People in South Africa seem to love foreigners. I can’t step out of my house without hearing some form of American music—mostly Rihanna with a little M.I.A. or Justin Bieber thrown in. In terms of food, however, only KFC seems to have made it down here, and the idea of iced coffee has yet to be realized, much to the chagrin of my caffeine addicted brain. Despite their passion for American culture they can never guess where I’m from—they just know I’m not South African. I like the mystery of it all. I think the next time someone asks me where I’m from I’m going to say Australia or Argentina. Yet there’s another reason why I might conceal my country of origin—so far, I have picked up on the two main things that South Africans (or at least the ones I have talked to) assume about Americans: we’re all rich, and we all love our guns. (Those are definitely assumptions we can be proud of.) Oh, and our government likes telling other countries what to do.
Despite attempts to integrate aspects of American culture into their own, South Africans obviously have strong cultural differences, differences I have spent the last week trying to immerse myself in and understand more fully. More specifically, I have been learning local practices and figuring out how rugby and cricket work. Township culture is much different from my lifestyle back home. For one thing, their culture is very gender segregated—the women stay home and cook while the men go and drink practically every hour of the day. It’s also normal for men to take multiple wives—the South African president himself has three—but under no circumstances may a woman have multiple husbands or partners. Feminists, you might want to stay away from Cato Manor, a working class neighborhood in Durban.
In terms of sports, I have learned that rugby is sort of like football without the helmets and the constant stopping and starting. Unfortunately, cricket still makes no sense to me. On the other hand, I thoroughly enjoy watching soccer. South Africans love Bafana Bafana, the national football team. They kind of sucked during the World Cup, but I don’t think the South Africans minded—like residents of many other countries, most South Africans were likely drunk the entire time. So far, my epic Zulu skills have taught me how to say “the cow is eating grass,” but I have yet to learn anything useful like, “That man just stole my passport,” or, “Where is the American embassy?”
On an entirely different note, I witnessed a ritual chicken sacrifice this weekend. It was…interesting. My host brother, who lives in Cape Town, was home for the week. As the man of the house, he was responsible for killing a chicken to honor his family’s ancestors. I watched as the ritual took place in the kitchen, on the floor with a knife that had been sharpened on the sidewalk. Post-sacrifice, we had a big party where we ate the chicken and were required to drink as much as possible.
I’ve also learned that Paul Farmer is going to be the Wesleyan graduation speaker—I am quite jealous of all of you who get to hear him speak. His biography “Mountains Beyond Mountains,” was the first book on my list of recommended reading for my trip (which meant it was the only one I actually read). I hadn’t heard of him before January and now he’s speaking at commencement—kind of funny, eh? He’s a fascinating man; I hope one of you lucky audience members takes notes.
Sala khale bangane bami,
Molly
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