Lebola Wedding Negotiations...aka Trying not to Get Traded for a Cow

You know, it’s amazing. I have the hardest time remembering people’s names, but teach me a new word for booze and I’m likely to remember it until the day I die. Point in case: this past weekend I went to my first Lebola wedding negotiations (traditional African ceremony that involves changing cows, goats and cash for the bride’s hand in marriage) and of all the words in Pedi, Zulu and Setswana that others tried to teach me the first ones that come to mind are Zamalek and Sogam. The words for a cheap local beer and for a homemade liquor made from mielie pap (cornmeal) respectively. I met a million people as well, but ask me for any of their names and all you will get from me is a blank stare. Food names I seem to be ok with though, so I’ve managed to pick up the basics there but I think my homestay mom may think I’m slow since I cannot for the life of me remember how to say good night in Pedi despite having been told a million times (I had to ask again just now, it’s: “robhala ghabots”). Clearly it’s not hard to see where my priorities lie. An ex once told me I was too complicated, but I think at times I am a ridiculously simple creature – give me a beer and some food and usually I’m quite happy.

But enough introspection and on to the narrative! So the wedding negotiations took place in an even smaller town than Groblersdal called Burgersfort. It’s 3 hours North of Groblersdal meaning I was in total 6 hours away from any major city and even further in the middle of nowhere. The drive up, even though it was on my favourite cramped mode of transport, the minibus taxi, was rather a pretty one. Low rocky mountains, red earth, and yellow grassy savannah dotted with low trees and the occasional aloe or cactus like plant, with fruit and vegetable shacks adding intermittent colour and a human texture to the whole landscape. Thankfully the music on the taxi was kept at a reasonable level for once and consisted mainly of some recent hip-hop – a nice change from the country-western and cheesy retro 80’s tunes favoured by my everyday work taxi driver. Figures. I travel all the way across the world to the middle of nowhere in Africa where most of the drivers love afro-pop, reggae and hip-hop, and the minibus taxi driver servicing my end of town happens to be in love with Shania Twain.

Arriving in Burgersfort, Ruth and I were picked up by her cousin who took us back to his home for the preparations. The wedding negotiations were set to take place the following day so we lounged around with the family and mostly watched TV while I got to know the closer family members. We bonded over watching the E! Channel’s special on the Baddest Hollywood Boyfriends. Some things just transcend cultural barriers.

When asked what I wanted to drink they were all very surprised however, when I asked for a Black Label (zamalek) beer because it is generally considered the cheap ghetto beer. What can I say? Class is not always my thing, but in this case I just happen to like the ghetto beer! As I sat inside with some of the family, outside the music was blasting and the people of the township were dancing on the street. I figured I’d save the partying for the following day so instead I chatted with Ruth’s family until 1 am before heading to sleep. Since there were so many people over we had to share rooms and beds. For a little while it looked as if I would be sandwiched between my friend and her pregnant cousin on a double bed, but at the last moment the pregnant lady was replaced by a younger and thankfully smaller girl. Still it was cozy, but it was a chilly night and I really didn’t mind. Lord knows I’ve shared my various beds over the years with dozens of partied out friends in large cuddle puddles that defied physical laws of space utilization. I think my record in Japan was 5 people in a queen size bed. It makes for quicker bonding.

In the morning I was woken up early by the sounds of preparations. Entering the kitchen I found it packed and was offered milk and biscuits as everyone ran around doing something or other. Not being able to help with anything I joined the kids in the TV room for a bit and waited for the fun to start. Soon the yard and house were both packed (and it was a pretty big place!) with family and friends and lots and lots of biscuits. Most of the day consisted of people sitting around in smaller groups and drinking pop and juice and eating lots of different kinds of cookies and scones. The men of course were drinking beer from early on so most were in quite the state by the early afternoon. As I was mostly with the women, I had to gaze at the beer longingly from afar. Once the music started up though, a lot of the ladies started dancing. Many of them had on traditional costumes and the songs were decidedly African, as were the dances. It was great to watch but I felt a little self conscious to join – which is unusual for me, but hey, so is sobriety. I decided instead to wander around taking pictures and talking to whoever wanted to talk with me.

