My new flat is great. The apartment complex reflects the diversity of Tzaneen. While a majority of tenants are Shangaans or Sepedis, there are significant numbers of Afrikaners, Indians, Somalis and Pakistanis as well. The parking lot is always swarming with children engaged in various forms of play. It is extremely gratifying to see that children from all of the various ethnic groups play together with no regard for skin colour, religion or nationality.
Speaking of nationalities, I suppose I should add one more to the list: American. There are two Americans living in my apartment complex, and one of them isn’t me. One day as I was going out to do some grocery shopping I bumped into a couple of Somali guys, both of whom, I later found out, are named Mohammed. We got to chatting and one of the Mohammeds detected my American accent. After I confirmed my nationality, he got excited, “You have to meet my son! He’s an American too!” As it turns out, the family had been living in Arizona up until a couple of months ago and their son was born there. After eyeing me suspiciously for a few moments, the young man walked over to where his father and I were standing. My fellow American is just over one year old and apparently a bit of a handful. As we walked, Mohammed had to chase after his son three times. On one occasion he ran up to a group of older children, took their ball, and made a dash for it.
So, abandoning my shopping plans, I found myself walking back through the complex to meet the family. I had seen them walking around the complex before, but had never suspected the connection. It was weird realizing that they had been in America more recently than I. They are still getting used to South Africa. “What do you think of South Africa?” the mom ventured. I said that I was having a fine time indeed, and yourself? “I miss Arizona” she responded immediately. She said this with such pathos that I wanted to leap off of the floor and hug her right there. I confided that I, too, miss America on occasion.
Obama came up in conversation. They love Obama. I promised to bring over my absentee ballot for a look-see when it arrives. We also talked about their mosque. I posted a picture of the Tzaneen mosque in a previous photo album because I think it is the most impressive and attractive building in town. I have been continually surprised that so few people in Tzaneen seem to know about it. My new Somali friends are very proud of it since it was built entirely with money donated by the Muslim community here in Tzaneen. I met another Somali man who had lived in Los Angeles for 20 years before coming here to Tzaneen a few months ago. Two decades as a cognizant adult living in America trumps whatever I’ve got; this guy is simultaneously more American than I am and more Somali than I could ever hope to be. Another Somali gentleman that I met was also a recent arrival in South Africa, but had come directly from Somalia. In four months he has learned practical English, Sepedi, and Shangaan. During my 8 months in country, I have made scant inroads on a single language. Eventually we got to watching Bollywood movies after it was explained that Somalis have a special affinity for Indian culture.
The aforementioned hordes of children running around the apartment complex have shown themselves to be apt chess pupils. I brought my board outside one day at one kid’s request and was immediately surrounded by a dozen or so children. What was to be a low-key chess lesson turned into a chess marathon that was cut short only by the failing daylight. Since then, I have brought the board out a few more times, always with the same overwhelming response. All of this got me seriously thinking about creating some sort of chess club. The exact shape of this club is not yet known to me, but it feels inevitable that it will happen.
After moving and settling in to my new place, I realized that I hadn’t seen my host family, the Chaukes, for a long time. During a bout of Peace Corps training a few months ago, we were given three hours to say hello to our families again. This amount of time was appreciated, but hopelessly inadequate. My host mom Lina told me that I needed to come back for a week long visit. In those three hours, however, all of the love they had shown me during my stay with them was re-affirmed. I vowed to return for a longer stay at a later date.
So, a couple of weeks ago I hopped on a Kombi that took me from Tzaneen to Polokwane, followed by another kombi that took me to Mokapane, and then my final kombi ride which took me to Mabula village. Even though I spent only two months living with the Chaukes, compared to my nearly six months in Tzaneen, going back felt just like driving home from college. I was going back to my roots, spending time with the people who taught me how to behave properly. As you drive from Tzaneen to Polokwane the landscape changes from lush mountains covered with banana plantations and immense pine forests in neat grid patterns to a dry, orange coloured scrubland with the occasional mountain jutting up from the otherwise flat earth. I somehow found myself in the very back of each kombi, which meant I was sharing a bench seat with 3 other fully grown individuals -- a tight squeeze.
My weekend with the Chaukes was great. I heard all about the Matriculation process that my brother Dodo was is going through. Matriculation happens during the final year of high school and involves a slew of government administered tests over various subjects. These tests scores determine whether you graduate high school as well as your eligibility for university. This is obviously a stressful time. Dodo even had to miss a soccer game that Mabula’s team played against a neighbouring village so he could study for his Physics exam. Since I no longer have to worry about physics (if only I’d studied half as much as I’d worried…) I went to the game.
My younger brother Comutcho, a family friend named Buti, and I hitched a ride to the game with the team. The team and various hangers-on were all jammed into the back of a pick-up truck, which they call a “backie” in these parts. Once the truck got moving, singing and horn-playing began in earnest. This jubilance was cut short when the engine died. We rolled over to the side of the road and lifted the hood. Somehow, after a few minutes of tinkering, the engine was brought back to life and we were off. The singing resumed. This portion of our journey last another couple of minutes before the next breakdown. After breakdown number five, the team had to hop out of the backie and make a run for the field so as to avoid the fine for being late. They got there just in time. The game was played on a field surrounded on all sides by a tarp, to encourage the payment of a five rand entrance fee. The field itself was mostly dust and sand, with a smattering of grass. Consequently wherever the ball went, a small cloud of dust followed, often obscuring both ball and player. We scored in the first 10 minutes of play. The remaining 80 minutes kicked up additional dust, but resulted in no additional points. I will always find this particular aspect of soccer bizarre, but at least we won.
In Mabula itself, I made the rounds; visiting various family and quasi-family members. These meetings consisted of a short English portion and a much longer Shangaan portion where I mostly listened. I have long since made peace with the fact that I have no idea what people are saying most of the time. I have learned to listen to the tone of voice, watch facial expression, and generally enjoy the way people talk at least as much as I enjoy listening to what people are actually staying.
Rachel’s 24th birthday is coming up next week, and I have offered to cook her some traditional American food: tacos. She had never heard of such a food before, which I found astonishing despite the good sense that it makes. In fact, “American” has been the theme of all the meals I’ve cooked for her thus far: pizza, spaghetti & meatballs, hamburgers… Tacos are the most exotic to date, so I am considering making some pap just in case she doesn’t like Mexican food. She cooks for me too, the most recent meal being classic South African food: pap, atchar, chakalaka, chicken. This is eaten with the fingers, of course. While I am spilling food all over myself, trying to eat the least finger-friendly finger-food I’ve ever encountered, she deftly roles the pap into a ball and adds to it a pinch of veggies or chicken. I think eating with your fingers is harder than eating with chopsticks.
Thanks for reading.
