Late Tuesday of last week I arrived in a neighboring town to help with the Bike Town Africa bike donation. The two day event took place at our sister organization, where a fellow Peace Corps colleague volunteers. Along with her, and another Peace Corps Volunteer, four staff from Bike Town Africa (the director is a former PCV from Ghana) and 25 community volunteers, we assembled 180 Kona bikes in one day and the following morning. Half of the bikes will go to the organization where the event took place, the other half to the organization where I volunteer.
It was fun but tiring work. We were in an old, broken windowed, community hall, with about eight stations of bike assembly and a few people teaching and a few doing quality control. Young and old, black and white, Zulu and Afrikaaner and Xhosa and Tswana and American, all working together and having a fun time. I assembled 9 bikes in 7 hours, with a total of 170 bikes completed in the first day. We all worked very hard.
The bikes are to be used for home based care workers / volunteers, who walk to from home visit to home visit. Providing a bike will save them time, but also promote a healthy option that is more visible to members of the community.
Following completion of assembling the bikes, a huge event was planned: two large tents, food, the head of KZN Department of Social Welfare (his entourage consisting of several dozen armed security guards and the tallest man I have ever seen), a representative from Bristol Meyer Squibb, traditional singing and dancing by children, and about two hundred community members.
The head of the Department of Social Welfare, on the verge of a re-election campaign, took full advantage of the situation. A charismatic speaker and impressive in stature, he promised to build a one stop ID centre in the village before January (ID registration is a big problem in rural areas), he was accompanied by two truck loads of food parcels (food is always a great donation but at the same time a disgusting display of wealth being temporarily thrown about)…. And opened his wallet, literally, to a crying granny who said she had not eaten in days, and put over R500 in her hands. He then got on a bike and rode about five meters, only to get off, pose for a picture, and then ride off with police and security escorts, windows down and guns, big guns, drawn out the windows. A very surreal scene, as if a head of state was present, almost a circus like atmosphere. It only added to the event for me, and to the foreign strangeness that continues to be my experience of South Africa and Peace Corps.
Following the pomp and circumstance of the impromptu political rally, the local children, and a few adults, got on the bikes and rode through the village. This coincided with an incredible rain and thunder and lightning storm. I made it about 100 meters and turned back, soaking wet to the safety of the tent. The children loved riding in the rain, and were oblivious to the thunder and lightning.
Later that night, the director of Bike Town Africa, offered to put me and my peace corps colleague up in the local B and B where the Bike Town guys were staying. Although entirely unnecessary, we ere left with no choice but to accept: a night of free food and wine, sharing photos from the past days goings-on and a few laughs brought the week to a pleasant close. Not to mention the shower and beautiful room of posh accommodation; now I love my village life but any chance, be it excessive and unnecessary or not, I will most likely take to live a posh night or two.
I also took charge of the photography duties, with the Bike Town director’s nice Cannon camera at my disposal I took a few hundred snaps during the day. Most were garbage, giving the lighting of intense African sun and indoors and rain and thunder all changing from minute to minute. Yet in spite of this, some of the good shots have the potential to be published in a number of biking and health magazines, as head guy of the org is a major magazine editor. So keep your eyes out for articles on bike donations in Africa, and publishing credit to yours truly (of course I handed these over free of charge, and happily so, as a PCV is not allowed to work, nor do I feel that my camera abilities are worthy of payment by a magazine.)
It was enjoyable to be involved in such an event. I know that further on down the peace corps road I will be able to accomplish events, although probably not to this scale, but am looking forward to moving beyond my initial ‘adjustment’ phases.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Sports
I spent the past few weeks in Pretoria for Peace Corps related work. During this time, I had the chance to go to two professional sporting games. The first: RUGBY! I know very little about rugby but have been learning, and now know enough to enjoy the game. I went with two peace corps volunteers from my group, one from the group before, and a Canadian PhD student. We ate Biltong, Boerwors, and shouted things in Afrikaans. Biltong, Boerwors and Rugby are important parts of the Afrikaaner culture. When in Rome,... or Pretoria, as it were. The Blue Bulls dominated the match against a team from Kimberely. It was an aggressive game, but the stadium was fairly empty and calm, but still a great time.