I soon happened upon an interesting character – an older guy with a funny hat who spotted me and practically leaped in my direction. As my mother would say, I have a special talent for befriending somewhat crazy older men who like to drink. In any case, he brought me over to his little group of guys and made them all sing for me. When I asked what they were all drinking from a large plastic vat in the center of the circle he told me it was “sogam” and insisted I try. When the people around us saw me with the milky white substance (which smelled a little like vinegar, a little like something burnt and, well, a little like vomit) they started to gather around in amazement. My host noticed my hesitation at the smell and so he grabbed the cup and drank some to show me it was ok. I decided to bite the bullet and drink. I can’t say it tasted great but it was definitely an experience. Imagine sour, roast corn-flavoured milk and you won’t be far off. The men all clapped loudly and cheered as I drank the stuff and after a full cup I was suddenly feeling tipsy. When I went back into the house for food and told the ladies what I had drunk, they practically fell over laughing with shocked amusement. I must at this point admit to a guilty pleasure of mine – I love surprising people by doing the unexpected. I think it’s mostly because I also love being surprised and seeing something different or new so I like bringing that feeling to others. It’s a great way to entertain people.

The rest of the day was spent in watching the dancing and finally dancing a little myself, though mostly from the sidelines. Eventually the groom came out of the house accompanied by a cousin and they, and a goat, were put into a car to go to the bride’s house for the negotiations. The rest of us stayed behind to continue eating and drinking. I was thoroughly stuffed that night. Pap is damn filling let me tell you. That night I headed back with Ruth’s parents in a bakkie (something akin to a pick-up truck, but usually covered at the back). This meant I spent two hours lying down in the back of a truck on a bed of pillows next to Ruth and another friend. It was surprisingly comfortable, except for when Ruth’s father hit some hidden speed bumps and my body literally came a half a meter off the back of the truck and crashed back down violently, causing me to be sketchy and anxious for the rest of the ride. For the most part though, I felt strangely at peace watching the sunset from the back of a speeding pick-up truck.

Today I had to go to work however, so alas I had to miss Sunday church. Darn. Since it was a gorgeous and warm morning (yay, Spring has started!) and since I had stuffed myself the previous day I decided to walk to town. Again I was met by shock at the suggestion as some warned that it was dangerous while others said it was just quite far. No one ever wants to walk anywhere in South Africa I am discovering, and everyone thinks I’m crazy for doing so. Again, I must refer to the previous point – I sometimes just like doing things a little differently. The taxis to and from where I’m staying usually take about 20 minutes so I figured it was about an hour and a half to town. It turned out to be over two dusty hours and I walk fast. I have some blisters now but it was worth it. The only thing that disturbed my peaceful rendezvous with a beautiful African Sunday morning in the savannah bush was the fact that almost every second car stopped and asked me if I needed a ride. Those that stopped seemed to be of every race and walk of life, but all were equally shocked to see me walking and despite my reassurances that I was fine and getting exercise, seemed to almost want to stuff me into their car and take me against my will into town. I managed to reassure them all but by the end of the 14 km walk I was getting bored with the explanations and reassurances. Honestly, I think South Africans need to take back their streets and walk more! I know it’s not always realistic and I would not be so stupid as to walk around most places in Johannesburg, but being careful doesn’t mean being paranoid.

As I write this I am now back in the place I call home for the next two months and I’m sitting in the back yard. It is a sunny place this little township, and last week I had climbed a nearby hill and watched the sunset on the valley below. It was a beautiful sight. The sun is setting now and I think I might go watch the sunset again if I can find some joiners. I am developing an obsession with sunsets, but they really are gorgeous here. Or perhaps I just never have the time to really admire them in most other places.

In any case I don’t feel like writing anymore as living in a township is definitely a loud and lively experience. Music, drums and voices are everywhere! I don’t mind though. It feels alive. And I feel at peace. But don’t get me wrong. In two months I am going to need to party in a city like nobody’s business. For now however, you’ll have to excuse me, as there is a sunset that I need to attend to.