Reflections on Mabula

Hello. I want to talk a little more about Mabula before I move on to Tzaneen.

In the last weeks I was in Mabula I was invited to play soccer with the local guys. I think it had been something like a decade since I’d played a full-fledged game of soccer. If anyone remembers (I’m sorry Dad) my previous level of soccer ability, you may question the wisdom of opening up myself to the general ridicule of my community. I wondered about this as well, but was happily surprised to find out that I have improved slightly since I was 12. Of course I was still light-years behind the rest of the guys in terms of skill. However, what I lacked in ability I made up for in earnestness and enthusiasm. My strategy was to charge whoever had the ball with as ferocious a look on my face as I could muster, and then pass the ball away from me as quickly as possible. This worked fairly well, though it worked the best with my host brother since for him I added an angry sounding roar to my charge.

That was all very fun and my only regret is that I didn’t start playing soccer earlier in my stay at Mabula. Another interesting cultural experience for me was going to church with my family. My Family attends the “International Pentecost Holiness Church” which was founded by Frederick Modise in 1962. (An interesting and informative article on the church can be found here: http://artsweb.bham.ac.uk/aanderson/Publications/frederick_modise_and_the_interna.htm) Pictures of Modise adorned the walls of every room in my house in Mabula, including my own. In fact, the only wall decorations of any kind were those related to the church. Clearly it was very important to my host mom that I attend, so I did despite some misgivings.

I arrived and, of course, stuck out like a sore thumb. Firstly, in this church, everyone is dressed in uniforms, except for non-members. Secondly, I was one of maybe 7 men in a room of perhaps 250 women. Finally, my ever-relevant epidermal distinction helped me make something of an entrance. Men and women enter through different doors, so as I approached the church I was taken away from my family and made to enter solo. I walked in and immediately all eyes were on me. I am taken to the “visitors section” at the front. There is not enough room for me, so they give me a chair right in the middle of the aisle. The preacher has stopped speaking. No one is hiding their interest as I sit down. After soaking in a long, uncomfortable silence, I decide to go for it. “Tobella”, I say with a fragile smile, inflecting my greeting almost more like a question. There is a murmur in the audience and the preacher looks surprised.

“Tobella, le kai”, (How are you) the preacher responds. His tone indicates that this is a test. He is not convinced that I really know what I’m saying.

“Ra gona”, (I’m fine) is my final response. The room erupts in applause and laughter. It is thunderous. If I had this sort of encouragement in Chinese class, maybe I’d be in China right now.

It is important to note that Afrikaners do not generally take the time to learn the indigenous languages of black South Africans. I am greeted with surprise and disbelief when I speak even the slightest Sepedi or Xitsonga. For a white person to know the language of the area is a novelty, and an exciting one at that. My meager language skills are thus inflated; which is great. The rest of the time in the church was very interesting as well. Usually the services are held in Sepedi, but because of my presence there was an interpreter saying everything in English. The interpreter spoke directly to me throughout the 4 (!) hour service. I was often exhorted to put in my two cents worth, for the entire congregation to hear.

“Where does your body hair grow?” I am suddenly asked. I have been a bit glassy eyed since the 2½ hour mark and have missed the context of the question. I am starting to sweat through my suit jacket.

“Hmm…” I squint my eyes and look around the room. “Here?” I ask making a sweeping gesture over my entire body.

The preacher laughs and shakes his head. “No. Your hair grows here.” The preacher is now pointing to his crotch. I am growing nervous. Is this a joke? Why is no one laughing? What is going on? I want to move on as quickly as possible.

“Ok” I say weakly.

“Now, point to where your body hair grows.” The preacher says sternly. “Don’t worry, you can point there. You’re a man” he reassures me.

So, I point to my crotch and receive another, though lesser, applause. During the service I also learn that the ideal number of wives for a man is 7 and I am informed as to the miraculous healing powers of the church. This is not exactly what I’m used to in the States. The Church also had amazing gospel music, testimonials from people healed by the church, and food. Not to mention a very favourable man to woman ratio.

Another marked difference between this and my life in the states is my emergence as a ladies’ man. I am told that I am beautiful. I am proposed to and propositioned. On my way to swearing in as a PCV, I was wearing a distractingly wrinkled suit. It had been in storage for two months and I can’t iron clothing for the life of me. A woman saw me and chided, “Your clothes are all wrinkled. You need a girl-friend to iron your clothes”. I smile. “I’m around” she adds. “What’s your room number?” If the conversation goes further, the situation makes itself clearer: “I want to go to America” or more subtlety “When are you going back to America?” It doesn’t matter to me if they want to go to America though, I’m still flattered.

This has turned into a long post, so I will end it here. I’ll write again soon. Thanks for reading.