The following night, 13 of us volunteers ( and the Canadian) returned to the same stadium, Loftus Field, to see the Kaizer Chiefs take on the Swallows. Two professional soccer teams. Now, Rugby in SA is a Afrikaaner (white) cultural thing for the most part. Soccer, now soccer on the other had was lacking in biltong, boerwors, and white people. So much so, that as we, 13 of us foreigner (not all white, but all foreign) approached our seats, we received a standing ovation from our section. We were the only white people in the entire stadium, and the stadium was almost at capacity.
About every third person has a plastic trumpet at an SA soccer match. And every person next to them has a noise maker that sounds like a baby crying. And about every person next to them is drunk. Then the chiefs, amakhosi, score a goal. And if there was a roof on the stadium it would have flown off. In all my years of seeing rock concerts and sporting events, I have never experienced such an atmosphere. It made the rugby match from the night before seem boring. It made Tom Petty seem quiet. It made the Oakland Raiders fans seem tame. It made for a great time.
The following night, 13 of us volunteers ( and the Canadian) returned to the same stadium, Loftus Field, to see the Kaizer Chiefs take on the Swallows. Two professional soccer teams. Now, Rugby in SA is a Afrikaaner (white) cultural thing for the most part. Soccer, now soccer on the other had was lacking in biltong, boerwors, and white people. So much so, that as we, 13 of us foreigner (not all white, but all foreign) approached our seats, we received a standing ovation from our section. We were the only white people in the entire stadium, and the stadium was almost at capacity.
About every third person has a plastic trumpet at an SA soccer match. And every person next to them has a noise maker that sounds like a baby crying. And about every person next to them is drunk. Then the chiefs, amakhosi, score a goal. And if there was a roof on the stadium it would have flown off. In all my years of seeing rock concerts and sporting events, I have never experienced such an atmosphere. It made the rugby match from the night before seem boring. It made Tom Petty seem quiet. It made the Oakland Raiders fans seem tame. It made for a great time.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Sunset
This weekend I stayed with a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer. I am currently transitioning sites, and decided to meet up with my friend until I get to my new site later in the week. After dinner I stepped outside to make a phone call. I noticed the sun setting. It was breath taking. I forgot about my intention to make a phone call. The sun creeping behind a few clouds, behind hills, just beyond dirt village roads, rondoval huts, with Zulu people returning home from church. The ideal picture I had of Africa. Stunning.
I found it odd that the people within fifty yards of us, two white people, had disregarded the sunset and were staring at us. Two white people in a rural Zulu village were more impressive than the African sunset that one dreams about when thinking of Africa.
I found it odd that the people within fifty yards of us, two white people, had disregarded the sunset and were staring at us. Two white people in a rural Zulu village were more impressive than the African sunset that one dreams about when thinking of Africa.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
quotes
Two quotes I wanted to share. There have been many, but these two sum up parts of South Africa that I think are unique.
"There is no hurry in South Africa" - a young boy said this to his Aunty as she was asking him to finish the dishes. The boy was right.
"There are two types of people in South Africa. Those infected by HIV / AIDS, and those affected by HIV / AIDS." -I read this quote at an NGO's office. I have since seen it in other places and can attest to its reality.
"There is no hurry in South Africa" - a young boy said this to his Aunty as she was asking him to finish the dishes. The boy was right.
"There are two types of people in South Africa. Those infected by HIV / AIDS, and those affected by HIV / AIDS." -I read this quote at an NGO's office. I have since seen it in other places and can attest to its reality.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
The Rain Song
I woke up this morning to the sound of heavy rain falling on the roof, the windows, the ground outside. I went for the light switch but the power was out. I looked out the window, the pool was flooded, filled beyond capacity. The skies were dark, and rain blanketed what I could see in the darkness that was poor visibility. It wasn't until later in the morning that I realized I was lucky to live at the top of a hill.
My host sisters phone rang several times before 7:30 am. Each new phone call telling of how the caller's home was flooder, the office, or the highway. This part of the country has many valleys, and many rural areas, poor areas reside along the rivers that bottom the valleys. Now, flooded.
At work, the grounds are flooded, and rain is only increasing the damage as it randomly pours at intervals, so loud I cant hear the music on my laptop. The chicken coups, for our income generating projects were flooded. The bigger chickens survived, and were removed to a dry room, the chicks were not so fortunate. The back wall crumbled under the weakening support of wet, soft ground.
