My Weekend Part III

The last and final part to my very active weekend (really just Friday and Saturday) was the Kaizer Chiefs soccer game. Let me just start out this piece by saying, although I had fun, I am still a little frustrated about what happened at the game, and it may come out on my paper here. We finally arrived at the game having found a taxi with some of the nicest people packed inside of it all going to the game. The driver willingly held our overnight bags for us until the end of the game where we could receive them again. So far so good, I was feeling excited about seeing the game and was ready to cheer.

Let me preface this by explaining how the seating is done in South Africa and the Peter Makaba stadium. There are two types of tickets 80 Rand tickets and 50 Rand tickets. 80 Rand gets you a seat number closer to the field and 50 Rand allows you to sit where-ever you want higher up (or so we were told). We arrived at the stadium going towards our seats when we were told to climb these stairs, when we reached the top we were told to turn around because our seats were not in that section. We finally found are section and upon trying to climb the very crowded stairs we were stopped and yelled at by a security guard. I tried to explain to him that our seats were there and show him the tickets but he yelled “I don’t care” and then proceeded to try to push us back down the stairs. Now that he had put his hands on us, my ever feisty friend Mary started yelling at him in sepedi, I was yelling in English “well if you can’t help us find our seat than find us another seat” but he continued to push us. In many ways we were lucky that the stairs were so crowded because we fell back onto people instead of down the stairs.

About 20 minutes into the first half we just decided to sit on the stairs in our section to watch the rest of the first half. While sitting there other people were like, oooh that stinks you have an 80 Rand ticket and we only paid 50. These comments just made me angrier and I said to Mary, I am going to go talk to someone and started to get up, but she pulled me back and said it wouldn’t make any difference. I was furious, and my first American instinct was to complain to whoever I could so that they would find us a seat, but the security guards there just didn’t care.

During the second half we found someone else’s empty seats, of which Mary said that we should leave because we didn’t want to get into a fight with anyone, but I kept saying just wait, to tired to move anymore. Luckily Mary happened to know one of the boys sitting in the seats and they agreed to sit somewhere else and let us have the seats. It was at this point that I had the most fun, getting into the game and singing along with everyone. The atmosphere at a South African soccer game is really something else, people sing in unison to encourage the boys to make a goal, and soon the whole stadium is singing the same song. It is truly one of the most magical things ever to experience, and apparently it helped, because they finally scored a goal and won!

We had found some seats, made it through the game, and had experienced a South African game. I had learned that “having a seat” means something different in the US than in South Africa. However, this did not keep me from complaining via email when I got back. I spoke with the head of security and the owner of the Kaizer Chiefs about what happened. The head of security is including me in discussions for changing the system next time and the Owner of the Kaizer Chiefs sent me an apology letter.
However, at the end of the day I am still rooting for the Kaizer Chiefs to kick some soccer butt. GO KAIZER CHIEFS!

My Weekend Part II

On Saturday morning, after my long journey to Mary’s village and a few hours of relaxing sleep, warmed by two women at my side, I woke up to get dressed in preparation for the ceremony that would be welcoming Mary’s niece back from initiation school. I will take a brief break from describing the day’s activity to explain what initiation school is to the best of my abilities, because I do not fully understand it all myself. Everyone is rather secretive about what goes on there but what I understand is that just before puberty boys and girls both leave home for 3 weeks. Girls learn about their periods and sex and getting older while boys go into the woods and do a bunch of stuff that no-one talk about, besides the understanding that the boys get a circumcision. As I said, no one was really open about what happened in their culture, and I think because I myself was shocked at what happened.

To attend the ceremony Mary’s mom decided that, as her new adopted daughter, she was going to dress me in the finest traditional clothes. The traditional clothes consisted of being wrapped about three times; first in a towel, then in two traditional clothes one to cover the front and one to cover the back. Despite being told that I was supposed to wear my tank top, however, I refused, too cold to willingly take off my long sleeved shirt. She then pulled my hanging hair to the sides of my face and placed a traditional beaded head piece on me. With this I clapped with joy, it was like re-living my child-hood and pretending I was a princess. She then draped my neck and arms in jewels to finish of the dress. Her mom squealed happily telling me to go show papa who laughed and said “oh nice” in his limited English. It was then time for us to go to the girls and prepare for the travels around the village.

