He’s from Texas, you see

First off, I hope that all of my American compatriots had a wonderful and blessed Thanksgiving.  I obviously was not able to be physically present, but I did get to speak at length with each of my siblings and my parents.  Such conversations reinforced what an amazing thing family is and why Thanksgiving is such a great holiday.  I look forward to the time a couple years from now when I once again will sit down with my kin, watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, breakfast on my mom’s quiche, and sip Dr. Pepper over turkey, green bean casserole, and sweet potato pie.

In the face of such geographical distance, the Americans in my part of South Africa are actually gathering in one town to have our own expatriate celebration (though one day late due to work responsibilities and scheduling issues).  We will actually be conducting our own Turkey Day feast and offering of thanks today in a few hours.  Most likely there will be another blog post and pictures about this event as well.

The topic that concerns me today, though, is the time I recently spent on an Afrikaner farm and the close bond that there seems to be between Texan and Afrikaner culture.  Anyone who has read my previous posts will know that all of my encounters with Afrikaners to date have been incredibly positive.  I have found them to be a kind and incredibly hospitable people, and this most recent experience was no exception.

The Afrikaner wife agreed to pick two of my American friends and I up and drive us to their farm.  Upon arriving, the couple introduced us to a large and beautiful expanse of land with a well manicured lawn and very tastefully decorated house.  It was a portrait of rustic happiness.  The husband then took us to the local auction house where we dined on a kind of chicken fried steak (wienerschnitzel for those of you not from the Southern United States).  Upon finishing we proceeded to observe the auction of cattle in which the animals were brought in through one door into a central pen surrounded by stadium style seating.  The pen had a scale for a floor which automatically showed the weight of the cows on a kind of electronic scoreboard to help the bidders more accurately determine what price they were willing to pay.  The cattle were then directed out through a second door once the transaction had been completed.

Being from Texas, this was not the first livestock auction I had attended, and it was refreshing to see that the procedure and setup were almost identical to those in the Lone Star State.  Even the auctioneer intoned the latest bids in the same torrent  of unceasing syllables associated with auctioneers.  The fact that such syllables were in unintelligible Afrikaans rather than English did little to detract from this discovery that auctions are apparently conducted in much the same way the world over.

After a period of time, we returned to the farm, where we had some tea and coffee, and then laid down for a bit.  On rising, the Afrikaners took us to another section of land where they hold an annual Farmer’s Fest, where hundreds upon hundreds of people come for drinking, dancing, braaing, selling of their wares, and good times in general.   We then returned to the farm, where some friends of the family showed up and the Afrikaners proceeded to cook us a humongous and decidedly delicious dinner washed down by sumptuous South African wine.  The night was ended by talking about South Africa, its history, and its future.

The next morning breakfast rusks, a kind of hard, sweet granola bars, were prepared for us with coffee.  One of the Afrikaners then drove us something like 70 kilometers through countryside to the town where we would be meeting up with the other Americans for our Thanksgiving celebration.  From the initial picking us up to dropping us off with the other Americans, all of this was done at no cost to ourselves.  Despite our protestations, the Afrikaners would have none of it when we said we felt we should surely contribute something.  The whole experience was altogether charming, and further proved that Afrikaners have their own brand of Southern (very Southern) hospitality.

Throughout this whole delightful experience, it was made obvious to me again and again how much Texans have in common with Afrikaners, perhaps to a degree moreso than American from other states.  Afrikaners have a heritage very much connected with cattle and land, and I think this gives them a natural bond with people from my state.  While eating my chicken fried steak at the auction mentioned above, I talked with our Afrikaner host about auctions in Texas, and we discussed the different qualities of Santa Gertrudis, Brahman, and Longhorn breeds of cattle.  Afterwards, whenever we climbed the seats to watch the auction itself, the other Americans and I were introduced to other Afrikaner friends in the crowd.  However, when I was presented, our host said “And this is Josh.  He’s from Texas, you see.  He understands cattle.”  This was met with wide approval from the other farmers in the stand.