Tomorrow will be sunny. But the damage will not leave with the rains. It is striking that the power of nature seems to effect the impoverished most. I have not seen the valleys and townships today, but I know the infrastructure, the housing, what little does exist there, is lessened.
The pounding rain sounds like a semi-truck coming down the driveway.
My host sisters phone rang several times before 7:30 am. Each new phone call telling of how the caller's home was flooder, the office, or the highway. This part of the country has many valleys, and many rural areas, poor areas reside along the rivers that bottom the valleys. Now, flooded.
At work, the grounds are flooded, and rain is only increasing the damage as it randomly pours at intervals, so loud I cant hear the music on my laptop. The chicken coups, for our income generating projects were flooded. The bigger chickens survived, and were removed to a dry room, the chicks were not so fortunate. The back wall crumbled under the weakening support of wet, soft ground.
Tomorrow will be sunny. But the damage will not leave with the rains. It is striking that the power of nature seems to effect the impoverished most. I have not seen the valleys and townships today, but I know the infrastructure, the housing, what little does exist there, is lessened.
The pounding rain sounds like a semi-truck coming down the driveway.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
standing between the first and thrid worlds
The following are taken from recent journal entries since the 1st of June:
This experience is far from anything anyone could possibly assume or predict when applying for or thinking about the Peace Corps. All prejudices, expectations and preconceptions are impossibly incorrect. Throw these out the window. This is Peace Corps South Africa, anything is possible: I am living a first world life with white Afrikaaner family. This is not the straw hut- bucket bath- pit toilet- boiling your water just so it is suitable to drink- being the only white person in your township- Peace Corps experience that I signed up for, and reality that most of my colleagues experience. This is the Peace Corps experience with a swimming pool- tennis court- domestic worker- family holidays to the Berg- experience that is so normal to my life back in the States, even more luxurious in many ways, that it is actually a challenge as it is so far from my expectations of what Peace Corps should be, what I wanted it to be, and what it is for so many other volunteers.
Last Friday I went with my host mom and sister to Gateway Mall. It is a monstrosity, the way we think of gods as huge. A marvel of size, materialism and conspicuous consumption. I am told by a colleague that it is the biggest mall in the southern hemisphere. 290 stores, movie theatres (yes, that is in plural), a mammoth rock wall, wave pool for surfing. On the drive to Gateway, you pass townsihps, tin shacks and barefoot children; this is the third world poverty that is the Africa many of us in the developed world think of when we hear about Africa, or sign up for Peace Corps in Africa. Not Gateway mall, a colossus that is far from the ‘Africa‘ we envision. The people living in these impoverished areas have, in their backyards, a mall of first world quality and excess. A strange and uncomfortable dynamic that is somehow ignored once you begin shopping.
Following our mall visit we met up with the rest of the family for a seafood dinner to celebrate my other host sister’s birthday. The portions were too big, even for my appetite. I had to leave some food on the plate. This in a country where people forego food because they are often too poor to buy food. This includes people I work with and those who receive services from my NGO.
The circus was in town this past week. My family bought tickets for their children, but it was a great excuse for us adults to be kids for a night too. All the usual wonder of a circus environment made for an enjoyable evening. Looking around the crowd, however, something struck me. In the audience, I could have counted all the black people on my two hands. This in a country that is 90% black. The audience was mostly white and Indian people. A disproportionate balance that reflects the larger poverty dynamic. The circus is an experience that all children would love, yet a majority of the population in South Africa are too poor to buy tickets, have no transportation, or do not have parents to take them to the circus.
I was told to expect such dynamic contrast between the first and third worlds that exists in South Africa. Until you see it, until you live in it, you have no idea of the unsettled feeling that it creates. It is so real, so tangible, yet so strange and foreign that it is hard to grasp; it is South Africa.
This experience is far from anything anyone could possibly assume or predict when applying for or thinking about the Peace Corps. All prejudices, expectations and preconceptions are impossibly incorrect. Throw these out the window. This is Peace Corps South Africa, anything is possible: I am living a first world life with white Afrikaaner family. This is not the straw hut- bucket bath- pit toilet- boiling your water just so it is suitable to drink- being the only white person in your township- Peace Corps experience that I signed up for, and reality that most of my colleagues experience. This is the Peace Corps experience with a swimming pool- tennis court- domestic worker- family holidays to the Berg- experience that is so normal to my life back in the States, even more luxurious in many ways, that it is actually a challenge as it is so far from my expectations of what Peace Corps should be, what I wanted it to be, and what it is for so many other volunteers.
