I just got totally busted for having a messy room and dirty sneakers. The messy room I can almost see…sort of (and its not even near a mess for those of you who have seen my place in the States!). But really, sneakers? Its been raining like it’s the end of the world here for the past few days, and I walk to my school in the morning. Of course my shoes were a little dirty! So I had two pairs of shoes and half my clothes taken away from me, apparently on the theory that I am too American/white/incompetent to wash my own clothes.
But other than the fact that I’m an utter slob, things are still going well here. It’s the rainy season now, though its also summer. This means that its ridiculously hot, but we also get a solid dose of humidity thrown in now. It gets hot, hot, hot. The air pushes down on you, the sun tries to suck every drop of moisture out of you that it can find, and all you can do is lie down and sweat and wait for it to be over. You start thinking, “oh god, why can’t it just rain?” and then it will get so heavy, so oppressive, that eventually it seems like even the sky itself can’t stand it. The air around you begins to curdle, to twist in on itself, pushing you even harder, becoming so viscous you can nearly hold it in your hand and then its all just been stretched too far, twisted too hard, and it all explodes in on itself in some of the most mind-blowing thunder storms that you’ve ever seeen. Houses shake with every boom, the sky looks like its being torn apart with every bolt. It quite literally sounds like the voice of God, and to see a summer squall out here is to understand where that phrase came from. I love it. Even if it does make my sneakers dirty. After all, my name here is Nomvula, which in fact means “rain.”
My name is actually something of a mystery, but one that I’m enjoying teasing apart. We all got new, South African, generally Zulu, names within a week of arriving here. Our host families during training renamed us, and while most people got names like Sihle, Zinhle, Lerato, Sibusisu (pretty, beautiful, love, blessing, etc…), even Shaka. I got Nomvula. Which honestly miffed me a little at first. I mean, sure it was raining the day before we met our families but come on…how about a little creativity? Now I love it, I think its beautiful. And I can now officially claim that bad 80s song about the rain in Africa, I’ve decided its about me. (I’ve actually heard it on the radio a few times out here, it cracks me up every time). But every now and again as I chat with people they’ll translate my name not just as “rain” but as “she who brings the rain” or occasionally “mother of rain” or even “the mother of rain.” There are also Rain Queens in the Limpopo province. The rural parts of South Africa are on the whole very Christian (give or take the occasional muti-killing or resident sangoma) so it’s actually a little trickier than you would expect to pursue vague, possibly pre-Christian local beliefs. Nobody really seems to know exactly who this Nomvula person is or was, if it even is one particular personality and not just an honorific. (You should see the looks that I get when I ask who Nomvula is. “Its you, dummy!” Its sort of the same expression as when I mention riding a bike, driving a bus, or eating salad.) Or maybe they just won’t tell me about it.
Also, I think my wallet was stolen. From my room. Fucking lame.
4 comments:
Hey hey! Good to hear you're doing good and well and all that jazz in South Africa. It's like we're neighbors! ...but you know with a really large channel as a fence... no biggie. You should totally come out and kick it, and i'll definately be trying to do the same, even though it might not happen till the end of service here. doh! Keep the blog up! late! -Joe
ps: got a project i'm working on here i think yall in ZA might be interested in, i'll send it over to ya. ;)
NGOMA - THE STORY OF NOMVULA AND HER SACRED DRUM
(It's like you were born for this)
Mantaba, goddess of the rain, lived on top of the highest mountain from which all the rivers flowed. She was also called Mandaba, because she held in the memory of her dreams all the wisdom and all the stories ever told. Her story is our story.
She had long, long hair that ran down on all sides of the mountain, bringing sweet water to the fertile valleys. She wore a crown of coloured beads to keep her hair in place, so that the rivers would know exactly where to flow carrying the stories of life and its secrets.
In one of these valleys, which was called The Valley of a Thousand Songs, lived the peaceful Rainbow People. They enjoyed bathing in the Rainbow River because when the sun was high in the blue sky it reflected the beauty of their different colours. There was a lively young girl among them called Nomvula, who took to the warm water like a fish. Her mother had given her this name because she was born in the time of the heaviest rains, when there was prosperity and happiness all around. She was born with the gift of music. She was a great singer, a great dancer. She inherited the ancient rhythms of the elders and the honour of being the chosen drummer to call the rain. When she played the drum, when she sang, all the Rainbow People joined in and sang and danced with her.
