- Isn't it?
- Don't you know?
- Well, that's what I think anyway.
- Don't you think so?
- Whatever.
- Well, that's just the way things are.
- Et cetera.
- Somebody tell me I'm wrong!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
South African-isms: Hey
Hey is a fairly versatile word in American English, but on the lips of a South African the word hey takes on transcendental qualities where it no longer is simply a word. It is the word. I have compiled a list of the meanings I have discovered hey to have in South African English. I am sure this is by no means an exhaustive list.
Mpumalanga Province
I traveled from Louis Trichardt in Limpopo Province to White River in Mpumalanga Province. Here are a few pictures I took while traveling through Mpumalanga.
A lot of the roads in South Africa are paved (or tarred as I've heard them say it), but many are not. After a hard rain, dirt roads tend to get pretty bad. I wish this picture was in 3D so you could see just how bad it was.
I'm beginning to think that Colonel Sanders is the President of South Africa. Seriously.
School's out!
Some Things You Won't Find on the Road in America
There are a few things on South African roads that stick out to an American (beyond driving on the left side of the road). Here are a few of them:
Passing within one lane.
Cardboard license plates.
Kudu crossing.
Elephant crossing.
Hippopotamus crossing.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Memories of My Grandmother
I attended a Venda-speaking church in Limpopo Province this past Sunday. They had a dual-language service, with translation into English or Venda (depending on the speaker), but the songs were completely in Venda. The song books they used simply had the lyrics to the songs with English translations under them. They were truly beautiful songs, and I gained an appreciation for the beauty of Venda that morning.
Sitting behind me a few rows back was one woman who belted out the songs as loudly as she could with great zeal and enthusiasm. I could not help but be comforted by that.
My Grandmother Faye would always sing loudly in church. When I say loud, I mean loud. I remember as child whenever we would visit my grandparents, I was always so embarrassed by my grandmother. You could always hear her. Sometimes she was louder than the whole rest of the congregation combined! On long notes, her voice would ebb and rise and grow louder still until you wondered whether she was still singing, or whether she had started screaming (or at least that was what I wondered back then).
Later, I had come to be more tolerant of my grandmother's exuberance. In fact, I came to not be embarrassed by it, but proud of it, inspired by it. She didn't have the same self-doubt I had. I'm always so self-conscious about what others may think of me, that I sometimes shy away from doing what I want to do. My grandmother sang her heart out.
Now that she's gone, that is one of the memories of her that still sticks in my mind more clearly than most all others.
As I listened to this Venda woman belting out songs in a completely foreign language on a continent on the other side of the world, I was brought back to memories of my Grandmother Faye. I couldn't help but smile, and sing along with the Venda as best I could manage (but still not so loud).
Sitting behind me a few rows back was one woman who belted out the songs as loudly as she could with great zeal and enthusiasm. I could not help but be comforted by that.
My Grandmother Faye would always sing loudly in church. When I say loud, I mean loud. I remember as child whenever we would visit my grandparents, I was always so embarrassed by my grandmother. You could always hear her. Sometimes she was louder than the whole rest of the congregation combined! On long notes, her voice would ebb and rise and grow louder still until you wondered whether she was still singing, or whether she had started screaming (or at least that was what I wondered back then).
Later, I had come to be more tolerant of my grandmother's exuberance. In fact, I came to not be embarrassed by it, but proud of it, inspired by it. She didn't have the same self-doubt I had. I'm always so self-conscious about what others may think of me, that I sometimes shy away from doing what I want to do. My grandmother sang her heart out.
Now that she's gone, that is one of the memories of her that still sticks in my mind more clearly than most all others.
As I listened to this Venda woman belting out songs in a completely foreign language on a continent on the other side of the world, I was brought back to memories of my Grandmother Faye. I couldn't help but smile, and sing along with the Venda as best I could manage (but still not so loud).