Last Friday I went with my host mom and sister to Gateway Mall. It is a monstrosity, the way we think of gods as huge. A marvel of size, materialism and conspicuous consumption. I am told by a colleague that it is the biggest mall in the southern hemisphere. 290 stores, movie theatres (yes, that is in plural), a mammoth rock wall, wave pool for surfing. On the drive to Gateway, you pass townsihps, tin shacks and barefoot children; this is the third world poverty that is the Africa many of us in the developed world think of when we hear about Africa, or sign up for Peace Corps in Africa. Not Gateway mall, a colossus that is far from the ‘Africa‘ we envision. The people living in these impoverished areas have, in their backyards, a mall of first world quality and excess. A strange and uncomfortable dynamic that is somehow ignored once you begin shopping.
Following our mall visit we met up with the rest of the family for a seafood dinner to celebrate my other host sister’s birthday. The portions were too big, even for my appetite. I had to leave some food on the plate. This in a country where people forego food because they are often too poor to buy food. This includes people I work with and those who receive services from my NGO.
The circus was in town this past week. My family bought tickets for their children, but it was a great excuse for us adults to be kids for a night too. All the usual wonder of a circus environment made for an enjoyable evening. Looking around the crowd, however, something struck me. In the audience, I could have counted all the black people on my two hands. This in a country that is 90% black. The audience was mostly white and Indian people. A disproportionate balance that reflects the larger poverty dynamic. The circus is an experience that all children would love, yet a majority of the population in South Africa are too poor to buy tickets, have no transportation, or do not have parents to take them to the circus.
I was told to expect such dynamic contrast between the first and third worlds that exists in South Africa. Until you see it, until you live in it, you have no idea of the unsettled feeling that it creates. It is so real, so tangible, yet so strange and foreign that it is hard to grasp; it is South Africa.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The Issue of Race
| Hello everybody! Sorry it has been so long since I've left any stories. I have been busy adjusting to my new life and so much has happened that it was difficult to pick something to write about, while excluding other interesting stories. So I chose to write about the issue of race, and some reactions to me being a white man and an American living here in South Africa. Here are three stories that happened in the past week, many more like this have happened. I left most of my reactions and feelings out of the story on purpose, your own reactions might add to the story and the experience of being here. I attended a Braai (a South African Bar B Q) last week. I had no idea what the occasion was until the evening had almost finished; no one told me or had an answer. when I asked. It turned out a girl was turning 11 years old. Birthday cake here I come. We were at her grandmothers house, and children and grandchildren made for a warm atmosphere. Next to the granny’s home is separate living quarters, where one of her sons lives. I was invited in to have a seat. The son started up a conversation with me. A man several years older than myself, he had had a few drinks, but was not offensive. He began telling me about Mandela. He had the privilege of meeting Mandela twice. His eyes moistened when speaking of election day in 1994. He said, while holding onto my arm, “things have really changed. I never thought I would be sitting here in my house having a conversation with a white man.” How do you respond to a statement like this? I was returning from town on a koombie (a fifteen seat public taxi). It was my second time alone on public transport since arriving. A man sitting next to me was having difficulty with the asking a question in isiZulu. He was black and I was surprised that he was in KZN and unable to speak isiZulu. He looked and me and said, “man its rough being a foreigner, huh?” You are preaching to the choir, I thought to myself. “Yeah, it is,” I smiled. “Where are you from?” “Lesotho,” he replied. “You are obviously American, since you don’t seem to be bothered by sitting in a taxi with all black people.” I don’t remember how I responded to this conversation. I was on another koombie with two friends, cousins of my host family. I went around with them to run errands, simply for something to do. A white man on a koombie is an unusual sight. As we were exiting, the man who collects money and tells people where to sit asked my cousin if I was her husband. As she has a great sense of humour, she told him yes. He responded by saying that we would have beautiful coloured babies. The term coloured is used here in South Africa to describe a person of mixed race and is not offensive. In fact, it was at some level of status during apartheid. The issue of race in South Africa is unlike any other country I have experienced. It is a daily issue, manifest in conversation, thought, reaction, behaviour and comment. These comments are made in a matter of fact way. In the U.S. they might bring a ‘politically incorrect’ label. Here it seems to be just a comment left on the consciousness of a post-apartheid society. |
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The Journey Begins
Thanks for visiting my blog page. I will be unable to update it until sometime in April. Until then, please feel free to read my previous posts. I am sure by April I will have much to share and look forward to that time.
