Making the Strange Usual

Where do I begin. I recently returned from a two week to East London, Tshabo, Buccaners, Eden Campus, and places in between. I suppose I have been wondering how to correctly portray the amazing-ness of the last two weeks, but I think that it is impossible to do without writing a novel. The main focus of the trip was to give our group the opportunity to complete a rural homestay in Tshabo, a village in the Eastern Cape. Considering that my Xhosa skills are less than sub-par, I was a bit worried about my ability to communicate with my family. Fortunately, I was able to live with my fellow SIT group member, Julie. It put my mind at ease to know that she would be with me to push through moments of uncertainty and awkwardness. As I scrambled to pack in twenty minutes (typical) the morning of departure, I asked my Tata for one piece of advice for the Eastern Cape. He was born in the area, and clearly has “cultural wisdom” to bestow upon me. After pausing for a moment with a contemplative expression unique to Tata, he told me to “do as they do.” Thus, I put those four words in my back pocket and told myself that I would continually pull them out to remind myself of Tata’s advice.
After a long day of traveling, any previous anxiety I had about meeting my family was shattered when we drove up the dirt road that led to where all the mamas were waiting to meet us. As our gigantic vans filled with ridiculous amounts of luggage puttered up the drive, we were warmly greeted by the smiling faces, “molwenis” and waving hands or our mamas. We descended the vans, completely forgetting about hawling out our luggage because we were embraced by hugs and greetings from all directions. We had lunch together (chicken and rice of course) and Julie and I were introduced to our mama. She had brought our bhuti and sisi (brother and sister), ages five and three. Dolls. They were shy to begin with; bhuti quietly eating his chicken bone and sisi hiding her little body behind mama’s skirt with a head of curls poking out the side. The quickly warmed up to us once I busted out a shiny new soccer ball to play with.
Where our mama lives was a five minute walk from the meeting spot. I attempted to drag my rolly suitcase along a rocky dirt road, trying to keep my eyes closed because a strong wind was blowing stinging sand in our direction. As we walked, we all made a galliant effort at having a conversation. In the end, after many blank stares, we established that all parties like to eat meat, cook bread, and watch Generations on tv. Finally we made it to the house; a yellow one-room structure with a red-ish roof. We were greeting by happy children, cows, goats, chickens, and dogs. I got a little overzealous after discovering some baby chickens. I successfully scooped one into my hands, but two seconds later I had to run away from an angry mama chicken squawking in an uncomfortably aggressive manner. The rest of the night included eating the best mango I’ve ever had, picking up a giant turtle (random?), playing with kids, learning a local “volleyball/baseball” game, never wearing shoes, watching the sunset, eating a mound of chicken, and of course, watching Generations to top off the evening.
Over the next week, our group had the priviledge of seeing some incredible events around where we stayed. I particularly enjoyed attending a traditional healer ceremony in a nearby village. The family and friends of a deceased xhosa man all gathered to witness the traditional healers help him transition to the afterlife. We were all welcomed into the home, and became official participants into the ceremony once we drank a sip of homebrewed African beer that was passed from person to person. A series of beautiful songs and dances were performed, all by traditional healers and chiefs who were dressed in elaborate robes and beads. It was hard to understand what was happening, but it was clear that the ceremony and its meaning were very powerful. Besides the traditional healing, over the week we went to museums, visited local schools, and experienced daily life in Tshabo.
One of the things I loved most about Tshabo was its sense of community. Up until two days before I left, I had no idea who were my brothers and sisters. Doors were constantly open; enabling anyone who wanted to flow in and out of a space welcome to do so. The peaceful landscape of the village was always alive with people playing or resting outside. And of course, splattered with animals. Toward the end of the week, I began to navigate Tshabo’s winding dirt roads and rolling hills of grass and cattle. I like to think that the bottom of my feet became thicker from all of the times I neglected to wear shoes while running across rocks, gravel, and sharp water-starved African grass. I grew a great fondness for my backyard; its piles of cow dung (which made traveling the path to the outhouse like a game of battleship), its water tap that often went dry, its clothes line, and the large tree stump that made a perfect seat for my bum. I was even able to defeat my irrational fear of zombies ("28 days later" scarred me for life) by going outside in the middle of the night. Well, except for the occasion when Julie and I took a 3AM pee on a particularly foggy morning, only to be caught in the middle of a donkey stampede. Ironically, that was the only time I wasn’t wearing my trusty headlamp with three badass elastic head straps and adjustable light settings. Nevertheless, we had a good laugh and were glad that we had already peed in the grass instead of in our pants.
Leaving Tshabo was really difficult, I think because the reality started to kick in. It’s strange how big the world is; you move in and out of space, interactions, and people’s lives as merely a miniscule, 1/20 piece of a thread on an enormous carpet. As we walked hand in hand with our mama toward the vans, our mama kept saying: “I am not happy, because today my daughters, my twins leave.” Julie and I had only been there for a week and we felt as though we were part of the family. We spent about thirty minutes saying goodbye, which made me feel as though I was at home participating in a classic “Greek goodbye” after any gathering. As our vans pulled away from our families, we waved knowing that we would probably never see them again. The world is strange.
We drove several hours to Buccaneers, a backpackers place where we spent the weekend surfing, eating great food, drinking champagne, attending a pirate themed party, skinny dipping, and getting nice and crispy in the African sun. I wish I could give myself the title of a surfer, but admittedly, announcing that would be over-ambitious. At the end of our Saturday morning lesson, I could successfully catch a wave on my stomach and stand up for five seconds before toppling into the water. I quickly learned to grab onto my board after falling due to an unpleasant encounter with that heavy son-of-a-gun slapping me in the face and leg. But hey, I walked out of the situation with some awesome battle wounds and a heightened ego as I swaggered in my wetsuit back up to my cabin. All in all, Buccaneers was a memorable weekend that I will never forget.
The last nights traveling, we spent our days at other backpackers in Port Elizabeth and Nysna. Heading home, I had mixed emotions; feeling excited to return to my family in Langa and sad that our amazing two weeks were over. I suppose all good things come to an end. Since being back in Langa, I’ve been semi-successfully tackling the mountain of papers that I need to finish. If procrastination were an Olympic sport, I would win the gold. Tomorrow we leave for Stellenbosch, where we will be living with families in an Africaaner community. This should be an interesting experience, one reason being that it was the Africaaners in power who enforced Apartheid. While it would be incorrect to assume that the families we will encounter were/are supporters of the government’s recent oppression of non-whites, I hope that I meet some who are. The point of coming to SA was to get a glimpse into as many cultures and beliefs as I could. I realize that I may encounter some uncomfortable situations, but my hope is to sit with what I experience and simply gain a new perspective; even if I strongly disagree. I am looking forward to stellenbosch, but Ill soon be ready to stop living in a suitcase and stand still for a bit when I live in an apartment for my last month.