Out of the middle of the Rainbow River grew a sacred tree without leaves. The tree had stood there for as long as the river could remember. Not too far from this tree, at the very bottom of the river, in a cave behind a big boulder, lived Mamlambo the great python. The python kept in its belly the precious stone that held all the stories ever told, which Mantaba passed down the clear waters of the river.
Now there was nothing at all in the world that could shift the huge boulder that blocked the entrance to the cave. Nothing, that is, except Nomvula's music and dancing when it reached a peak of perfect harmony with the rest of the Rainbow People.
This of course happened every season during the festival to celebrate the coming of the first fruits. Using her drum Nomvula called a procession of drummers, singers, dancers and players of all sorts of instruments. Together they gathered the whole community and led them to the festival arena at the edge of the river. They were going to appeal to Mantaba for rain. The bright afternoon sun tuned the instruments to just the right pitch and reflected the rich colours of the Rainbow People's beautiful costumes. With a voice as sweet as honey and the grace of a gazelle, she sang and danced for Mantaba, her drum hanging from her nimble waist. Gradually the singing filled the atmosphere as the Rainbow People harmonised and formed a dancing circle around Nomvula and the other musicians. The feeling was so powerful as the voices of the people and the instruments rose with the dust kicked up by all the dancing. It went higher and higher until it reached that note of perfect harmony - when all the sounds were as one sound and the dancing seemed to flow without any effort at all.
And there! Right there. When the music hit! When it was perfect. That is when Mantaba was so inspired she shook her hair loose and laughed in a state of pure joy as she flung the colourful beaded crown into the open blue sky. The crown turned instantly into the most beautiful rainbow which grew out of Mantaba's mind, arched fully like a river of colour in the sky, landed over the sacred tree and dipped into the clean water.
And water flowed down into the fertile valleys. And the streams rose up. And at the bottom of the Rainbow River which snaked its way through The Valley of a Thousand Songs, right at the very bottom of the rising river, the boulder rolled away from the cave mouth and Mamlambo swam slowly, slowly out of the cave towards the sacred tree. The python curled its glistening body round and round the tree until it reached the highest branch, and from its stretched belly produced the stone on its tongue. Because in the story stone are all the stories ever told.
Now at this time the music was perfect. So Nomvula could come away from her drum, come away from the dancing, and the music continued even without her. Seeing Mamlambo on the leafless tree with the precious story stone radiant against the rainbow, she dived into the river and swam fast towards it. Propelled by the beautiful rhythmic music of her people, she climbed the tree singing with the most powerful voice. Gently she took the stone from Mamlambo's tongue and held it in her hand. With closed eyes she held it for one whole chorus. And when she did that the knowledge of the stories passed down her arm and into her mind, and into her heart, so that she could tell these stories to the Rainbow People around the night fire for the next year. Then she placed the stone back on Mamlambo's tongue. The python took the stone back into its belly, and then shed its old skin, which it had outgrown. Nomvula was beaming with joy as she pulled the new rainbow from the sky and covered Mamlambo with it.
The Rainbow People danced towards the water's edge to meet Nomvula as she approached, sitting astride Mamlambo, with the old skin wrapped round her shoulders. The python set her down gracefully and, leaving a shimmery streak in its wake, swam back in its dazzling new coat, down to the cave, where the boulder rolled back in place.
Back at the drum compound the drum makers skinned new drums and repaired old ones with the skin from Mamlambo. And so they were able to play drums for another year. This happened every single year when the rains came.
Now some people were jealous of Nomvula because of her successes and because of her musical abilities. The main one was her stormy older brother. His name was Mkhonto. He had a head shaped like a spear, and a habit of leaning forward when he walked, which made him move faster than most people even when he was not in a hurry. Mkhonto was renowned for his poor hunting skills, like when he was once butted in the buttock by a wild boar he had been tracking for a whole day. However, he was the leader of a gang of evil sorcerers called the Bathakathi. He thought he could do everything better than his sister. He thought he could drum, sing, dance, swim... do everything much better.
So he had a go. He gathered some of his friends, and together they tried to make some music to make Mantaba laugh, to get the rivers to flow, and to get the cave to open so they could take the power of the story stone for themselves. But it was a complete disaster. When they started singing and drumming everyone just ran away screaming: "Oh please stop! It's appalling..."
