True Stories

“Hey Mama!” I hear that a lot. Or its “Mami” or “Rasta” or even “Lungu” (meaning white person). I’ve started telling the guys whom I see daily that my name is Rasta UmLungu, so that’s become common as well. Yesterday I was walking through an area of town I don’t frequent as often and I heard a woman shout from a 2nd story, “Hey white one! How are you?” I responded, “Good! How are you, Lumthomyama?” (which means black person in Zulu).

Robin and I just got back from spending the day with a 75 or so year old British South African woman. Her name is Winn and she has been involved with TLF since its birth. She’s an amazing woman who has chosen to live and shop and be in the city even though most white people have fled to the suburbs due to the influx of black people into the city center. She picked us up from our flat and took us to the “old age home” where she lives. We had a nice lunch there in the dining area and then she took us on a tour of the city. She showed us all the best places to see the glorious flowering jacaranda trees and bought us “cold drinks” (in this case, ginger beer) at a tea house over looking a lake and bird sanctuary. Then she drove us to the Union Buildings where President Zuma works, and where Nelson Mandela once held office. Afterwards we went back to her place for a swim and then she brought us home. A beautiful day! It was great to spend time with an older person, especially as most of our house mates and friends are younger than us. It was really cool to talk with her about the transitions since democracy began here and other things like dreads, tattoos and aging. Next time we hang out we’re gonna join her and a friend for bingo night.

A couple weeks ago Robin, a volunteer and her newly acquired “coloured” boyfriend and myself went with our friend Ngwako (some of you may remember a story about him from my first weeks here) to see his African Jazz Mood band play at a bar called The Taliban in one of the “locations” (or “townships”). We arrived early so Ngwako could get set up. He bought Robin and I Amarulas, a baileys-like African liqour (delicious!). He also introduced us to the owner, of whom we asked about the bar’s name. He told us that they were building the place as they watched news about Sept 11th on the TV and one of his friends said that the place they were building looked like the Taliban and the name just stuck. You may be wondering how a bar could look like a group of Muslim extremists.... So am I.

The show was amazing. I’ll try to post one of the videos on the blog. Pretoria was once known as a city of jazz and there are still some places where you can find that legacy. Ngwako is actually a fairly well renowned performer, having had a record produced by the nationally (and internationally?) celebrated Hugh Masekela. We also had a good time hanging out with his band mates.

After the show we all piled back into Ngwako’s little car with one extra person, Ngwako’s guitarist. I was sitting on laps in the back seat when we got pulled over. We all started joking nervously about what the cops must be thinking of three white girls crammed into a car with three black men. We squeezed out of the car and were told there had been a car jacking, so they were just checking. Once they saw Ngwako’s license and registration (and I’m sure were assured that the three of us hadn’t been drugged or kidnapped), we were free to go. Luckily there aren’t seat belt laws here, at least not enforced.