Part of the Team

Last Saturday I woke up at the ridiculous hour of 5:15am and got dressed to go and serve Kudu burgers with the Grahamstown Rotary Club at the PG Glass Mountain Drive half marathon. The morning started off catastrophically (as ridiculously early mornings usually do) as I stood outside my dorm with a cell phone that politely informed me that someone was trying to call, but rudely wouldn’t let me answer his call. I stood outside in the cold loosing feeling in my finger tips – despite my attempts to warm them up by dialling every number connected to a like-minded crazy person I could think of who perhaps would be up at this time. I was contemplating what to do when a lovely young lady walked by and let me use her much more amenable cell phone to call a Rotarian to come and pick me up a half an hour later than the time I was supposed to report for duty.

When I arrived a troop of Rotarians were already hard at work setting up the grille, hanging up signs and busily organizing the food to prepare. I tried to jump in and help as best I could, but didn’t find my niche until the lead Rotarian – Colin - asked if someone could make the sign indicating the prices of the Kudu Burger, the Egg and Bacon Roll, and the coffee that would be on sale this morning as part of our fundraising. A colouring champion since Elementary school, I knew I was the woman for the job. Two finger nails filed down to the skin and a pair of chalk-dusted trousers was the price I paid that morning to make my multicoloured beacon of enticement to draw the hungry runners, workers and spectators to our stand throughout the morning. It was worth it because not only did it serve as the price list and as the official “Open for Business Sign” letting the runners know that we were ready for their business; it also gave me the first tangible role of the morning and consequently led to my second role as burger preparer extraordinaire. This role took me back to my days in High School working at Godfathers Pizza. Adrenaline pumping I worked side by side with Les – the egg fryer; Eleanor – lettuce chopper and tomato slicer; Billy – bun preparer; James - money taker; Lynette -coffee maker, Dennis- onion fryer, Duncan – grille instructor, Harry – advertiser, and Wendy - master griller. Together we made 50 egg rolls, 140 kudu burgers and countless c ups of coffee. Under the director of Colin – lead organizer – the ten of us became a finely tuned fast food machine ready for the plethora of sweaty hungry customers that came our way in the morning and into the afternoon. When the machine was at high speed the only words spoken were directives like “Kudu burger no onions!;” “A roll with no toppings please” and “Sir, please purchase your ticket at the counter and then come back to the table to receive your order.” When the waves of customers subsided and the machine took a break the conversation shifted to politics, inquiries concerning personal lives, and jokes were made about my potential calling to work at McDonald’s upon my return home and Harry’s ability to produce an advertising call for Kudu burgers that was strikingly similar to those made for hot dogs at baseball games in the States.

When the morning was over I realized that I felt intently happy, content, and satisfied. Surprised at this feeling I didn’t really know what to do myself when it was time to quite working, clean up and go home. My partner in prep work – Lydia indicated that she was going straight to the store to buy a six pack of cold South African beer. That sounded nice, but I decided that I would take a hot shower and then a nap. Wendy gave me a ride home so that I could and it was great. As I awoke groggy in the afternoon a couple hours later, I started to analyse my feelings of euphoria from before. My mom always told me that when I feel depressed I should go and serve others. I always thought this was because by serving others one feels better about oneself and gives of oneself – simultaneously reminding him or her of the plethora of things we all have to give and the many things we have to be thankful for. This may be the case, but there is something more.

During my reflection, I think back to the times in my life where I have felt this way before... playing soccer in High School, travelling to Mexico for a mission trip in college, serving food at a soup kitchen, working at a pizza place, helping groups at a ropes course, living in Zambia… Interestingly these are not the most impressive things on my resume; nor are they things highlighted in my collection of scrap books. They are not even things in which I can claim as leadership experiences or moments that I would use as anecdotes during a job interview to show my skill in a certain area. They aren’t circumstances where I can claim victory – my soccer team always had a losing record and the best facilitator at a ropes course is the one not remembered. However, the similarity between all of these experiences is my involvement in a team – formal or informal – intentional or spontaneous. I was a helper, a worker, a player, a normal person trying to make sense of a complex situation – sometimes “getting it” and other times feeling so confused I have to take a deep breath and let it all go. However in the end I was involved and that was the most important part.