Meeting the girls, let’s just say, I was not prepared for what I would encounter. Just a few people were around and when I went to go sit down I found two young girls with nothing but essentially a beaded kilt to cover their bottom and their bodies were painted in mud. They sat silently eating, and as a young girl from a different culture I felt embarrassed for them, which Mary quickly told me not to be because everyone has to go through the same thing. We then followed the girls walking down the road and into a truck of which we stood and sang and danced as it rolled down the road (sorry mom, I know this is horrifying to you to think of your baby unprotected in the back of a driving truck). People honked and cheered as we went by and the other women who knew the dance had handmade rattles tied around their ankles to make their own music with their movements. We arrived back at Mary’s house and danced around in a circle some more, while I was completely not in sync with the beat and then decided to sit down. Mary’s dad introduced me to all of the people there by the name that he gave me and soon everyone was calling me it.

We then went on the back of the truck again and made a trip to the next grandmothers house where we danced some more and sang some more songs. The girls were not allowed to walk into the house grounds each time until money was placed on a mat that was rolled out by the people who lived there, each time they expected about 100 Rands before entering or else they would just keep dancing at the front of the house. Hot and tired from dancing Mary and I struggled to find transport to take us to the football (soccer) match. To be continued in Part III…

My weekend part 1

This weekend was filled with so many adventures that I had to split it up into three separate blog postings. I decided to discuss transportation in my first blog because it was the most frustrating part of my weekend that I figured I should describe how it works here. Unlike Taxis in the United States you cannot call a taxi and have it come pick you up and take you wherever you want to go, instead taxi’s pick you up at a designated spot and drop you off at a designated spot. This often requires long walks and taking more than one taxi to get to your destination. The taxi will also not leave until it is full, so if you are going to an area that is remote and it will take a long time for the taxi to leave, so you should expect to sit there for a while. This has been my experiences with taxis in the past in South Africa, and it makes for a very long, and tiring travel.

Further, most people here hitch-hike to get to where they want to go because it is cheaper and often faster than waiting for a taxi. However, given my mom’s warning that I would be in big trouble with her if I ever decided to “hike” as they call it here, than I would be in big trouble with her; heading her warning, and keeping a promise I decided not to hike this weekend, much to the dismay of the people I was travelling with who didn’t have enough money for the numerous taxis that we would have to take. So on Friday, we got a ride into Polokwane late at night from someone in the office instead of deciding to hike. We reached Polokwane around 7 and then had to wait for about an hour at a taxi rank and run to the taxi and push our way through people to be sure that we got a seat. Here it really is survival of the fittest, if you want to get somewhere and a lot of people do you better be ready to push your way to the front and not apologize for it.

What is most difficult for me as a white woman going to the villages and waiting in a taxi rank is that I am often the first white person that these people have seen at the rank or going into the village and so I must often times listen to professions of love from the men. I have been proposed to, had proclamations of love, and requests for my numbers so many times since being here that I have become rather hardened to them. I often start with a smile and if they persist for my number I have to quite frankly, and multiple times, tell them “no!” The worst is when at night the men start to get drunk and a few times have found it ok to grab my arm as I walk by, of which I have to look back, give a glare, say no again, and wriggle my arm away. While, it is very flattering and sweet, and takes a lot of understanding about what this means to them to see a white person opening up to their culture, it can sometimes be frustrating.

Travelling in South Africa has taught me a lot about patience, and learning to relax. It is a very frustrating process to get to where you want to and also very tiring. When we did finally reach the village I just wanted to go to bed because it really takes a lot out of you. What I have also learned about travelling in South Africa, and South Africa in general, is that unlike the fast-pace world I come from time does not matter here. Everyone moves very slowly, and stops to talk despite needing to be somewhere. I have also had to learn, especially with my friends, to calm down and just realize that we will probably be somewhere late. The other interns over here have put the title “South African time” for this problem, because nothing and no-one runs on time.