More Thoughts on South Africa
My week in Louis Trichardt was spent mostly in the company of several men from Zimbabwe (one from Mozambique, and another from this area of South Africa). I sat in on several discussions. Some of the most interesting were when debates started about the strength of various African currencies against others. It was almost refreshing not hearing anything said about Euros or US dollars (though dollars did briefly come up since they are being used in Zimbabwe).
It was also interesting to hear them complain about how young people were being negatively influenced by black American rappers. The one they mentioned more than any other was "Fifty Cents" as they said it in about the most annunciated fashion possible.
"This Fifty Cents, he's a bad influence," one said, "Why would he even have a name like that? Fifty Cents? Kids, they wear their pants down below their waist, and they are so baggy. Why are they baggy? And they wear their cap to the side, and act mean…"
On that note, not necessarily about morality, but the influence of American culture on South Africa can be seen almost everywhere. I have humorously alluded to it by noting that Colonel Sander's face is everywhere in South Africa. As an American, I always thought that McDonalds was everywhere, and I have seen ten KFCs for every one McDonalds I see in South Africa.
Especially in Jo'burg you see all sorts of advertisements for American TV shows and movies. I saw one billboard not far from the airport that was advertising a local South African News team, and there pictured in the middle (looking as if he was part of the news team) was President Barack Obama!
I don't listen to Alicia Keys even when I am in the States, but I have inadvertently heard her song Empire State of Mind about New York several times in the States. I have heard it more times in two weeks in South Africa than all the times I've heard it in the US. ( I've also heard the 1980's hit Africa by TOTO twice since I've been in South Africa as well.)
I don't know exactly what to think about all of this. Partially, I'm disappointed in a way, because I want to see more "South African" stuff. Partially, I'm surprised by just how much American culture permeates throughout the rest of the world. Partially, I'm humbled by the fact that I don't think we as Americans realize just how much our actions, just the things we choose to listen to and watch, affect everyone else.
Maybe part of that is good. Maybe part of that is not so good, as my Zimbabwean friends pointed out concerning "Fifty Cents."
It was also interesting to hear them complain about how young people were being negatively influenced by black American rappers. The one they mentioned more than any other was "Fifty Cents" as they said it in about the most annunciated fashion possible.
"This Fifty Cents, he's a bad influence," one said, "Why would he even have a name like that? Fifty Cents? Kids, they wear their pants down below their waist, and they are so baggy. Why are they baggy? And they wear their cap to the side, and act mean…"
On that note, not necessarily about morality, but the influence of American culture on South Africa can be seen almost everywhere. I have humorously alluded to it by noting that Colonel Sander's face is everywhere in South Africa. As an American, I always thought that McDonalds was everywhere, and I have seen ten KFCs for every one McDonalds I see in South Africa.
Especially in Jo'burg you see all sorts of advertisements for American TV shows and movies. I saw one billboard not far from the airport that was advertising a local South African News team, and there pictured in the middle (looking as if he was part of the news team) was President Barack Obama!
I don't listen to Alicia Keys even when I am in the States, but I have inadvertently heard her song Empire State of Mind about New York several times in the States. I have heard it more times in two weeks in South Africa than all the times I've heard it in the US. ( I've also heard the 1980's hit Africa by TOTO twice since I've been in South Africa as well.)
I don't know exactly what to think about all of this. Partially, I'm disappointed in a way, because I want to see more "South African" stuff. Partially, I'm surprised by just how much American culture permeates throughout the rest of the world. Partially, I'm humbled by the fact that I don't think we as Americans realize just how much our actions, just the things we choose to listen to and watch, affect everyone else.
Maybe part of that is good. Maybe part of that is not so good, as my Zimbabwean friends pointed out concerning "Fifty Cents."
South African-isms: Howzit
"Howzit" is short for "How is it?"
I have a habit of saying "howdy" when I greet people. It is not a terribly common greeting in the part of the country I'm from, so it's more of a personal quirk of mine. Even though "howdy" is short for "how do you do?" when said in America it is equivalent to "hello" or "hi."
