Would JESUS eat bogobe?

Everyday that I go to work at the school, I have to explain my perspective on two topics: food and religion. This week, it started off innocently enough and then turned into something completely different. I walked into the kitchen just like any other day and greeted the cook and two educators that were standing around drinking coffee and eating Fat Cakes. I took a seat and proceeded to watch one of the educators slather his bread with mayonnaise as if it was butter.

(Note to self: Never eat mayonnaise again. More on my plight with mayonnaise in a later post.)

As I tried to hold down my breakfast, an educator, Rosina, asked me what I did this last weekend. I ran down my short list of things I did (which always borderlines on nothing) and asked her what she did. She told me she cleaned on Saturday and then went to church all day on Sunday. Thus began the interrogation:

Rosina: So don’t you go to church?
Me: No. (Smile)
Rosina: Why not? Don’t you believe in JESUS?
Me: I used to go to church all the time. (Smile)
Rosina: So why don’t you go now? Why don’t you tell us so that we won’t have to go anymore either? (snicker)
Me: I try to do more of a daily practice kind of thing. (pulled that one out of my ass)
Rosina: Oh, so in YOUR religion you don’t have to go to a church?
Me: Uh, well, yes…but in Buddhism…(beginning to sweat)

Now, this made me think about my stance on religion and I put myself back in my recruiter’s office many years ago. I remember her asking me about being in “religious” countries and asking what my reaction to living in a country that would practice a different religion than mine. I remember enthusiastically ensuring her that it would not be an issue, “I’m very open to learning and living in different conditions in religious countries.” I said with a smile wearing the $175 suit I would later return. Honestly, at that point I was so miserable that I would’ve given a bullshit answer to anything, “Sure, I’ll eat nothing but sheep insides if it means I can do it in India.” I wanted out and I was going to get there even if I had to wear a burqa for two years. Plus, I needed to keep the act up for her because the first time I met her I was wearing a “Cerveza Por Favor” shirt. (Ok, oops. It was laundry day.)

Anyway, two years later, sitting in that kitchen I thought to myself that though I didn’t want to cause any unnecessary conflict, I was going to have to try to represent myself honestly if I was ever going to survive this game for two years. I couldn’t pretend that I pray before every meal or lie about attending church. So, as carefully as I could, I explained that honestly, I didn’t attend any church/temple/mosque of any kind and I simply tried to live a life with a Buddhist mind set. If categorized, I would identify as such. (But really, who likes to be categorized? Not I.)

I’m not sure what I said, but I said enough and she stopped asking me. We went on with our day.
Later that afternoon, as I find myself back in the kitchen helping with the daily churning of the bogobe (which proves to be quite a brutal task and keeps my arms sore for days), the cook asks me about food in America with that “crazy white girl” look as I begin to sweat and clearly show that I am not one that has suffered for bogobe before. Trying to hide the strain in my voice, I tell her that no, we do not eat bogobe in America. I hope that the conversation ends there, but alas, it never does.

Side note: For those of you not in the know, bogobe also known as “pap” is a thick white corn meal that looks very much like mashed potatoes but is completely (yes, completely) tasteless and is very, very stiff. It actually looks a little like Play-Doh, and is typically eaten with the fingers and is served at every meal. Yes, every. In other countries they have these things called “staple foods,” a concept that Americans don’t bother with because we, honestly, have a very little attention span and thus have taste buds that need to be stimulated with new and different food every time we sit to eat. In most countries I’ve found that some form of rice is the staple food, or something made from bananas/plantains. Anyway, bogobe, from what I’ve heard, was created back, back in the day as a cheap and easy form of food. It requires only finely ground corn (called “millie meal”), water, and lots of arm power. 50 kilograms (about 100 pounds) of it costs about R180, or $20, and can feed a family of 4-5 for a month. However, it lacks any nutritional value and is very, very filling (and, from what I’ve seen doesn’t need to be refrigerated after cooking.)

Anyway, back to the kitchen, churning the bogobe with a wooden spoon that looks like something from Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, I try to explain that in America we don’t really have a staple food. This baffles the cook and she temporarily forgets that I’m ruining the precious bogobe as she contemplates the concept. She asks me if we ever eat bogobe. I say no. She asks me if we eat rice. I tell her sometimes but it depends on the meal. She doesn’t quite understand this. As the strain in my face shows that the bogobe is thickening, she snaps out of her bafflement and returns to stirring the bogobe with such ease it makes me laugh. It’s hard, really it is.