Similarly, the next day when we were being driven to the town to meet up with the other Americans, the Afrikaner man and I had a pleasant conversation for upwards of 45 minutes about Texas, its geography, agriculture, and history and how that compared to South Africa.  Given, I was sitting in the front seat, so it was only natural that I would have more conversation with the driver than the other Americans, but even so, it seemed that something about my connection with Texas provided something distinctly appealing to the South African.

I know that my Texas pride can get the best of me sometimes, and I might be overstating this point, but even one of the other American volunteers remarked how I many times seem to be regarded by Afrikaners slightly differently because of Texas.  Whatever the case, it is something I distinctly enjoy, and I look forward to two years of such interactions with my South African brethen. 

One of many ostriches roaming the land on the Afrikaner farm

South African English Word of the Day

retrench – to terminate the employment of a worker as a result of company re-organization, financial difficulties, or bad economic times; to lay off (US English); to make redundant (UK English)

A lot of people have been retrenched as a result of the recession.

I’ll Be at the Barber Shop

I know that I have already devoted a previous post to the issue of my hair and its difference from the majority of people I spend my days with here, but an incident this past Friday absolutely begs a write-up.

I last got a trim of my locks by a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer in early September shortly before finishing training and departing for my current setting of Warrenton. It has thus been more than two months since I got a cut, and it was a bit overdue judging by the 80s rock star that was staring back at me in the mirror. As a result, I began soliciting opinions from various people in town and the location as to where I could find a quality barber. I’ve found that you increase your chances of success in finding a quality good or service by asking for recommendations from multiple people and then seeing if there is any overlap amongst the preferences.

By this time, well aware of the softness of my hair in comparison to my Black colleagues, I asked some of the Whites I have come to know in town who they go to. There didn’t seem to be any consensus nor were any of the suggestions male barbers. Now I am sure I will catch some flak for this, but I really do usually prefer having a guy cut my hair for two reasons. The first is that in my experience, guys have been better able to understand what I am going for in my cut, and I have generally been more pleased with the outcome. The second is that I enjoy a haircut for the social experience just as much as for the skillful application of scissors and razor. In the same way that many ladies like going to the salon to chat and catch up on the latest gossip, I love the banter I have with my barber regarding sports, beer, and other topics that tend to be in greater abundance among guy conversations. Of course, that’s not to say that I haven’t had good cuts from women barbers nor that there are no females out there that can shoot the breeze about subjects traditionally considered more of male interest. It simply means that if I am in a new place looking for a new barber, I tend to gravitate towards a male because I feel I have a better chance of getting a cut I am happy with and having an enjoyable dialogue of a certain type at the same time.

Anyways, this last Friday, I decided that the deed needed to be completed that day as I had already been putting it off for several days because of one reason or another. I headed into town with the initial idea that I would move in the direction of one of the snippers recommended by my White acquaintances. But as I reached town, I had the thought that I would be interested to see what type of job a Black barber would do, not to mention that it would be an interesting experience, continue building my engagement with and credibility with the Black community as well as give me a better chance of finding a male haircutter.

I noticed one of my colleagues from school, a Black man, also in town, and asked him where he goes to get his haircut. A look crossed his face that was a combination of amusement, confusion, and embarrassment. He replied that he could tell me which barber he uses, but that he did not want to put the haircutter “in a tight spot” as the man of scissors probably had no idea how to cut White hair.

No matter, I soldiered on. I knew of a spot I had visited with one of my teacher friends where he had gotten his hair cut, so I headed to that salon and plopped myself down on one of the waiting couches. I did the best job I could to not be conspicuous, greeting people there that I knew, and trying to look as if nothing was out of the ordinary, though to be honest, a White man in a Black barber shop blends in about as well as a New England yuppie at a NASCAR event.