In the past few days, I completed the stateside training and met the other volunteers in my group. It has been enjoyable but exhausting to say the least.
Talk to you after in-country training.
In the past few days, I completed the stateside training and met the other volunteers in my group. It has been enjoyable but exhausting to say the least.
Talk to you after in-country training.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
West African New Years
Yesterday started out without any plans. I was feeling a bit bummed. No plans on new years. At least I am not at work again this year. Sometime in the afternoon a good friend, Fatima, called to see what I was up to for the New Year. She suggested meeting downtown for food and seeing what we could find for festivities. Food, flexible plans, and good company –sounded like a good plan to me.
I made it downtown and found a spot to parallel park without having to pay for parking. This was exciting given the amount of people downtown for new years. As I put the Honda in reverse, BUMP! ‘Uhhhhh?’ I smiled; this was a first for me: a non-damage fender bump. ‘That is why they are called bumpers,’ I remember my Uncle telling me one time years ago. This was not foreshadowing of a bad year to come, but rather a lesson in driving and the ‘perfect parallel park’. This has nothing to do with the rest of my story, but it made me laugh at the time, so I thought I would share.
I met up with Fatima at a coffee shop and we walked to the clean Thai restaurant – cleanliness was one of the exceptional features along with the food and service (I could have eaten dinner in the bathroom it was so clean) that Fatima mentioned. Stuffed with curry and rice and good conversation we headed down to the fancy dessert spot. The queue filled the foyer and spilled onto the cold street. This was not ideal, but chocolate cake was our destiny and it loomed beyond the queue. We cut the line and went to the cake counter to get an order to go, thus bypassing the wait.
With a slice of cake in our hands we realized we had no more plans for the evenings and all the jazz and music clubs were sold out and a cheap bar was not the preferred destination. Fatima suggested we meet up with her family and celebrate the New Year West African style. Fatima is from Sierra Leon, I had never met her family, and it seemed like a grand idea.
After meeting her family, the conversation went to the Peace Corps. Her parents had both had Peace Corps English teachers while they were going up in Sierra Leon. Her father, Al, offered very encouraging words for me and my upcoming few years in South Africa.
About this time, Al, noticed that it was half past ten –only ninety minutes until midnight. I will use the term 'African Time' here with great caution, and only because Emma, Fatima’s mother used it with a big smile on her face, to explain to me that people would be arriving at all hours of the night and I would not have to worry about being late to the party.
So, we drove to Fatima’s ‘Auntie’s’ house and arrived at about a quarter past eleven. As we walked through the door, I heard someone say, “Salaam alaykum!” I knew right then that this was going to be a unique New Years experience and I would have a smile on my face for days to come – even as I right this now.
To our right sat a beautiful Persian couch, Nigerian rug made of cows hide and African artwork and wooden statues covered the walls and tables. Beautiful! Handshakes and hugs to every one of Fatima’s ‘cousins’, ‘uncles’, ‘aunties’. I wasn’t sure who was related to whom, but within a few hours I would find out that it did not matter.
Fatima and I walked downstairs to the sounds of West African music. Nobody was dancing yet, but soon I would be on the dance floor celebrating with everyone. On the basement walls hung beautiful African artwork, a picture of Lewis Farrakhan and a picture of Bob Marley.
I barely had enough time to take in the surroundings as midnight was minutes away and everyone had gathered in the basement to toast, say a prayer, and dance. With three minutes to go, Al made a toast lasting seven minutes, then another toast from the man who owned the beautiful home. At five minutes past midnight, Al prayed a beautiful prayer in Arabic (my Arabic is not so good these days and he spoke to fast for me to follow, but it sounded beautiful). And then everybody, probably thirty people stood up and hugged and shook hands of everybody else in the room. I did not expect anyone to shake the hand of an ‘op-t-ho’ stranger. But everybody did.
And then we danced. Children, adults, older adults, all danced. Men danced with their friends’ wives, women danced with their friends’ husbands, children danced, everyone danced and I danced. I actually had no idea who was married to whom, but it did not matter as everyone there was family. There was no wrong way to dance, everyone danced differently; everyone moved how they felt the music. My kind of dancing! – It was very similar to hippie twirling, but less twirling and tie-die.