As she finishes the bogobe and assigns me to tend to the chicken (a task I enthusiastically trade for the bogobe), she tells me that from now on I will need to make the bogobe by myself so that I can take it back to America and show Americans how to cook it. I smile and tell her I’ll try but leave out the fact that the lack of nutritional value and tastelessness of bogobe will probably keep it from becoming very popular. Together we put together the plates for the school kids and as she prepares the meals for the staff, she laughs with another woman as she points to the portion of bogobe that her and I decided would be sufficient for me (which still takes half the plate and will leave me feeling bloated and gross for the rest of the day) and says that I need to eat more so I can get fat and my family at home will see that South Africans liked me. I fill my mouth with bogobe before I can say something inappropriate.

As we sit down to eat, a male educator tells me to say grace. Quietly, I sigh to myself, and tell him that I don’t know grace. Smile. He laughs at me, says grace and as our fingers plunge into our bogobe, he starts with the religion factor again. At this discussion, the deputy principal is present and because we’ve already had this discussion, I don’t contribute much but instead smile and swallow as she reiterates the discussion we had before (where she concluded that I’m Hindu against my parent’s and boyfriend’s wishes) and they both stare at me with the “crazy white girl” look that I’m often given. Luckily the conversation turns from English to Setswana/Sepedi/ Venda and I take that as I sign that the discussion of my love for JESUS has ended and I can return to daydreaming about pizza and hot showers.

However, because there is still much time to sit around after lunch but before we’re allowed to leave the school grounds, we move outside to enjoy cold drink (aka, soda) under a tree. The conversation continues in a local language and I watch the kids “play” but what looks more like walking around aimlessly, and then suddenly, someone is trying to get my attention, “Dineo! Dineo! [Something in a language I don’t understand]” Smiling, I turn back to the group and they’re all staring at me and the principal, my scary supervisor, is asking me again about food in America. I think for a second about why I may not be getting through to them and change my approach to the subject: “Well, many years ago…” I start as I begin to explain the melting pot of cultures that is America. I try, unsuccessfully, to explain it along the lines of the migration of the different groups into South Africa, but end up just saying that we eat rice. Yes, rice is our staple food. Why not? Everyone likes rice, right?

And then, like clockwork, my principal asks what my boyfriend eats since she knows that he is a black American. Well, I say, he eats the same as me, which in this case is rice. “Hm, but his mother doesn’t know how to cook bogobe?” I’m asked. “No, I don’t think so,” I respond, smiling. Always with a smile. She thinks for a second and I try unsuccessfully to analyze her expression (stupid drawn on eyebrows). Then, in a move that couldn’t have been better scripted she asks if he (meaning said boyfriend) has a problem with my lack of JESUS in my life. The question is so sudden I can’t stifle my laugh and as seriously as she asked the question respond with, no I don’t think so. Suddenly, a strew of questions from onlookers: what about our future children?; what about when you get married?; what does his mother think?. I want to say something clever and funny, if not a bit sarcastic and feminist, but thinking in my well-trained “What would Peace Corps want me to say?” mind I simply say, “Well, I don’t know. I’ll have to ask him,” and finish off my cold drink. And bam, just as suddenly as the conversation began, it was over.

I find that the longer I’m here in South Africa, particularly in my Itty-Bitty Village in Mpumalanga, South Africans are beginning to ask me more and more direct questions about Where I Come From, or as they call it, that side. For example, “In that side, how much does a man give his bride’s family for her?” Most of these questions come whilst I’m in the kitchen, helping cook.

I should stop here and make a quick note to anybody who’s never had the misfortune of seeing me attempt to cook, that I am not a skilled cook. Quite the opposite, actually. Many scars on my body (seen and unseen) can be attributed to my unsuccessful cooking attempts. However, since my arrival in Africa, I’ve felt a unexplainable gravitational pull to the kitchen. It’s exciting to see what you can do without the help of Betty Crocker and/or a phone to order take out. (Ha, my friend once told me how to cook a cake from scratch and I was amazed when it wasn’t as simple as “buy a box of mix, add egg and water and bake.” Wait, Betty Crocker isn’t the only once that knows the recipe for delicious dessert? Strange.) As a result, I’ve gained a little bit of knowledge in the subject and have had several successful cooking attempts since I’ve began cooking for myself. My mum would be proud. (Well, actually scared for my safety and anyone or anything near me, if she was being completely honest.)

Anyway, the kitchen and the women in it can be a friendly place if you offer to help and, in my case, stay away from knives. I have learned much about the organizations for which I volunteer and about the lives of women in this country and it gives them a chance to ask me anything they want about myself and that side.

If I earn a couple of battle wounds in the process, so be it.

