“Finally, a  genuine African village tour,” I thought to myself as Ana and I hurriedly finished up our backpacker style tuna fish sandwiches (no butter, no mayo, dry tuna flakes dropping all over the floor) and rushed  out to the bar area of the hostel where we were supposed to be meeting up with the guided three o’clock village tour.  The location, Coffee Bay, which is in the Transkei area of South Africa.  This Transkei region was actually not even a part of the country of South Africa until the early 1990’s and as a result, is much, much less developed than many other parts of the country. 

In true punctual Canadian nature, we arrived at the bar at exactly 3:00, expecting to find the rest of the people waiting for the last few to turn up.  Naturally, the bar was empty, save a small yellowish green parrot named Joey who was chewing on a South Africa guide book hastily forgotten on top of one of the picnic tables in the bar. 

“I wonder if they’ve left already”, I asked Ana. 

“I doubt it, they’re probably just late,” she replied.  I agreed effortlessly, realizing that backpacker staff and their residents rarely lived by the clock, rather, they preferred living by their stomachs and a shoestring. 

So we had a quick look around the hostel but found nobody.  We then sat ourselves down at the picnic table and were immediately confronted by the parrot Joey.  Not being much of a bird expert, the only thing I could think of doing was offering Joey my upturned hand, much like I would do to a dog.  Joey walked over, looked me in the eyes, then sunk his beak into the palm of my hand and gave me a hard nip.  Trying to play it cool, I only slightly jerked my hand, then turned it around, palm down and offered it to the little green troublemaker.  This time, finding much less loose skin to bite, he hopped on my hand and started working his way up to my shoulder.  As he walked up I thought to myself, he really is a nice looking bird, and he definitely was.  He was coloured yellow and green, quite like any old budgie you may find in the local pet store, but you could tell from his eyes that he was much more intelligent.  He reached my shoulder then stopped and looked me right in the eyes and said, “Pretty boy, waaaaakk”.  As I hadn’t shaved for at least a week and hadn’t changed my clothes for perhaps half that long I knew he definitely didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, stupid bird.  So I answered back, “Pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy,” but received no reply and concluded that he was likely here for a handout…not intelligent conversation. 

We played with the bird for a very long time, in fact long enough to drink a coffee and even start discussing world problems, when Silas the tour guide arrived sweating and asked us if were ready for the tour.   By this time, a young and very tall German fellow who introduced himself as Kristof had arrived and was also waiting for the tour.  So off we went, following Silas into the bush and onto our day’s adventure. 

Silas was an employee of the hostel but was also a local resident and part of the Xhosa tribe.  He was short, young looking, dark skinned, and constantly beaming an infectious smile.  He spoke excellent English and told us that he was currently taking a tourism course and one day hoped to open up his own backpackers hostel.  He began the trip by first introducing himself then telling us the walking trip would include a stop at a typical Xhosa home, then some sacred pools, then finally the “shabeen”, which was the local village bar.  With that brief introduction we left the confines of the hostel and began our walk, following Silas up the hill directly across from the hostel entrance.  The top of the hill offered us a magnificent view!  To the north and west we could see miles of rolling hills and patches of bush populated with many small circular huts painted mostly blue.  To the east we could see the village of Coffee Bay with its stretching beach and foamy surf crashing up onto the shores.  To the south, it was the blue Indian Ocean stretching off into the horizon.  We continued walking westward through the hills until we came to a collection of buildings. 

“This is my family’s house,” said Silas proudly.  There were two circular huts with thatched roofs separated by a rectangular, partially finished building.  The structures appeared to be made from mud bricks.  “What are the houses made from?” I asked. 

Silas answered succinctly, “The bricks are made from a mixture of soil, grass, and cow shit.”  Fair enough.  Silas then showed us into the first of the huts and explained that this is where his parents slept.  The inside of the hut was quite dark but you could see there was a gas cooking stove, two beds, and an assortment of clothes, tools, and other bits and pieces scattered about what looked like a hard packed dirt floor.

“What’s the floor made from,” asked Ana, “dirt?”

“Nope, it’s made from pure cow shit,” Silas replied, “as you can see, cow shit is very important to the Xhosa people.”  Seemed very true, and was interesting to learn just how versatile cow shit was.  Silas then showed us the chicken cage, which was made from twigs bound together with some sort of grassy rope.  Next, came the rectangular building which we learned was in construction and would eventually be used as a kitchen and entertaining space.  The second round hut was Silas room, and was built exactly as the first.  I was happy to have such a close up look at a typical Xhosa home.  During our drive to Coffee Bay we had seen thousands of these buildings, but didn’t expect we’d have a chance to actually visit one.

