v e r b a l d o c u m e n t a t i o n [ 04 | 06 ]
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Sunday April 2, 2006 –
--I sit typing on the ncinci (little) keyboard of a Hewlett Packard Palmtop PC, model HP 360LX. The keys are half the size of my pinkie nail. Dave, the manager here at Bulungula has been very kind to allow me to use this little extremely energy efficient device on this overcast day, when the solar panels are not robustly charging their batteries.
My last update was on 3/24; awhile I was in the process of leaving Port St John with a 20 something German named Sebastian. We were both heading down the coast to Mpande, but even before we left town Sebastian found out he had only 600 rand left in his accounts. Enough money to purchase food, accommodations, and transport to Durban, but it was not sufficient to travel and stay and the more expensive Krall in Mpande. We parts ways as quickly as we united efforts. I hopped a 12 rand minibus to Tombo Store. A landmark on the road to Umtata, for the Mpande turn-off. The Krall had phoned earlier in the day that they were unable to send the shuttle to pick me up; I was planning on just hopping another minibus here at Tombo down to coastal Mpande, about 15km away. Surprisingly the Krall's shuttle was at Tombo to drop off guests for the Bazbus.
The 15km road to Mpande is untarred, but I understand that it is quite possible to negotiate in a two-wheel drive hatchback. At the crest of the hill above the amphitheatre that the Krall is situated literally stopped me in mid conversation. I had to apologize to Nick (a police detective from Australia). He was understood my experience, citing he had the same his first time.
Mpande is pretty remote, because of the poor roads and the lack of vehicles, but it does have two spazzas a 5 or 10 minute walk from the Krall. The spazza sells the basics for the community: bread, eggs, milk, rama (butter), cigarettes, and rolling papers. I didn't notice toilet paper, but most of the indigenous still squat in the bush, resisting development efforts of toilets. (A quick aside: Squatting in the bush leads to epilepsy. The pigs eat the human waste; humans then eat the pigs, which completes the cycle. Worms and other pathogens are transmitted in this process.)
The Krall has very amenities. One doesn't travel here if they desire creature comforts, they come here for the surf, the spectacular views, and the rustic approach has appeal to many. It is set on the side of a hill sprawling down into a little valley. The ocean-view is small, mostly hidden by the grassy amphitheatre, manicured by the cows, horses, and wondering goats. The beach is north over the hill: Great surf, sand and a river flowing through the beach. During the afternoons nearly a hundred cows, calves, and bulls bask here in the hot autumn sun, relieving themselves of breakfast and lunch. Thankfully the high tide cleans the sand, with minimal effort. To the south, about 1 km is the main beach. Accessed from the rocky water's edge, a path on the hill tops, or paths left behind from goats, sheep, horses, and cows on the varying 45-degree slope downward to the rocks.
`The Krall is small: 2 rondevls sleeping 8 each, and only 2 environmentally sound toilets, a 7 minute shower that involves a 2 buckets of luke-warm water, a trough, a hillside, and gravity. The common areas are large, accommodating 30 people with ease, but it’s quite chaotic to self-cater in the kitchen. The fridges are gas powered, and the gas tanks trucked in. Electricity is minimal, amidst the network of drain pipes on the corrugated iron roof, to funnel rainwater, are 2 solar panels. The power was used for the Krall's one amenity, the stereo - a newer car stereo mounted behind the bar, running off the DC power from the array without the expense of a converter. The only other item was the owner's, Dillian, laptop computer complete with the Internet via satellite phone. I stayed here from 3/24 to 3/27.
I hopped in two the back of a pickup on a drizzly brisk autumn day, to travel to Coffee Bay. Allegedly, a ship carrying coffee wrecked itself against the rocky, now named Shipwreck Coast. I only staying two days in Coffee Bay at Bomvu: Paradise, itching to go to my next stop, Bulungula. Bomvu is another Wild Coast Mecca set amongst a cornucopia of sub-tropical plants. Hammocks for lounging, a drum-making workshop for the ambitious with 5 days to spare. Local girls danced in their tradition, after dinner the first night. Their feet striking the wooden planks of their deck with such force, I was sure that foot or wood would surely break. The 2nd night a couple of the young drum makers gave an informal drum-playing workshop, in which I participated.