The funniest thing ever captured on video by me in South Africa

I had to post this. Peace Corps people who watch me, sorry. It's funny. Get a sense of humor.

In this video, you'll see the wedding party dancing (particularly in light brown, the bride and groom) and you'll see the wedding planner in the red hat and two other highly entertaining dancers who decided to join in. Watch and laugh.

April 2009 066.avi

Never will I ever...

• Complain about cold showers. If the water falls, I’m happy.
• Complain about the taste of tap water. It’s gotta be cleaner than what I get from the JoJo.
• Complain about road conditions in America. If it’s tar and is moderately pot hole free, it’s perfect.
• Say there’s nothing to do in Houston. Ok, Dad, I learned my lesson.
• Take pizza delivery (or Domino’s Pizza Tracker where you actually know what’s going on with your pizza. It’s brilliant!) for granted. I’m going to hug the next pizza delivery guy that comes to my door, “Thank you, pizza gods. Thank you.”
• Underestimate how nice it feels to walk into a bar and say, “Blue Moon please, in a bottle” and have it be ok with the bartender, the people around me, and my mother (who I’ll tell the story to later).
• Take for granted that my boyfriend doesn’t cheat on me, that my dad doesn’t cheat on my mum, that my uncles don’t cheat on my aunts, or that my brothers don’t cheat on their girlfriends, Etcetera, etcetera.
• Be picky about an apartment. “Oh my god, babe, look! It has a flush toilet and a shower with hot water! We’ll take it!” My boyfriend will have to go apartment shopping alone when I get back.
• Washing machines and dishwashers. Need I say more?
• Think to myself that my 2002 Mazda Protégé is old and needs replacing. My host family in Seabe has one car that required my host father to pour water and knock things around in the engine before trying about 30 times to start it before it groaned to life. Yesterday at the garage (aka, gas station) I saw some men pushing a car back and forth to get it started after filling it up with petrol. After a few tries it started, everyone jumped in and they were off. Oh, how I miss you, car. I will never call you old again!
• Say, “This is the most disgusting toilet I’ve ever seen!”
• Think that the line at the customer service in Verizon is too long. I had issues with my phone the other day and almost cried because I couldn’t think of anybody I could take it to who would fix it.
• Say there’s never anything on television. I have four TV stations which are usually pretty fuzzy and come through as black and white. But, I’m grateful and can always find something to watch when the need arises.
• Roll my eyes when someone suggests pizza/Chinese/hamburgers/Mexican for the second night in a row.
• Think the police department or government in America sucks. Ok, it doesn’t. Thanks, South Africa for teaching me.
• Underestimate how nice it is to have a nightlife that doesn’t include pajamas and my bed.

I could die laughing.

Most events are quite funny here in South Africa. Moments when I’m at a funeral, wedding, or Peace Corps event and something completely unexpected happens, are my favorite times in South Africa. Everyday there’s a possibility that something completely crazy is going to happen…most days something completely crazy does happen and my brain goes crazy trying to remember every single detail of what’s going on so I can write it down later.

At a wedding last weekend…

I really wish I could have video recorded every second of this wedding. My friend Anne and I went to a wedding in Seabe (the village I lived in during training). I had already gone to two funerals and thought a wedding would even out my “cultural experience” as Peace Corps like to consider them. We ride into the place in Anne’s host sister’s car. There are people all over the place. The house is quite small and off a dirt road. Everyone is seated outside in plastic chairs under the two big trees in the dirt yard. Instantly you notice that the men and women are separated. There are people in dressy clothes as well as people in jeans. Most kids have no shoes on and are covered in dirt. There is a big van with a plastic beer attached to it parked on the side of the house that’s handing out beer to people (kinda like an ice cream truck for adults).

Opposite of the ice cream truck (on the women’s side of the yard), there is a big white tent that the wedding party hangs out in. It’s quite nice and looks very typical of a wedding in America. The bride and groom sit in on a throne-looking thing while they eat. The bridesmaids and groomsmen look awkward in badly-made Peptol Bismol-colored dresses and ill-fitting tuxedos.

The serving of food is quite a process. You can tell that some people show up primarily for the food and for the availability of alcohol. Women stay up all-night cooking food for everyone. Usually a cow and a couple of chickens are slaughtered in celebration and it takes a lot of man (I mean, woman) power to do this. As the food is being put on a long buffet-style table, more women come out to assume their position to shovel food onto guest plates. The queue gets long quickly and many men and children cut in line so it’s usually a long wait to get through the food line.

