The White Man’s Language

Language, like many of the things here in South Africa, is a topic to which I can devote an unending amount of posts and expend a good amount of time and brain power.  For tonight, though, considering my body is once again particularly tired after another grueling fitness session with my soccer team (more on this in a later post), I just want to touch on some of the interesting misconceptions regarding language here in the Rainbow Nation.

Wherever I go in my town, those who have not met me automatically speak to me in Afrikaans.  For those readers not versed in the linguistic heritage of South Africa, Afrikaans is a language that developed from the original Dutch settlers and was the language of choice for the apartheid government.  Whenever I get a confused look on my face in response to the unfamiliar words and explain that I don’t speak Afrikaans, I am usually greeted with bewilderment and sometimes disbelief.  Language is truly one of the great dividers here at the tip of the African continent with Blacks expected to speak an African language and Whites expected to speak Afrikaans.

I’m sure many people are thinking that telling the South Africans I am from America would dispel all confusion, but surprisingly it does not.  Most of the people here have very little knowledge of world geography and other parts of the world and such lack of learnedness extends to language.  Just yesterday, I was asked by one of the teachers at my high school, presumably a reasonably well-educated man, if we speak Afrikaans in America.  Such a question has been put to me multiple times from people ranging from my host mother during my training in Makapanstad to my current students in my high school classes. 

This all seems very silly at first glance because we, of course, do not speak Afrikaans or anything of the sort in the United States.  When you consider, however, that in these people’s lives, almost every white person they have ever come in contact with has been Afrikaans-speaking, the induction that Afrikaans is the white person’s language makes sense.  For this reason, I sometimes have trouble explaining that Afrikaans is not spoken in America or Europe or really anywhere else in the world outside of South Africa and Namibia, South Africa’s western neighbor.  The fact that Setswana, Xhosa, Zulu or any of the other African languages spoken here are also not spoken anywhere in America or outside of South Africa comes as a similar shock.  Given that South Africa has 11 official languages, representing perhaps one of the most linguistically diverse nations on earth, the idea that a country like America of 300 million people for the most part speaks only one language, seems incomprehensible to many.

In any case, I am currently continuing to learn Setswana in order to communicate better with my neighbors and students.  At some point, though, it will only make sense for me to start learning some Afrikaans, if for no other reason than to prevent the mind overload of yet another South African meeting a white man who cannot speak any of the white’s own language.

The Battle of Water-Loo

Please do not let the title deceive you.  Napoleon is still dead, and the conflict responsible for the end of the Little General’s empire has nothing to do with South Africa (though the island, St Helena, that he was exiled to did do a bustling trade with this area when it was still under the control of the Dutch East India Company).  No, unfortunately, this battle of Waterloo is all about water, a loo, and a dumb American.

For those of you who are not already aware, I am living in a province of South Africa called the Northern Cape, which has a semi-desert climate.  We are right on the edge of the Kalahari desert, so getting access to water can be somewhat of a problem many times.  I do have a tap with running water that is located outside my house in my backyard and that tap just so happens to be connected to the same pipe that supplies water to my flush toilet, also outside.  For all of those who just made a face, I too was a little uncomfortable at first with the close proximity of the two facilities.

Like I said before, though, this is desert area so water is scarce, meaning the tap only has water about 1 or 2 days out of the week.  The other times when you turn it on, nothing comes out, and the faucet just laughs at you for actually believing that it would deign to give you water that day.  Well, yesterday, I went to check if water was available by turning on the tap.  Naturally, there was none, but I apparently forgot to turn the tap back off before going to bed.  The faucet, of course noticing the situation and taking full advantage, managed to gain access to some H₂O at some point in the night.  This would be all well and good with a faucet that drained into a regular wastewater system, but regrettably, my spigot drains directly into my backyard.  So when I awoke this morning, I found that the Spencer River had opened for business and gushed all the way through my backyard into the street in front of my house.  Keep in mind that this is a dirt yard and dirt street we’re talking about.  Interestingly enough, the water had stopped flowing, not because the water was no longer accessible, but because the tap had been turned off.  All I can think of is that some kind soul (or rather one angry at the stupid American for wasting water), saw the overflow this morning and walked into my backyard to turn off the spigot.

Whatever the case, there was a long flow of mud and water in the street that any passerby could easily trace back through my yard to the location of my toilet.  Given that no unpleasant scents were involved, I’m hoping that my neighbors realize what happened rather than coming to the conclusion that the American caused a backed up toilet to result in a sewage flow into the street.  Oh well, when I returned home from school today, the mud and water had all dried up for the most part, and none of the neighbors seemed to be any less warm in their greetings.  Needless to say, though, my tap was firmly shut off before retreating into my house tonight.

