A. Johannesburg
I arrived into Johannesburg early in the morning of Sunday 7/17. Rev. Simon Kudzo met me at the airport and, after he extended an invitation, we immediately went to his church where he preached. I felt the morning had generally gone smooth, and the timing to be at church was simply amazing, as was the rousing service itself. This was all the more surprising because Simon was the main pastor, yet he took the time to pick me up at the airport on a Sunday, although he was to preach that very morning. We had arrived right at the tail end of the musical praise portion of the service.
Upon arrival at the church, and after asking permission, I took pictures during the service (something that I thought would not be acceptable, but even a church member took some video) and I snapped some around the community. The service was what one would say was full of the holy ghost, and in fact in several cases I swear I felt the floor rolling on waves, which is something I have never experienced in such a setting. I fact, as I meditated with eyes closed about certain concerns of my character, each time I intentonally thought on those concerns, I felt a gentle hand brush mine, as if some innocent child was purifying my sin. It was uncanny in the seven or eight instances that this occurred, for when my mind steared from those thoughts, the touches did not occur. Clearly something a little "extra" existed at this church.
The church members not only were friendly and welcoming, but even extended many hugs as if they had known me for years. Following church, Rev. Simon, Pastor Robert, and I went to lunch and got better acquainted. After driving around Johannesburg for a bit to famliarize me to the setting, they dropped me off at a hostel run by Patrick, a white South African, which was the first place I was to sleep (due to the power outage in Boksburg, I was not able to sleep at Madam Foster’s that evening - my initial "host" home). Patrick had a very strong knowledge of African history, having lived in various parts, and I found his command of details to be exceptional. Earlier that day I walked to the mall, but was advised by more than one person (which I had also read before I came here) that walking there after night would represent a high risk for trouble since I looked like a tourist and was alone.
An interesting observation coming from the U.S. is that there were alot of dry-brush fires around Johannesburg, with no firetrucks that could be seen. Many of the fires - resulting from cigarette butts or the burning of rubbish -- appeared to burn themselves out with no cause for alarm by the residents. In other areas of concern, South Africa can get down near freezing in the winter (with temperate, high-60 days), and not one place that I slept at throughout the week had heating of any kind. However, there were ample, thick blankets provided for each of my nights, and in fact I have had no colds or sniffles, which is all the more amazing given that I took cold showers several days this week. Indeed, in the final analysis, I have appreciated this aspect of the traveling life, because it shakes me out of the things I take for granted back home and gives me a fresh appreciation for certain luxuries -- or rather, the absence of -- in life (another luxury not commonly found here is home insurance, as for fires). Being white and in the extreme minority also has its enlightenments, and gives my mind better clarity about being in the minority, although by no means could I ever relate to the fears and suffering during apartheid. In fact, experiencing the sharp sometimes-icy cold at night and early morning makes me more empathetic to those families living in the shanties and shacks around Boksburg, as well as ignites my anger at the Zimbabwe government that rolled over slums recently and left children and families homeless in the cold.
B. Boksburg
On Monday 7/18, which was Mandela’s 87th birthday, I spent time at some poverty-stricken areas of Boksburg, with additional and more intense time on Tuesday. Simon also gave me an orientation on Monday, and got me better acclimated to the surroundings and things I needed to understand to blend well with the South African way of life. We also discussed getting his Staesa.org website up and finalized (which was completed later in the week in its first, rough draft as built by Simon and a fellow from the University of Oregon), as well as the possibility of me opening a Staesa office in the States. Later that day I spent about an hour with Madam Foster at her home and discussed things more in depth concerning her school, and I shared with her a gift I brought from home (family photos, hat, socks, and a poem).
On Monday evening, Simon and Pastor Robert took us volunteers to a restaurant so that we could have a meal in honor of the two teaching volunteers from Canada who would be leaving the next day. Others attending were two students from the U.S. (Missouri) who were doing veterinarian volunteer work, and Esther, who came from Holland for a two month personal expedition across South Africa. That night I went back to Madam Foster’s home to stay and sleep (power eventually returned overnight); as well, I would sleep there Tuesday evening. Incidentally, taxis are white vans, and we employed their use quite often, and the fares seemed reasonable by U.S. standards.
