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. :)

A South African Sunday

Sundays are great days in South Africa… once coming here you quickly learn that this is a very religious and very Christian country. Any given Sunday I am able to walk down the street and simultaneously hear three different congregations singing. I love that.


Today I went to Imbali [local township area] to go to church there. As we drove up there seemed to be a mass exodus of people on their way to church, all dressed in their Sunday best singing praise before they have reached their building. We parked at the bottom of a grassy hill and walked to the top with dozens of other people. Once over the hill I saw the church we were going to… a massive tent [they didn’t have a building]. I walked in and looked at the half-empty tent that seemed to have at least 300 chairs inside. I have suddenly entered a southern Baptist church, choir singers at the front and men decked out in their shiny shoes and very, very sharp suits [I think men look so good when they dress to go to church!]. A woman grabs my hand and leads me to the very front to a row of seats that say “RESERVED” and we sit down [only to then remain standing and singing for a very long time], right next to the speakers [I have no idea when I am going to regain hearing in my left ear]. The singing and dancing commenced, half English and half Zulu gospel songs being sung at the top of their lungs. I have to say, that was the closest thing to a dance party that I have been to since coming to South Africa and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I am starting to think that all South Africans are born with beautiful voices, because everyone here is always singing and rarely does anyone sound bad. I tried not to look too awkward, singing along [despite not knowing the words] and rocking a bit—I have learned how to watch people’s lips to properly fake sing in their language from years of experience going to Melissa’s totally-in-Spanish Catholic church services… but I am sure they knew I didn’t actually know what I was doing.

After an hour of singing, the house was packed and people were standing up in the back. The sermon commenced and although I had made my best effort to not stick out like a sore thumb [which I obviously did], the pastor said how he was going to try his best to give his sermon in English for us… of course there are about 600 eyes all staring my way at this moment. Another guy joined him on the stage and translated everything he said, switching between English and Zulu, and mimicking his every move. The pastor sat down, he would sit down; the pastor threw his towel on the ground, he would throw his towel on the ground. He did a great job.

You can tell what people in the community are struggling with by listening to their sermons any given Sunday; “If you woke up this morning and you have no food, remember God will be there to bless you. If you woke up and still have not been able to get a job for your family, remember God will provide. If you woke up this morning with no hope, remember that God gave you hope through his son, Jesus Christ.” I don’t think in my church at home they ever spoke about waking up in the morning with no food for your family, because honestly that is not a big problem where I live. But here, it is. And as many hardships that the people here have [there are many, many, many], they stay very strong in their faith to God. I think that is a testament in itself, or at least a testament to the power of religion’s ability to give hope. It is so great, and I have never been somewhere like this, where despite the huge struggles that people have they are constantly looking up—God gives them hope for a better future.

The people at church today were very nice and welcoming. They carried their tattered Bibles through the grass fields with them back to their homes, often passing a few other churches on their way. It was a great sight to see.

*After today I will have gone to 5 different Christian churches since being in South Africa. I manage to go to church every Sunday, sometimes twice, and I am just really interested in seeing the different churches… the only issue is, I live somewhere where 87% of the population is black and yet somehow every Sunday I manage to go to churches where there is mostly or all white people. How does that happen? [Well, I know how that happens… I go to church often with the Youth for Christ volunteers, who are mostly from Europe, and it is preferable to go to church in your own language.]
** After some research on Wikipedia, I have come to find that South Africa is not even 2% more Christian than the US (80% Christian population here), but it just seems to manifest itself a lot more here than it did at home.

"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.

T.G.I.F... part 2

So I walked into town for 20 minutes to buy some groceries and get some bug spray to stop the ant parade in my kitchen. I would not necessarily say that I am the neatest person in the world, but I really don't like bugs and I really don't like messy kitchens.

My roommates were kind enough to leave me some parting gifts.

