A Celebration on the Homestead

     There are 3 elderly people on the homestead, in addition to ourselves: a Grandmother (“Gogo,” aged 82), who is actually the widow of our Babe's deceased brother; the father (“Babe”) on our homestead, a vigorous 72-year-old; and his wife, the Make (“mother” 63). Both Gogo and Make have diabetes and limited eyesight, and walk with difficulty. In January and February Make had become very frail and was taken for numerous visits to doctors, clinics and hospitals. And perhaps to a traditional healer, or 2, as well. At one point in early February, when she could not longer walk or even leave her bed, church friends of theirs arrived around 8 PM one Saturday night and prayed, preached and sang through much of the night. In later February her health turned around, and a “party” was set for last Saturday, August 16 to celebrate and give thanks. We were just back from our Durban school trip.

     Even before we left for Durban changes started to occur on the homestead: a tool shed was enclosed in cinder-block and turned into 2 rooms, another small house that had sat open since before we arrived was enclosed.

     When we arrived back from our 4-day trip to Durban on Thursday night there were many more people on the homestead, and much work more work had been done. All the buildings on the homestead, including our own little 2-room hut, had been repainted. Maybe an additional 10 people slept at the homestead Thursday night, and by Friday night another 30 had probably arrived; I have no idea where they all stayed.

Thursday afternoon a cow was slaughtered and taken to the butcher, but the head was preserved, and Friday afternoon the head was slowly cooked over a fire in an enclosure built specially for the occasion. Only the men entered the enclosure, and only the men cooked the head.

That is our Babe, seated on the right. Only the men eat the head – that's where the brains are.

     We offered to help, and pitched in several times on Friday, but there were many hands, nearly all more skilled than ours. So we rode off to the Public Library 2 miles away where there is internet to get back into communication with our world, do some shopping, and re-supply some free condom distribution points, notably the local bar. When we returned at 5 a rented tent about 20 yards by 15 yards had been erected. We visited with the many new arrivals, many of whom we had first met when we went to a family wedding of Gogo's daughter in Barberton SA way back in September, 2013, right after we first arrived at our “permanent” site.

We had settled in our hut for a dinner of some fried hot dogs and baked potatoes when our Babe knocked at the door with some choice pieces, especially for Mark, it seemed. I tried. I ate several pieces. I ate tree snails in Ecuador and I always sample the home-brew when offered; I thought, “I can do this.”

But there was just too much, even with copious libations of cheap kind-of-raw SA dry red wine. And it was brought over with such care, and there was so little privacy (the hordes of kids follow you to the latrine), so there were lots of reasons not to waste it. I took it outside, got one of the kids whom I knew was bi-lingual to explain to Babe how grateful we were, and returned maybe ½ of it to him. Damn little kid only said something like: “He doesn't like it much.” Babe chuckled – he does that a lot in our encounters - then gave it to the throng of kids, and it was gone in a flash. I had thought it was brains – kind of tasted the way they should, you know? But when I asked, the child gestured to his tummy. Hmmmm.  Perhaps those among our readers with a background in surgery can help with a proper identification.

     One animated little girl, maybe age 9, seized my wrist enthusiastically and dragged me around back of our hut where we have a (mostly) enclosed shower area and stepped inside saying “I can see you” showing how she could peer around the curtains partially covering the window of our hut opening into our outside shower.

     Around 9PM singing, then preaching, then simultaneous “testimony” or preaching, or spoken praise, started in the tent outside our hut. That lasted less than an hour, and then the children and many of the adults went to sleep, although I heard talking in the cook-sheds after 1. Saturday morning people started stirring around 4, and by 6 the homestead was in full swing with party preparations. The men spent the whole morning braiing (grilling) beef parts, some men never coming into the tent. The women prepared the rice, potato salad, beets and, most of all the lipalishi (like grits – a big staple here) and frying chicken.

The service was due to start at 9, and was mostly under way by around 11. Hymns, Old Testament readings, sermons, and speeches by Babe and family friends. Swazis speak without notes, but with pace and, when they want it, humor and wit, I think, judging by the reaction. (I understand little, at best.) This is our Babe, again, in the center in the dark suit, with Make next to him, and surrounded by his friends from the county government; he's related to the Chief (chief executive of the county, appointed by the King, but then hereditary, it seems) and fairly influential.

Effusive praise and thanks were given to God; if there was any mention of medical professionals or of a government health care system, I missed it. By around 2 the praise wound down and people lined up for the “refreshments.”

The crowd continued to grow, reaching around 250 when the meal was served.

     Friends lingered after eating. People we knew from the High School were there. The crowd quickly thinned but many stayed as dark fell.

     We leave at the end of this week for our 2 week trip to Victoria Falls and then Botswana. We'll take a khumbi on Friday to JoBurg (when we flew back to the US in January for the services for Katherine's Dad we took a private van, which is twice as expensive and wastes a lot of time because it only goes twice a day), fly to Vic where we'll celebrate our 40^th wedding anniversary (how did that happen? Better as time goes by.) then 3 nights of camping in Chobe Park across the Zambezi River in Botswana I'm told critters routinely wander through the campsites, especially at night, which would, as a pink sheets prospectus would say, bespeak caution. Then a private chartered plane into a remote camp in the Okavanga Delta for 2 nights, ending with 3 nights in Maun, on the edge of the Okavanga Delta, at a backpackers many PCVs have enjoyed, described as “the bar at the end of the world.” Then back to start the 3^rd school term.