Living in Transkei village

[craigieji]

I lived in a village in the Transkei for eight months of 2004. Some of my old, journal entries are included in this thread.
I have since become an introducer of Xhosa language and culture and I now offer an exciting new opportunity - the Ubuntu Bridge Village Experience.

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Here is an opportunity to improve communication in South Africa, especially acoss the financial divide, as well as being a source of income for the poorest of the poor, though they live in a place that looks something like heaven, Ubuntu Bridge has been boiling up a medicinal brew designed to help you, even if you don't have anything to do with it, by encouraging a nation to get to know each other, to understand each others needs. Well, its a small start, anyway. Read on....

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[craigieji]

A view of a world from a mud hut floor

Recollections of an Umlungu Thwasa


where there is light:

Outside there is thunder and lightning and even a little rain, very peculiar weather for this time of year. Superstition has it that no one must wash or do anything out of respect for the lightning, which of course is born from practicality – moving around on top of a hill only sets one up as a target. So we sit here with two candles as our only source of light (besides the odd shaft of lightning), the one illuminating my writing pad. Mama and Dada and the children are now listening to a story on our wind-up radio. The children lie on blankets, the elder women and girls sitting amongst them, gathered close to the little radio, its feeble output competing with the roaring heavens outside and above. I sit on my kneeling mat, intended to prevent my white clothes from dirtying, a state both inevitable and imminent. My usually lily white feet are stained dark, almost as dark as my father sangoma’s face. Dada’s joint blazes furiously, spitting sizzling ntsango seeds. A seed burns a hole in mama’s blanket lying beneath him. He swipes at it with dexterity, as well as a consciously clownish playfulness. He reassumes his dignified demeanor, then he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes, only just concealing the impish grin I know so well. I rise swiftly and kneel before him. With casual care I pour steaming tea into his mug and reach for the sugar, holding it open with two hands for his waiting teaspoon, poised in the air, hovering lazily from between his calloused fingers, as if to say I really should be doing all things at once. I replace the lid on the sugar as the teaspoon exits fully heaped for its customary second time. I return quickly to my place, kneeling on the mud floor, in the shadows. The candle moved for another purpose. Dada’s dark eyes look now out the window, having lost interest in my activity. He shouts something rapidly to Nomsisi, who leaves the hut with reservation and obedience. The white mathwasa sit each on their own mat, in their own collective and individual worlds. A New South African family.


One of those mathwasa has a story to tell:
Once upon a time, a little white kid who grew up in a decidedly ‘butch’ culture, where black peeps were his political and supposedly social inferior, whose main contacts were with his family’s domestic servants and their children, found himself kneeling on a little straw mat on the grass dressed in a little white uniform with a little white apron serving tea to eight African mamas sitting on chairs in the midday sun in the middle of the Transkei lalies (hills). It occurred to this little white guy as he sat smiling, maintaining awareness of which mama was almost finished her tea and who needed more sugar, that he had (to a large extent) voluntarily and joyfully put himself in this position.

A reflective thought: if one could find joy in this experience….



* * *


A necessary glossary:
(in order to make more sense of things)

• Makhos! – Mpondo pronunciation of Amakhosi, meaning literally, Chiefs or Lords, contextually, the Ancestors. A multi-contextual expression of joy, gratitude, respect or acknowledgement, even surprise, as in “Oh my God, look what the ancestors have manifested now”. Known by other names, including Amadlosi in Xhosa proper.
• Thwasa (twa-za) – literally means appear or blossom. The process through which one becomes a sangoma, the blossoming of one’s true self. Ukuthwasa – (the infinitive - uku) to blossom or blossoming, to appear or appearing, to thwasa or thwasa-ing.
• Umlungu – a white person, abelungu – plural. Originally ‘person of light’ as a respectful reference to the first white men in Africa, now used colloquially, often rather tongue-in-cheek, occasionally derogatory.
• Words in brackets are rough translations of the Xhosa name that they follow. I say rough because the word may mean much more then its literal translation when used in context as a person’s name. I have included them because I think they are beautiful and interesting, providing insight into cultural identity and paradigms.

Preface:

One of the most outstanding lessons I have had in life, let alone during my stay as a thwasa for eight months in the hills of the Transkei, is how I think I have come to understand something, only to realize at a later time that I have completely misunderstood, or at least that understanding requires an update (like Microsoft Windows) in order for it to continue serving you in a positive manner. This is surely a common occurrence in the experience of being human and is important to be aware thereof, both when reading what I have written, as well as what you make of it. The world is like a palette of infinite colours, shades, textures and mediums. You are the artist of your own experience. Be mindful of what you create. Makhos!
I hope that this humbley arrogant attempt at describing my subjective experiences of aspects of AmaMpondo culture does justice to what I consider an invaluable experience in terms of offering us ‘city folk’ certain insights into other ways of life, especially in the context of Mzansi (South) Africa and the African continent as a whole. I also hope that a certain amount of pride may be felt for those who belong to this culture, indeed all African cultures. There is so much to learn both in terms of practical ways to survive on a daily basis (mentally at least), as well as establishing a healthy connection with spirit. At the very least, with one’s heart in the right place, one is able to see how a culture may go about nurturing this crucial connection, whilst maintaining plenty of room for revision, depending on your culture, history and recent ancestors. It is in the realm of spirit, where the current crossover of cultures is going to play such a huge role, with important work being done as we speak by, amongst others, people of African, European and American descent, nurturing the spirits of community, compassion, respect, joy, spontaneity, freedom, acceptance, patience, Ubuntu.
Although at times, this piece of writing may sound like a case study of the AmaMpondo people and their culture, it is not, nor was it intended to be. Rather, it is my highly subjective experience of living with people who accepted me into their midst without judgement and allowed me to live and learn the way of their ancestors, which it seems many of the new generation have forgotten, or rejected. Besides, though there are obvious similarities throughout Mpondo and African culture, such as the physical challenge for survival on a day-to-day basis, like everywhere else, every region, tribe, village, hill, family, individual has their own individual characteristics that make them unique.
I had no conscious intention of writing anything regarding the people with whom I would eventually come to live, whoever and wherever they would turn out to be. It was only on the enthusiastic responses of eagerly absorbed letters that I sent to relatives in Australia, which made its way into the hands of other family members and friends at home in Cape Town, that I became aware of how alien the experience I had gone through was to almost everyone I knew, and thus valuable not only as a means of de-othering the other, but as a means to help bridge culture gaps through understanding, insight and hence empathy. My original intention when writing to my family was ostensibly as a point of interest, but covertly to convince them that I had not gone entirely bonkers. It seemed I succeeded as I received enthusiasm and support and encouragement to write more. Praises to my parents, brother, friends, family and even complete strangers who gave me so much support, when I shared my experiences as well as when I often just wanted to cry and give up, when I doubted myself and my ancestors. Ndiyabonga Makhosi (I am grateful, Ancestors ). I fully realised and appreciated the importance of this support when I heard other people or thwasas tell of how difficult it was for them to follow the path which opened before them; tales of friends and family who turned their backs on them. Their bravery I consider to be much greater then mine and I have much respect. Makhos!
Although revered, the way of the sangoma in modern Africa, has come to be regarded as an undesirable mission, at least an inconvenience and in some cases a curse. This is an unfortunate attitude, which I hope will change. It is an honour and a gift.

* * *

The following writing comprises of the letters I wrote at various stages of my stay, now revised. The rest, including the beginning of my stay, the path which led me there and the things that happened leading up to and after my departure were aided by my journal, which I had started the day I left Cape Town without a destination on the 10th November 2003. This journal served many important functions. It was an effective means of emotional catharsis, as well as being a familiar support, having kept dream diaries, journals and “morning pages” for a number of years. However, as a psychology major at U.C.T. with a keen interest in cultural and traditional customs, ancient and contemporary, I have a tendency to note and analyse socio-cultural and psychological intrigues and points of interest, as well as analyzing my daily experiences to death.
So, whilst now turning into something which is exciting me as a creative endeavour, I humbly hope that what I have to say serves not only to entertain people, but also to play a small role in the healing of our country, our culture as a collective, namely humanity, Ubuntu and as convenient spin-offs, our beautiful continent Africa and our beloved planet Earth.

Makhosimvelo,
Cape Town 2004

[craigieji]

The following diary entries were written in Port st. Johns and Mtambalala, both in the Eastern Cape, formerly known as the Transkei and expanded by means of memory (RAM), journal notes and spirit in Cape Town.