Leaving the village was much of the same problem, finding a taxi to take us to the city where we would meet a friend who would drive us. This was the worst part of the journey however, again promising not to hike, we made sure we had a ride with a friend, but so did everyone else who knew the same friend, and this is how I found myself seated 11 in a car really meant for two people.

What I have also learned while here is that driving safety is not so much a concern here. Children do not have child seats or even wear seatbelts so you often see them standing between the two front seats looking out the window, which sends shutters through my body to watch. Further, children and people will ride in the back of a truck standing up for long distances. This is similar to our situation, 7 of us were packed into a truck with a covering over it, while two children sat up from on their mom’s lap while the father drove. Now, in South Africa there are not smooth roads, and as I have said before they are very twisty. Further, the drivers here are crazy and stop very abruptly, this tight packed truck made it difficult to be comfortable for the hour drive we had ahead of us. Further, I was seated with my back to the wheel covering of the truck, every time the truck hit a pot-hole or a bump my back bone would smash against the wheel covering. By the time I got home I was gasping for fresh air, and had a bruised back. Not wanting to spend any more time with people I reached my room and fell asleep.

Travelling in South Africa without your own car is impossible, and often times I have to mentally prepare myself if I am going to travel anywhere. Recently, because of strikes in South Africa by petrol workers, travelling even if you do have a car has become impossible with no petrol available to fill your car with. Let me just say, I will be very happy to be back in the US where I have my own car, and taxis will pick you up and drop you off where you want to be.

The language of Motherhood

The language of mothers is the same all over the world I learned yesterday. I was sent back to a pre-teen age being lectured about the dangers I would face, at an age where I thought I was un-touchable, by my Mom when an Afrikaans woman and her daughters stopped their car on the street as I was walking home after sunset with my laundry. Not having anywhere to do the laundry in my hotel, and having gotten down to the last few pieces of clothing that I had brought over with me, I decided to carry up my laundry to work yesterday morning in my suitcase so that I could wash my clothes in the SEF interns house where they have a washing machine (as I learned earlier, hand-washing was not for me). By the time my large load of laundry was completed and I had packed it all back up into my suitcase it was 6:30 and, being winter, the sun had already set. Living about a mile away from the intern house I was rolling my suitcase down the hill when a car stopped with a white woman and her two young girls. Poking her head out of the window the woman asked if I was O.K. “Yes, I am fine, I just finished my laundry” I responded. She asked if I wanted a ride and I said no I will be fine, I was almost where I needed to be, but she insisted on taking me to my hotel. While in the car I was lectured of the dangers of walking alone in the dark, that this was not the US, and I must never do it again. I responded meekly with yes ma’am, and promised I would never do it again. She deposited me at my hotel and as I walked towards my room I couldn’t help but feeling the guilt of a young girl who had disappointed her mom by making a poor life decision. I guess moms really all do speak the same language, no matter where they live.

This past weekend a colleague from work took me to see what a South African wedding is like. The wedding took place, like many of the parties that I have attended in a rural village, except that the road to this one had less pavement than the other villages I have visited. The bumpy, dirt road went for miles, and it felt as if we were entering a place that is seated in the middle of no-where. Luckily, there were signs of life in the huts that lined the road. This was the first time that I saw the thatch-roofed, rounded huts in the Villages; they are usually shaped more like western houses. My travel companion, who is originally from Zimbabwe, told me that where he is from that is all that they have, but here they have started shifting to the other forms of housing. While they were old, the craftsmanship in the thatched roofs of these huts impressed me; the straw that built these roofs was strong enough to withhold the heavy rain that we had been receiving lately in Limpopo. Their rounded shape reminded me of the famous round church that is situated in a small town in Vermont close to where I live. This round church is a popular tourist destination, and I laughed thinking what my friends here would say to that, not understanding that such a simple structure could be something of interest in the states.