We continued on our way with Silas in the lead followed by Ana and I and our German friend at the rear.  We marched thus for a good thirty minutes with Silas stopping now and then to point out an interesting tree (“This one’s used to make good bass drums.”) or plant (“We make our sleeping mats with these.”) or animal (“Don’t get bitten by that spider, it will kill you!”).  We eventually came across a small stream flowing though a large riverbed.  We followed the stream for a few hundred metres until we came to a large pool.  Silas explained that this was a pool of the ancestors and used for religious ceremonies where everybody in the village would attend.  It was also common for people to throw chickens into the pool, to keep their ancestors well fed.  He suggested against swimming in it, for obvious reasons.

We were then led back up the stream, passed our original entry point, and walked up to a second pool which, Silas explained, was used solely for baptisms and for swimming.  I had no inclination whatsoever to go for a dip as the water looked a little brown and there was the occasional gob of shiny blue stuff which appeared to be either motor oil or perhaps soap floating across the top.  There was also another one of those nasty spiders spinning a web in the branches of a tree right behind us which I wouldn’t want dropping onto my bare back. 

And that was it for the pools.  So far our tour, though interesting, was nothing too extraordinary.  A great walk to be sure, but nothing that was likely to permanently stamp its impression on the firm grey matter.  Things started to take a comical turn when Silas suddenly disappeared into a hut.  I asked the German guy where he went and he told me that Silas was “occupied”.

“What do you mean occupied?” I asked. 

“He’s making a piss on the side of the hut,” he plainly replied.

When Silas returned, he asked me “Do Canadians have another way of saying go to the toilet?” 

“Sure,” I replied, “Sometimes we say “I’ve gotta hang a rat”, but that works only for men obviously.” 

“Hang a rat??  What does that mean??” he wondered.  I proceeded to make the appropriate or perhaps inappropriate, zipping, flopping, and shaking motions with my hand, and it was all quite clear to Silas then.

“Ahhhhh, hang a rat!  Yeah, I like that!” he exclaimed.  And as we trotted up and down the hills Silas practiced his new expression, bursting with laughter after each repetition.  The German guy was also thrilled to learn some English (Canadian) slang and joined in with Silas in his profanity session. 

We soon reached the shabeen, which is the African version of the village pub.  As expected, it was made of a mixture of dirt, grass, and cow shit and was being patrolled by half a dozen little wild pigs.  We stepped inside the shabeen and found a number of Xhosa people inside including an old lady sitting in the corner smoking a foot-long homemade pipe which gave off a most unusual odour, perhaps a mixture of dirt, grass and…well, everything else seemed to me made of that!  There were a mixture of men and women and most were not drinking but were instead chatting quietly to each other.  There was a wooden plank for a counter and behind it a Xhosa woman waiting to serve us

“You’re going to try some of the local Xhosa corn beer,” Silas proudly exclaimed.  The lady behind the counter passed over a large, rusted tomato juice can with a thick layer of froth on top.  Silas sat us down then spilled a small amount of beer on the ground between us.  “That is for the ancestors.  They must be offered some before we drink,” he said as he then took a sip.  He motioned for the German to try some so he picked up the bucket and had a big swig.

“Not bad,” he said passing the can to Ana.  Ana brought the can to her lips, had a sip and nodded in agreement then passed it to me for my turn.  It was very grainy and reminiscent of corn.  It didn’t taste exactly like beer, but more like a mixture of beer and wine.  We repeated this circle tasting until the bucket was finished, then Silas ordered up a round of more traditional brew – Castle Milk Stout, made in South Africa in wonderfully large 750 ml bottles.  So we sat in the small hut drinking our beer, smiling at the locals and feeling fine.

Once we were finished that round our young guide put another cold one in our hands immediately, checked our eyes to ensure we were slightly inebriated, then announced, “Now it’s time to dance!”.  The lady behind the bar fired up the battery powered boom box and the sound of Xhosa rock filled the smoky hut.  Silas got us up into a circle, along with several of the ladies in the shabeen, and told us to dance however we liked.  So we started stomping our feet and shuffled around in a circle.  That circus went on for several revolutions when Silas announced, “Okay, now we’re going to dance Xhosa style, do like me!”.  He switched to this groovy dance where he was pumping his right foot up three times and shuffling his left foot forward once per set, all the while nodding his head first to the right side then to the left.  After a few circuits, the whiteys were doing their best to imitate.  I glanced over at Ana, who has much better rhythm than I, and her attempts to do the dance were a perfect impression of a wounded epileptic pigeon…and the German guy looked even more ridiculous.  I didn’t want to imagine how I must have appeared.  Silas must have decided to leave us with at least a shred of dignity so we were instructed to just do our “own thing” to the music.  So I reverted to the standard Canadian prairie cow shit shuffle, suitable to any beat, style or speed of music and definitely recommended for rhythmically challenged persons such as myself.  After the song finished the dancing faltered and we all were there standing around in the smoky den.  I noticed Silas had disappeared so I asked the German fellow what happened to him.