So the Bathakathi sat around thinking: "What's going wrong? Why doesn't it work? We want the power for ourselves." They scratched their heads in frustration. And as they scratched their heads something strange happened. Large flakes started to fall to the floor from their heads. One of them noticed that as an ant was coming along the floor a flake fell through the air and landed qatha! on its head. The poor ant died. This gave them an idea. They all sat around having more evil thoughts. The poison flakes poured down with a crackling noise as they scratched their untidy heads vigorously (there were about thirteen of them).
It was not long before each of the Bathakathi had a huge pile in front of him. Mkhonto, from behind the biggest one, ordered two of his boys to run to the storage hut and fetch some old potato bags. They filled them with the evil thought flakes and fastened them tightly before hiding them.
Next time the rains were due to come Nomvula brought her drum out and began the ceremony. The Rainbow People joined her, and as Mantaba's brilliant rainbow touched the sacred tree, the rivers rose and the boulder rolled away. The python Mamlambo, in its tight skin, swam slowly out of the cave towards the leafless tree. At exactly that point Mkhonto and the Bathakathi came out of their hiding place carrying the evil thought flake bags, and emptied them all into the river. With a poof! the Rainbow River turned immediately into porridge. Just like that, it turned into this poisonous porridge which was steaming and bubbling and getting thicker. Mamlambo tried to swim further but failed, rolled over and died. Mkhonto took his knife, held it between his teeth and ran. (He nearly fell over his feet trying to keep up with his head). He swam through the porridge determined to get the power for himself. When he got to the python he took the knife from his teeth, ripped open its stomach, and reached for the story stone. But you can't just take a story stone like that. It was much too powerful for him. There was a huge explosion. He back-flipped through the air and landed unconscious - a sort of belly-flop - in the porridge.
All the music started to become chaotic. It all just fell apart. In the confusion Nomvula could see what had happened. So she ran to the porridgy, poisonous river and dived in holding her breath. She swam all the way down to Mamlambo. She took the python and wrapped it round her. She took the precious stone from her brother's clenched hand, put her hand under his chin, and swam with them through this disgusting sludge back to the land.
The people were very upset that Mamlambo had been killed in this way. Now how would they tell stories? How could they create any stories at all now, which had entertained them through the years? They mourned the death of Mamlambo.
Slowly, singing and playing sad music, the Rainbow People made their way back to the compound. Nomvula had an idea. Her idea was to take the skin of Mamlambo once more and to skin the drums. But she also ordered the making of a special drum. It wasn't a drum that had a hollow base like all the others. It was a drum that was made from a seasoned mango tree. It was to be in the shape of a bowl, about the size of the circle made by Nomvula's arms. She had it carved by the best carvers in The Valley of a Thousand Songs. Then she took the story stone and placed it in the middle of the bowl. And she ordered them to stretch the skin of Mamlambo's head over this bowl shape. She took the fangs and pegged the skin in place. The elders named this drum Ngoma - after the festival of the first fruits. They put Ngoma at the centre of the drum compound surrounded by all the other drums. This, the most important and most sacred drum, stood there in the centre carved with the symbols of Mamlambo and the Eternal River of Life. It had to be guarded day and night, in case anyone tried to steal it.
As for Mkhonto and the Bathakathi, a cure was prescribed for them by the medicine man: their heads were shaved and smeared with fresh elephant droppings (which they themselves had to hunt for among the anthills), and they were made to scrub the compound floor on their knees. Once they had finished, they were given lessons in the ancient art of carving passages from the great stories onto the other drums, and painting the walls of the compound in the colours of the rainbow.
Every morning now Nomvula takes her drum to the banks of the poisoned river and plays it, dedicating her music to the memory of Mamlambo. And Mantaba's rainbow smiles at her as everyday the Rainbow River flows a little cleaner, a little clearer. And of course now she can remember stories, because the story stone is in the sacred drum. It is now this drum called Ngoma that brings the rain and gives the Rainbow People their stories.
Copyright - Eugene Skeef (1995)
BECCA!!
I miss you! :) BTW: this is Christina, from the ALTOS! :)
I havent seen the section in a long time but i know it wont be the same with out you. I just wanted to let you know that I have another friend that is in Africa with the peace corp right now! Her blog is:
http://laurainzed.blogspot.com/
and her name is Laura Eloyen. Her and I went to school together at Villanova and she knew Trevor Johnson as well. Maybe you guys could get together :)
Anyway, I always read your blog and hope life is going well!
Stay safe and I love reading your stories! :)
-christina
maria_christina_vasquez@yahoo.com
Your blog keeps getting better and better! Your older articles are not as good as newer ones you have a lot more creativity and originality now keep it up!
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