My search for Africa

"This is the real deal," I heard and I agreed. There I was watching a gay white sangoma dance with a black colleage and an apprentice while a village sung them on. I was in Bulungula. It had taken me some time to get there.

Since the Garden Route and its European vibe, I've tried to come in contact with what I perceive as real Africa. First, I headed for Addo Elephant park. I met Nils, a Dutch guy travelling alone. Together we rented a car and drove to the biggest elephant park in the world. 400 elephants roaming freely on an area bigger than many countries. For two hours we contented ourselves with wild pigs, deer-like animals, and colourful birds. But then we found them: elephants at a distance, we were happy with our fate. We drove on, spotting a few behinds, until we reached the end of a road. Turning back, we got caught in the middle of an elephant herd. Fifty giants crossed the road in front and behind us. A male first, proudly heading for me, veering at the last moment to my relief. And then the females and their cubs. Again and again, and everytime they crossed, they eyed my movements. Picture an animal twice as big as our car judging whether I am a danger to his herd. I was glad to pass the test. Since Nils had a great digital SLR, I am able to add a few pictures on this blog.

I parted ways with Nils at Umtata, capital of the Transkei, home of the Xhosa. Xh is a click sound. From Umtata I headed for Coffee Bay. If the journey to Coffee Bay felt like real Africa, the backpacker I stayed at ruined the impression. Wild parties with enforced drinking rules, I've left these days behind. I was caught in an immature party until I left for Bulungula. I took advantage and learned surfing, standing up many times on the white water, and once on a small wave. I was stoked.

I've mentioned real Africa (and what is real, you will ask) but have not described the Transkei. The Transkei was an independent republic during apartheid in which many Xhosa were forced to live. The republic was only independent in name. Because it was independent the apartheid government was able to ignore its infrastructure and educational needs. As a result of this, 12 years post apartheid, the Transkei is still wild, and the ways of the Xhosa are preserved.The land is a series of rolling hills dotted with colourful rondavels. The dots, homes of the Xhosa, are rarely clustered. Instead, they grace individual hilltops. Their green and pink colours make them stand out across the landscape. The resulting picture is beautiful. Since my pictures are on film, I can only tell you to google Transkei and see the result. But fear not, as soon as I've developed my film, I'll proudly display them to anyone and everyone.

In Coffee Bay, I felt enclosed in an immature party, I've mentioned. The cultural attempts of the coffee Shack, my backpacker, were even more pitiful. We were taken to a headman dinner. There, a menu was rolled out, and a drunken staff member of the Coffee Shack directed the proceedings. First the girls dance, nubile and topless, for the pleasure of the males in the room. Then the boys take over, food is served, q&a time, and more dancing. I am not a fan of shows, and I found this event distasteful. Still I was happy to have come in contact with some of the Xhosa culture. I didn't expect Bulungula.

Through Gill's sister, I'd heard of Bulungula and decided to check it out. After a short shuttle from Coffee Bay, I waited about an hour in a roadside restaurant where no one spoke English, and kids eyed the whitie. Soon a landrover picked me up, Dave, the owner of the place, at the helm. The car was not overkill. The road we went down are so bad that cops don't go into the village. But the roads are worth it: the lodge is magnificent. Still a beautiful lodge is not enough in South Africa. What makes the place special are two things: the community owns 40% of the lodge and uses it as a place to socialise, and the owners take an active part in improving the community whilst preserving their culture. When I was there, three nursery specialists were looking for a site to create a local nursery, hence creating employment and improving nutrition.
One of these specialist was a white Sangoma. A white Zimabwean of wealthy descent, he left everything behind to answer the call of the dreams and become a Sangoma. He claimed to feel the ills in a room. I am not sure I believe him: he told me which girls had their period but I didn't feel comfortable enough to ask them. And when I asked him whether anything was wrong with me, he said no. In fact, I had a sore throat. But perhaps his mind was confused by his gayness. "I am not attracted to gay men," he told me, puffing on his joint. "How do you do it then?" I asked foolishly. "I seduce straight men," he answered looking at me. I was torn between getting away as fast as possible and learning more about Sangomas, and the Xhosa culture he has embraced. Luckily, that was the extent of his flirting and I was able to talk about other things.

The next night, the local sangoma decided to hold a dance in his honour. She decided to use the lodge for the dance, not because she wanted to entertain the few white guests, but because the lodge is the best place to socialise in the village. The ceremony started by thanking the ancestors, and then sacrificing a chicken to their spirit. A trainee sangoma lead the chants, and the crowd responded, clapping to the drum beat. The sangomas danced themselves into trance for the best part of an hour. The scene was magical, incredibly foreign, and not meant to entertain ME, the white visitor. It was for the community and I appreciated it better for it.
Tomorrow I leave for Mauritius and then Madagascar. I am still not sure what to expect.

This is the site of the lodge: http://www.bulungula.com/It doesn't do the place justice.