As a young person sorting out my future using my preferred method of guess and test (guessing at an occupation I think I would like to do and trying it out) I frequently get bombarded with the career and direction questions. Don’t get me wrong, these are important, but to be honest many times in response I find myself giving canned answers that I think people will want to hear and often which I want to believe myself – “I am focusing on my education so that I can focus on my career later.” “One day I hope to teach.” “I am going to DC to get a job at an NGO.” The truth is that I don’t really know what I will do – all of these things are options and all of them would be great. They scare me and excite me at the same time - I cherish them as dreams and hope that they will happen in the years to come … but really my hearts desire isn’t to have a title – the feeling of completeness isn’t there for me. My hearts desire it is to be part of it – the team, the mission, the community. I want to have a role – not necessarily a leadership role – just a role where I can be a part of something bigger than myself and reminds me of the power of people. I want to be a part of community that gets me up at 5:30 am to be stuck out in the cold and prepare to serve greasy burgers, get to know others, and realize that I matter – not as mastermind of some great event that people will speak of for years to come in which I will find my identity – but as a normal person with a role, an actor in a play written by a director much wiser than myself. Perhaps – in addition to the cognitive reminder of the ways in which we are all privileged – this is why serving is so powerful. It gives us each a role of equal significance and importance - a role not designed to give us individual benefits, but one that benefits the group, the collective, the team. In a time when individuals are in constant competition with each other, it is refreshing to find a place amidst friends, colleagues or even strangers where one can forget the competition between one another and focus instead on a mutual goal of achieving something larger that only a group working together could achieve- even if that goal is as simple as preparing fast food for hungry athletes.

My Most Interesting Gift

When being hosted by Rotarians, one is often adorned with gifts: pins, flyers, mugs, pens, candy, wine and even the occasional T-Shirt. I have received all of these in abundance during my travels throughout South Africa. However, it wasn’t until my trip into the rural Northern Province that I received my most interesting gift. Ironically, it wasn’t actually from a Rotarian, but instead was facilitated by a Rotarian with vast connections.

In early July, during my winter break, I traveled to a little group of towns (Potschefstrom, Klerksdorp, and Orkney) about an hour south of Johannesburg to spend some time with Rotarians, give presentations, and get more acquainted with a different part of South Africa. Currently I am studying in a town called Grahamstown – it is an English speaking area that I have heard called “liberal” or “progressive” by different people outside of the town. Although I have a few Afrikaans speaking friends studying there, they are the minority and I had not had the opportunity to really converse with mainstream Afrikaans. That was until I went to Klerksdorp and stayed with an Afrikaans family.

I had a wonderful time with my hosts and was impressed with their kindness, generosity and their consistent joy in facing the challenges of everyday life. I was also impressed by the plethora of interesting activities I participated in that weekend. I saw cave drawings, visited hospice in the township, hung out with a youth group that did service projects in Mozambique, learned how to make a nice sound with a Vuvuzella (a well known tool for soccer fans in South Africa) – got one to take home, visited a game farm, and ate my weight in meat – biltong, boerewoers, kudu steaks, etc. Many memories were made and – as one would expect visiting a country where the big Five roam in the wild - the most fun involved animals.

After my presentation at the Klerksdorp Rotary Club, my host asked me if I had seen game while brainstorming potential afternoon activities for me to participate. To my honest affirmation that I had seen game in South Africa, he asked, “Yes, but have you touched game?” My eyes lit up and inquisitively I said, “That sounds interesting.” I wasn’t disappointed. Interesting is a very good word to describe a visit to the local taxidermist.

I never had the inclination to meet a taxidermist before. Although some of my extended relatives hunt, I didn’t really grow up with it nor did I pay any of my hunter friends a visit when the meat was hung in the garage. I confess I eat meat – all kinds of meat- so I can’t (and won’t) claim some sort of moral superiority in protecting the lives of animals (Sorry vegetarian friends). I certainly don’t believe in being cruel to animals before they are eaten – beating them, pumping them full of steroids, keeping them in places too confined – those types of behavior violate common decency. But utilizing the entire animal – meat, skin, tusks, bones, etc - after it has been hunted does not fit in the cruelty category for me. Thus, taxidermy should intrigue me. However, it still surprised me when I realized after being surrounded by the stuffed animals that I was – in fact - very intrigued.

After I adjusted to being in the still-life zoo, I meandered around and felt each animal skin as my host named the animal: first in Afrikaans, then in English. Warthog was rough with a few long hairs that were quite coarse. Zebra was smooth and felt very similar to a cow hide. The hippo was amazing and was smoother than I had anticipated. It was also interesting to see all of the various antelope side by side and learn to distinguish the hartebeest from the wildebeest, the kudu from the impala. Finally, to see the teeth of a lion so close helped me to appreciate the strength and majesty of the animal.