Well, I tried to keep it short. I should have written a disclaimer at the beginning to suggest bathroom breaks and stretch time.

Love across the world

Cheers everyone.

Where am I

This weekend was the first that I was home every day, and I really enjoyed it. After returning home from school at the usual time of 5:30 on Friday, I went outside with my sister Olo and our two cousins Uket and Simo. One of the things I love about Langa is the constant energy in the street. Kids are always outside playing with each other and adults can often be seen chatting in front of houses. Simo had brought a rubber bouncy ball to play with (admittedly one of my favorite pass time activities). We took the ball out into the street and made up a game with about 10 other children. Who knew that chasing a bouncy ball on pavement could be so entertaining. We played with it for about an hour and it was fantastic. Afterward we played another game in which I just chased the kids around the street. Apparently, making spirit fingers while running is quite monstrous.
I woke up on Saturday morning, and as I was cooking my family a champion’s breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast, I stopped mid- chop to re-think where I was. Life at my school, in my house, and with my family and friends has become so normal that sometimes I forget I am across the world. I am in Africa. What?
One of the things I have realized here is that I can make a home wherever I am. Langa has become my home; its smell, its roaming dogs, its playing children, its morning fog that I see every day on the way to school, the smell of chicken and rice, are now a representation of comfort. I love everything about this place, and it will be very hard to leave. This Thursday, we will be going to the Eastern Cape, where we will do a rural homestay for a week. I am excited for this, one reason being that many people from Langa grew up in that area.
On Saturday night, my sister Ayanda and I met up with Julie, a friend of mine from my program who is also staying in Langa. There were other American students in Langa this weekend from a different abroad program, and we ended up going to a braai (barbeque) with them close to Julie’s house. When we arrived, we found a mixture of local South Africans and American students. The night was awesome, and by the end of it my clothes smelled of braai smoke. The scent reminded me of making bonfires up north (up north = northern Michigan for all you non-Michiganders) while roasting marshmallows and listening to Dad’s infamous “scary” stories about mystical owls.
After getting home around twelve, Ayanda and I realized that we had no key to the gated garage. The gate stands about ten feet tall, and in between the metal bars are large spear head-like pieces that protrude from the top and middle of the horizontal metal bars. Instead of waking up Mama or Tata to open the gate, we thought it would be a great idea to attempt climbing over. I should have listened to my inner voice when, before climbing, I had a mental image of me seriously hurting myself. But instead I thought, heyyyy you’re only in Africa once, right? Climb the damn fence. In the end, it was far from pretty. Ascending in my flip flops, I somehow managed to reach the top. I looked like an unbalanced cat on a telephone wire as I wobbled dangerously close to the metal spear-heads that were starting to poke through my jeans. But at this point, there was no turning back. I should have formed some sort of game plan of how to get down, but the combination of beer and uncontrollable laughter thwarted any logical decision-making. Ayanda had already semi-gracefully landed on the other side, and was waiting under me to catch my body if it should fall. Disclaimer: Ayanda is eighteen, about 4’11 and 95 pounds. Not much assurance. In the end, I attempted what I thought to be a James Bond move involving a nearby wall and a water pipe. I failed miserably, and as I came crashing down onto Ayanda I reached my right hand out for anything to grab on to. Unfortunately, one of the metal “spear heads” was the only thing my hand found. After recovering from the fall, I looked down at my burning hand and saw a bloody puncture wound on my inside palm. Still laughing hysterically, we went to my room and dug around for my trusty first aid kit. I had never been more appreciative of alcohol wipes and band-aids. After treating my hand, I swallowed two pain-killers and fell fast asleep. What a night.
On Sunday, we went to a famous place called Mzoli. Known for its braai meet and party setting, many of us had it on our bucket list of things to do before leaving South Africa. Before going, I expected to enter a semi-rowdy setting of loud music, people sitting and standing, and an abundance of meat in every corner. Upon arrival, we could hardly drive because masses of people were floating on the streets. We swam through a sea of broken bottles and bodies to enter the dancing area in a small hut where the floor was shaking from the bass. The air smelled like bbq sauce, sweat, smoke, and beer. Interesting combination. I couldn’t get over the masses of people going in and out of the area, and at first we felt overwhelmed trying to push through the crowds of people. I couldn’t believe that Sunday, of all days, is the busiest. Mzoli’s had already closed at eight, so our attempt of eating famous braai meat failed miserably. In the end, we just danced until 9:30 until the music stopped.
Well this post was entirely too long. But I couldn’t resist writing about my fun/injury filled weekend.