Tales of a Graduate: Week One: Church shenigans/ homestay life/ weaves/ cooking disasters.

So I have officially landed in Barberton and this week has been crazy busy! I’ve been meeting with lots of our project partners including the teachers, home stay hosts and other community members. Barberton is quite a small town and is surrounded by huge, beautiful mountains! It’s got all the resources you would ever need a large supermarket, a smelly off licence, a KFC, a pizza palace, a Victorian tea room (for when you’re feeling extra fancy) and a clothing store which appears to stock Fleetwood markets’ cast offs. A little home from home.

A lady called Bets picked me up from Nelspruit and I got to spend two wonderful days with her and her aunt Ellie in Barberton. Ellie has set up a missionary called New Hope and it compromises of around 35 buildings. Ellie’s husband built the whole thing himself and was an amazing painter. Their house was littered with gorgeous paintings. For some stupid reason I didn’t take any photos (sorry dad), but that was my home for the weekend. Their were also four American students who were also staying on the complex which gave me a great opportunity to bond and make long lasting friends (who I have not seen since). Everyone was so hospitable and that evening I had pizza (for the fourth time in a row) and the American’s treated me to ice cream sandwiches and smores around the fire. Despite the laughter, memories, great food and great company, the electric blanket was defiantly the highlight of my evening.

The next day I woke up like a groggy teenager after watching far too many episodes of modern family (dam you Katie), but I decided that I would pull myself from the bad mood and go to church with the Americans. The four of them were on a school project and had to spend 70 days in another country doing missionary work. They were all lovely, but they had a VERY, VERY, VERY, intense relationship with god. This should have deterred me from deciding to go to a two hour sermon, but I thought what the heck. The experience started out great. We spent a good hour singing songs in Sisiwati which incorporated various dance moves. True to my dyspraxic soul my rhythm was out, in fact at one point even the preacher pointed and laughed. Things got crazy. A preacher called Elvis was playing all the backing music, to the songs, on his keyboard. I felt like I was listening to Marbella anthems or something from the Ministry of Sound as Elvis kept dropping heavy, HEAVY beats. The nightclub feel certainly got us into the spirit and at one point all the white people were ushered onto the stage dancing and singing to the entire congregation. Then everybody jumped on stage and joined in with the glee and no word of a lie, we burst into the Macarena. The bloody Macarena!

I was having such an amazing time and was considering coming back next week. I was even enjoying the sermon delivered by one of the Americans. I was pondering about making a major life decision. Could I start going to church? Was god actually really? Could I see myself as a Christian? Then things turned sinister and in the words of Jay Z and Kayne West ‘that shit [turned] cray’. There were a bunch of new people to the church (myself included) and the preacher decided that she wanted as many people as possible to make the decision to let god into their hearts. Anyone who wanted to take part in this pseudo spiritual rebirth should step forward now. Everyone rose except a few teenage boys at the back so I decided (being front row) to also stand up. I fumbled my way to the front and saw the madness unfold before my eyes. The americans were grabbing members of the congregation and whispering (with their eyes closed) prayers in an almost spell like manner. Being white and clearly foreign, some thought I must have also held the spiritual powers and chose me to help guide them to god. Confused and dazed I grabbed a little girls hands and just stood there with my eyes closed for the most awkward two minutes of my life. I didn’t know what I was doing and I’m pretty sure she guessed that too as later she came back to the house to grassed me in to the preacher. I swiftly sat down with the disappointed little girl and waited for the ritual to end. However, things somehow got crazier and the preacher started crying. Full on sobbing. At one point she had to be removed from the altar. She was angry at some of the youth who had not stood up to accept god into their hearts and I couldn’t help think this speech was somehow also directed towards me. It was the most surreal experience of my life to date.

That afternoon Bets and Ellie had prepared a wonderful Sunday dinner where we ate antelope. Poached antelope to make matters more interesting. It has been lovely staying with Ellie and Bets. They have both worked as missionaries and have done some amazing work all over South Africa. At dinner Bets told us some tragic stories about her work in Tongo. She said that 7/10 people who went to hospital in Tongo had HIV or Aids, a shocking statistic. Bets has helped many families and was even given a baby from a dying woman who she raised as her own! Ellie worked in a hospital in her youth and has delivered 3,000 babies all of which survived! She also worked in a hospital in Swaziland where she revealed that it was common practice for the Swazi’s to kill their children if they were born with a disfigurement, such as an extra finger. She worked hard to try and challenge the Swazis perceptions surrounding disability. Some truly inspirational women.

Monday came around quickly and I met with some of the principles who we are going to be working with. The volunteers are essentially working as teaching assistants and will be helping to assist with the national South African exams. The average class size in South Africa is around 45 pupils to one teacher so we are hoping that the volunteers can make an impact on working with children in smaller groups. The volunteers and I also have to work in non-formal placements. Two days a week, after school, they will either be working at a resource centre or a library. The resource centre is amazing and the woman who runs it, Calia, is looking to set up an extracurricular club for the children as well as implement her reading programme. At the library the volunteers will be working with Sydney in running a homework club and employability skills workshops. The library is based in the location, a predominantly black area. So, another objective we have is to try and encourage community integration and get other racial and class sects to interact with the library.

