Arriving in Kanye
I arrived in Kanye, Botswana, in August 1971. I should say I first set foot in Kanye in August 1971, because it took a while longer to really arrive, to begin to get a sense of the place CUSO had sent me. My ears had to get used to a symphony of new sounds: the rumble of men speaking Setswana, the shrill of women ululating, the rhythmic thunk-thunk of girls pounding grain, the drumming and singing of a prayer meeting in a nearby kgotla, roosters crowing, donkeys braying like rusty winches. There were new smells, too: wood smoke and dung. My eyes needed time to adjust. At first, everything seemed covered in a monochromatic film. The earth, the houses were a dusty reddish-brown. The thorn trees and other sparse vegetation were a dull greyish-green. But over time, colours began to emerge. A miracle of tiny flowers burst out of the dirt after the first rain. Glorious Kalahari sunsets painted the western sky. I began to learn the respectful ways of the Batswana, the greetings, the handshakes, the gestures. To allow an hour for a 20-minute walk to the village store, so I could stop and talk with people I met along the way (not a difficult adjustment for a chatty Maritimer such as myself). By the time I was able to cook on a wood stove, make my own yogurt, trim the wick on a kerosene lamp, and sew on a hand-operated Singer, I felt I had pretty much arrived. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Dikgafela in Kanye, 1972 From my house on the school compound, I heard voices singing and ululating. Ever curious, I ran out and saw a procession of women wearing blanket shawls and carrying clay pots on their heads, making their way along the road. As I followed them through the village and up the hill, they sang a catchy refrain over and over, and soon I began singing along, creating my own version of the words. I was pretty sure I got the metsi a pula (rainwater) part right, but more or less invented the rest. By the time we reached the open area in front of the Chief’s kgotla, where other villagers were gathering, the tune had become an earworm that remains with me until today. It turned out that the clay pots contained bojalwa, a sorghum beer the women had brewed as their part in dikgafela. In this traditional harvest festival, the Bangwaketse give thanks for a good harvest, store a communal supply of sorghum against famine, and “call” rains for the new agricultural season. The singing of rain songs continued, both men and women were drinking beer, and then there would be dancing. I moved around in the crowd observing everything, but my stay at the celebration was cut short. People (mostly men, if I recall correctly) came up to me and hit me on the thighs and buttocks with switches, while exclaiming Pula! . Ouch! That hurt. How was I supposed to react? I could accept that the swatting was a local custom, but that didn’t mean I wanted to stand around and take it. I wondered if dikgafela was one of those times when the tables could be turned (like Carnival in Cologne, Germany), when people that you'd normally give respect to can be playfully brought down a peg. I made a rather hurried exit. Much later, I learned that the switches were branches of the sacred Moologa tree, used to appeal to the heavens for rain. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Test I met this great guy at a village dance – a Motswana who had studied in Canada. The fact that he’d experienced life in my country created a cultural bridge between us. He seemed very modern in his outlook. Detribalized was the word he used. Sometimes he’d drop by my house on his way home from work, to drink tea and chat, or to play chess with one of the students who lived with me. One evening I asked him to stay for supper. I can’t remember what I’d cooked on the wood-burning stove, which I’d pretty much mastered by then. But I set out the food, called people to the table, and invited everyone to dig in. A few bites into my meal I looked to my left and noticed that he hadn’t started eating yet. – “Can I pass you anything?” I asked. – “Please pass me the beets.” – “Here you go,” I said and resumed eating. But still he didn’t tuck in. – “Is something the matter?” I (innocently) inquired. – “The beets aren’t peeled.” – “Oh,” says I (totally clueless), “that’s why I put the knife in the bowl. The beets took longer to cook than I planned and I didn’t want everything else to get cold.” Still he didn’t move. – “Peeling beets is women’s work,” stated the modern man. (Do you think I twigged even then?) – “It’s not that hard,” I encouraged. “Give it a try.” And so he picked up the paring knife and had a go at the beets. Did I mention he’d just come from the office? Wearing his clean white long-sleeved shirt? He peeled those beets to within an inch of their lives, splattering reddish-purple stains up and down the sleeves of his white shirt. A white shirt, I might add, that he didn’t have to launder himself. “The girl” did that. I finally started to get it. The beets had been a test. And I had failed it, failed it before I even realized I was being tested. Sadly, there were no more after-work visits.
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April 2021
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