I travelled alone again, now down to Bulungula with my ever-increasing Xhosa phrasebook in hand and well practiced greetings and farewells on my tongue. I hopped on another minibus, and I was off.
Cont. from HP handheld PC
Onward to Telebene where the Bulungula shuttle would pick me up. The journey was long, and entertaining. Most of the 4 hours of the trip was spent waiting. I practiced Xhosa ignorance when drunken men asked me to buy them beer or for beer money. They drunkards were very determined and wouldn't take hi (no) for an answer. Both of them, at different places, kept trying and trying in their best Xhosa. In the end both tata (men) failed. I was given a 45-minute tour at the trading post that holds the Bulungula parking lot. I befriended this 30 something white man. He sold everything he had except one car to help pay for his parents' medical expenses. I don't remember his name, so I'll just refer to him as he. He seemed happy to speak freely in English. I showed interest in the trading post's operation and he gave me a tour through the bowels of the warehouses. He showed me wheel parts that were stored as components to reduce theft. He showed me the coffins, both adult and child size. The trading post provides a funeral service: from picking up the adult corpse, transporting it to Umtata, the closest major city, and to the morgue. They also rent out all the bereaved needs for a funeral: chairs, etc. There was also great construction underway, rebuilding the place after years of neglect.
The man stood out in the parking area watching and waiving as Rofus, the driver, negotiated the trading post's driveway. We travelled down untarred roadways where only a 4x4 could go. This old Land Rover had the clearance and power to make it through streams over rock, through ruts, and making its own road when required. On a few nice patches of road, Rofus (about 70 years old) would reach about 120km/h.
The Transkei region is hilly, undeveloped and the people follow age-old ways of life. There is not electricity available. Its a rarity to find a home, business, or school with a solar array. It probably goes without saying that there is no running water. As we drove through the hills, it was common to see jugs of water being carried on the heads of mama & sese (women and girls). Unmarried men also have to carry water, but rather on their shoulders than head.
Near sunset we crested the final sizable hill with a breathtaking view of the ocean, rondevls speckled on the hills below and my first vision of the lodge. Bulungula Lodge is set a slight hill on the south side of the Bulungula River's mouth.
During my research of Southern Africa, I found numerous hostels inland and on the coast. Bulungula was the only place that I wanted to go to, everything else I would play by ear, the recommendations on the road would steer me in the right direction. The photos on Bulungula's website sucked me in. I've travelled with a print out of their web pages. After years of hard work, right-decisions, and saving religiously and after moths of planning, I finally made it and it was stunning. It was stunning.
The Xhosa villagers of Nqinlene own a 40% share in the hostel and have complete control of all the spin-off tours, horse tours, river tours, walks through the villages, and all other guide work. Other hostels also have community partial ownership, such as the Krall for instance. Here at Bulungula there is not a bead and shell jewellery trade. There are not individuals selling dagga and mushrooms on the beach and at hostels' gates.
It is common to have a group of villagers of all ages hanging out in the lounge areas and the kitchen. The children would mill around, and play. All of the children very well behaved. They do not scream, or yell out. There is a young boy about 10 years old, who walks around naked, occasionally with a blanket wrapped around him. I watched as a young American tourist snapped photos of him standing on his hand, with all his glory hanging out. I made mention of this and it took her out from behind the camera's lens. I watched her have the realization of what she was looking at, as he posed for her camera.