After about 15 minutes of patiently waiting for my turn in the barber’s chair, one of the lady hairdressers, who was in the middle of giving a haircut, came up to me and said, “Can I help you?” I replied that I needed a haircut and she responded by saying, “What do you mean?” I didn’t think that a man needing a haircut sitting in a barber shop would be such a confusing idea, so I asked “You do cut hair here, right?” The lady nodded her head but did not say anything else, so I awkwardly said, “Ok, well, can you cut MY hair?”

At this point, the mystery of the White man in the barber shop was finally solved, and the woman said in a very sweet and non-defensive manner, “Ohhhhh, you want us to cut YOUR hair. Well, we can’t do that. Who told you to come here?” I replied that I had been there several weeks earlier with my teacher friend when he had gotten his hair cut there, so I figured I would come to the same place. The lady stylist said “Oh, I see. Well, the people here don’t know how to cut your hair. There is a guy down the street that does, though. I will show you”. The woman then proceeded to call her friend, and told him to walk outside of his shop about a block down the street so that I could see where I needed to go.

I had never imagined that getting a haircut could be such a laborious process, but the whole episode was turning out to be quite amusing, so I headed, still in a good mood, on to the next place. The man, also Black, who was apparently reputed to be knowledgeable of White hair, sat me down in the chair, and asked me nervously how I wanted my hair cut. I tried to explain the different lengths I wanted taken off around my head, but I could tell that he did not completely understand. Thus, I made it a point of continuously guiding him throughout the duration of the cut as to what I was looking for.

Every haircut I have ever received in my lifetime has begun by the barber wetting my hair before any clipping occurred. Not this time. No water was ever applied until the very end when the man asked me if the hair was a good length, and I responded that I needed to apply some moisture to get an accurate idea. Despite this man being recommended as a cutter of White hair, I could tell that he had little experience with my kind of locks. With a little guidance, though, he did a pretty good job.

In the process of the cut, I got to hear from this man, Benjamin was his name, who turned out to not even be South African. He is actually from Accra, the capital of Ghana, a country in West Africa. I could not help but tell him good naturedly that I had an unending animosity for his country because Ghana’s national soccer team has defeated the American squad in both of the last World Cups. This seemed to put him more at ease, and he proceeded to tell me how a Ghanaian ends up in South Africa.

In his explanation appeared an irony I have continually noticed during my time in this land of Mandela. One of the most serious problems in South Africa today is the lack of jobs with unemployment sitting somewhere around 40%. Despite that dire statistic, though, Benjamin said that there are simply NO jobs to be found in Ghana, and he figured South Africa had more opportunity. This is a tale I have come across over and over again in my conversations, reading of the newspapers, and watching of TV. South Africa, for all its myriad problems, still seems to represent a shining light to many of the other countries of Africa. It is unfortunately a sad reflection of the state of development in the African continent in general. Whatever the case, emigration seems to have been a good decision for Benjamin, as he is now gainfully employed and has been for some time.

He finished up my cut, though I did have to tutor him again on how to do a block cut on the back of my head rather than allowing it to taper. I got up from the chair reasonably satisfied with the outcome and paid the quoted price of 20 Rand plus a 2 Rand tip to Benjamin (even though tipping is not common here). At current exchange rates, that comes out to a little under 3 US dollars. Now if that’s not good value for your money, I don’t know what is.

Everyone I encountered directly afterward, Black and White, were impressed with how good the cut looked (though this might have been because I had been so shaggy before), and were quite surprised when I told them it had been performed by a Black man. It seems that here in South Africa, Black people simply do not cut White people’s hair not only because of racial divisions but also because there is simply no way, at least in smaller areas for, them to receive training or experience in such an endeavor. I informed my interlocutors that there are plenty of Black barbers in America who cut White hair, so it is not like pan-racial knowledge of hairstyling is so unthinkable.

So to end, let me just say that I still pine for a cut in my beloved G&O Barber Shop in my hometown of Huntsville with its hot lather, straight razor shave, and the bubble gum one receives as a parting gift. In its absence, though, my hat is off to Benjamin, even if we all know that the Black Stars of Ghana are going to be annihilated by the US team the next time the two clash.