When I had wandered around the shop for about a half an hour - looking at each specimen with renewed interest – I figured it was about time to leave when the taxidermist himself arrived and asked if I wanted a guided tour of the process. He must have read my facial expression, because the next question he asked was if I got queasy easily. I hesitantly shook my head yes to the first question and responded with the same hesitancy to the second question: “I don’t think I do.” With that we agreed that I would view the process and hope that the smells were not too difficult for me to manage. Luckily they weren’t, but trying to describe the pungent odor that came from the process - not from the animals themselves, but from the various chemicals used to treat the skins - is difficult. I have blocked most of it from my memory, but I think the cocktail of smells might have included some sewage, a dash of sulfur, and a just a bit of something that resembled rotten tuna. Needless to expand – it wasn’t pleasant. Viewing this process was interesting though, and it consisted of preserving, scraping, preparing, and artfully placing the skins on the specialized mold made just for the animal in question. It was an international process: the molds and some of the customers came from the U.S., the marble eyes for the animals came from Germany, and the skins came from throughout Southern Africa. It takes about a year from the time a skin is dropped off by a hunter – cut in a specialized way needed to create a successful replica - to when he or she can expect his or her animal finished. Watching the technique involved in placing the skin with strong attention to detail making sure each animal looked real and alive. Witnessing this compelled me to see taxidermy as more of an art than a practice. I was impressed and thankful for the experience to challenge my presumptions.

As I talked with the taxidermist about the hunting laws in South Africa, culling, and the liaison that many hunters have with the local people – helping with over population and often leaving the meat behind and taking just the skin – I thought of how many times I make assumptions and judgments concerning things of which I know nothing. I smiled as I realized that after a couple more hunting stories, my host and I were on our way out. As a parting gift the taxidermist walked over to a stack of springbok skins and asked me to feel how soft they were. I did and stroked the skin - focusing my fingers on the razorback part of its hide where the white fur sticks on end. At my curiosity he smiled and picked up the skin – handed it to me – and said “A present to take home.” I accepted, humbled at such generosity from a stranger, but not necessarily surprised. Spontaneous generosity seems to flow from many people here – even to strangers. It is a saving grace in such a dynamic place.

Accepting this grace is how I came to receive my most interesting gift in South Africa.

My Xhosa Wedding

It is nice to be accepted as a foreigner by individuals. It is even nicer to be accepted and loved by a whole community.

Entembeni has been my refuge from school and a surprisingly Western lifestyle for several months now. I found it after a Rotarian brought the American students to share lunch with the elderly people who patronize the drop in center during the weekdays. The name means “place of hope” in Xhosa and as the director, Grace, tells visitors and members alike - it is a place of hope for all who enter its doors. The connection between Entembeni’s name and professed goals is refreshingly apparent when tasting the fruits of the outdoor vegetable and flower gardens maintained by the residents, hearing the melodic singing that prepares one for the prayers said before the meals, and laughing at the impromptu dancing when one of the residents remembers with jubilee how to work the CD player donated by the last American volunteer. I love this place and have often referred to it as my favorite place in Grahamstown.

My first couple times volunteering at Entembeni was on the skirt tails of Jeremy – an ideal American exchange student working on his undergraduate degree. The word ideal is optimal of Jeremy’s experience in South Africa because during his four months in country he left no experience by the wayside. Every traditional ceremony, every teensy morsel of South African food, every political conversation or protest, every word in Xhosa that came rushing past him - he lunged at with full force and gripped tightly as best he could until they became a part of him and his experience. Seven years younger than myself I was in awe of this young man, as well as encouraged and grateful when he joyful accepted my company on this bit of his adventure – traveling into the township of Josa to spend time and serve food to the elderly.
The first couple of visits everyone was friendly to me as I cherished the slowness of the afternoons away from school– weeding in the garden, helping serve the food, and occasionally helping clean up afterwards. For the most part the people were kind – as they always are – but I was really of no consequence. The most important part of me was that I was a friend of Sipho’s (Jeremy’s Xhosa identity) and thus should be loved as he was. However, curiosity concerning our relationship quickly spread as people noticed the engagement ring on my finger. “Ooooo,” one resident shouted with delight when we arrived out of a taxi. “Married?,” she questioned moving her eyes inquisitively back and forth from Jeremy and myself. “No” we responded in unison laughing at the assumption. Confused she then grabbed my left hand and started gently twisting the ring on my finger. I tried to explain: My husband (there really is no word for fiancé) is in the U.S.; I miss him a lot, but he is coming soon; when he does I will bring him to you so that you can meet him. Just like that I had made a promise to bring Dave to this beautiful place and introduce him to my weekly lazy afternoon ritual of weeding, singing, dancing, and serving.