 “He’s hanging out a rat somewhere,” he informed me.  Although not the grammatically correct usage of the slang, I certainly applauded his efforts.  Silas soon returned and called for another round of beers then started up the music again.  The ladies resumed dancing including one who had this huge hump on her back and a blanket wrapped around her.  I knew it was either a serious deformity or perhaps a baby.  Only seconds after I noticed this, the lady sat down, untied the blanket and out dropped a beautiful and very fresh young baby.  Ana asked her if she could hold it and the lady gladly obliged.  It was surprising that a baby could actually breathe under all that material, but it seemed to work quite exceptionally well judging by the baby’s relaxed state.  Ana cuddled the gorgeous little girl and looked over at me as if to say, “Don’t I look wonderful with a little baby?”  I agreed. 

The trusty guide Silas now appeared behind the counter switching cassettes in the boom box.  From the speakers came a very steady, low, infectious drumming noise whose volume was slowly increasing.  Silas hopped back to centre stage and announced, “Okay, listen – here’s the beginning!”.  The drumming grew louder.  “Oh yeah baby, here it comes!” he exclaimed.  The drumming was joined by African chanting which was getting steadily louder and clearly coming to a crescendo.  Then there was a huge crash of a cymbal and all the vocal instruments screamed to life and the frenzied beat took over the little mud hut.

“SUMMMMMMBODY, HANG ME A RAT!” Silas spurted as he leaped up and lost himself in the spastic pigeon dance, except at twice the speed of the first demonstration.  I was proud of the boys’ efforts to get the hang of this new bit of vulgarity, but did realize that another lesson on the proper grammatical usage of the phrase would be a good idea.  They will be sounding like native speakers in no time.

 Soon, it was time to go.  A traditional Xhosa was being cooked for us back at the hostel and we didn’t want to miss it.  So we bid adieu to our new friends and followed Silas out into the darkness of the South African night.  And it was pure darkness.  Not a single light in sight apart from the pale quarter moon.  We followed behind Silas in formation and tried our best not to trip on anything.  Up and down the hills we went again, but this time three quarters pissed with no light.  “Much more of a challenge,” I thought to myself.  At the crest of a hill Silas turned back and informed us, “Make sure you don’t step into the really dark spots on the ground because those are holes

“That’s fine for the holes, but how do we see the cow shit?” questioned Ana.

“If your foot sticks to the path, that’s cow shit,” answered the German.  That won a laugh from the group as we continued our late night stumble down the last hill and toward the bridge at the bottom, which we would have to cross to reach the hostel.  With Silas in lead, Ana and I actually managed to make it past the bridge without tripping.  The German fellow was somewhere behind us, no doubt having similar struggles navigating the rocky ground.

Suddenly a high pitched scream erupted from the bridge behind us, followed by a flurry of Xhosa clicks, yips, and squeals.  We all quickly turned around to see the German, rat in hand, spraying a stream over the side of the bridge.  But he was doing a sideways shuffle, obviously trying to divert the stream.  Silas yelled, “Hey, stop pissing on my people!!  There’s a lady down there shitting in the river and you just pissed on her head!”  This was obviously what Silas ascertained from the Xhosa screams piercing the night. “Why didn’t you tell me you had to hang a rat??” he asked the German, who was still shuffling, trying his best to finish up, “I would have told you not to piss over the bridge!”  By this time both Ana and I were doubled over with laughter, nearly sprouting tears. 

“I didn’t know there was a lady down there, it’s totally dark!” the German said. 

“I can’t believe you pissed on my people!” burst Silas.  It was quite obvious that Silas, far from angry, was instead having a great laugh at the German’s (not to mention the poor Xhosa girl’s) expense.  The German finally zipped up and we hustled out of there as fast as possible before the girl could scramble up the bank and find out who these horrible foreigners were. 

Within minutes we had reached the safety of the hostel so we moved inside to find some food…and a few more beers! 

And thus ends the tale of the Xhosa village tour.