South African English Word of the Day

tsotsi – a young black urban criminal

If you go to Johannesburg, you’ve got to be alert so as not to get robbed by tsotsis.

Some may object to the fact that this word that is basically equivalent to “gangster” exclusively describes Blacks and no other races. The reason for such selectness is that, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, it originally denoted “a young black gangster belonging to a group prominent in the 1940s and 1950s, affecting a special language and flashy dress.” The word “tsotsi” is said to be a Sotho word (one of the 11 official languages of South Africa) which itself was a changing of the word “zoot suit”, the fashion style of this particular group. Given that the name comes from an African language and that the people associated with it were young Black men, to use it to describe someone of another race would be akin to an American describing a poor, non-Hispanic neighborhood, as the “barrio”. Both “barrio” and “tsotsi” are words inextricably tied to their racial origins.

Just Call Me Batman

It seems there is no shortage of interesting run-ins with animals here in South Africa.  Of course, in a country inhabited by monkeys, baboons, elephants, lions, rhinoceroses, leopards, and buffalo, not to mention a wide diversity of snakes, it would be decidedly uncommon if one did NOT develop their own Jungle Book stories after a period of time.

If you have been a faithful blog reader, then you caught my last installment regarding my experience of playing soccer with goats this past weekend.  Well, the wildlife of this country must have gotten together and decided that they enjoyed the publicity they were getting through the blog because no sooner had I finished yesterday’s blog post and lied down to sleep, than I was woken up by a movement in my bedroom.  The telltale sound of flapping wings accompanied by a small shadowy figure zooming in circles through the darkness meant there was no surprise when a flip of the switch revealed a bat to be making use of my real estate.  

This is not the first time I have encountered a bat here, which is why I immediately knew what was causing the nighttime disturbance.  Apparently,our flying mammal friends have a habit of getting in through ventilation shafts.  Whatever the case, I always imagined that bats would be swooping through the blackness outside, engaging in a lightless feast of the various and sundry bugs always present.  This one must have already supped for the night, though, and figured he would burn off the calories by conducting his own airshow in my sleeping chamber.

As you can imagine, it’s not exactly a pleasant experience to be jolted from your dreams to find Dracula’s kin dive-bombing all over the place.  Me, being the resourceful Texan I am, however, immediately snatched up my mosquito net as a catching device and began a gladiatorial feud with King Chiroptera worthy of anything ever seen in the Coliseum.

And don’t let anyone fool you.  Bats are a quick and crafty bunch with a flying ability that makes Maverick in “Top Gun” look like a mere dilettante.  Nevertheless, Texans are also a shrewd species, and after 10 minutes of sustained battle, I managed to capture my opponent beneath the aforementioned net.  Now, in the slim chance that there are some PETA folks reading this (which if there are I have REALLY expanded my reader base), I will merely say that I consider myself to be a quite compassionate and loving soul.  Even so, I do not appreciate having my slumber disrupted, and especially not by an animal associated with disease, death and evil.  Also, my current bedroom is on the second floor, and there was no window or door through which I could easily shoo the creature outside.  Provided that background, let’s just use the terminology my older brother used to use when recounting our almost daily fights, and say that I “took care of it”.

Cosmopolitan Texan 1 Bat 0.

South African English Word of the Day

kraal – an enclosure for cattle or sheep

We’ll have dinner just as soon as I put the cows in the kraal for the night.