As the time grew closer to his arrival I - for good reason - became more excited and the residents could tell. They would ask, “how much longer?,” then respond “woo hoo!” In the meantime I had been given a Xhosa name like Sipho (Jeremy). I was called Nomhle which means beauty. Coincidently I was given the name by another woman named Nomhle who also claimed that I was now her daughter and that I should introduce Dave (my fiancé) to her first. The director (Grace) and the cook (Connie) collectively decided that the residents would sing Xhosa wedding songs for us and this scheme developed as the time of his arrival drew closer to include aspects of a traditional wedding ceremony. Sipho was bummed that he would already be on a plane back home and would miss this aspect of Xhosa culture. I promised to send him pictures.

Not being as tenacious in my cultural studies as my young friend, I had no idea what to expect when we arrived that day. In addition, it was six days into Dave’s two week visit and for the past two days he had been in bed with food poisoning. He was hesitant to visit – mostly because he was reluctant to be so far from a bed – but I convinced him otherwise. When we arrived all of the cultural experiences we had missed from him being sick in bed were forgotten as women sang and danced in traditional clothing and painted faces (To explain- we had coincided our visit to during the famous Grahamstown Arts Festival - known to be the largest of its kind in Africa – but missed all but one of the shows we had reserved).

Dave politely introduced himself to all of the members of Entembeni – mastering the South African handshake of initially shaking one’s hand normally, then twisting your hand to shake with thumbs down and finally returning one’s hand to original position to shake normally finishing the greeting. He hugged Grace and Connie and sat by to wait for his bride to get adorned in some traditional clothing after the meal was served. Two of the teenage girls from the community who had volunteered with Sipho and myself for a couple weeks showed up to serve as my bridesmaids, and Noxolo - my beading friend – came as well to witness the celebrations.

The ceremony began with a greeting from the elderly men of the group. Tata Mkhulu – the 97 year old grandfather – was in charge of this part. After smiling at Dave and I while holding both our hands, he delegated the blessing to his number two – the slightly more talkative 93 year old grandfather. This man praised us on our transition and prayed for our future in a concise and non-elaborative blessing – also holding our hands while doing so. I then returned to my dressing room only to emerge again – hair wrapped and blanket tied around my waste and my head down led by my bridesmaids who were cued by the beautiful and clear throated singing of Qongqongthwane, a traditional wedding song. From that point I was paraded around the room - looking up only to be told to keep my head down by my bridesmaids – to the point where I came to a blanket on the floor on which I was indicated to sit. Dave was invited to sit on a chair next to my blanket and the women’s part of the ceremony continued. Three women came and gave us advice about our marriage. This was my favorite part. Each looked fervently into our eyes, shook their hands, waved their arms, and told us things like:
“If you fight – talk – don’t hit (looking briefly to Dave) and don’t run away (now redirecting their attention on me);”
“You will want to run back to your mother’s house, but that isn’t good – stay and talk and pray – if you have a problem - you talk;”
“No divorce. Married, no divorce. Love each other and stay – even when it is hard – then you will be happy in the end.”

After the advice was given – in my mind a perfect parallel to a homily given by the reverend at wedding – it came time to engage in another parallel to Western tradition and change our names. However, in Xhosa culture it is the first names that are changed, not the last. Thus, although I had cherished being called beautiful every day, this privilege was revoked and a new title was given to signify the passage from singleness to marriage. My name became Masilakhe which means “to build.” The ladies said that this was to represent my transition as I build a home and family with Dave. Dave was also given a new name - Winayi - meaning “winner.” According to the ladies this is because he won my affections and me as a wife – a particularly interesting coincidence understood by those who knew the story of Dave and my dating history and courtship.

After our names were changed, Connie and Grace – my two “African mamas” danced a bit with me and took pictures. We posed with elderly men and the elderly women in positions similar to those we will take in five months and smiled with one another – holding hands. My heart stirred with joy at the prospect of marrying this wonderful man (who shows up half-sick to a ceremony in the Township because he knows how much the place means to me) but also at the love that exists between and within communities. My travels have often heightened my longing for home and loved ones; but at the same time they have made the larger aspect of community and connection more evident. It is simply amazing to be accepted and loved by communities – especially those so seemingly different (yet so similar) than one’s own.