As relates to the Boksburg settlements (one name I saw at a church was Ramaphosa, and the main school building built by the government had been given the Afrikaans name Noncedo meaning "Let’s help one another"), we visited them in part on Monday and more fully on Tuesday. It was an eye-opener to see how people were finding ways to survive and sustain themselves under such harsh conditions, many recycling tin, plastic, and paper for money. Some would buy vegetables and fruits at city markets, and then repackage into smaller bags for resale here. Families often go a day or more without food, and many children sleep with rats running in and out of their shelters.
As we walked through the dirt streets, some lined with sewage, there were many little storefronts, including portable setups where a person would roam through the settlement extensions selling such things as toiletries, candy, batteries, or metal and plastic basins for bathing and laundry. I took photos of shack-based homes, small stores, and shanty schools, the latter of which were set up throughout the five extensions of this squatter camp, and manned by teachers (teacher = "jriffrou" in Afrikanns) trained by Madam Foster. It struck me how extremely well behaved the children were compared to similar-aged children back home. Classrooms were well organized, all the more impressive given the conditions. Everyone who lived there was friendly, and the vast majority accepted and appreciated pictures being taken. I also took about 50 minutes of video, much of which captured Madam Foster’s teaching methods, which my wife will apreciate, being a teacher in Los Angeles.
As a sidenote, on the previous evening the mother of a young boy named Tabo had died of AIDS, and so he wasn’t at school because he had no clean clothes. There are stories like this all the time in the settlements, where many of the homes are simply full of children headed by an older child, all orphans. It is because of this that Madam Foster would like to set up an AIDS orphanage adjacent to her main school, but funding is not currently there. It is expected that perhaps it could cost upwards of one million rands, where a rand is currently at about a 6-to-1 ratio with the dollar. There are currently about a thousand children in her Methodist-Christian ministry program at this one settlement, all with compiled profiles. Some of these children don’t have birth certificates, with one reason being that many parents are illiterate and don’t know how to register for them.
When we returned back to Madam Foster’s home about mid-day, we had observed that a fire had consumed brush running the full length of the street directly opposite her house and those homes adjacent. The grass was blackened and the air was smoky, and it seemed a miracle that none of the homes were burnt. It certainly would have left me with little since my luggage, apart from my backpack, was in the home at the time (although all contents were replaceable, as I was on a good travel-insurance plan, Madam Foster had no home insurance that I recall).
C. Ndebele Cultural Center
On Wednesday, we drove three-and-a-half hours to a Ndebele community north of Pretoria. This is home to one of the main historic tribes of mid and southern Africa (some others are Zulu, Swazi, and Xhosa). Ndebele are particularly well known for adorning their homes with paintings using various geometric shapes and primary colors, as well as for their many-beaded crafts. We (I and a lady from Holland) scheduled five evenings and six days at the village, with accomodations including lanterns and candles as well as the cold showers I mentioned earlier (because the stoves weren’t working correctly to heat the water). However, electricity was available in the kitchen, both GSM and GPRS networks were accessible for cell phone and Email, and tap water was stated to be safe. In as much as nighttime was sharply cold, daytime temperatures rose into the 80’s with a searing sun and cloudless skies. Although crime seems low in this community, particularly compared to the city, I did experience a person in the municipality, where we went for groceries, attempt to forcefully take something from me, but they relented rather quickly, particularly at Gerald’s command.
That day we settled in, and then on Thursday Gerald (whose family, of sister Angelina and mother Francina, are traditional Ndebele and are responsible for overseeing the cultural center and the safety of its guests) took us around the village to observe sites including the local school, a Catholic church, the king’s dwellings, and an assortment of homes - some traditional Ndebele-painting and straw roofed, and some a bit more contemporary in use of brick and mortar. All of the homes were small and humble, and it was apparent that here in the village, and in the town we visited, work was hard and money minimal.
When we visited the school, the children came running and smothered us with love, both literally and figuratively. At one point I was completely buried under a pile of perhaps fifty children all trying to get a glimpse at the latest photo I had taken. And how they loved to have their picture taken -- "shoot," they called it, and kept repeating, all trying to get their picture taken up close. In contrast to the settlement I visited in Boksburg, the children here were more chaotic and carefree, and the teachers didn’t seem to be offended at all with the intrusion of us tourists into their setting, for even they appeared excited to pose for some pictures. The eyes and faces of the children were of happiness and unrestrained giddiness, yet it is important to note that once the time had come to return back to class from this lunch break they were having, all the kids promptly went off to their respective rooms, with only a few stragglers still trying to get that last chance at a picture. The classrooms appeared to me to generally be similar to those back home, except for less modern teaching resources. The walls were recognizably plastered with homework, alphabets, and number charts in English (Ndebele is their first language, but English is taught early on, with the elders of the community speaking more Afrikaans).