The trip to the village provided one of the highlights I have had on the trip to South Africa. There are many warning signs for hippo crossings in and around Tzaneen, similar to the bright yellow deer signs that warn us Vermonters that our breaks will need to be in top-working condition. While these signs line the streets however, I have never seen a hippo, and the people of Tzaneen joke that they are a false warning because they are nowhere around. As we were riding in the car my travel partner made the same comment upon seeing the sign: “where are they?” he says “they have these signs but I never see them.” It was at that moment that I looked to my right on the side of the road, and there in the small swamp area was a family of hippos! I squealed with excitement at seeing my first exotic animal and the driver swung the car around and stopped for me to get out and take some pictures. The excitement had me jumping up-and-down as if I was a 5 year old girl running downstairs on Christmas day. The excitement continued as we sped by a monkey that was sitting on a pole by one of the orange farms and I gasped: “A monkey!” My partner laughed at the extreme excitement I showed in seeing a creature he says he saw a full field of not so many days earlier. But it was with that drive that I determined, despite the dark clouds
overhead, this was going to be a day I wouldn’t forget.

With the thoughts of hippos on my mind we finally reached the rural village where the wedding would be held. Squeezing my way into seats under the tent I was again a “celebrity” as my friends here like to say. The only white face among the crowd brought attention towards me, and away from the woman in the white dress standing at the front. I got waves from people jumping up and down so that I would see them, stares and points, handshakes, and again during the dancing in the middle of the wedding the women tried to get me to do the Tsonga dance; I knew, however, that my inability to move my waist in the traditional way would just ruin the beauty of the wedding, so I did a little move in the aisle, smiled, and walked away. The wedding as a whole was not a short, nor quiet event. The women screamed signs of praise when it was time for the man to kiss his wife, when they said their vows, and told the man that he had to lift the veil of his wife, not her made-of-honor. After the vows the bride and groom took a seat on a couch as the pastor spoke, his wife spoke, the “MC” for the wedding spoke about what was necessary for a wedding, and in between every speech a song was sung and the men and women danced around the bride and groom.

The beauty of the party and excitement however, was a bit clouded over, as the pastor spoke of what makes a “sensible wife” and that she must never question her husband, must not argue with him, and she must always be agreeable and peaceful with her husband yet there was no mention of what made a good husband. The bond that was created there at the wedding seemed to separate the negotiations and compromise that comes with all relationships, and the message was that a woman must, essentially, keep her mouth shut. This shocked me, and at home later when with Mary I asked her about this. She was as upset with this practice as me, saying they always talk about what a wife should do and never a man, it is believed that she is meant to please the husband, and therefore must take advice from any man about what she must do to do so. She told me how women advise girls that even if their husband beats them they must smile if company shows up as if nothing is wrong, they must ask permission from their husbands before they can go to bed, and when they want to turn their back from them at night, and that a man should be allowed to have sex with his wife whenever she wants without her complaints. It is these philosophies that took away from some of the beauty of the wedding for me.

However, after the preaching about a sensible woman was finished, a band was brought out to play and march around, and everyone lined up to eat the traditional pap and chicken. We left just in time for it to start raining, and upon the suggestion of other party goers to travel a different way; their suggestion was did not produce a better alternative to our path though, as we became stuck on a bumpy road that lasted for miles, and literally took us into the middle of no-where, where no houses or people were. In my mind all I could think of was the horror films where we got lost without any petrol left and the animals would attack our car. Luckily, before my imagination went too far we came across the main road, and made our way back to town with our eyes open for any more animals. We made it home with a promise of a future outing just to look for animals at one of the parks. It was an early bedtime for me that night, as my eyes heavy from the day closed in preparation for a lazy day tomorrow.

Girl Power

(The little girl on the right can speak 5 languages at the age of 7!)

I have come to observe here that it is the women who are relied on for most things. In the time of a crisis the sister or mother must make it home to take care of the situation, the girls in the family must be the moral guidance, the homemakers, the careers, the fixers, and most of anything that comes with caring for a house and its people. Not that this is much different from the United States with what the mother, or the female head of the household is expected to do, yet the sisters of the brothers, and the female girls are expected to partake and much more than most young girls born into the United States are expected to do.