One final thing, I’ve been picking up quite a few South African English words recently and figured I would start leaving a kind of word of the day with my posts.  Today’s word is:

lekker – good; pleasant

Afrikaans, from Dutch, literally “delicious”

“I've got a nice place on the river with a deck and everything.  It's really lekker.”

Greet me, damn it!

Today, I had a funny incident at my high school that once again reminded me that I am indeed a stranger in a foreign land, no matter how well I think I am fitting in.  In the mornings whenever I come in, I usually go to the staff room, say hello to the people who look up from their work when I enter, and then I take my seat and immediately begin reviewing the material that will be taught in the economics classes for that day.  Today, though, after having been seated for a few minutes, one of the male teachers, who is apparently also the head of the teacher’s committee, asked if he could see me outside of the school for a second.  I said, “Sure”, while at the same time thinking that this could not be good.  In my head I quickly ran through all of my actions within the past several days to see if there was anything that I might be in trouble for.  There was nothing I could remember that I thought could possibly be misinterpreted or taken as offensive.

Well, as it turns out, it wasn’t so much anything I had done, as what I had not done.  The teacher informed me that some of the other teachers had been complaining that I just came in and sat down at my desk every day and began my work without greeting them.  Here I was doing everything I could to be friendly, greeting every person I passed on the street or even ever made eye contact with, but apparently even that was not sufficient.  Upon my entrance to the staff lounge, the teachers were somewhat taken aback that I only greeted a few people individually who had looked up when I arrived, rather than having greeted the entire room.  

This teacher who informed me, to his credit, was very diplomatic about the whole thing, having pulled me aside to talk to me privately, and he assured me that he knew that it was simply a matter of cultural differences.  The interesting thing about it all is that he told me none of the male teachers had been bothered by it, but several of the female teachers had expressed concern.  That South African ladies place a little more importance on being greeted than South African men was later confirmed by another colleague.  I’d like to think that the women teachers simply like to be said “Hello” to by the devilishly handsome young American.  Whatever the case, I asked that the teacher please express my apologies to all those who might have taken offense, and that he also please let them know that it was by no means my intention to rudely ignore anyone.  I guaranteed that from now on, I would greet the entire room, especially the female teachers, whenever I arrive in the mornings.

Later on, one of the ladies who had heard about the situation, told me that she had had a daughter who she sent to school in the more urbanized and cosmopolitan Gauteng province.  Whenever the daughter returned home after living the more developed lifestyle, her family expressed the exact same indignation that she did not properly greet everyone upon entering a room.  The daughter’s response (keep in mind that she too was black) was “Oh, you Africans.”  This made me feel a bit better in that this specific faux pas is one committed by other people who have lived outside of traditional African culture.

All in all, not the type of experience you’re hoping for on a Wednesday morning, but a learning one all the same.  Perhaps, it’s good for me to get knocked down every now and again just to remind me that I may not always be as smooth and sensitive as I imagine myself to be.  Oh well, I guess even a cosmopolitan Texan makes some mistakes every now and again.

Where can I buy some color-blind sunglasses?

In today’s society, you hear it often said that one should be color-blind i.e. you shouldn’t notice the color of someone’s skin.  The meaning of the argument is of course that the shade of one’s complexion should not affect the way that you treat and interact with that person.  Race should be something as unimportant as what the opposing person’s favorite flavor of ice cream is.  Despite such well-intentioned statements, however, I am coming to believe that it is simply impossible to achieve.  Regardless of how much you might try to avoid recognizing someone else’s appearance, you inevitably do take note.  I find it quite silly when I hear statements like “Oh, I didn’t realize he was black.”  BS, you didn’t.  The color of his skin may not have affected your attitude towards him at all, but you sure as hell noticed that his skin was dark.

The reason I say this is that I wish I could be color-blind, but race is simply such a visible aspect of a person, there seems no avoiding it unless someone is dressed in full winter gear with accompanying ski mask.  Such a thought has occurred to me before during my time here in South Africa, but it was highlighted yet again today.

