Of the Bush and Manhood

Of the Bush and Manhood

Mark here: A local custom in this area is for the Xhosa men to enter the bush at the age of eighteen in order to find their manhood. This is a three week trial that begins with a week of hydration depletion, continues with a circumcision and ends with a beating at the hands of the men in the village to welcome the young men into the fold.
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Now this may sound like a strange thing to those of us in the west, but it is a time honored tradition here in the Queenstown area and the local villages. One of Elliot Masoka’s young foster children is about to undertake this experience and he is both excited and a bit frightened by the task at hand. “I must do it, regardless of what I feel,” says the young man with a wide smile upon his face. It is an honor to make it through the experience, but there is also a dangerous side to this practice that has led local clinics to develop a monitoring system for the young men that undertake the journey.
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Each young man must appear before the clinic and sign waiver forms stating that they understand the dangers of the circumcision and will allow themselves to be worked on by doctors if their health is in question. The circumcision is often performed with a rusty knife that has been used on countless other young men about to enter the bush in search of their manhood and can cause bleeding and infection leading to death. In the past it was estimated that one of every five young men going through this process would die from such infections and the clinics have stepped forward in an attempt to quell this issue from growing. This is yet again an example of old traditions being challenged by western science and elders in the villages wondering what they should do. “It is difficult to change the views of the older people in the village,” according to health care supervisor Zuko, “but it can be done through an understanding of the tradition and an explanation that we are only trying to keep the young men healthy.”
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For those of you wondering how this is can even be an issue it must be taken into account that these village inhabitants have lived this way for generations in a closed society barely touched by outside influences until recently. Changing the past is difficult, but with people willing to make the difference such as Elliot Masoka, Dr.Lee and Zuko there is little doubt that this metamorphosis will be successful.

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Pictured below is a woman using the white clay "make-up" commonly used by young men during their time in the bush. This serves as sun screen and also identifies the men as initiates.

Of Western Science and Local Superstition

Of Western Science and Local Superstition

Mark here: As westerners look at the HIV/AIDS epidemic in this country we can sit back and ponder the reasons why it happens, but never truly understand them until walking in the footsteps of a local clinic doctor or nurse. This is a country riddled by a disease that seems to grow daily and strike down youth and adult alike.
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Clinics in the rural areas are overwhelmed with nearly a hundred visitors a day with maladies ranging from tuberculosis to HIV issues. Government provided ARVs are free to anyone who has tested positive, but getting the patients to look beyond the local Sanghomas is a battle that is only just being fought. With the local villages filled with illiterate populations a wariness of the western sciences has taken hold and the HIV medications are being forsaken for the local healers and their cornucopia of herbs and such.
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For Dr. Lee and Zuko of a village clinic it is a slow climb to the pinnacle of understanding between the past’s traditions and the reality that is HIV/AIDS. Meetings with the local healers have taken place and the clinics are attempting to bridge the cultural gap between past and present so that the disease does not steal away another generation.
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Imagine halls filled with patients, a cacophony of coughs and crying children and the overworked and underpaid nurses and doctors doing whatever is possible to bring comfort to this mass of humanity. The next time a prescription is filled at the local Walgreens, remember Dr. Lee’s clinic and their broom closet of medicines that are dispensed through a slot in the wall by a volunteer with little or no training. It is all well and good, according to Dr. Lee, for the west to provide medications and money, but it is a grassroots approach that is needed to bridge the gap between the village tradition and the scientific growth in the field of HIV/AIDS medication. “Until that happens,” says Dr. Lee, “this is a battle that we cannot win.” For a country on the verge of losing a generation of its children this is one time where there is no room for failure. It is not a change that will happen overnight, but something that must be given time and approached with patience to do the right way. “It is not a manner if we can succeed”, says Zuko, a health supervisor at the clinic, “but that we must or we will lose our children.”

Of Hatred and Reconciliation...

