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.