1. The first would be the before mentioned ant parade through my kitchen and another ant family journeying into my living room to eat whatever food that is smashed in the middle of the floor. I felt a bad that killing the ants while saying "die! dieeeeee!" was so incredibly gratifying. Muah ha haaaa I'm evil.
2. Another would be a small ball of braided extensions out of one of their heads, just chillin' on my windowsill. Plus my scissors that was use to cut them out of her head when it got tangled in her hair tie. I am so lucky to find such precious clumps of hair in my room.
3. I also got my Zulu dictionary back! The one I let them borrow and then they temporarily lost it in training center/held it hostage until I did their homework.
4. My one good pan. It's handle was a bit wobbly, but it was the only pan I had and it had no holes in the bottom! I found it on top of the stove with leftover oil and sausage gunk from the morning still in it. When I cleaned it I saw that my non-stick pan had gone to battle with a metal fork and came out with large battle wound scratches... my pan, nonstick-no-more. :::sigh:::
5. Lastly, oil stains and splatters all over my kitchen. Everywhere. Aren't they kind? I actually had to borrow a stovetop from someone at work because the ones I had were so low-powered I couldn't cook anything... and now it is caked with oil and the once-shiny silver coils are an oil-splottered black. Ugh! Anyone out there know how to fix this so I can return it as I got it? Oil is absolutely amazing-- so resilient. I tried a sponge, then tried steal wool... but it perseveres. I just can't get it off of my stove, and didn't even attempt the yellow splotters on my white wall.

After I was done cleaning as much as I could, I was too tired to cook dinner. But! I had splurged and bought the new multi-grain Cheerios that just made their way to South Africa! So I had Cheerios for dinner... and then when I got up to get some more I vomited the Cheerios back up. Oops... too much information? Sorry. I think I hadn't had milk in so long that my body freaked out a bit... needless to say, I didn't go for seconds.

I need to stop being mean. I am mean. I do understand that this was the first time that these young women had been out of their township and I was the big, bad intimidating umuntu omhlophe ["white person"], so of course there was going to be a bit of culture clash. And I am still not bitter, it is just a funny situation!

T.G.I.F...

Today is Friday... meaning that the NACCW [National Association for Child Care Workers] training is over... meaning that the four volunteers who have been living with me all week will probably go home today. Awesome.

I feel really bad about being happy to see them you leave. All this time I wanted someone to live with, but last week when they told me I was going to have four volunteers from Richmond living with me, I already knew I had a problem. Just from life experience, and I guess a little from studying Sociology, I know that if you get 4 people from the same area who all speak the same language [which is not your language]... they are probably only going to talk to each other and blatantly ignore you. My prediction was correct for the most part. It is like I can't win.

Day 1: volunteers arrive. they fight over who is going to have to be the one person to sleep in the same room as the foreigner. i introduce myself and they just stare at me blankly; i realize they don't speak english. i show them where the bathroom is and one just pulls her skirt down and uses the toilet as we are still standing there; i realize they are from a very rural community. i try to show them some of the projects i have been working on and they just talk amongst each other; i realize they do not care.

Day 2: apparently i am living with people who wake up at 5:30am [with the sun] and feel the need to turn the television on its highest volume and then talk loudly over it... i refuse to get out of my bed, despite the fact they are shouting in zulu over my head. and chicken bones cause ants to come inside. i hate ants. they are around the same age as me, they should know to throw the chicken bones far away. i can attempt to engage in friendly chit chat because i know what strikes up conversations with all girls: boyfriends. i show them a picture of andrew and tell them he is my "isoka." they are amazed that 1. i am dating a black person, and 2. somehow this black person is not from africa. they say he is handsome-- we at least agree on something.