Of Hatred and Reconciliation…

Mark here: During our stay in Queenstown we were fortunate enough to meet a man who had participated in the oppression under Apartheid that riddled this fine country. As a student demonstrator and victim of the police organization’s torture process Elliot Masoka is a living reminder of what this country has been through in the past twenty years.
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As a young man growing up in the black area of Queenstown he chose to join the Youth Movement of the ANC and stand up for the rights that he believed his fellow blacks were to have as human beings. He and his brother were eventually apprehended by the police, one of whom was his own uncle, and taken into custody as supposed members of an underground organization preparing to do battle with the regime in power.
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He was subjected to a variety of tortures, which ranged from wooden slices inserted under the nails of each hand to an unfathomable experience involving being stripped naked and having his reproductive organs battered with a desk drawer. These actions would understandably cause any human being to develop a hatred to the oppressors responsible, but Elliot has risen above the hatred that could have ruined his world and become an example of what South Africa can be in the future.
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He has quietly gone about his life and developed a shared mindset with Nelson Mandela of putting the past in the past and going forward into a future where all South Africans are equal…regardless of color.
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Elliot and his lovely wife Tandi have three children of their own and also provide a home for four foster children and a lovely woman named Grace, who is Elliot’s mother. This South African version of “The Waltons” is something to behold as they work together to provide each other with the best possible in terms of love, support and education.
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Elliot divides his time between a funeral parlor business, farming, parenting, church activities, Rotary, a bed and breakfast and acting as a father for the children living under his roof. This led to a recent heart attack for the forty-three year old man, but he refuses to be slowed in his attempt to make the world a place where his children can be proud of who they are and what they believe in. “I feel that my past has allowed me to see the possibilities of the future”, says Elliot and he has worked hard to show his family that color is not an excuse for failure or lack of pride.
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To Elliot South Africa is on the verge of either excellence or heartbreak and he is scared that it could fall into the same abyss that Mugabe has led neighboring Zimbabwe unless the politicians realize they are the leaders of a land thirsting for change. For all of us that hold images of the Apartheid era in our minds or wonder how this country could ever reconcile it is important to remember individuals such as Elliot Masoka. He was taken into the belly of the beast by individuals that saw him as little more than a servant and survived that journey to stand as an example of what this country is truly about…peace and rebirth.
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September 26 - 29 Queenstown and the Sangoma

