update from a new year

a lot has happened since the last time i posted on this. i spent best part of the month of december driving across this wonderful country in a Nissan Almera with Andrew... from Cape Town to the Transkei to the Drakensberg Mountains to Swaziland to Mozambique and back again. And then i spent New Years in hospital with Andrew after our December 30th car accident... crumpled bonnet, through the windshield, fractured ribs for me, broken face for poor Andrew. And then there was the surgery, and ICU and we found out Bas had been in hospital in Durban for the past few weeks with malaria and double pneumonia. And then there was Aaron's trip here, and the misery and confusion of relationships and knowing ourselves and love and friendship. And then Melissa stayed here at 8 Herschel for a few days and we had good times, Diva's food and lazy days. And now it is slowly getting back to life. I had dinner last night at Melody's house in Langa... Uzi and Mihlali just started school back up again (Uzi in grade 1, Mihlali grade 5). Melody's husband is still missing in action... and she's still unemployed, praying for a job so she can finally divorce him. I'm not with CSVR anymore, and so I've started the proces of looking for something new to do during my remaining time in CPT, not to mention looking for a job for once I get back home. I've submitted an application to serve in Haifa, and I really do pray that that happens for me. It would be such a blessing. Nava has sent one in as well, and truly I can think of nothing better than the idea of serving in Haifa with my dear, sweet Navajoon.

Anyhow, back to the road trip... Really only photographs and my more creative writing can express the beauty of the places we saw and times we had. It was wonderful... So, I'm going to post some of the stuff I journaled while we were traveling. Feel free to comment and critique...

traveller

I want to escape to the ocean’s shore, to stand at the breaking waves and watch for whales, breaching in the distance. I am chasing the eternal nowhere, that romantic place where life is raw and real, an orb of hot light, painting itself across an orange sky.

sweets

Children chase cars
down backwater Transkei roads
calling out for sweets.

Twenty years ago
it was payment—
they opened gates
for white baas.

“Sweets,” says John,
“In Transkei,
first English word.”

sangoma dancers

the sangoma dancers
are drunk off umqoboti
they swallow it
by the bucket-full
before painting their faces,
tying beach towels
around their waists
and dancing for the
white folk.

the sangoma dancers laugh—
silly white people
think this dance is real
but we sing freedom songs
and we will never show them
our spirits.

business

“Please lady,
don’t you want
painted African pig?
Hand-painted just
for you.

Please lady,
cheap, cheap,
just to buy bread.
I very hungry.

Don’t you want?
Painted, from
Africa.

I hungry,
from Africa.
No work in
Eastern Cape these days—
all gone to the cities,
Port Elizabeth,
Cape Town,
Johannesburg.

Only come home to Transkei
for funeral, these days.

Please lady,
don’t you want
painted African pig?
I hungry
and you white, from city
rich, American accent.”

sea level

Hogsback mountain stands tall and lush over the valleys of the Eastern Cape. In her shadow lie small villages, mud huts and gravel roads, cattle, goats and children. From here, overlooking it all, I hear the wild waters of mountain rivers crashing over rock cliffs into pools below, babbling over rough boulders into the valley.
This Africa is full up with beauty and peace—bumblebees on mountain lilies, Samango monkeys in the trees and the soft hum of cicadas in tall pines. There is no bush war in this Africa, no child soldiers missioning through the brush, no famine, no disease. This Africa is full of lush green and sunlight.
We walk barefoot along mountain cliffs, admiring the view. Out over the wide landscape, villages spotting the countryside, unable to see inside their doors. We don’t see hunger from 1200 metres above sea level.

Rasta Dave

The house lies about a kilometre in from the main road. We park the car and John and Cobra lead us, barefoot, through tall grasses and small villages towards his property. The gate is closed to keep village children off his plantation, out of the marijuana plants that grow tall in the rich Eastern Cape soil. We left early that morning for Mdumbi. John and Cobra lifted the VW Golf in the car park and hopped in the backseat, coming along as guides, translators. They do the bargaining and business deals in rolling, rhythmic Xhosa, and we hand over the cash. Fifty rand here, thirty there, and another fifteen for that right there in the young boy’s dirty hands.
Rasta Dave greets us as we approach his garden. A pot simmers on nearby coals and Dave, John and Cobra exchange greetings in quiet Xhosa. He invites us inside. A dirty mattress is turned up against the far wall. John picks up a hand-made guitar from the floor and begins pecking at its few remaining strings, making a and lovely melody that resonates in the small room. Hanging above us, on the far wall, is the National Party flag, and underneath it pieces of an old motorbike, likely driven out here and too damaged by the bombed out pothole roads to make it back.
The house is rugged and dirty. I take pictures quietly smoke fills the room and, just as smoothly as we came in, we are gone, trekking with heavy breath back to the car and bumping along back to the tent.

fishing

Local fishermen in red and yellow dhows
unload freshly caught swordfish
onto the beach at Tofo village.

The eldest uses a saw—dull, blunt blade
—to portion the fish into steaks, for profit.

The head is left severed on the hot sand;
the long sword-nose, once menacing,
useless in this new air-world, and the eyes
open, big and dark, stare empty into the sky.