Day 3: i am awake in my bed at the crack of dawn, once again. i fancy that they feel comfortable enough to just walk around shirtless after bathing, so i must not be too intimidating. they are unhappy that i have an ironing board, but not an iron [people here iron their clothes every single morning]... somehow an iron later appears in our room. cool. they like me now because i did their homework for them... i tried to read the whole thing and explain it in simpler terms, but they don't really speak english so the question "please explain a negative influence in the child's physical development" is a tough one. the fact that they graduated from high school, which is supposed to give english instruction, and they cannot even carry a conversation with me just shows how awful the school system is here. i offer them some homemade mashed potatoes a la brittan and they decline.

Day 4: i dont like being woken up at 6am to do your homework. they must think that i am nasty because i only shower once a day; they bathe in the morning, before ironing, and at night. i am quickly learning that there is no such thing as a "personal item" because if they see it, they use it. your hair spray, conditioner, food... not my toothbrush, though [that i know of]. i forget how communal people are here and everything is family style, everyone shares. unfortunately i was not as prepared to share but i guess i can deal with it. i learn some zulu phrases to tell them and they love that i am trying to speak zulu-- they think i am pretty goo! but they don't like me as much today because i made them do their own homework-- how am i supposed to write about their personal experiences? they asked me to just write down general answers to the questions and they will change the names.... umm, still not going to work if everyone has the same story. i give them my zulu dictionary and say that i am around if they want me to check their answers or explain the questions.

Day 5: more ants! and someone has my keys so i cannot get into my office or unlock my bike. please give me back my keys. and i am going to ignore the oil splatters all over the wall next to the stove... somehow they can't manage to properly throw away their leftover food, but they make their beds perfectly every day; i am not making my bed, so now i am the nasty [shower only once a day], lazy [refuses to get out of bed at 5am] and untidy [my bed sheet creases are not perfect and i don't iron my clothes] foreigner... what a label. i came home late and was greeted by a note on my bed, "B. SMITH PLZ DO THIS HOM WORK." ugh. so i write a note in return saying that i can't really answer these questions because it is about their training that they have been getting all week, but i have some ideas and i will write them down, they can ask for more help in the morning and we can go through it together. i also ask them to not wake me up at 5 o'clock in the morning since i am staying up late to do their homework.

Day 6: i can barely open my eyes, i am so tired... but i can't sleep with all the noise. what time is it? oh, 5:45am. awesome. that is only two hours before i was planning to get up. i say good morning and thank God that this will probably be the last sleep-deprived morning i experience for at least a little while. i greet them with a smile, and think my usual thought that i cannot be mean or bitter about the situation because it is just a case of cultural clash and a huge language barrier. tonight i sleep in peace.

I swear I am not impossible to please... it is true that before I wanted someone to live with and it is also true that as soon as I got some people to live with I started counting down the days until they left. Fortunately I am not really angry or bitter [although it may sound like it]; I actually find the situation to be more comical than annoying. I guess you just have to be careful what you wish for!

"Ooh Sexy, Sexy..."

As summer rolls around, it is getting pretty darn hot over here in South Africa. Knowing that I was going to embark on hours of walking the other day, I decided to finally break out my shorts. As I was walking around I noticed that I didn't see any other women wearing shorts... although not all, most of the women here wear skirts. But some still wear pants and on rare occassion I will see younger women wearing shorts.
But today, I didn't see anybody. This made me a bit self-conscious. I already rolled down the hem of my shorts to make them as long as possible... Maybe no one else was wearing shorts because they knew the afternoon was going to end in pouring rain.
During my long journey I had to walk faster and faster to avoid eye contact with all the men calling to me, asking me where I was from, trying to get me to walk with them. Because I am obviously foreign I get this often... but this time it was ridiculous, almost frustrating.
I thought it must have been the shorts. Man, was that a mistake. At the end of the day I was talking to someone and realized that yes, my issue was the shorts. You see, to the Zulu the thighs are the most sexual part of the woman's body. Showing your thighs is a huge turn-on as they are seen as highly private and beautiful. You could walk around completely bare-breasted and people probably wouldn't care. Boobs out? No problem. Thighs showing? Well, then you have a parade of men following you around town. Go figure.