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That evening we watched a bull being slaughtered, and I had some great discussions with Michael, who lived nearby and wanted to know about America and the jobs. Michael was educated as an analytical chemist and tests bacterial counts for drinking water (he is currently on leave from this government work). Michael really wants to come to America and to make some better money to return to his family. Michael was the uncle of one of the boys being initiated (more on that), and who would have a bull slaughtered at his house on Saturday. Michael also confirmed what I understood, given his credibility on the subject, that the tap water here in the village was generally safe like other parts of South Africa.
(On Friday and Saturday, South African Airways was on strike and I could not get through to reschedule a Cape Town flight for Sunday so I could stay in the village through Monday. However, Simon, being the superb coordinator he is, took care of it for me as he was able to eventually get through, and so we will go to Cape Town on Wednesday, and have time to visit Pilanesburg Park on Tuesday.)
On Friday and Saturday I mingled more intimately with the community, and the culture seemed to have many parallels to American Indians, past and present. I became accepted in with the people and talked with many new friends for some time (which included colonial names like Charles, Efram, Eric, Michael, along with Cizi -- a servant to the king -- and some elders). We had come during the celebration of initiations into manhood, and I even helped to fully dissect two bulls immediately upon their slaughter, and then ate of the meat and drank some special drink that was meant only for those who helped in the cutting up of the animals. Every part of the slain bull had a purpose, be it for an offering as a whole to the ancestors, testicles for the boy being initiated, a leg for the mother’s place of birth, a part for the wife, another for the king, or one for the home of the place where the boy lived (at which point he could shed his brightly-colored blanket that he wore). Girls would have a similar initiation in the late months of the year, with cows instead of bulls. During the boys’ initiation celebrations, the women are to stay on one side, with the men on the other, although men are occasionally seen to mingle among the women, if only because that is where the food and drink originate. With ample supply of beer, the men will stay and talk throughout the night, as is the custom. The cost of such a celebration, when considering food and gifts, is around ten thousand rand, of which three thousand goes for purchase of the bull.
To explain further, we had fortuitously come at a time that happens only every three to four years when boys in their teens are initiated into manhood with secret rituals and ceremonies in the mountains, finalizing with coming down for circumcision and the slaughtering of a bull - one sacrifice for each boy being initiated. What gets discussed during their time away is not known, and the only way to know is to experience it. So I could never get more details into what makes up the secret process of transitioning the boy into adulthood, and the way it was circumvented reminded me of what one often hears when inquiring about Zen Buddhism. It is said that if the initiate knows "the secret," he doesn’t have to undergo it, although the spirits of long-dead ancestors accept those over to their side who do undergo the secrets, so it behooves the initiate to be courageous.
So at the appointed time, there is a great celebration with gifts (blankets, clothes, necessities) for the boy and his family, and plenty of music being sung into the night and throughout the next day by the regiment of male initiates (of which I have video and sound clips) - they sleep outside during the celebration. These celebrations were going all around the village, among different families. As relates to the bulls, I helped in holding the dead animals down, after watching them die from a knife into the brain and a deep slicing of the throat. The dismemberment involved holding the limbs and body as all parts were cut and hand-axed away, including the muscle, ribs, organs, stomach contents, and intestines. This was an experience full of odd bodily sounds and odors, ample blood, as well as plenty of semi-digested stomach and intestinal contents, yet I felt wholly honored with doing a bit of the cutting myself. By the end of the thorough dismantling, only the skin was left, which itself would turn into a warm blanket. Being generally vegetarian and against animal killing (although I eat some seafood), this was a diversion of my normal diet and way of life, but I felt that it was only possible to know some of the culture if I truly invested myself into it (and I wasn’t here to visit their home and traditions and try to arrogantly interject my views). As I became involved in the rituals, I made a number of friends that perhaps would not so nearly have opened their doors to me, being that I was a white outsider. During one of the events, photographers were here gathering photos and video, and they have a history of supplying content for National Geographic, so perhaps I may see myself captured in the act.
