It is raining in Cape Town today so I will stay in, read and Blog about yesterday.
When Bob got home from work last night, we walked down to the waterfront and dinned on rabbit (for Bob) and Cape Salmon for me (which is not salmon at all, but a nice mild white fish). Down at the tip of the Cape of Good Hope, the Atlantic and the Indian Ocean come together. As you might imagine, the seafood here is abundant. They have varieties I have never heard of such as kingklip, kabaljous, angelfish (that you can eat) and several others that I can't even remember now.
The jet lag finally caught up with me. I was so tired when we returned from dinner that I couldn't even Blog. Now for me, that's tired. My intentions were good but as soon as I saw that comfy bed with those crisp, white sheets, I was a goner. So let's begin with yesterdays adventure (Tuesday, August 17, 2010) . I was still lagging a bit, even in the morning, so I decided to take it easy and just go to the Two Oceans Aquarium.
I have been to many Aquariums in our country and since I love to scuba dive I thought it would be fun to see the aquatic life here.
There were some I had not seen before and some I could never tire of seeing ( like Devil Fish)
They had a pretty tank of anemones
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| This is strawberry anemone |
While photographing the seahorses, a group of five school girls approached me. I would guess by looking at them they were freshman or sophomores in High School but their adorable innocence made them seem about twelve by American standards. The first one watched me photographing the seahorses and said, "Now what are you going to do with those pictures?" I asked her if she knew what a blog was and she said she did. I explained that I was traveling and used the blog to journal my visit. They were all beautiful girls with high foreheads, flawless skin, large brown eyes, chiseled cheeks and smiles that could melt a glacier. They were so chatty (as girls of that age can be) and they wanted to know all about where I was from and why I was here. They were here with a school group accompanied by their teacher and they came from Limpopo. I don't know about the rest of you but I don't remember that one from my geography book. For that matter, I don't remember any of these names:Mpumalanga,Lesotho,Mbabane and the list goes on. (I know they changed them all a long time ago but can I buy a vowel? Geeeshhh)
Anyway, these precious girls were surrounding me by this time and I told them how beautiful I thought they all were. I said,"You all look like Princesses". That sent them into torrents of laughter and the most vocal of the group began introducing them. "We are all princesses and this is Princess Dianna, and this is Princess Margaret", and so on and so forth. They all got a great laugh out of this and then she said with dignity, "We are beautiful because we are black and black is beautiful and we are proud to be black!" I agreed with them and affirmed that they could be proud of themselves for so many reasons. The speaker of the group asked if she could take a picture with me and I quickly agreed. She wrapped her arms around me like I was a long lost relative and smiled her best smile for our picture. The she asked me if she could touch my hair. Hmmm. "Sure", I said, "if you want." Well, that set off a flurry of activity as they all started touching and stroking and feeling my hair. (thank goodness I had just washed it!) "Oh it so soft, it is so nice, ahhhh, feel it, I can' t believe it". The accent of the people here (and they speak perfect English) is a mix that is hard to describe. Sort of like they speak in the Bahamas but more formal like the Britt's with the smallest bit of Jamaican. One, after another, had their turn touching my hair. The little leader buried her head in my neck and started exclaiming, "Oh your smell, it is making me crazy" and I thought,"boy that shower didn't last long". I said, "What? Is it bad"? And she laughed again and said, "Oh no, it is wonderful. You smell like a woman made of flowers. You are the first white woman I have ever touched or smelled". OK, now that set me back. "Well, smell away if you like". They again surrounded me like a big group hug and all buried their beautiful heads into my neck and chest and hair and began sniffing. I thought I was back in customs at the airport with the little Beagle! Soon the group leader exclaimed, "I can't believe it, it makes me crazy" and ran off with the others in hot pursuit. For awhile, I was stunned and just stood there. Me and the seahorses. When I came back to my senses, I regretted only that I didn't ask to photograph them. I frantically searched the entire Aquarium looking for the group but they had gone. Just that quick. My heart was warm and I was thankful for the encounter.
While I am here, I am determined to get ( aside from a Caftan) some African Art so I cruised over to the African Arts and Crafts building and saw some great stuff.