People from Sierra Leon, Nigeria, Liberia and Ghana danced the night away with the ‘op-t-ho’ fair-skinned, dark-haired Oregonian. Music from all of these countries filled the room and Fatima would tell me which languages each song was sung in as the only songs I understood were one by Bob Marley and a Paul Simon cover.
Around two in the morning, Abdul, Fatima’s brother and DJ for the evening, stopped the music and a pregnant woman stood up and began speaking in Krio. Krio is a language that has English words in it, and listening to it I thought I understand it, until after three sentences of spoken Krio, I realized my mind was blank and I had no idea what was being said as people laughed in unison and I sat with a confused look.
With Fatima as my translator I began to follow the conversation with relative ease as the pregnant woman asked the owners of the house to be the God parents of her soon-to-be-born child. What a delightful moment. Everyone clapped and hugged. The music turned back up and all the women danced with the pregnant women and soon everyone else returned to the dance floor.
By two thirty I was growing tired, but enjoying the atmosphere of a close community of ‘family’ who welcomed with open arms an ‘op-t-ho’. Fatima’s introduced me to her ‘cousin’ and Fatima told her cousin, “Tell him what you said”. She said something in Krio. Fatima said, “She called you op-t-ho.” I was sure it was a term of endearment. Not that it is a term to the contrary, but in Krio, op-t-ho means ‘white boy’. The cousin, a bit embarrassed, had a few things to say in Krio to Fatima, and then left. She was wondering why Fatima had brought an 'op-t-ho' to the party, more out of curiosity than anything. Later she called me op-t-ho again.
Fatima said it was not a word intended to hurt people, and I had to chuckle about it, and now will proudly refer to myself as Op-t-ho.
It was approaching half past three and I was half asleep. Typically, Fatima told me, the party will go until seven in the morning. We left the enjoyable sounds of West African music to say our goodbyes. The owner of the house gave me a big hug and for the second time that night made sure I had an enjoyable time. “I had a wonderful time,” I told him with a smile on my face, still not sure what had actually happened during this time. I finally crawled in bed just before five in the morning with music still ringing in my ears.
For someone without any plans for the New Years, I had, perhaps, the most memorable and unique, for an op-t-ho, New Years of my life. I am sure this experience will translate to the next two years of my life in South Africa. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of this evening to accompany this blog, perhaps I have painted a clear enough picture.
Salaam alaykum, Happy New Year, may 2008 treat you all with love and happiness!
I made it downtown and found a spot to parallel park without having to pay for parking. This was exciting given the amount of people downtown for new years. As I put the Honda in reverse, BUMP! ‘Uhhhhh?’ I smiled; this was a first for me: a non-damage fender bump. ‘That is why they are called bumpers,’ I remember my Uncle telling me one time years ago. This was not foreshadowing of a bad year to come, but rather a lesson in driving and the ‘perfect parallel park’. This has nothing to do with the rest of my story, but it made me laugh at the time, so I thought I would share.
I met up with Fatima at a coffee shop and we walked to the clean Thai restaurant – cleanliness was one of the exceptional features along with the food and service (I could have eaten dinner in the bathroom it was so clean) that Fatima mentioned. Stuffed with curry and rice and good conversation we headed down to the fancy dessert spot. The queue filled the foyer and spilled onto the cold street. This was not ideal, but chocolate cake was our destiny and it loomed beyond the queue. We cut the line and went to the cake counter to get an order to go, thus bypassing the wait.
With a slice of cake in our hands we realized we had no more plans for the evenings and all the jazz and music clubs were sold out and a cheap bar was not the preferred destination. Fatima suggested we meet up with her family and celebrate the New Year West African style. Fatima is from Sierra Leon, I had never met her family, and it seemed like a grand idea.
After meeting her family, the conversation went to the Peace Corps. Her parents had both had Peace Corps English teachers while they were going up in Sierra Leon. Her father, Al, offered very encouraging words for me and my upcoming few years in South Africa.
About this time, Al, noticed that it was half past ten –only ninety minutes until midnight. I will use the term 'African Time' here with great caution, and only because Emma, Fatima’s mother used it with a big smile on her face, to explain to me that people would be arriving at all hours of the night and I would not have to worry about being late to the party.