I met a servant of the king, Cizi, whose family -- his surname -- has always been and will always be destined to be royal servants. He helped give me an education concerning the meaning of the bull and some of the Ndebele culture itself. Just previous to the 1900’s, a servant of the king (Cizi’s ancestors) would have to be randomly killed at the same time as when the king died so that he would be prepared as the bed upon which the king would lay when buried. Thankfully this particular custom no longer occurs in light of "human rights," although Cizi stated he would be willing to die for that tradition in order to honor their culture.
As I talked more throughout the day, particularly with Eric, we compared cultural differences and similarities between America and South Africa. We talked about AIDS, of which Eric stated is less prevalent in this village than in Johannesburg (also called "Joburg"), Cape Town, and Pretoria. Indeed life expectancy is higher here than in the main cities. Eric indicated that one big problem he observes is that people don’t get tested for HIV and so go around not knowing if they have it, thereby passing it along (for those infected). He also mentioned that it is common for a male here in Ndebele culture to have four or five wives. Indeed Gerald’s own father, Daniel, has had five wives resulting in twenty children (he is very old now). The increase in partners increases possible transmissions since some of those same wives are also wives or mistresses of others at one time or another. I mentioned to Eric that even in the U.S. there is some infrequent polygamy still practiced, and that the divorce rate is something like fifty percent. However, we value the notion of marrying one partner for life, not only because it is safer, but more so because it brings a level of trust that is very important in relationships, and so having mistresses would diminish that valuable trust that binds the family
One other item I did note among the Ndebele here was that cups are often drank from by more than one person, which can represent another way to transmit any other disease that can travel along that indirect vector. In the States, this would generally be considered an unsafe practice, although among family it is still common. Since families are quite large among the Ndebele, it is assumed that a good portion of those at the celebrations are family, although that probably doesn’t present a useful guideline since even friends are often considered family here (consider that we were invited to the homes to eat as if we were part of the family).
We continued to talk of other things later into the day, including politics, Clinton (whom they love, and who was here in South Africa with Mandela for his birthday this week), Bush (who is generally frowned upon here and in Johannesburg, for those I talked with), recent problems in Zimbabwe, costs of living in Los Angeles, jobs in America, and soccer (of which many are still angry with Charles Dempsey for reserving his tie-breaking vote and knocking South Africa out of the world cup in 2006 when everyone was prepared to receive it --- maybe 2010 now). I believe the discussions were generally educational for us all, as we both learned a little more about the other beyond the normal way we receive that information -- through television.
When I asked how life was after apartheid, the general feedback I got is that things are much better now for blacks. For instance, during apartheid, the only education a black could receive at a university was to be a teacher. If they had a brain for science or engineering, then that was their loss, as they were not allowed to study that. Eric mentioned that during apartheid his friends and family would wake up at 4am in the morning, and go straight to work in the fields. After they returned in the evening, at sunset they went straight to bed out of fear and to ease the mental anguish, for the whites would often disperse blacks if they were gathered as five or more, to the point of beatings. Whites would conduct house-to-house searches to ensure all apartheid rules and segregation were being upheld. That all changed completely after apartheid, and it is all the more amazing and noble that Mandela chose to include prior oppressors in the democratic elections and his government.
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On Sunday I spent time with several children as we played and laughed. They braided my hair, we rolled a tire back and forth, ran together, and swung on a merry-go-round contraption. I let one girl go around with my camera and take pictures, and most of those photos turned out quite good even though it took her a bit to get used to it. I spent the rest of the day relaxing, eating pap (like grits back home) and liver, and gathering my notes together on the week’s events.
While here at the village I invested some money in Gerald’s education as well as helping in the purchase of a bull. This latter instance of the two was a way for me also to see if there is follow-through on the commitment for this money to be sent back to me once the elderly man (whose son was being initiated) gets money back into his account. There is a strict tradition, or code, as relates to such things, and we went through a sort of agreement with Gerald, this man, and myself whereby the man must account to Gerald for the return of the money, and Gerald in turn is responsible to me for ensuring it gets back. We established an acceptance with appropriate hand gestures and acknowledgements, and I left pertinent details to secure the return transaction, and we shall see how it goes.
I left several pictures of family and home, along with a mailing address to stay in contact. In fact, I intend to mail back pictures of the village and school to the Ndebele foundation so that they have them to share and enjoy. Thus far I can say that the trip has met and exceeded my expectations, and laid the groundwork for an eventual return. By the way, I discovered that my birthday is Youth Day in South Africa, the day in 1976 when students in Soweto rebelled and began to ring the first death bells of apartheid.
(see photo album in sidebar)