Monique
Monique sat quietly in her make shift lawn chair in her designated area of the craft market. Like most African women, she was dressed modestly, wore platted hair and had beautiful eyes. Her booth was wall to wall paintings of African Tribal Life and they were colorful and exciting. I started to ask questions about the art and how I could get it home and "Bazinga" out poured the story of her life. She has seven children and her husband died two years ago. Just reciting that sentence caused her eyes to fill with tears. Since Aids is rampant here and she was fairly young (maybe 50's) I dared not ask how he died. She said he was an artist but all the paintings were done by two of her children. A boy and a girl. The only two of the seven to inherit her husbands talent. They both began painting early, at about seven or eight but were now in early adulthood and were accomplished painters on their own. She got up every morning before dawn and loaded all of this stuff into baskets. She then rode the bus to the market and set it all up. It was the only means of support she had and she worked seven days a week. She talked about her family and her life in her village and again, much to my surprise was warm and loving and hopeful. I am still struck by how these women endure hardship on a daily basis and still find joy and happiness in everyday. Here is her picture and a look at the art work her kids do.
Ilunda
Since I really wanted a tribal mask, I headed to the rear of the market where I met Ilunda. She is a 60 yr. old woman with a quiet demeanor and a determined spirit. You look at her and think "Momma". She answered my questions about the masks and seemed more reluctant to share more than a business conversation until I asked her how old she was. "Why do you want to know?", she asked. "I am old!"
I told her that she did not look old to me and that I thought she had beauty. That was that. Here is her story.
She is from the Congo. She has 13 children and her husband is still living. Only two of her boys remain at home. One has a job and the other is a student. They both help at home by cleaning, cooking and doing the laundry. She said up until two years ago she had a young girl who could help in the market but now with most of the world in a recession (and she said it just like that) there is not as much business. People hold on to their money and don't buy as many luxury items, such as Zulu masks. So now, like Monique, she works seven days a week. I immediately wanted to know all about the Congo and life there. My perception is based on what I have read but like so many things it is a matter of perspective.
In her village, they are very poor but they are a village. They help each other and work together for a common good. They look out for each other and like any society they are divided into the honest, hard working people and the desperate who steal to get by.
One day, a neighbor phoned her ( I was surprised she had a phone) and said, "Ilunda, look in the back yard, there are men in your yard". She immediately woke her sons but just in time to see them going over the fence. She said her son had done the laundry and it was hanging on the line. These boys had taken every thing off of the line and it was gone. She said this was a terrible hardship because the clothes are so expensive and they have so few things each. She woke her husband and the two of them set off to the police station. On the way, she stopped at a shop where she knew the shop keeper and told him what happened. While they were talking, the boys appeared outside the shop. Ilunda told him that they were the boys who had stolen her clothes. He said he knew those boys and that they frequented his business often. He called them to come into the shop. They would not come in. One stayed in the street and the other stood in the door. She said one of them still had the large bag slung over his shoulder and it was dripping wet on the bottom. The shop keeper demanded that they open the bag. They refused. Just at that time, a large group of boys from the Congo were coming down the street and inquired, "Momma, what's going on?" So she told them and they surrounded these two boys and they insisted they open the bag. The shopkeeper told them if it wasn't her stuff they could just go on. It didn't help any that one of the boys was wearing a pair of her sons pants! They opened the bag and it was full of her clothes and what she was assuming were clothes from others because most of it was wet like it was just taken off the line. She got back all her stuff and even made the kid wearing her sons pants give them up right then and there. She said he begged her to let him go find some other pants but she yanked them right off of him. Good for you, Ilunda! The boys were carted off to the police station and arrested.
Now, that was early on a Friday morning. Good ending, right? Not so much. The next morning, early, about 7 AM, Ilunda is hoofing it to the train station when she hears a voice say, "Good morning Momma" ( I'm guessing in a village any older woman is called Momma) and she turns to see the two boys loitering in the street. She said she knew they only said good morning to let her know that they were out of jail and to intimidate her. She said she was so scared that she was shaking inside but she knew it best to not show her fear. I looked them straight in the eye and said, "Good morning" and kept walking to the station. When she returned home that evening she asked her husband to accompany her back to the Police station to voice her complaint. She was hopping mad. "I went to everyone there, to all the high ups and told them all they were no good!" "You steal the governments money, you are useless to protect us if you let them out in less than one day." I inquired about why they were let out so quickly and like Suzzane's story, she assumes they are paying off the Police. It is a poor system of justice and the people are at its mercy.
Here is Ilunda.
To all my dear friends and family: Ek is lief vir jou
( I love you in Afrikaans)
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