What is also very shocking about the reliance on the females in the homes here is that although they are needed for most things in the families women in this country are not treated with much respect. While similar to, perhaps, the lack of respect for women in the US in South Africa they are years behind the progress made there. Women are not expected to complete school, or even get a job, further they are not expected to have a voice, or ask questions of men. If they do ask questions it is accepted that they can get abused. If they are seen spending time with a man besides their husband they can be disowned for that, even if it is her husband’s friend. When she is on her period she can be banned from going to church, cooking, or spending time with anyone outside of the house because it is seen as dirty. Women here are considered to be property to the men they marry (men here actually call them their “property”). It is the women who really keep the country running, children from going homeless if their family dies, and often keeps families from starving. Honestly, South Africa would probably be in worse position without them, yet they are treated as if they are nothing.

My concerns for how the women that I have grown to love and respect here, who have opened up their homes and hearts to me have had me concerned. These are some of the sweetest women I have met, yet their lives are often faced with hardships at home. Their desire to be something more and achieve something more is often not fostered or encouraged. They have been taught that they are property and nothing else. The things that I have witnessed here have encouraged me to look closer at what can be done. This week I have started reading the book Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl Wudunn that looks at the importance of investing in women in struggling countries. It is my belief, and the belief of IMAGE, that it is women who can end the AIDS epidemic here and help heal South Africa’s wounds from history. I ask that you join me in investing in women as well, whether it be in your own community, or globally; because it is with women and their devotion to caring for others, and being sure to uplift people, as I have witnessed here in South Africa, that change can be made.

This weekend I travelled to my friend Norman’s family village to celebrate the birth of a new baby girl – it was in essence a South African baby shower. When we first got to the house it was quiet, the women were preparing food for the day while other guests sat outside drinking soda and eating. As I was starting to think that this would be a quiet afternoon in the village, I was shaken to life by an older woman dressed in traditional garb who grabbed my hand as people started running and yelling around me. Not understanding what was happening everyone just kept running towards the road with me being dragged behind. Women and girls had changed into these big skirts, someone was beeping a horn in the car, music was playing, people were yelling, and a taxi pulled up, with what I would later learn was the other side of the family to the newborn baby. We danced around the taxi as it beeped back at us and yelled and got excited. It was quite the site to see.

Once the family had emptied from the taxi I was wrapped in one of the traditional skirts that the other women were wearing and dragged into the stage that they had set up in their backyard with the other women. Traditional music was playing as the women tried to teach me the traditional dance. Essentially, the dance requires that you make the skirt jump and shimmy as you move just your stomach; let’s just say I tried to make it look as easy as the other women were making it look. Never-the-less, despite my attempts to keep up I was laughing the whole time, this was what a party should be like, dancing laughing, and everyone just being happy. My attempts at dancing, that time, ended when I got a stomach cramp from trying to shimmy the skirt.

It was at this time of relaxing that I be-friended the mother to the baby who we were celebrating, and who also explained the unfolding events that happened next. Tables, and clothes were being placed on the stage and family members were carrying out suitcases and boxes and sitting on the clothes around the area. She told me that they were welcoming her family who had come in the taxi and her family was going to present gifts to the hosting family, which was the baby’s father’s. The maternal grandmother pulled out shirts, scarfs, blankets, presents for the baby, and shoes and draped them all over the paternal grandmother who sat accepting all of her gifts. Once this tradition had ended the stage was cleared again for dancing.

During the party I made friends with a little boy named Quinton who would not let me go anywhere without his hand in mine, when I tried to leave to go to the bathroom he showed up right at my heels smiling up at me. When it was my turn to hold the baby he looked sadly at me, as if I was replacing him for this smaller child. At the end of the night, a tired Quinton fell asleep in my arms, with his arms around my waist.

Before the night was over for me though, I had danced again, or should I say attempted to, been given traditional necklaces and the traditional dress and had eaten a full plate of traditional food. At the end of the day I was tired, but filled with a feeling of love and happiness.