Anne’s host sister informs us of a hidden smaller buffet table in the bridal tent and we get in line for food. We’re given plates and as drunken men try to talk to us, we are pulled in and out of line by gogos (grandmother/older women) trying to protect us. It’s a delicate tango trying to stay in line and be polite, but keeping out of the reach of the drunken men begging for attention.

When we finally get our food and sit down to eat, we’re constantly asked who we are, where we stay, where we’re from and if we’re having fun. Almost usually in that order. So, it’s: chew, chew, “Dineo…,” chew, chew, “Seabe…”, chew, chew, “America…” chew chew, “Ee! Monate…” swallow. Repeat.

After the cow is eaten, the wedding party dances a really cool dance over to another house nearby to change into their traditional wear. During this time people continue to eat and drink. Anne and I are assaulted by a string of drunk men who don’t speak English and whose Swana is incomprehensible. They fall on us and they’re pushed away by Anne’s host mum and sister (and anybody else who deems it necessary to rescue us).

When the bridal party is dressed, they dance all the way back into the tent. They have on really cool outfits that are nicely made and look way more comfortable. They finally settle into the tent after thirty minutes of dancing and have dessert and champagne. By this time, women have changed the tent decorations to more traditional fabrics and accessories. Presents are presented to the bride and groom and the family that surrounds the tent make “Ohh” and “Ahh” noises as they open up each present.

We watch the drunken men make a mockery of themselves by dancing in the small area between the women and men’s sections of the yard. One particularly drunken man falls on me as another stares at my chest and asks me for my number. Once they’re chased away I see that another man is getting into a fight with the DJ. During all this, children stare at Anne and I as sober men and women ask us our details (who are you, where are you from, where do you stay, etc)

After two hours, we’re exhausted from dealing with all the different factors and are driven home where I meet my host mother who has been entertaining herself with adult drink.

The day before the wedding…

Peace Corps hosted a party for the families that hosted trainees. A few trainees (myself included) spent the previous evening cutting up tons of squash, carrots, onions, and potatoes. The next day, a few other volunteers woke up early and joined a couple of volunteer family members to cook the food. The men, from what I hear, busied themselves cooking the lamb that had been slaughtered in honor of the event (including my host father, which interested me because I’ve never seen this man make his own tea, let alone, any kind of food). The women cooked and served everything else.

The ceremony was set to begin at 11 a.m. Since we’re in Africa and thus on “Africa time” many people weren’t ready or hadn’t arrived yet at this time so the ceremony began near noon. A program was neatly typed up and placed neatly atop each seat (which was very loosely followed). As the program began with the training manager calling the place to order, the South African National Anthem breaks out.

So we sing.

Finally, the training manager (Victor) makes his announcements and the MC (Casey) takes over. She introduces the “important people” and each trainee introduces his/her self to the audience in his/her “target language” (which is something that you are never pre-warned about. It just happens, “Trainees will each greet themselves in their target language.” It’s a statement that makes me cringe just thinking about). So each trainee greets themselves and names their host family. As each trainee speaks, the training family that is recognized begins a bigger and bigger spectacle. It starts innocently enough, “Hello, I’m so and so. I stay in Seabe/Troya with so and so family,” then the trainee smiles, points to his/her family and they stand up, get a slight applause, smile, wave and sit down. Next trainee. However, as trainees go, the families try to “one up” each other. By the end of the introductions, the families are dancing up and down the aisles, “praising Jesus” and hugging and dancing with their trainee. It’s funny but what is supposed to be a ten-minute introduction turns into half an hour. Then someone bursts into song.

So we sing.

After the song, Casey introduces the two trainees who volunteered to make speeches in their “target language.” So, Amanda begins her speech in Setswana and after two or three sentences, Victor interrupts her, whispers something in her ear, whispers something to a language trainer, and then a language trainer stands up and tells Amanda to start again. Yes, from the beginning. Amanda begins again, but wait, first…a song.

So we sing.

After the song, Amanda begins again this time with an interpreter. So she talks, the interpreter interprets, we laugh at the right spots and applause her when she’s done. Then, of course, as she makes her way back to her chair, a song begins.

So we sing.

Casey introduces the next speech giver, David. He gets up and begins his speech. Victor interrupts him, whispers something in his ear, whispers something in someone else’s ear. The other person gets up and a song begins.

So we sing.

Another language trainer enters the room, rushes to the front, and stands next to David. Victor tells David to begin again. Yes, from the beginning. David begins again, the interpreter interprets, we laugh at the right points, and when he’s finished, we applaud him and then…a song.

So we sing.