(I'm still having trouble uploading photos.)
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The Rotarians we met at Queenstown so far are our kind of people. Reg and Helen Morgan are progressive, amiable people. He’s an Anglican minister who is interested in helping all; she’s a former radical youngster who was routinely watched by the security police during the “struggle” against Apartheid.
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My host PJ Colete, an attorney, resigned from the first Rotary club and founded the second club when the membership refused to admit women and blacks, coloreds and Indians as members. Way to go, PJ!
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PJ, born of an English speaking family of Dutch heritage and Renise from an Afrikaner family have five children (including a set of triplets). They live in a large rambling home, which has seen ongoing reconstruction and expansion since 2001. As far as I could determine each child has his or her own bedroom (complete with wireless internet). The two full-time nannies share a room with private bath. There is the extra large kitchen with adjoining family room – with mounted flat screen SONY. A very large formal dining room with an immense table set for ten could easily accommodate sixteen (OK, fourteen, PJ tells me) comfortably. When we joined hands to say Grace before dinner we last two were so far away from each other at this regal setting that we had to do so “wirelessly.”
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I have not been around to see the house, but one particularly interesting entry way has three sets of double doors all 18 paned glass opening on three of its walls and the fourth a water feature along the stairway going up to the new two story wing. This houses the master suite and office with a commanding view of the front yard. The sitting room is now full of office furniture from PJ’s law office – he’s in the process of moving again.
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The kitchen has a scullery. This is the second home I’ve been in that has such. These are becoming more common as we move from Afrikaner homes, which typically had braai areas with wet bars. The scullery is a bright area for food prep (not cooking) and cleaning up. This area is the usual workplace of the domestic while the kitchen is reserved for the owners cooking. .
I’m housed in a guest room attached to the garage just next to the pool. This as opposed to the coy pond in the front of the house. (OK, it's nice, but you should see the places where some of the others are staying!) PJ and Renise’s place is surrounded by a six foot high wall; this in contrast to all other homes in which we’ve stayed that have a metal spiked-top metal fence. The gate is electric, operated by remotes attached to their key rings. the gates are also operated from the intercom telephone in the kitchen. The sets of keys are overwhelming. They are what we referred to a skeleton keys in my childhood, at least a dozen including the high tech car keys of the current generation. And the Colete family has at least a dozen sets of these hanging on the wall. They have keys for every room in the house as well as their home by the sea (read, Indian Ocean) and the eight-bedroom guesthouse they operate as well as PJ’s law office. They travel with one or two sets as well as the ever-present cell phones. With five kids, a law practice and guesthouse and ongoing reconstruction of all of this as well as coordinating Rotary functions and arranging tours and meetings for GSE team members, the phones ring about every ten minutes. .
PJ served for six years on the local [city] council. He is a member of the ruling party in the country the ANC. He’s a lone white face in the overwhelmingly black party of Nelson Mandela. He has sat through six years meetings with 47 other council members, some tedious beyond common sense, working to secure electricity and water to the black and Indian communities, which adjoin the old white Queenstown.
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As we drove through this town of 8,000 white, 5,000 coloreds and Indians and an estimated 87,000 blacks, the old racial housing boundaries are falling away. Non-white middle class families are moving into the fringes of the formerly white section; as the blacks move up into better homes and out of the squatter camps, more arrive to take their place. An apparently unending tide of people moving into corrugated metal shacks with dirt floor, open to the wind. The fortunate have electric power by illegal extension cords carrying 220 volts buried a few centimeters below the surface.
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A particularly peculiar magazine cover caught my eye today. A South African mag called Country Life, similar to our Sunset magazine, was lying on the end table at my hosts B&B. The cover showed a squatter's metal hut painted bright lime green with a quite white woman dressed very trendy, planting flowers. The article was entitled "Squatter Shack Chic." It suggested that even you can make that squatter's shack look upscale with a bit of paint and some antiques. How ironic that the very basic of shelter for hundreds of thousands of dirt poor has moved into style. Well, maybe except for the cold, unbearable heat, dirt floor, lack of plumbing, smells, garbage and crime.
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There a number of government built brick homes. They all look alike and are neatly rowed. These were given away to qualifying families. The tragedy is that many have been sold for the few thousand Rand they are worth with the families returning to the squatter camps. These people are now prohibited from ever again qualifying for this free housing.
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PJ pointed out that children are the heads of many as parents are dead from AIDS related causes. We see trash everywhere in the squatter camps and along many of the streets in the RDP housing area. PJ tells me that time and again, litter control and clean up efforts are good for a few days then the rubbish is redeposited. There is no sense of community pride or environmental concern. This is coupled with the total vandalism of municipal efforts at fencing and recreational buildings and equipment. What ever can be dismantled and hauled away is sold for scrap or used for building shacks.
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Security and building techniques are ever-changing. This in response to the persistence and ingenuity of the masses of humans here. These forces operate as waves on the shore, constantly wearing away at the man’s efforts at safety and civilization.
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Queenstown is laid out as a hexagon. The city center, has a small six-sided park called, “Freedom Square.” This misnomer, lost on most here, aptly represents the ill logic that is contemporary South African politics. Further out from the city center the streets are laid out in typical grids.
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The older section of Queenstown houses Queens College, a boy’s high school. This large campus is replete with numerous well-maintained athletic fields and early 20th century two-story building on beautiful tree-lined streets. The girl’s version is traditionally called the girls "high school." A distinction rooted in the English tradition of education being primarily for males. This is still reflected in male alumni being referred to as “Old Bys”; as in “the Old Boys Association.” A-hah! The legendary term Good Old Boys has an origin. (By the way, we learned that the phrase "Hair of the dog that bit you" may have originated in parts of the world where a dog bite was treated by taking some opf the offending dog's fur, burning it, and rubbing the ashes in the wound. This was used by the Xhosa people to pmomote healing.)
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Whew! Every time we go for a spin or sit for a chat our heads are filled with facts, history and stories. My Goodness! Where to start now.
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Blacks are now called the “Previously disadvantaged.” Women of all races are “Historically disadvantaged.” Colored and Indian may be considered, hmmm, my hosts were not sure what. And of course white men don’t count.
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Politics here are zoological. Welcome the Monkey House. Nonsense along with corruption and petty jealousies and greed surface daily in the news. Let’s see if I can get this straight. The newspaper headlines today have something to do with the Director of Public Prosecutions (read Attorney General) was fired earlier this week by the President (read Archibald Cox and Richard Nixon) because he had issued an Arrest Warrant for the Chief of the National Police (read Director of the FBI). Thus he was removed from any investigation into one of the President’s cronies.
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The papers also carried a story regarding allegations that the local Chief Constable of Queenstown was found driving an allegedly stolen car.
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Yesterday afternoon and evening was especially rewarding for us. Bongile Mngambi, a previously disadvantaged Rotarian (this may mean he was once a member of the Fraternal Order of the Elks) took us to the Macibini location where he is the principal of the school. Bongile’s Xhosa name translates “To be thankful.” We’ve discovered many names have meanings. We’ve learned that “Michael” translates “White-haired Rotarian.”
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The settlement is as quiet as one can imagine. I mean really quiet. One hears some birds, the occasional lowing of a cow. The valley is broad and the setting sun casts a golden glow on all. There are no paved roads; no water or sewer lines, no electricity in most of the rondovals. Cooking is done out-of-doors in three-legged pots over fires made of dried cow and sheep dung. We saw this.
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He showed us the newer school with no plumbing! Water drains form the rooftops into cisterns - large plastic tanks at each end of the buildings. These are now dry because of the draught. The bathroom, well, there are no bathrooms, just privies. There school needs to buy water by the truckload to fill the tanks. But they have no money.
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The kindergarten has 75 kids in one room with one teacher. The kids sit four to a desk. But Bongile is as proud as he can be! There is a school, the kids attend school rather than stay in the rondovals all day and watch the goats and sheep graze. They are learning to read and write. And he is the principal – a very prestigious position here in Macibini.
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Bongile took us to a set of rondovals where the sangoma or “healer” lived. After about 20 minutes on pleasantries and conversation, he summoned us out of the car. The sangoma, a heavy set smiling woman of about 35 invited us into her hut. She had herbs and roots drying on the floor. There were pelts of various sorts hanging from the walls. There she played drum and sang. Then invited her initiate to play the drum while she danced clapped and sang! We were awestruck that she would do this for us. The sun was setting, the darkness of the hut and the rhythms of the drum, singing and clapping set the tone – this was the Africa we had hoped to witness!
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What an amazing adventure!