Weekend Update

This weekend was great because I was able to spend it with some new friends!
Saturday

I walked over to where the Youth for Christ volunteers live and jumped in their vehicle to accompany them on another Heritage Day celebration. This one was much smaller in size and different from the other one I went to on Thursday [the actual Heritage Day], but the community was still excited and of course there was the usual singing and dancing that is at every Zulu celebration. In the beginning there was a gogo [granny/old woman] talking about how things are different with the youth today-- she spoke of the importance for girls to keep their virginity for their husbands and the importance of people having only one sexual partner [a common theme in the fight against AIDS]. She talked about how girls in her time did traditional Zulu dance and now everyone is doing "this strange dance, always shaking your butts on each other"... she demonstrated what she thought that looked like, and it was pretty hilarious. Lastly, she also talked about how in her day girls would make Love Necklaces in order to show a boy she is interested in him.

So this is a very integral part of Zulu tradition: beadwork. In this case, she is talking about the beaded necklaces that girls made for boys, natively referred to as Ibheqe or ubala abuyisse, meaning “one writes in order that the other should reply”. To the Zulu, beadwork is an integral form of communication and Love Necklaces are exclusively important to the courtship process. Girls and young women make these for men of interest and in order to decipher the message, one must be well versed in the regionally specific colors, placement, and geometric patterns. For men, interpreting a message is a difficult task; therefore, experienced mothers and sisters are called upon to help deduce a necklace’s meaning. I would have to try to explain the shapes and the colors in order to try to give you a full picture of what the beadwork can represent, but I do not have much space to do it here and I do not want to bore you! But I am going to try to look into it myself because I think it is a really cool tradition... if I had any bead-making talent, perhaps I would write some messages in beads myself. Unfortunately in Zulu society today, Love Necklaces are principally created as a tool to fund the demand of the tourist market industry. With the rising popularity of Christianity in South Africa, converts have been encouraged not to wear these items because of their original association with "heathen worship." Zulu beadwork continues to be an excellent form of communication and continues to represent personal information about their wearers. Women are able to express themselves and inform others of their situation through socio-political statements regarding HIV/AIDS. Although the beaded love necklaces no longer pertain to love, the template of the necklaces has remained the same and continues to carry messages and you can see many of these necklaces being worn in the pictures that I have taken.

Anyway, after all of that fun I went to the house of my director where a bunch of his friends had a braai [barbeque] with boerewors [sausage] and all watched "Slumdog Millionaire" outside on a projector. Even the second time around, still a great movie.


Sunday

On Sunday morning I repeated the same 45-minute walk to church that I had done the week before. As I was walking back from church I jumped in the back of the Youth for Christ bakkie [weird truck-like thing] and went with them to Horwick Falls. The waterfall was beautiful and there were great arts and crafts shops all around... I loved everything there and basically decided at that moment that I was going to decorate my house with all the beautiful paintings they have there. But... I didn't buy anything. Why? Because I am cheap/poor and they were selling their things at tourist prices. I would hear a price and say, "Hibo! Ukubiza!" [expensive!]. Unfortunately Horwick Falls is a touristy area and so their things are quite expensive. Alternatively I could just take pictures of pretty things and then decorate that way, I suppose. 

On the way home we took a short drive down a red dirt road and saw a few zebras, springbucks, and animals I would call yaks, but I don't remember what they were calling them. At one point we got pretty close to some of the zebras, which was cool. Unfortunately having come straight from church I did not have my nice camera with me to take pictures... but I always try to carry my little one with me so I did get a few shots! :)
After being in the back of that truck I was covered in red dirt, so after taking a shower I put some fresh clothes on and went to church again [a different one]. It was the one many of the YFC volunteers go to, and it was considered the "contemporary service" so there were lots of young people there and I was the only one "dressed up" to go to church. I really enjoyed it, though and had great conversations about religion with some of the volunteers after the service. 