“Kraal” offers an interesting lesson in linguistic history.  My American colleagues will probably notice the similarity of this word to our “corral”, which also denotes a pen for livestock.  Not surprisingly, the two share a common origin.  “Kraal” is an Afrikaans word, and, like many Afrikaans words, is derived from Dutch with the Dutch word coming from the Portuguese “curral”.  I would imagine that the Dutch settlers of South Africa, who would eventually become the Afrikaners, must have had contact with the Portuguese colonials in neighboring Mozambique, which led to the adoption of the usage.  Equivalently, the word “corral” comes from Spanish, which, as far as I know, is a result of contact between United States settlers of the American West and Mexicans.  Spanish and Portuguese both stem from Latin, and for this reason, it is supposed that both “kraal” and “corral” find a common origin in the Latin “currere”, meaning “to run”.

Of Goats and Economists

I sit here tonight in a rather good mood despite a mixture of both good and bad having come my way these past two days.  The bad concerns my soccer game this past Sunday, and we will start there so as to add more of a climax to my divulgence of the good news.

This past weekend I played in my 3^rd official game as a semi-professional soccer player in South Africa (has a nice alliterative ring to it, doesn’t it?), and for the third game in a row I scored a goal.  Three games, three goals.  Not bad statistics, and certainly not something to consider bad news.  Unfortunately, unlike my first two games, my goal did not serve as the game winner even though it should have.

Non-soccer fans may skip this next paragraph of slightly self-serving sports commentary (my tongue is on a roll today).  We went down a goal early off of poor defending on a counterattack, but soon equalized off a long range goal from one of our midfielders from about 25 yards out.  About midway through the second half, we earned a corner, and that’s where I earned my money (if I was actually earning any).  The ball came floating through the air about 8 yards from the goal line, but unfortunately, we were facing the sun and were blinded by another orb slightly larger and brighter than the one branded Adidas.  Nonetheless, I maintained my gaze into the glare, and at the last moment, I sighted the ball in time to head it past two defenders in the goal into the back of the net.  Regrettably, it would not end up being the last goal of the game as we almost immediately gave up a penalty kick at the other end, which was converted, only to be followed by a soft goal with 5 minutes to go caused by poor defending and goalkeeping.  I was, therefore, robbed of my game-winning glory, and Young Stars recorded their first defeat of the season by a scoreline of 3-2.

The most interesting thing about the game, however, had nothing to do with the players but rather some thirsty fans.  Three times during the match, just as the ball was about to be put back into play from a goal kick, free kick, or what have you, the referee summarily blew his whistle to stop all action until a very friendly-looking herd of goats cold be removed from the pitch.  It seems there was a puddle of water on one stretch of the dirt (this, like many fields in Africa, was a grassless field), and it, being a hot day, seemed like an ideal watering hole for this tribe of horned companions.  Now, I have had matches stopped before because of lightning, thunder, rain, darkness, and even out-of-control parents, but I can honestly say this was the first time I have experienced a goat-stoppage.  Makes me wonder how the referee records that in his official report (Stopped game at 74:15 to throw rocks at goats who were conducting an illegal pitch invasion in order to water near the corner flag).

I’m sure that most of you read that scintillating story with some amusement but really all the time were hoping I would get over with it and get to the big news.  Well, ladies and gentleman, the time has arrived.  When I arrived home after school today, there was a surprise waiting for me.  The woman who I am currently staying with, had picked up the mail from the school’s mailbox which I use to have things sent to me, and informed me that I had received something.  She jostled through her handbag, and finally opened it up to reveal none other than...the most recent edition of “The Economist”.  That’s right, my subscription has now been reactivated and is being sent to my address in South Africa.   

When I decided to join the Peace Corps, the idea of not being able to receive “The Economist” was one of my main concerns, as I’m sure you can imagine.  Alas, I was placed in a country with enough development and in an urban enough part of that country to still have access to this oh-so-quality publication.  I’m sure by now, you, like myself, are absolutely bursting with joy and perhaps shedding a few tears as well at this triumph, so I will leave you dear reader to further contemplate this reunion of two long-lost friends, and I will retire to read about Europe’s rescue plan.

South African English Word of the Day

bakke – pickup truck

In South Africa, like in most parts of the world, bakkes are multi-purpose vehicles just as useful for hauling hay as they are for large groups of people.