One day, I took a two-person kayak/catamaran out into the ocean surf. I didn't consider my dubious task, considering the name of the vessel, 'River Ranger'. The River Ranger was quickly swamped by the waves. I figured the weight and the dual pontoon design would help stabilize the boat in the surf. I was wrong. The heavy boat did not want to turn. After every wave crested, the boat was tossed, and despite my powerful efforts, the boat was quickly turned to its side. I couldn't keep it pointed into the swells. The waves crashed into the River Ranger, which was quickly swamped. The waves were flooding into the boat.
I was able to bring her back into shore, before the salty water filled the boat completely. I managed to sink into the sandy bottom. Waves rushed in making my bailing efforts futile. The craft's newly acquired weight pinned her unmoving in the sand.
To the rescue came five young abouti (boys/brothers) ranging from 6-12 years old. With only a little verbal communication possible, the abouti helped me shore the boat into gentler waters. Here our combined bailing efforts succeeded and we made her sea-worthy again. I towed her back in to the surf, waist-deep, with four of the abouti’s on board. I had wanted to try paddling through the waves back into the river, where I should have remained in the first place. It would have been very dangerous in the pounding surf with the boys onboard and only my paddle power. So I relented and towed the boat, keeping her bow into the surf and with in time back into the river.
I made only 2 mistakes with this entire endeavour. First, the obvious and main mistake was to take a river vessel into the sea. With the abouti's help, this was rectified. My 2nd mistake was my counter-offer of sweets for the boy’s efforts, when they had asked for mali (money). This error was unapparent at first. It led to a cultural/developmental conversation with Sarah, Bulungula's resident artist (from London originally).
{A quick aside - I was just given a Xhosa name from Lou and Moyene (the front desk man and the Xhora River guide). My Xhosa name is Bonga, translated as 'Thanks'.}
Sarah walked by as I was opening candy bars for the boys - I figured they needed a little sugar, alike myself, after the recent monumental efforts- Sarah stated that the indigenous diet was not used to refined sugars, alluding to their immanent sugar high. The Xhosa people can't afford the luxury of a 5 rand candy bar.
Average salaries: 30 rand a day for untrained/unskilled labor, i.e. cooks, or security guards. 50 rand a day for trained labors, in this a builder. The Bulungula staff is trying to keep the custom of the affluent giving sweets to a minimum. This custom only instils a desire for something that the people can't afford, creating a dependent relationship with outsiders, for sweets. I had opened two candy bars at this time, and modified the snack with the subtraction of 2 candy bars and the addition of 2 apples.
This day was March 31st. Now the boys and I warmly greet each other. We play games, and as kids of their age often do, they want to be picked up; they hang on to me, playing with my facial hair.
{Another quick aside - In Port St John I wandered into a salon looking to have a shave. I had left my razor in Lesotho and I was looking quite scruffy. A 3 rand shave and trim, and an 18 rand haircut later, I was looking well kept again.}
CULTURAL ODDITIES -
As we drove into the Bulungula area, a young girl wore an ' I Love NY' t-shirt, as per New York State's mid 1980s advertising scheme. The shirt was complete with a heart in palace of 'Love' and it had a white body and red mid forearm length sleeves.
At the Sangoma celebration, a few nights ago a man wore a warm jacket with a large embroidered vintage Buffalo Sabers logo. I got excited and tried to explain the significance to the man and I had no success. On April Fool's Day, I went canoeing up the Xhora River, about 3km south, with the river guide Moyene. He kept his paddles in Zwelidanile's rondevl by the river. One wall was covered by hanging, drying dagga, the paddles were tucked away overhead, and on a hook was the Sabers jacket. I did my best to explain its significance to Moyene, with some success. I wore my Sabers cap yesterday, and he grasped the true significance of the jacket. His realization made me feel more at home here. I will be frequently wearing the cap in hope that I will again run into Xwelidanile, wearing his jacket.
I don't get homesick. I think of home and relish in the memories of my family and friends, from time to time. The Buffalo Sabers became a passion as I closely followed the team earlier this season. In Durban and Warner Beach, where the Internet was fast, I read article after article and viewing picture after picture with excitement at the Sabers’ imminent playoff run.