Saint Jesse

After District Conference we acted like tourists and shopped in the souvenier stores in downtown Maseru, Lesotho. A brief history: when the Afrikaneer Vortrekkers moved into this area to escape the British in the Capetown area, they pushed the Basotho tribespeople over the Caledon River into what is now Lesotho. In the 1980's Lesotho was ranked as the third poorist nation in the world. It's improved a bit we learned.

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Before we crossed the border, we visited the Folk Art Market. This cooperative was founded by Peace Corps volunteers. A number of Basotho women, using local wool, weave by hand traditional scenes on handbags, tapestry, placements and coasters.

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We travelled over the border into South Africa and Ficksburg. This small city on the Lesotho border is by far the quaintest, safest and most reminescent of the old midwest we've yet encountered. The tree lined streets shade older stone homes, many without bars on the windows and some without the imposing spiked fences we've seen in previous towns. Perhaps it's a matter of time, after all, Ficksburg is a city of about 5,000 mostly whites and the adjoining black township, with high unemployment, are you ready for this, is 80,000!

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But the town bustles. The downtown shops are open and used - again, no megamalls here. The streets are quiet after hours. The local real estate market is on the upswing as crime-sick residents of Johannesburg discover the serene setting against the Soutkop ("Salt head") rock outcropping. Cherries, peaches and asparagus grow in abundance here, locals can drive just a few blocks before passing someone they know and wave to. "B&B" signs are many giving this shady town an extra plesant feel.