The proper response to "howzit" in South Africa is "Fine, thanks" with a possible "and you?" added in at the end. When a South African hears me say "howdy" they respond as if I said "howzit" by saying, "Fine, thanks, and you?" This throws me off because I'm just expecting to hear a "hello" and now I have to tell them if I'm fine or not (which you always say you are even if you're not, but that's a different topic for a different post).
We may both be speaking English, but sometimes I wonder if we're speaking the same language.
I have a habit of saying "howdy" when I greet people. It is not a terribly common greeting in the part of the country I'm from, so it's more of a personal quirk of mine. Even though "howdy" is short for "how do you do?" when said in America it is equivalent to "hello" or "hi."
The proper response to "howzit" in South Africa is "Fine, thanks" with a possible "and you?" added in at the end. When a South African hears me say "howdy" they respond as if I said "howzit" by saying, "Fine, thanks, and you?" This throws me off because I'm just expecting to hear a "hello" and now I have to tell them if I'm fine or not (which you always say you are even if you're not, but that's a different topic for a different post).
We may both be speaking English, but sometimes I wonder if we're speaking the same language.
More Experiences on the Bus
I woke early on Monday morning to a dark house with no power (having been knocked out the afternoon before). I was taken to the main bus terminal in downtown Johannesburg, where I would take a bus to Louis Trichardt, Limpopo Province (not too far from the Zimbabwe border).
The bus was scheduled to leave Jo'burg at 9:00 am, and scheduled to arrive in Louis Trichardt at 2:00 pm.
We did not leave until about 9:30 am. I was ushered to a bus that I was told was mine, and the man loading luggage asked where I was heading. "Louis Trichardt," I say with some confidence that I was finally on my way.
The man looked at me as if I were speaking some unknown language (sometimes in South Africa I feel as if I am). He asked to look at my ticket and insisted I was supposed to be on another bus. I was in the right line. They inspected my ticket. This is a bus they directed me to. He was boarding other passengers with the same ticket as me. After standing there awkwardly like an American, and after he took another passenger's luggage, I insisted he load mine.
I sat next to a young man who had been standing behind me in line, and I tried to strike up a conversation with him. I figured if I could endear myself to another passenger who was heading in the same direction as I was, then I'd have less chance of being stranded somewhere where I wasn't supposed to be. I felt more and more comforted as other people in our queue filled the bus, but sitting on the other side of the bus was a man that I distinctly remember seeing from a different line. I tried to put that out of my head. Maybe he just looked very very similar, with the exact same luggage.
It was not long before we arrived in Pretoria, and stopped at the Pretoria station. I thought I was on my way. My ticket distinctly listed Pretoria as the first stop. I was on the right bus. A few passengers disembark, and then some concession guys selling drinks and snacks (and one guy trying to sell watches) enter, and I buy a Coca-Cola. The guy I was sitting next to says he's going to the loo, and so he leaves. He comes back a minute later asks me where I'm going, and says I need to get off… apparently I wasn't on the right bus, after all.
The scene outside was a madhouse. All of these passengers that had boarded in Jo'burg were now getting their luggage in Pretoria. I felt a little comforted that I wasn't the only one confused, but that the native South Africans were also confused, and some visibly angry. (Perhaps, because I wasn't expecting a smooth ride, I took this with a little more ease.) I got my luggage, and ended up talking with another South African. I never got his name (or I did, and forgot it), but he was planning on visiting the States in a year or two, and upon hearing my voice asked if I was an American and then asked me questions about America.
The stranded passengers were all pretty much together, and I found out from them that apparently we were scheduled to disembark at Pretoria and board another bus all along, but no one but the bus company knew. Our bus that was supposed to be waiting for us was still in the shop, being made roadworthy, and it was still going to be another thirty minutes before it would pick us up.
I've learned that African time is much slower than regular time. The seconds and minutes seem to stretch and last a bit longer in the Southern Hemisphere.
So, eventually, the bus comes, we all board, and more than an hour behind schedule, we are on the road again. Roadworthy must not mean the same thing it does in the US either, because this bus rocked back and forth to the point I felt seasick, and even at the slightest incline the bus slowed down to what seemed like 10 kilometers an hour. One of the passengers asked at one point, "Should we get out and push?"