After finishing my day at the local high school, I headed over to the primary school where I serve as an assistant coach and trainer in the afternoon for the boys’ soccer team.  When I arrived, there was a cute little Afrikaner couple at the grounds who had been called to help repair the field’s sprinkler system.  As I have mentioned in previous blog posts, white people simply do not go into the township where I live, so the sight of another set of Caucasians was unusual to say the least.  I chatted with them a bit, and they were friendly and gracious, as all the Afrikaners I have met so far have been.  What absolutely floored me, though, was how my body automatically experienced a sense of relaxation and comfort about being around others with white skin.  To avoid any misunderstandings, I want to stress that I am very comfortable where I am living and love being around all of the people I interact with, despite my fair skin making me stand out.  Yet when I encountered these other whites, a sense of even greater ease immediately passed over me.  Here were two people who have a different native language, a different culture, and an entirely different life experience.  Really, the only thing we have in common is that we are both descended from Europeans, yet somehow the presence of others with light skin told my body’s natural impulses that I was among friends.

I had already felt similar sensations in my past trips to Pretoria, which has a large, perhaps even majority, white population.  Simply being around people who look like me, especially after being the odd race out for weeks, was scaryingly soothing.  It made me wonder if perhaps I have some underlying misgivings about blacks or some other subconscious objection.  Upon reflection, though, I really doubt it.  I think that it is simply human nature to gravitate to that which is like you because it is familiar.

Such events have really started to give me a better grip on what minorities in America experience every day.  In the States, you will often notice that Blacks, Hispanics, people of Asian descent, etc., will tend to hang out with and congregate primarily with people of similar race or ethnicity.  I have heard this openly criticized by some whites saying that they should not separate themselves in such a way and that such segregation only reinforces an “us vs. them” mentality.  There might be some truth to such comments, but at the same time, I think the various groupings are a result of this same emotion that I am experiencing here in South Africa.  It is not that people always want to make a conscious statement that they are different from you, it is just that that they go where they feel most comfortable.

I have also heard black people in America express the complaint that, being a minority in many situations, they feel they are always being looked at, and that such attention can become tiresome.  White Americans may retort that such attention is most times probably not racist and that such stares might be quite unconscious.  The interesting thing I have found being a minority in South Africa is that regardless of whether the attention is positive or negative, conscious or unconscious, it still becomes irritating.  Every time I step out of my door, I can see that people are gawking.  I mean, shoot, if I were a black South African, and I saw a tall, lanky white dude cruising around my township, I’d stare too.  I know that the attention is more out of interest and confusion than anything else, but despite this, there are times when I just wish I could blend in.  Among Afrikaners, I really can blend in, which probably further explains my body’s natural feeling of comfort around South Africa’s white tribe.

None of this is to say that I am going to start going out of my way to hang out with Afrikaners to the exclusion of black South Africans.  I think part of my role here is indeed to be the one that’s different in order to show that the coexistence of such varying people is not only possible but actually constructive.  And like I mentioned before, I am absolutely loving almost everything about my life here in the township, so it is not the case that I am uncomfortable or dislike my situation.  This is simply an acknowledgment that all over the world, birds of a feather flock together.  Beginning any conversation regarding race and integration with that understanding will go a long way.

Today, my son, you become a man

I have now completed my first week in Warrenton and Ikhutseng, and I don’t think I’m any the worse for wear.  As most of you know, last Monday was my birthday, and it caused me to reflect on the fact that there is no mistaking that I am now well and truly an adult.  My childhood has receded to the history shelves and will never be passed through again.

With these ruminations, I think it appropriate to make note of an interesting conversation that took place at my house over the weekend.  On Friday, several of the teachers came over to my place for a braai, which is like the South African equivalent of a cookout or barbecue.  Like in the states, it consists of beef and booze, as much a man’s paradise here as it is back home.  Given that it was an all male affair, as the meat was sizzling and the beer was flowing, the topic of conversation became that of initiation.

Initiation is a kind of coming-of-age ritual in South Africa where young men are taken to an isolated location by the elders of a community, taught all the things they need to know about being a man, and then duly circumcised.  Before I go any further, I need to throw out a disclaimer.  Considering that I am talking about circumcision in this post, the words that follow are not for the faint of heart.  Don’t keep reading if you can’t handle a topic that is by its nature somewhat graphic.  Ok, for those of you bold souls still reading, let’s continue.

As you can imagine, it was quite interesting to sit and listen to the various African men talk about their own initiation, how other tribes conduct it, and how much the process meant and still means to them. The actual cutting of the foreskin (it felt really weird to type those words) and subsequent recuperation are all done without any modern medicine tools or implements.  During their recuperation, the young men are looked after by the elders, with traditional herbs and ointments offered to help healing.  No hospital and no anesthetic.  Perhaps, the look on my face worried them, so it was countered that there is actually now a product made in China being used in some locations that somewhat mechanizes the procedure while improving safety and efficiency.  I decided to just take their word for it.  