I am carrying 3 hats with me. One army-issue green, floppy hat. Its label describes it as: 'Hat. Sun Hot Weather Type II'. It continues, '[after washing] Rinse at least 3 times to restore water repellency.' I purchased it at the Army-Navy surplus store off the 190 in Buffalo, to keep me cool and dry. To protect my little head. The other 2 hats are both adorn with vintage Buffalo Sabers logos, one a baseball cap (as stated earlier) and the other a light winter hat, a toque, a beanie.
Now this is just an update. Electricity here at Bulungula comes from 3 small solar arrays storing power in 12 car batteries for night and cloudy days. So power is at a premium and I have only limited time on the computer. Further stories will come; a lot of past writing still hasn’t been typed. They sit in my travel notes, waiting for the chance to escape from its pages.
Stories to come:
Papatani - the butterfly - the continuing story of a little knowledge of Xhosa is amusing for all.
White River Rafting with Heidi in the Oribi Gorge - How many times can one person find a loose contact in white water?
The Rasta in the Tent - AKA ... 'J-Land- and Grea's labyrinth and intkle (beautiful) shower tiles.
The Sangoma Festival one Autumn Night in Bulungula.
- Franco
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RANDOM BITS AND PIECES FROM MY TRIP THROUGH THE TRANSKEI
3/27
I do feel materially, physically, mentally, and emotionally well prepared for this voyage.
I travel with only my pack, a Nalgene on a nylon belt, and another nylon belt with groceries: tinned fish, sardine and tuna, pasta (penne), musiel, peanuts and its butter, bread, and a little bottle of essence of vanilla. Vanilla is the stuff that makes french toast what it is. Without vanilla, french toast is an unflavorful mess of egg and milk soaked bread. French toast is such an easy breakfast food to make in undeveloped areas. Eggs, milk, and rama (butter) are pretty easy to find.
My tent - The Quest a 2 man, 3 season - beckons for a certainly clear night when the rain cover can be removed allowing a panoramic view of the night's sky, through the screened pitch and walls. The EMS Crash Pad smoothes out all but the hardest terrain. It is quick inflatable, although it does require me to blow it up, unlike what EMS advertises. They say "Open the valve. Roll out the pad and it self-inflates." Never believe everything everyone tells you, esp. when they are selling you something. I do love the pad, it is small and hangs from the pack in transit, and has been reliable -no leaks- considering it gets tossed around a lot when I'm on the road.
The Nalgene's plastic cap strap sheared off. This is a continuing problem, but the only defect in their water bottles. These bottles are virtually indestructible. They can be dropped on tile, throw into concrete walls, thrown like a football 30 yards landing on asphalt and still they survive. I've even heard stories of Nalgenes being tossed out of moving vehicles at over 50mph and the bottles suffer no ill effects. There is only one exception. When a Nalgene is thrown straight up, high up into the air and lands on its bottom, the container's structure will give way. The sides will flex slightly and a teeny- tiny leak develops at the bottom center seam. The leak will leave a little puddle when left over night. Thank you Chris M. for helping to prove that the bottles are not indestructible, but only virtually.
I sleep in the Chinook Palm sleep bag. It is compact, as its name indicates, and is a warm 3 season bag, taking up less space than a grapefruit. I wish the zipper opened all the way down, rather than 1/3 the way, for those hot summer nights. The environment friendly Backpacker Bubbles (Free Rinsing detergent that will wash everything from the human body, to tents, to cloths, to pots and pans), a space saver bag, and MP3 player really are the limits of technology I have in my pack.
It is always a pleasant surprise to fit everything into my pack. During the packing process, I feel like I have Mary Poppin's (Cherry Bobbin's) handbag: Items find a new placement everytime I pack, and everything always fits. Thank God for years of Tetris and the 18 months at Buffalo Wheelchair packing a delivery van.
- Franco
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