Blige."
[[I have a confused look.]]
"Really. You are like Mary J. Blige."
"...Thanks?"
"I love you. I really love you."
"Thank you."
[[He looks hurt]] "But you cannot deny true love. I love you." He then stumbles over to the corn field/chicken coop/trash area in front of me, whips it out and pees, all the while looking over his shoulder winking at me. "Too bad you aren't married to me."

Was that a success? I think it was. This continued to have similar results throughout the day.

The picture above is just a teaser to a blog update about today. I am going to wait until I can get to an internet cafe so I can put pictures in properly!

"Ncese!"

Today, like every day this week, started off with blistering heat and is ending in rain [and probably some major thunder, lightning and wind tonight]. As I walked to the internet cafe, I noticed that about 70% of the sidewalk is incredibly slippery-- I am wearing some old and very worn-out sandals that I got from the Payless clearance in 2008 [I had two pairs of these cheap sandals, you know to even out the wear and tear, but someone with big feet stepped on my sandal and broke it and still owes me a pair of sandals... you know who you are!]. Anyway, as I am walking I am slipping and sliding across the sidewalk, trying to be careful to step on the sidewalk squares with more rocks but unsuccessfully sliding across the slick ones. At one point I have a pretty large slip and I hear someone from about 30 meters away yell, "Sorry!"
Obviously this young lady has nothing to do with my slipping: she didn't put the treadless sandals on my feet, she didn't summon the rain, she didn't lay the sidewalk concrete, and she didn't direct my footsteps... yet she said "Sorry!" and this is very, very common in South Africa.
It is funny how manners and etiquette differ in different places. When I came here I was surprised to the silent response when I would sneeze... I could sneeze in a room of a hundred people and not one person would say, "bless you." This, to me, was weird. To them, not so much... sneezing is just as natural as yawning, perhaps as blinking and swallowing... why make a special acception and acknowledge it? To me, the lack of response might even be considered rude...
... But then again, perhaps they think it is rude when I fail to say "sorry" or the Zulu "ncese" whenever someone drops something, says something sad, trips over something, hurts themself, etc. etc. etc. I spent the first few months here being confused when people would say, "so sorry" when I mentioned something trivial and unrelated to them, such as a toad in my kitchen, and I always would reply, "it's okay, you didn't put it there/it's not your fault." But 3 months later, I am realizing that isn't it-- people here don't only say sorry as an apology for something they have done, but also as sympathy or concern for all the little things that could bother you. I may think they are rude for not taking notice of my occassional sneeze, but in reality as long as I am in South Africa I am the rude one for not caring about the unfortunate things in their lives.
It's just a different culture.

Something that I really admire here is the respect children have for adults. In the Zulu culture a child is required to say hello to any passing adult [although this standard is being compromised by the need for children to now beware of strangers]. Forthe most part, many children do not talk back to adults or question them and quickly learn to do what they are told [I also attribute this to prevailing physical methods of discipline]. When a child walks pass an adult, they at least mutter "sawubona" as they continue on their path. I noticed this one time when I was in a township with Auntie Barbs and she was having a conversation about school with two 7 year old girls on their way home. At the end of the conversation they ran home, waving to us, and I asked Auntie Barbs if she knew the girls. "No, but she didn't stop to say hello, so instead I said hello and talked to her. Children are always to stop and greet adults." Being from a country where the "Super Nanny" travels all over the nation stoping temper tantrums in their tracks and where Maury Polvich is constantly sending troubled teens to boot camp, it is refreshing to see such a standard of respect for adults.

Of course I cannot say that this applies to all children in this country, but while walking through the communities you become aware of these standards, where greetings are shared with anyone and everyone who pases by you, whether you know them or not. It is just rude to pass by someone and not acknowledge their presence. I like that.

Usuku Lwamasiko [Heritage Day]

Every year South Africa celebrates their rich culture on September 24th, Heritage Day. In an address marking Heritage Day in 1996, (former) President Mandela stated:

"When our first democratically-elected government decided to make Heritage Day one of our national days, we did so because we knew that our rich and varied cultural heritage has a profound power to help build our new nation.

We did so knowing that the struggles against the injustice and inequities of the past are part of our national identity; they are part of our culture. We knew that, if indeed our nation has to rise like the proverbial phoenix from the ashes of division and conflict, we had to acknowledge those whose selfless efforts and talents were dedicated to this goal of non-racial democracy."

I was very excited to find a way to go to a Heritage Day community celebration in Honeyville. I went with the volunteers who work with Youth for Christ-- it was funny because I went to their house half an hour before leaving and we just went together... Good thing we got along because it might have been odd to spend the day with a bunch of strangers and then not like each other. I was with 6 other girls between the ages of 19 and 24 and it just so happened that they were in pairs- two from Australia, two from Holland, and two from Germany. Not all of them speak English too well, but it was still great talking to them and asking how they ended up in South Africa.

Anyway, back to Heritage Day. Zulus are very aware of their unique culture and often use Heritage Day as a time to remember King Shaka, a prominent figure in Zulu history. I was so happy to see such an exhibition of culture from this township community. There was lots of dancing from boy and girls, big kids and little kids. There was singing, a funny skit, and what I think was spoken word [all in Zulu, so it was hard to tell]. I love Zulu dance. As you will see in the pictures, you have to be pretty flexible to do it because it involves kicking your leg straight up into the air and rhythmically throwing it back down to the ground. The girls' outfits usually involve beaded skirts, necklaces and headbands, sometimes knee bands and arm bands... for this occasion it just depended on what the family had. The girls are bare-chested, which is very popular in Zulu culture. The breasts are not something to be hidden, they are a woman's best asset as they provide nourishment for the next generation. But I am told that as soon as woman marries, she is to keep her breasts covered.

Much of the Zulu tradition was suppressed in the Apartheid era, so it seems as if they are working hard to revive it by keeping certain dances and traditions very alive in the children. One man was telling me how he is so happy that the children do traditional dance because it gives them a place to stay safe and out of trouble after school. I believe, or at least hope, that the culture won't fade away any time soon.

We had brought food for the community and after the celebration everyone went and got something to eat-- except for us, that is. We were approached by a girl who asked if we wanted to play a game. Okay, I thought, this will be some hand-game or ring-around-the-rosie or something like that. When we went outside, she told us we were playing netball. Netball? I had heard it was like basketball with some very distinct differences... but that was all I knew. The two Australians were the only two that knew what netball was and the rest of us were pretty clueless... we were also going to have to play in sandals/bare feet so that also put us at a slight disadvantage. We walked down to the netball court and I immediately noticed that the opposing team was in uniform... we were playing the Maritzburg regional team. Let's just say it was a sight to see [hence the small crowd formed in order to watch what turned out to be a comedy show]. I wish someone had a camera to take a picture of that mess-- the foreigners getting schooled by the local girls team. I don't know what the final score was, but it was something like one million to three.

Also, just a side note: You can see most all the pictures that I have taken since being in South Africa at http://picasaweb.google.com/brittanbsmith. You have seen most all of these photos through the slideshows I add to my posts, but in case you wanted to take a closer look or comment on them, they are right there!