"Enkosi" means thank you

[Note to friends/family: for some reason the dates on my pictures have been corrupted (and have jumped ahead by a month). I'm trying to sort it out, but for now please check out the April entries!]

After a quick stop for paraffin and a rotisserie chicken in King Williamstown, we arrived at Bongani's place fairly late last night, took a tour by lamplight, and turned in. His village is about 20 km past "King," part of a vast, hilly area that is much more green and lush than most of the Western Cape. Although a rising number of people our townships were born outside of Cape Town, the majority are originally from rural areas like this in the Eastern Cape, and still call this place home. And they are rural - we put that little Ford through hell to get to Bong's place, first climbing a steep red clay path loaded with stones, then a field with grass as high as the door handles. I almost had a heart attack when his aunt's dog charged the car, anxious as I was from clutch-riding a 1.4L Ikon through a deadly hayfield in the dark.

We were pleasantly surprised to find that although his lot has two traditional mud/grass structures, the main house is of modern village/township construction, and though it has no electricity or plumbing, has beds, which was a huge relief. Because it's the place of traditional ceremonies, family and ancestors, many people put a large proportion of what little money they have into their houses in the Eastern Cape. Even the more primitive structures are beautiful and ornately furnished compared to the scrap-metal shacks most common in Philippi and Khayaletsha, but many remain empty because entire families have moved to the Western Cape in search of work and better schools, and they can only afford to come back once a year, at Christmas time (or, for boys, when they go through their manhood ritual).

[For outsiders, I apologize for making this post obnoxiously long - it was an important week]

We woke up just after the sun and stepped outside to find a massive bull standing in the doorway to "the old house," an ancient mud and grass house in which the previous generation of Bong's family lived, but has caved in now. He spooked and ran off into the woods, but not before I got right up to his face for a photo, and fed him an apple. Cows in the village are allowed to roam as the please, and we became very close with a dozen or so who stayed with us most of the week. Just as in the townships back in Cape Town, the cows are so sacred that no one will steal them, though sometimes the boys have to go out and round them up.

We had to fetch water using 20L jugs from Bongani's kitchen. He took us to this communal watering hole, and the woman holding the pink bucket insisted on filling the jugs for us. Then the woman with the baby - I love the way the women carry their babies like that - brought that pink bucket up the hill on her head, full of water, with the baby on her back, while Bongs and I huffed and puffed ours up to the trunk of the car and drove the rest of the way back to the house.