It was a good weekend!

Home Cookin'

So in honor of Heritage Day, the last two days I decided I would take a shot at traditional Zulu cooking. If cooking in a kitchen with a [very] low-powered stove, a tiny toaster oven, and humongous pots [the smallest almost-usable one having a hole in the bottom] wasn't difficult enough, I decided that I wanted to cook food from another culture.
I don't really know how to cook. It is sad, yes, but I happened to grow up with a mother who did a great job cooking my food and then go to a school with a fantastic dining hall system. But, tell me this: if I have a pot of beans on my stove top at the highest heat level for three hours... is it normal for them to still be crunchy? I was supposed to "cook until tender," but "tender" never happened. Same with the potatoes-- they weren't raw by any means, but trying to mash them with a fork became a pretty difficult task even after they had been cooking for hours. Maybe I had too much water, who knows.

Anyway, after eating spaghetti and hot dogs [a.k.a. "meatballs"] all week, I had finally made myself a full-on meal!  I looked in the store for measuring cups so I could follow the recipe, but they had NONE. Really? So it was all guesswork, which was also pretty fun.They say that baking is a science and cooking is an art, so I don't know what these things were supposed to taste like but it was a very edible and enjoyable meal. I made sweet potato soup, isisphuphulu sikabhontshisi namazambane (mashed potatoes and beans), yaskehaya ephekiwe (cooked chicken), and isithwalaphishi (beans and mealie meal mix). So I will admit that I bought the chicken already cooked from the heating rack in the grocery store and that the beans and mealie meal mix was a disaster because I didn't want to wait another three hours for the beans to cook [and I have no idea what maize meal is like when it is actually cooked]. But, I liked the mashed potato and beans, and I made the most delicious sweet potato soup. I loved it. Maybe I will try to make the more complicated stuff soon. Despite the fact my fingers still smell bad and my eyes are still stinging from chopping all that onion, cooking was a lot of fun! I enjoyed it.

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!

Zulu Names

In African tradition a great deal of significance is attached to the name that is given to a child-- Zulu culture is no exception. A name often reflects the hopes, aspirations, emotional qualities, historical events, or even family circumstances at the time of the birth. So if a boy is named Kwanele, his name derives from the word "ukwanela" meaning "to be enough"... this indicates that the family now considers themselves complete! They are not planning to have anymore kids anytime soon.

I started reading Nelson Mandela's biography a couple years ago, and remembered that his given name was Rolihlahla, meaning "pulling a branch from a tree;" its colloquial meaning is "troublemaker." I am sure when his father named him that he had no idea what kind of storms he would be stirring in South Africa-- but I am sure we are all glad that he did!

So yesterday Auntie Barbs gave me a Zulu name: Thandeka.* It comes from the word "ukuthanda" meaning "to love." Thandeka translates into "lovable/beloved," as she has decided that I am easy to love and give love back to. Awww.

Many Zulu names are quite beautiful, especially if you know the meaning behind them and pronounce them correctly. A funny Zulu name that I came across was Ntombifuthi, meaning "it's a girl again." There seems to be a Zulu word for every thought or emotion you could have. I am having now looking at a Zulu name dictionary and figuring out what my co-workers' names mean... apparently I work with "surprise!," "rest," "look after the nations," etc.

Nhlanlha, whose name means "luck," just told me that he was given that name because the two babies born before him both died within the first few weeks of being born. He just told me that the elders in your family [gogos] name you around 5 weeks after you are born, and you stay with them for that time so they can find a name to give you. I guess that before that time your name is just "baby."

And there is your Zulu culture lesson for the day!

Sincerely,

Thandeka :)

*quick note on pronunciation: "th" in Zulu does not give the "th" sound you think of... it is actually an aspirated T sound, like the T in "tin." Just like "ch" doesn't make the sound like "church," but rather the aspirated C-click... okay, clicks are complicated so I will save that for another time. But I will say that "sh" is still the shhh as in "shoe" that we all know, so rest assured.