So, we drove to Fatima’s ‘Auntie’s’ house and arrived at about a quarter past eleven. As we walked through the door, I heard someone say, “Salaam alaykum!” I knew right then that this was going to be a unique New Years experience and I would have a smile on my face for days to come – even as I right this now.
To our right sat a beautiful Persian couch, Nigerian rug made of cows hide and African artwork and wooden statues covered the walls and tables. Beautiful! Handshakes and hugs to every one of Fatima’s ‘cousins’, ‘uncles’, ‘aunties’. I wasn’t sure who was related to whom, but within a few hours I would find out that it did not matter.
Fatima and I walked downstairs to the sounds of West African music. Nobody was dancing yet, but soon I would be on the dance floor celebrating with everyone. On the basement walls hung beautiful African artwork, a picture of Lewis Farrakhan and a picture of Bob Marley.
I barely had enough time to take in the surroundings as midnight was minutes away and everyone had gathered in the basement to toast, say a prayer, and dance. With three minutes to go, Al made a toast lasting seven minutes, then another toast from the man who owned the beautiful home. At five minutes past midnight, Al prayed a beautiful prayer in Arabic (my Arabic is not so good these days and he spoke to fast for me to follow, but it sounded beautiful). And then everybody, probably thirty people stood up and hugged and shook hands of everybody else in the room. I did not expect anyone to shake the hand of an ‘op-t-ho’ stranger. But everybody did.
And then we danced. Children, adults, older adults, all danced. Men danced with their friends’ wives, women danced with their friends’ husbands, children danced, everyone danced and I danced. I actually had no idea who was married to whom, but it did not matter as everyone there was family. There was no wrong way to dance, everyone danced differently; everyone moved how they felt the music. My kind of dancing! – It was very similar to hippie twirling, but less twirling and tie-die.
People from Sierra Leon, Nigeria, Liberia and Ghana danced the night away with the ‘op-t-ho’ fair-skinned, dark-haired Oregonian. Music from all of these countries filled the room and Fatima would tell me which languages each song was sung in as the only songs I understood were one by Bob Marley and a Paul Simon cover.
Around two in the morning, Abdul, Fatima’s brother and DJ for the evening, stopped the music and a pregnant woman stood up and began speaking in Krio. Krio is a language that has English words in it, and listening to it I thought I understand it, until after three sentences of spoken Krio, I realized my mind was blank and I had no idea what was being said as people laughed in unison and I sat with a confused look.
With Fatima as my translator I began to follow the conversation with relative ease as the pregnant woman asked the owners of the house to be the God parents of her soon-to-be-born child. What a delightful moment. Everyone clapped and hugged. The music turned back up and all the women danced with the pregnant women and soon everyone else returned to the dance floor.
By two thirty I was growing tired, but enjoying the atmosphere of a close community of ‘family’ who welcomed with open arms an ‘op-t-ho’. Fatima’s introduced me to her ‘cousin’ and Fatima told her cousin, “Tell him what you said”. She said something in Krio. Fatima said, “She called you op-t-ho.” I was sure it was a term of endearment. Not that it is a term to the contrary, but in Krio, op-t-ho means ‘white boy’. The cousin, a bit embarrassed, had a few things to say in Krio to Fatima, and then left. She was wondering why Fatima had brought an 'op-t-ho' to the party, more out of curiosity than anything. Later she called me op-t-ho again.
Fatima said it was not a word intended to hurt people, and I had to chuckle about it, and now will proudly refer to myself as Op-t-ho.
It was approaching half past three and I was half asleep. Typically, Fatima told me, the party will go until seven in the morning. We left the enjoyable sounds of West African music to say our goodbyes. The owner of the house gave me a big hug and for the second time that night made sure I had an enjoyable time. “I had a wonderful time,” I told him with a smile on my face, still not sure what had actually happened during this time. I finally crawled in bed just before five in the morning with music still ringing in my ears.
For someone without any plans for the New Years, I had, perhaps, the most memorable and unique, for an op-t-ho, New Years of my life. I am sure this experience will translate to the next two years of my life in South Africa. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of this evening to accompany this blog, perhaps I have painted a clear enough picture.
Salaam alaykum, Happy New Year, may 2008 treat you all with love and happiness!
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