It was Friday the 28th November 2003. We went down to the beach after sunset for a goat ceremony. That was how it all began, at least my exposure to AmaMpondo culture and the stage in my trip (journey) that was characterized by a process known as thwasa.
It was raining that evening, which is supposed to mean that the ancestors are happy or at least approve. I guess this could be linked to the belief that the ancestors come from the ocean, which in a sense is true. As science has proven there was a time when earth was covered in water and a later time when creatures, I believe amphibians, emerged from the water in an evolutionary step that would lead life to evolve animals as large as the dinosaurs, before eventually evolving humans from the class of primates. The point is that we would theoretically be able to trace our ancestors back beyond primates, beyond mammals, to a point where our ancestors were whatever, even amoebi, or stars. Even more amusing is that this would imply somewhere we have all shared the same line of ancestors, just only human, but still carrying forth that flame of life, that vital life force, chi in China, prana in India , moya in isiZulu and isiMpondo. This last language, isiMpondo, is a dialect of isiXhosa spoken by the AmaMpondo people with whom I came to live. Moya is a magical word, meaning any of air, wind, atmosphere, breath, spirit, soul. Makhos!
Water is, of course, also the bringer of life, and when you live off the land, with no indoor plumbing, rain is always good, except to obvious extremities. During winter, when there is little rain, I came fully to appreciate just why the ancestors were so happy when it rained.
I went down from the Amapondo backpackers with uThandi (Love), who worked there and would later turn out to be Dada’s (my sangoma father) cousin, though she was always referred to as his sister . The ceremony was on the beach in the middle of a grove of what seemed to be palm trees. As we wound our way through the dripping scrub, I could hear the drums getting louder. We jumped over a log, rounded a tree and brushed aside a branch to reveal a group of about thirty or so people illuminated by the soft glow of a small fire, huddled together for warmth and the shelter of the odd umbrella from the drizzle. Closest to where uThandi and I had emerged into the clearing sat two men, who turned around at our appearance. The one turned out to be Dada (umlungu mispronunciation of uTata – father, now an affectionate term widely used in reference to my future teacher) and the other was a character named Mtesh (spelling and meaning unavailable). I remember Mtesh was wrapped in some sort of Leopard skin blanket, had thin, shoulder-length dreadlocks with white beads around his head. He had a strange, but gentle energy, his readiness to smile at me and laugh at my physical gestures made me feel welcome. At this point I still had little idea of what or who sangomas were, let alone that I would be entering their world to such an extent. I was positioned to sit behind Dada, next to another white woman who would later become a thwasa as well with Dada. Mama’s head lay in her lap, her body curled in a ball under blankets. She looked so small, masking the immense power within that I would later be exposed to. I remember taking a puff of ntsango, a medicinal herb used by the sangomas (gunja) and being overwhelmed by a powerful and fearful force as I watched a female sangoma named Mama Joyce ‘trance’.
A moment of dread descended upon me, when later in the eve, she caught my eye and summoned me over to her side of the circle. I knew not what to do, but comply. Once there I knelt and greeted her in the way that I had been taught. She then indicated to me verbally that I should thwasa. She literally pointed a finger at me and said, “You, thwasa”. All I could do was nod my head and say, “andiyazi” (I don’t know) and give her my customary grin, praying that she would let me return to the safety of the other side of the circle. This she did by dismissing me with a turn of her head and slight wave of her hand. The only other thing I remember is curling up on a semi-dry palm leaf and falling asleep, before being woken before first light for the beginning of the most important part of the ceremony.
The ceremony was the goat ceremony of a Danish girl, thwasa Kuthala (she who likes to work), who had been a thwasa for about two months. She had dreamt her goat, which was necessary for this ceremony and was now progressing to the next level of thwasa, the red level. So she was now, at dawn, going to be washed in the ocean, then she would change her white clothes for red ones. This symbolized the end of her stage as only a white ghost, she was now becoming a sangoma. She was apparently progressing rapidly. On the way to the sea from the clearing, we saw another group who were doing the same thing, though they seemed to have a stronger church influence. But we all just seemed to ignore each other and I couldn’t help feeling surprised at the lack of comaraderie, though I may have been simply unaware of subtle acknowledgements and a mutual respect to let each group do their thing without interruption. I guess I just expected all sangomas to know each other and be buddies. Hmm, little did I know. So we all ran into the sea and jumped up and down, threw coins into the sea and screamed and sang. Dawn on Port st. Johns’ second beach. It was bizarre.
Shortly thereafter, all the sangomas and their entourage returned to the village, crammed into the bakkie they had hired as transport. I returned to the backpackers with Ntombemhlope, the white sangoma who had invited me to the ceremony. In reference to the name issue in the glossary, ‘ntombemhlope’ translates directly as white girl, which is quite hilariously ironic as he is white, gay and has long, beautiful blond hair. However in the context of naming, he tells me his means, “the clean or pure one who serves the ancestors”. Many male sangomas have female prefixes to their names, as being female in the AmaMpondo culture is associated with service and sangomas are the ones who serve the ancestors, including all people. A further reason is due to the androgynous image of sangomas, as spirit is supposedly genderless, and sangomas often appear thus, at least when viewed from behind. Besides the fact that I had to wear a skirt for eight months, I also had to squat to pee, which in its own right, did help to tone certain leg muscles for needed endurance and balance. As an aside, I was aware of how it assisted with the regulation of internal energy systems I had become aware of through the eastern philosophies of Taoism and forms of Yoga. These little crossovers of culture I found particularly interesting. They helped me to cope and gave me food for thought. It actually increased by respect for the process.
Later that day, we headed up to the village, where the ceremony was to continue right through to Sunday. I spent most of the time sleeping, until Sunday afternoon, when I was told by Ntombemhlope that Dada and Mama recognized my need to thwasa and were prepared to accept myself and another lady from Cape Town as their thwasas, if we wished to accept. Um, Ok. Let me think about that. You know what, it just made sense. I had recognized my calling years earlier, and now a couple of sangomas were as well. It was an opportunity and an honour hard to refuse.

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