Who needs text when there are adorable animals to fawn over? Bring on the penguins!
On bravery
October 22, 2010I didn’t feel very brave when we encountered two puff adders flinging themselves across the hiking trail in TsiTsikamma. The deadly snakes were either in the throes of passion or the throes of violence — or perhaps a sadistic combination of the two.
Deborah walked right up to them, mere inches away, where snake venom could easily meet toe.
I was too nervous for that. As much as I wanted to get closer to the action, I couldn’t seem to make my feet go. So I stood back, relying on my camera’s zoom function to snag a few photos.
I did not feel very brave then. And because I endlessly compare myself with others, I wondered what was wrong with me. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I spit in danger’s face? Why was I such a wuss?
I thought about this for a long time, long after we made a wide path around the sexing snakes and walked away.
I’ve decided that courage wears different faces. Even though I can toss my worries away long enough to skydive, I don’t necessarily have the same kind of courage it takes to get within inches of unpredictable reptiles.
I also think this trip takes a lot of courage. Sometimes simply asking directions of a stranger, trusting them to send me in the right direction, can be an act of bravery. Sometimes it means walking into a laundromat, a post office or a grocery store when you don’t speak the language. Sometimes just venturing out of my hostel feels like the most brave thing in the world.
And that’s OK.
Having a (dead) whale of a time
October 20, 2010Our first morning in Bulungula was the start of The Very Bad Smell.
It was a briny and acrid scent, kind of like fish and garbage and feces, all tinged with the sourness of death.
A man from the village explained simply, “Dead whale.” He said it with a shrug, as if it happened all the time.
“Oh, of course,” I said. I shrugged in return and nodded, as if I should have known better.
The mammal had washed on the beach about three weeks before that, but it had taken some time for the decay and bacteria to form an horrible stew.
The villagers pillaged this gift from the sea, sawing off layers of fat, meat, bone. The rest of the carcass remained next to the surf, all rotting blubber and organs, bleached by the sun, washed by the waves, slowly returning to the ocean — a massive beast turned smudge on the shore.
The Very Bad Smell wriggled its way into our huts when the wind blew a certain direction, which, thankfully was not often. When it did, I only shrugged, as if being downwind from a gutted whale corpse was just a typical part of my life.
Letter to my husband
October 20, 2010Dear Husband,
Remember what you told me before I began this round-the-world journey? You said, “If you find someplace that pulls at your heart, please consult me before you decide to stay.” You said, “Don’t just stop somewhere without discussing it with me first.”
I said, “Of course. I would never dream of doing such a thing without talking to you.” I said, “I promise.”
Well, I have never been so close to breaking a promise to you.
Bulungula is a place of staggering beauty, almost painful in its perfection. Each day when I wake and look out the door of my thatched-roof hut, I can barely soak it all in. It is magnificent.
The ocean is the kind of rich teal that almost never exists in nature. The pale sand eventually gives way to smooth, black rocks. The hills are dotted with pastel-colored huts, like toppings on cupcakes.
I’m not saying life here is easy. The women still have to fetch water from the river, haul sticks from the forest to make fire, grow their own produce in sometimes-uncooperative soil.
The men usually travel to Johannesburg to labor in the mines, which is hot, dangerous work. They are often away from their families for six months at a time.
That said, there are advantages to rural village life.
The people are kind, with quick, generous smiles. The culture of begging that exists in other places isn’t an issue here. The villagers work hard and have a lot of dignity, and when it comes time to play, they gulp down homemade corn beer and dance under the stars.
The kids are kids, content to run and play and feel the seaspray on their shoulders. Their soccer field has tilted goalposts and no lines, but it works. The children’s laughter can be heard rolling over the hillsides.
Everything is put to use here, a place where reduce, resuse, recycle was the norm long before green was chic. Inside the traditional healer’s hut, for instance, an old toothbrush has been affixed to the wall, the bristles now used as a hook to hang baskets. Plastic soda bottles, tossed on the side of the main road, are now lampshades. Food scraps are composted.
There’s no jail or police force. Disputes are settled by the head man, who tends to nap in a field and smoke a pipe all day long, grumbling about the rough life of a head man.
And, of course, there’s that lovely backdrop — scenery that stuns the eyes, holds the heart and inspires you to leave your own home behind.
Yes, I could live here.
I’d love you to join me. Find me at the pink hut where the river meets the ocean.
Love,
Maggie
P.S. According to village customs, you still owe my dad 10 cows in exchange for marrying me.