Thandanani = Google?

I have a feeling that working with Thandanani might be like working at Google. If I work at Google again after this year, I feel like it might be good practice.
When I say it is like working at Google, I do not mean all the employee perks you hear about in the news. You can replace the free meals, table massages, complimentary transportation and heated toilet seats of Google with the warm, fuzzy feeling you get in your heart at Thandanani. What I am talking about is Google's habit of throwing unsuspecting newcomers into projects and letting them loose with a pat on the back and a smile. That is just how it works there-- you step into the first day of work, they tell you they have a problem and you need to be the brains to fix it.
One of my many projects here is to make an evaluation system of the beneficiaries from the Thandanani programs. My director would love to have a neat little report of how the work they have done has impacted the caregivers and OVCs they cater to, sitting on his desk by the end of November. Here are some of the stumbling blocks I have come to on this one:
1. I need to figure out what exactly in all these programs the coordinators and their teams want to evaluate. Meaning I have to find a way to meet with them despite the fact that most people are running around in the townships all day with their projects.
2. I am supposed to make focus groups. How do I coordinate focus groups of people out in townships? I would have to have these people identified, then find a way to contact them [not like I could send them an email], and then tell them a time and place. A place? I don't know those areas at all, and they don't have addresses. How about the corner with the cows and the goats eating out of the trash, with baby chicks and piglets running around them. Wait, that isn't that every corner?
3. I am still at a total loss at how to use the public transportation into the townships. I know how to get out of the townships, but even if I could get into the townships I would have to know the place well enough to which dirt road to stop on. Right, the one with the goats eating out of the trash.
4. Oh yeah, I DON'T SPEAK ZULU. Interesting obstacle, isn't it?

So my plan is to employ a sidekick [I am thinking the intern that sits at the front desk?]. Maybe even two. And then I will have a beautiful, scientific report written up, on Duncan's desk in November.

Tomorrow I am going with Phumlani back to the school with the food garden from next week. We are going to teach them how to harvest all the vegetables so they can take them back home for supper. Yay! And then we are doing home visits for the rest of the day. Let's hope the weather is nice!

Pata and Dambuza Townships

Today I did 17 more home visits, this time with Agnes in the Pata and Dambuza townships. This place was a little different than Slangspruit-- the government houses were painted, there were more fences/barb wire, many more goats and chickens-- but very similar in need. it was crazy to see beautiful, comparatively large homes right next to a mud shack.

One of the homes we visited had a 22-year old caregiver [the same age as me]. Both of her parents had gotten sick and passed away, leaving her with her siblings and no where to live. They currently live in a house built of mud and sticks, but it is in terrible condition and falling apart [one room only has 3 complete walls]. Another house that we visited was in a similar condition, if not worse, and the caregiver and the orphan are both suffering with teburculosis. These are such hard realities to face, and it let's you know that no matter how hard things may have been for you, you probably were never actually poor. Not like this. And the saddest part is no matter how much I do-- how many miles I walk, houses I visit, people I talk to, food I give out, papers I fill out-- I know I cannot fix this. I feel powerless. But, I came here to do what I could do-- and what I can do is make things better for a handful of people and encourage others to do the same until things do change, knowing that it will take decades [perhaps not even in my lifetime]. As they say here, I will just do things "kancane kancane," which means step-by-step [but "kancane kancane" is surprisingly difficult today with the fast clicks, so I will stick to English].

Walking around these townships have also given me a chance to learn more about Zulu culture. I visited the house of a sangoma [traditional healer], and noticed she had bracelets of beads and chicken/cow skin tied around her wrists. Upon entering her house, there are cow horns above the door for the ancestors. Walking around the townships, you will see lots of circular buildings with grass roofs which are also built for the ancestors-- they are very impressive considering that the grass roofs do not leak when it rains!