On Monday the principles and I started looking around for a new home stay and we conducted our meeting over a bargain bucket of chicken at KFC.I was then taken to my new homestay and met the family. I will be living with Mama Eliza (yes that is her name. I have to call her mama) and her husband Robert. She is a lovely woman and has done everything to make me feel at home. She’s working hard to make my break up with the electric blanket a little less painful and is showering me in blankets and hot baths. Her son and daughter in law live literally round the corner with their two year old son, Sato. Who is the definition of the word CUTE. Rosette, Mama Eliza’s daughter in law, is lovely and she has been taking me around town and showing me the township. At the moment it’s the holidays so Mama Eliza also has her other son and daughter staying here and her grandchildren. It’s a busy house, but it’s great!

Sato being cute

Already wearing my hair like I did in Ghana . hideously

I have already made several cultural faux pars. Apparently sitting in the sun is maddening and you do not put your knickers in the washing machine. But I’ve also learnt several lessons. Don’t assume the liquid in the coke bottle is coke it could be an herbal medicine made from a tree and don’t nervously mumble that you don’t know the name of your church. I’m kinda glad I can justify these social faux pars with the excuse of cultural difference to hide the fact I’m a clueless idiot. Pretty sure the entire family now think the English are not good cooks and that we can’t go five minutes without dropping, spilling or generally struggling with every -day life. I have done a disservice to my country. I’ve let you down and for that I apologise.

Its been interesting learning about their perception of England. On the first day we crossed the first cultural hurdle when I explained that, “no I do not have a chef… nor a maid.” They also find it crazy that we don’t all live in mansions and that homelessness is a problem. However, they are very up on our political issues I’ve been asked my opinion on the Scottish referendum several times as well as England’s stance on the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.

Rosette took me round the township the evening I arrived and I have to admit it was scary. It’s not that I feel unsafe it’s the staring that is more unsettling. I knew that South Africa was still living in the shadow of apartheid, but I had no idea just how segregated it would be. The township, called the location, is where all the black South Africans live. There is not a single white face here, so at the moment I’m the class clown. It does feel weird having people judging me on the colour of my skin, but I guess it something I’m going to grow used too. Apartheid plays such a big part in the South Africans lives. Nearly every person I have spoken too will bring it up in one way or another and it’s so interesting to hear their perspective. Its also not that fact I'm white, but the fact that I'm living and socialising with a black family which appears to be provoking the stares. Its really weird! Even Rosette said to me today she was finding it irritating the amount of people staring at us.

But enough of the serious political talk. When we get to the crux of it, I am a big name round the location. A celebrity some may say. (I’m kidding).

Pictures from the location. Fish and chips. Everyday essentials

This afternoon I went to a hair salon in the location with Mama Eliza, her daughter, rosette and Sato and the salon owner was apparently boasting that she has broken into the white market. However, despite suggestions from Rosette I regret to inform you I will not be getting my hair braided in the near future. Nevertheless, I am not ashamed to admit that I am now a little in love with the weave. What a wonderful creation, needle and thread, defying nature’s laws, transforming people’s lives since the 1950s. In just a mere couple of hours you can change you entire look with no chemical damage to your hair. Long black braids to short blonde bombshell. Curly to straight. The best part? You don’t have to wash your hair in a whole month! The sense of freedom, the liberation from the needless routine of washing, conditioning, drying, straightening. Gone. I am now making it my personal mission to bring the weave into more people’s lives in the UK and will be sure to set up a KONY style campaign in the near future.

Weave Shopping. Where the magic happens.

The food has also been amazing! I’m really enjoying Pap and am getting used to full fat milk (sorry mum). However, they now want me to make them an authentic English meal. Which has led me to conclude that we have some truly crap dishes. Curry? Not ours. Stir fry? Not ours. Tagaletili? Not ours. Let’s not even joke about coronation chicken. All we are left with is Sunday dinner, pie and the most boring meal in the world cottage pie. Due to my poor cooking skills I decided against fish chips and mushy peas and made the duller and harder to mess up choice, cottage pie.

I decided to also make some scones to add at least a little flavour to the meal which the kids really enjoyed. I made sure they washed their hands about twelve times and spent the majority of the time scraping cake mix of Cepay’s hands. Everything was going well. We’d got the scones into the tin we’d even glazed with egg! The problem came with the baking. The scones were in for about five minutes when thick black smoke came pouring out the oven. Running to the defence of my mother’s recipe I made sure that everyone knew my scones were not the cause of the fumes. We collectively decided that we would open the oven door to let some of the smoke out and then resume cooking. However shortly after, the operation got abruptly stopped and my scones were left half cooked and miserable.

I then moved onto the cottage pie. One of Mama Eliza’s great nieces is staying for the weekend and she was great help around the kitchen. The cottage pie didn’t turn out too bad. Obviously the oven was out of bounds so all we were left with was mincemeat and mashed potato, but we managed to find a way to pull through. I felt it looked a bit like dog food, but it somehow went down a treat. Probably due to the fact that the bubbling liquid in the pot was seventy five per cent fat. I also introduced them to stuffing which provoked some curiosity. (It worked dramatically on my side they had never tried the dish before). The scones had somehow magically survived, we had left them in the turned off oven while we were cooking. It had taken me two hours to cook mincemeat and mashed potato, so they’d had sufficient time to thicken up. I tried slicing them in half and lacing with jam. Not all the scones survived and even the ten year old niece told me the baking had been a ‘disaster’.