I decided to sit by myself this time near the rear of the bus, and take pictures as we went along. These can be found in a previous post.
After a few hours we made a pit stop for a few minutes. I spent a while outside talking with the South African I talked with in Pretoria, when he noticed a huge screw lodged into the side of one of the bus's tires. I told him I would've preferred if he hadn't told me that was there. He showed the bus driver, and the bus driver shrugged. Nothing he could do about it until after he had finished his route.
Almost to punctuate his indifference, not more than twenty minutes on the highway again, we pass by a stalled bus and stranded passengers standing in the median.
But thankfully nothing worse than rocking back and forth and slow ascents travailed us.
A woman sitting directly in front of me at one point offered me a stick of gum, and I accepted. Upon hearing her voice, I asked if she was an American, and she was. Amber was the first American I had run into in my time in South Africa so far. She was from Washington State, and this was her second trip to South Africa. The first time she had been in Cape Town, but this time she was going to work with a small non-profit organization that worked with health education (mainly dealing with HIV/AIDS prevention for children) for nine months or so out near the Zimbabwe border.
We discussed our different experiences in South Africa, and eventually a couple native South Africans started talking with us, asking us about America, and the differences between here and there. I found it interesting that one of the South Africans asked if America was how it was always portrayed in cop films, with all the gun violence and gangs running around. It seemed odd to me that America seemed more unsafe to her than South Africa (after having seen all the extra security measures South Africans go through for peace of mind).
On the way, I saw a giraffe standing not far from the highway, but it passed by before I could get a picture of it (the bus not being on an incline at the time).
I finally reached Louis Trichardt at about 5:30 pm.
The bus was scheduled to leave Jo'burg at 9:00 am, and scheduled to arrive in Louis Trichardt at 2:00 pm.
We did not leave until about 9:30 am. I was ushered to a bus that I was told was mine, and the man loading luggage asked where I was heading. "Louis Trichardt," I say with some confidence that I was finally on my way.
The man looked at me as if I were speaking some unknown language (sometimes in South Africa I feel as if I am). He asked to look at my ticket and insisted I was supposed to be on another bus. I was in the right line. They inspected my ticket. This is a bus they directed me to. He was boarding other passengers with the same ticket as me. After standing there awkwardly like an American, and after he took another passenger's luggage, I insisted he load mine.
I sat next to a young man who had been standing behind me in line, and I tried to strike up a conversation with him. I figured if I could endear myself to another passenger who was heading in the same direction as I was, then I'd have less chance of being stranded somewhere where I wasn't supposed to be. I felt more and more comforted as other people in our queue filled the bus, but sitting on the other side of the bus was a man that I distinctly remember seeing from a different line. I tried to put that out of my head. Maybe he just looked very very similar, with the exact same luggage.
It was not long before we arrived in Pretoria, and stopped at the Pretoria station. I thought I was on my way. My ticket distinctly listed Pretoria as the first stop. I was on the right bus. A few passengers disembark, and then some concession guys selling drinks and snacks (and one guy trying to sell watches) enter, and I buy a Coca-Cola. The guy I was sitting next to says he's going to the loo, and so he leaves. He comes back a minute later asks me where I'm going, and says I need to get off… apparently I wasn't on the right bus, after all.
The scene outside was a madhouse. All of these passengers that had boarded in Jo'burg were now getting their luggage in Pretoria. I felt a little comforted that I wasn't the only one confused, but that the native South Africans were also confused, and some visibly angry. (Perhaps, because I wasn't expecting a smooth ride, I took this with a little more ease.) I got my luggage, and ended up talking with another South African. I never got his name (or I did, and forgot it), but he was planning on visiting the States in a year or two, and upon hearing my voice asked if I was an American and then asked me questions about America.
The stranded passengers were all pretty much together, and I found out from them that apparently we were scheduled to disembark at Pretoria and board another bus all along, but no one but the bus company knew. Our bus that was supposed to be waiting for us was still in the shop, being made roadworthy, and it was still going to be another thirty minutes before it would pick us up.