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We toured the Jesse Poly Clinic on the Lesotho side of the border. Here we met a most remarkable man. Dr. N. Gyasi-Agyei is from Ghana. He's a Rotarian living in Ficksburg who makes the daily drive over the border to serve as the only doctor in the area administering to the Basotho. He's a striking figure, his skin darker than the Basotho, he dresses in white from head to toe, easily standing out in any group. His ever present smile, sparkling eyes and warm demeanor combine to draw people to him. He patiently explained his efforts to "Try to fix the dying" in a country ravaged by HIV/AIDS. A saint, he's ben here for 17 years.

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Dr. Jesse explained that while there are no exact figures on the extent of the HIV infection, he's able to estimate from testing pregnant woman the rate to be almost 50% of the population that visits his clinic. In Maseru, the capitol, he estimates the rate of infection to be 46%. Lesotho is third in the world, behind Swaziland and Botswanna for HIV infection.

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The clinic is supported by grants from the Irish, German and Japanese governments and private groups including the Clinton Foundation. More money is needed to supply life-saving ARV drugs and to promote education.

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Our Rotray hosts, Verney Halse, Vernon Joughin and Jim Lundberg saw to it that we were happy in Ficksburg. More to come...

OK We may have photos - we'll work on this.....

We'll be adding photos to prior posts as we get the time.

Gumboot dancing at the School

Long tall things

Dinner with the King

King Letsie III
Sunday September 23, 2007
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After a morning of walking in the local street markets, and team members daring each other to photograph the stern looking man guarding the supermarket while brandishing a rifle, we returned to the convention center. There we foraged for food among the near empty serving tables. We had missed the lunch and were reluctant to purchase and eat fruits sold in the markets. Cleanliness is an obvious concern.
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We helped ourselves to peas, mealie pap (corn meal) and pasta (our first in three weeks!). We ate in the auditorium and watched the presentation of the GSE South Carolina team.
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South Carolina, more specifically Will Moody of Columbia, did an outstanding job of showing the conference attendees photos of their trip thus far. We have been doing this on the club level. This type of show is extremely popular and we would heartily recommend this to future GSE teams. People like to hear and see their world from a fresh perspective. They also like to see themselves recognized for their efforts. The incoming club president in Viljoenskroon said she thought the photo show we presented would encourage more members to become involved in hosting and touring with future GSE teams.
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Sunday evening was a black tie affair. The Rotary District Governors Banquet was held at the Maseru Sun Hotel and Casino. Again, once indoors there is no sign of the third world country surrounding this oasis.
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We carried suits, tux and evening dresses and surprised each other on how well we cleaned up. The dinner was very formal with more flatware at each place setting than most Basothos probably had in their homes. A place was reserved for Teboho Dingane, a small thin Basotho man employed to photograph the event for the local Rotary Clubs. He was clearly out of place at such a table but Vicky and Annie Rose engaged him in conversation and we all led the way in choosing the appropriate utensil for each course. He graciously took my camera up to the king’s table and took a couple of photographs of His Majesty while we picked up his camera and took a couple surprise shots of Vicky!
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We sat with Hein Pretorious (of melodrama fame) of the Potch Mooi club and Hendrick Swanepoel (of how to wrestle and ostrich fame) of the Parys club. Both of these Rotarians are also serving as Assistant Governors. Hein generously kept the wine glasses full as we drank toast after toast, a tradition Emil intends to import to the 7:10 club. We drank to the His Majesty King Letsie III, to Rotary International, to District 9320, to the Family of Rotary, to Lesotho, and to South Africa!
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At the conclusion of the dinner three “Hip, hip, hoorays!” were shouted one each for the District Governor, Lionel Heath, one for the hosting clubs of Maseru and Maloti and one for the conference organizers. And what was this - a breach of protocol - no one is to address the audience after the king does. Oh, another example of colonial insensitivity. How embarassing!