When I inquired as to the sanitation of the whole thing, even the Africans acknowledged the techniques are not altogether antiseptic, with the same tool being used to perform the “surgery” on all the participants without any cleaning or sterilization.  The men stated only half-jokingly, that for this reason, you always hope that you are the first in line because you can at least guarantee that the blade is somewhat clean.  Also, speaking of the tool with which the deed is done, it apparently varies according to tribe and location.  I was speaking with Tswana and Xhosa men who said a knife is used, but they said that Zulus use an actual spear.  I shuddered a bit to think of a man coming towards my cash and prizes with a weapon otherwise used to hunt and kill.

I also asked if any complications such as infection ever occur given that blood and cutting that are present.  The men responded that yes, bad things do happen, and that young men do sometimes die as a result.  I was assured that this was mainly, though, because the people who carry out the initiation today are not nearly as trained and experienced as the elders who ran the show in past generations.

But enough about science and sanitation.  Initiation is apparently about much more than just circumcision.  It is really a training session on how to be a man with the circumcision simply representing the final step from adolescence to manhood.  All of the men I was with spoke quite glowingly of their experiences.  They said that obviously it’s not something that they would ever want to repeat, but that now that they have done it, they’re glad that they did.  They said that once you have passed the trials of the initiation, not only do you feel pride in yourself for having been able to make it, you also feel a bond with others who went through the same thing not to mention new respect that is given to you by the community.  My friends said that once the ordeal is over, you do truly feel like you are now a man.

Listening to all of this, I, of course, did not like the part about the complete lack of modern medical procedure, but I could relate to why they place so much importance on the ceremony.  What they were saying to me is exactly how I felt and do feel about two-a-days for sports and pledgeship for fraternities.  They absolutely suck while you’re going through them, but they engender self-respect because it takes a certain amount of fortitude to not quit.  After the fact, there is a pleasant sense of satisfaction as well as a common bond with others who also endured and conquered the challenge.

The interesting thing is that the men I was with, like I said, all felt that initiation had been a pivotal part of their life, yet they admitted that they probably would not have their sons do the same.  They said that things are not the same as they were in the past and that they do not have faith in the people that carry out the process anymore.  They also recognize that the lack of hygiene and access to modern medicine is a problem.  For those reasons, the men said they will most likely take their sons to hospital for the procedure.  Regrettably so, it was acknowledged, but they noted that the world is changing and Africa must change with it.

Lesego "Soft Hair" Spencer

It may sound silly to say, but one of the things you realize when you are living amongst people of primarily black color, is that you are white.  Obviously, I have always known that my complexion was fair, but it is not something that you really think about that often.  Even in America as I was constantly interacting with blacks, Hispanics, people of Asian descent, etc., I was never consciously aware throughout the day of my skin color.  It simply wasn’t something at the front of my mind.

Here where I am in South Africa, it is simply impossible for you to not be aware throughout the day that your skin color is light and that it is in stark contrast to almost all of the people around you.  The whole topic of race and being white in South Africa is material for another post to which I do not have the time nor will to devote tonight.  That being said, I just want to mention a funny incident that occurred at school during my teaching of a class that highlights the continual presence of my “otherness”.

I was assisting in an English class going over the elements and proper way of writing a descriptive essay.  In order to give the learners a starting point (students are called learners in South African English), we conducted a collective brainstorming session regarding the topic of a train ride.  I tried to get them to come up with things that they could describe on a train ride such as the color and speed of the train, the material the seats were made of, what cities were traveled to, etc.  I told the learners that one of the other things they could describe would be the passengers on the train.  In order to give them a visual reference point, I told them to imagine that I was one of the passengers on the train and asked them what words they would use to describe me.

I got the expected “tall”, “white”, “blue eyes” responses.  What I was not expecting was the “soft hair” observation.  I physically touched my hair and replied “yeah, I suppose so”, which the learners thought was hilarious.  When I looked around and considered it, I realized that the hair of the children in my classroom was somewhat rough in comparison with mine. The point being that I had never really considered that the texture of hair differed that much between myself and the people around me.  Even though I wasn’t aware of it, it was something my students were keenly perceptive of.

Anyways, I guess the moral of the story is that our governor and presidential candidate Rick “Good Hair” Perry can eat his heart out.  Lesego “Soft Hair” Spencer is on the scene.