I've learned that African time is much slower than regular time. The seconds and minutes seem to stretch and last a bit longer in the Southern Hemisphere.
So, eventually, the bus comes, we all board, and more than an hour behind schedule, we are on the road again. Roadworthy must not mean the same thing it does in the US either, because this bus rocked back and forth to the point I felt seasick, and even at the slightest incline the bus slowed down to what seemed like 10 kilometers an hour. One of the passengers asked at one point, "Should we get out and push?"
I decided to sit by myself this time near the rear of the bus, and take pictures as we went along. These can be found in a previous post.
After a few hours we made a pit stop for a few minutes. I spent a while outside talking with the South African I talked with in Pretoria, when he noticed a huge screw lodged into the side of one of the bus's tires. I told him I would've preferred if he hadn't told me that was there. He showed the bus driver, and the bus driver shrugged. Nothing he could do about it until after he had finished his route.
Almost to punctuate his indifference, not more than twenty minutes on the highway again, we pass by a stalled bus and stranded passengers standing in the median.
But thankfully nothing worse than rocking back and forth and slow ascents travailed us.
A woman sitting directly in front of me at one point offered me a stick of gum, and I accepted. Upon hearing her voice, I asked if she was an American, and she was. Amber was the first American I had run into in my time in South Africa so far. She was from Washington State, and this was her second trip to South Africa. The first time she had been in Cape Town, but this time she was going to work with a small non-profit organization that worked with health education (mainly dealing with HIV/AIDS prevention for children) for nine months or so out near the Zimbabwe border.
We discussed our different experiences in South Africa, and eventually a couple native South Africans started talking with us, asking us about America, and the differences between here and there. I found it interesting that one of the South Africans asked if America was how it was always portrayed in cop films, with all the gun violence and gangs running around. It seemed odd to me that America seemed more unsafe to her than South Africa (after having seen all the extra security measures South Africans go through for peace of mind).
On the way, I saw a giraffe standing not far from the highway, but it passed by before I could get a picture of it (the bus not being on an incline at the time).
I finally reached Louis Trichardt at about 5:30 pm.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Bus from Johannesburg to Louis Trichardt
I took an all-day bus ride from Johannesburg to Louis Trichardt. I rode on a bus line called TransLux, and it was an interesting experience. We rode from Jo'burg to Pretoria, where those headed to Louis Trichardt had to disembark to another bus (however, they did not tell us that until we reached Pretoria). Then we had to wait in Pretoria for about thirty minutes or so while our bus was made "roadworthy" which must not mean the same thing it means in America, because whenever the bus hit even a minor incline, its speed dropped to about 10 kilometers an hour.
On the bus, I met several interesting people, including the first American I've seen since coming to South Africa. Amber was planning on staying in South Africa for about nine to ten months working in health education with a small organization that works out in Limpopo Province. Amber and I got into a discussion with a few native South Africans during the trip about the various differences between America and South Africa.
During the bus ride, I also got to see a giraffe standing not too far from the highway. Sadly, my camera was not fast enough to take a picture of it before I went out of sight.
These pictures are in the order they were taken during the trip. Click on any of them to enlarge.
On the bus, I met several interesting people, including the first American I've seen since coming to South Africa. Amber was planning on staying in South Africa for about nine to ten months working in health education with a small organization that works out in Limpopo Province. Amber and I got into a discussion with a few native South Africans during the trip about the various differences between America and South Africa.
During the bus ride, I also got to see a giraffe standing not too far from the highway. Sadly, my camera was not fast enough to take a picture of it before I went out of sight.
These pictures are in the order they were taken during the trip. Click on any of them to enlarge.
A soccer field lined with barbed wire in Pretoria.
As we entered Limpopo Province, for a moment I thought I was back in Kansas.
This is what most of the scenery looked like for a long while until we got to the mountains.
A mosque in Polokwane City.
The Colonel is following me wherever I go!
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