The program continues with the person who’s supposed to be speaking beginning and then being stopped (song break!), an appropriate translator is found and the person begins again. Oh, but I mustn’t forget Victor turning off and on the mic which screeches and emits a static that makes it hard to hear anything (and I’m sitting in the second row) and giving it to the person who’s talking, the person holding it awkwardly or refusing it altogether. During this time, we’ve sang about 20 songs and the program that was supposed to be an hour has turned into two hours.

The program trudges on. An American at one point made a very bad decision to have all the trainees sing an “American song” and because most of us refused to do “This land is my land” we begrudgingly decided to do “American Pie” because, well, it says American in the title, right? It’s a classic. So, we cut it down to two stanzas, congregate at the front, with no practice I must add, and begin the song. Immediately it is known that this was a very bad idea. Who are we to pretend that we have the voices of angels? We are Americans. We sing in the car or the shower when nobody is watching. We don’t sing like South African do: loud, powerful, and graceful. We didn’t sing at the beginning of each school day. We realize that we don’t have the natural singing ability of our host country nationals, cringe and continue anyway to screech through the song. To sooth the ears, a wise South African begins a song.

So we sing.

Finally as our stomachs begin to rumble, we present our families with certificates of recognition (during which another spectacle begins but this time loud house music is in the background and each family takes more time for their dancing/singing/praising Jesus performance), we (the trainees) get back up to sing the American national anthem (which we, thankfully, can do much better) and everybody finishes by singing “Shosholosa” which is a really nice song that is A, something we Americans can actually do well, and B, a really popular South African folk song. It’s in Zulu, I believe, and is about encouraging a train to go up a mountain…kind of like the Little Engine that Could in song.

The program ends with Victor telling the families to get their food first, then the children, then the trainees. Finally, food. However, by the time we go through the line, most dishes have finished and we end up with limited choices of cold drink and food. We don’t mind though, we sit outside in some shade and laugh at the day. After we’re done eating, many pictures are taken with our families and random adults and children who just decide to jump into the shot. Then it’s over. Three hours later, I’m home.

Ah, South Africa. Never a dull day.

My experience: By the numbers.

(Editor's Note: This blog was created on March 29, 2009)

Training is almost over. I can’t believe it. I remember sitting in my bedroom a month and a half ago having a near breakdown thinking that I would never see this day. Now that it’s here, I feel like it wasn’t so bad.

So, this is where the statistics stand after two months:

0- The number of trainees that have quit so far. I believe we are the only training class in the history of Peace Corps South Africa to not have anyone quit during training. We’re quite proud of this fact. We have one week left, but I feel pretty positive about maintaining this title.

1- The number of electronics I’ve killed thus far. I killed my MP3 player by dropping it into my laundry tub. Ok, oops. I really blame Victoria Secret for this one because….well, just because.

567- The number of men that have proposed marriage to me on the street.

567- The number of marriage proposals that I have turned down.

567- The number of marriage proposals that were revoked because I don’t know how to make (and don’t like to eat) pap. Sorry, guys. I like food that has flavor.

15- The number of minutes it took to get me completely addicted to Generations.

150-The number of primary school kids that laugh at me when I tell them my African name is Dineo Mashaba just like the evil character on Generations.

8- The number of letters I’ve written and sent off to America.

3- The number of roosters outside my window at 3 a.m. every morning making tons of noise.

5,897- The number of times I considered going home.

5,898- The number of times I convinced myself to staying.

58- The number of bucket baths I’ve taken since getting to South Africa.

4- The number of (very memorable) showers I’ve had since getting to South Africa.

12- The average number of times my host father says the word “nice” to me a day.

7- The number of books I’ve read since arriving.

3- Then number of dinners I’ve had that have included some really weird pieces of chicken and/or sheep, which are the times I had chicken neck, chicken feet and liver (in the same meal!) and that one time we had what I think was sheep stomach, which smelled so bad I did the worse thing I could possibly do and said no, thanks.

2- The number of funerals I’ve attended.

1- The number of weddings I’ve attended.

I know there are tons more numbers I can give you. My time in South Africa has been filled with many incidents of blog-worthy events. Unfortunately, I think it’s a little much to write a blog everyday, especially since I can hardly find a good internet connection. Hopefully at site I’ll be able to write more often, especially since I’ll (hopefully) be spending more time alone.

Tomorrow we get our results from our language interview, Tuesday we go to Pretoria to shop, Wednesday is an all-day policy “This will get you kicked out of Peace Corps” talk, then Thursday is our swearing-in ceremony and then…off to site. It’s going to be an interesting week.