BEASSSSSSSSST

Days since last real shower: 7. Days until next real shower: 12.
After another painful session of Zulu on Thursday, we headed out on a guided tour of Warwick Junction, Durban’s open-air market. All other street markets and farmers markets I have been to pale in comparison to this one for a number of distinct reasons. One such feature is an area for the headcookers. What is a head cooker you may be asking yourself right now. Well let me tell you, this experience was not for the weak-stomached. The headcookers are a group of ladies who, on the daily, prepare the delicacy of cow’s head meat for your (not my) enjoyment. These lovely ladies and their whole cow heads were the first stop on our tour. We stood outside the headcookers area and watched as they delicately and daintily hacked at the heads next to them. This was potentially the most gender-role defying thing I have witnessed thus far. While most of the group went to sample the (in generous terms) meat, the other two vegetarian’s and I were invited by our eager program director to pose for a picture with one of the ladies and her trophy (of sorts). We obliged, anxious to document this obviously cultural practice, AND THEN SHE HANDED ME THE KNIFE (read with emphasis if not otherwise apparent). In a super hospitable fashion, she pulled back some of the skin and let me help her (only a little) skin the cow’s head.
Mortified.

Once I recovered from that experience (and photo op, consider this your warning, scroll at your own risk) we moved on to my favorite part of the market, the fruit and vegetable market. These open air facilities covered in fruits and vegetables made me feel much more at home. One of the other vegetarians described the experience and “food porn” and I quickly agreed. By far, the best part was that I purchased 3 mangos, 4 nectarines and 4 apricot/peaches for the equivalent of $3. What a heaven. Unfortunately we had to leave the pearly white gates to see the rest of the market. Standard market-ware proceeds, and eventually we make it to the witch doctor shopping district (not the official name, don’t try and google it). Traditional healers, it turns out, frequently come from the rural areas to Durban to get all their voodoo powder, and here we were among it all, powerless without the necessary customs and rituals. Damn.

Friday night we played the tourist card and went to watch a rugby match. The game was between the Sharks (Durban) and the Cheetahs (Free State) and clearly we were ready to cheer for the home team. Earlier that day, superfan central (affectionately, us) acquired a Sharks jersey or two from Mr. Price, their sponsor and the SA version of Walmart. Our superfan outfits put us each back less than $10, and we were on our way to the game. The inner anthropologist got the better of the evening and I made a very important cultural observation. At the soccer game, we purchased beer in the only available vessel: the plastic cup. At the rugby game, however, beer was available by the pitcher or by the cup. Perhaps this speaks indicatively to the type of crowed each game draws? That, or the amount of alcohol required to appreciate the beauty of a sport like rugby. We instantly blended in with the crowed, partly because of our Mr. Price shirts and pitchers and partly because this was the whitest group of people i’ve been with since arriving. One fan behind us was even nice enough to tell us that the dull roar that occasionally erupted throughout the stadium was everyone shouting “beasssssssssst,” the nickname for one Sharks player from Zimbabwe. Apparently, every time he carried the ball, this deep chorus was sincere encouragement (I make the distinction “carry” because I was politely informed that yelling “BEAST” when he kicked the ball once was not the point).
Above and beyond my favorite part of that evening happened in the bathroom. Olivia and I were calmly waiting in the cue during halftime, when I noticed that the women behind me was wearing a Springboks jersey. A personal acquisition goal after watching the movie Invictus, I naturally asked her where she purchased her shirt. She informed me that she had just moved to Durban from Port Elizabeth, where I assume, the team is located. She then told me that she really wanted a Sharks jersey. As I was telling her that I had purchased such a fine article of clothing earlier that day at the local Mr. Price (of which there are many), she goes “want to trade.” DO I EVER!?!?! So right there and then, in the bathroom, we traded shirts and I got my Springbocks jersey. The real clincher is that when I returned to my super jealous superfans, one of our program assistants informed me that it was one of the authentic jerseys they sell for close to $100. Thank you, drunk bathroom woman, you made my night. The rest of the game was a blur of men jumping on men, and a loss for the sharks, but all and all, a great night!

The weekly food review: This week, the interesting food situation featured me enjoying an open-faced peanut butter toast with sliced apples breakfast sandwich. This, not the sour milk she eats every day, or the oil that pools in all of our meals, or the chicken spam she loves, was BY FAR the grossest thing my mama had EVER seen anyone eat. I know this because of her loud and violent HAI BO (OMFG) followed by her “no judy, no judy, not nice, very bad, don’t eat that, you can’t eat that.” Later, she told not only her daughter, but her neighbor but probably, if she had the money and the wherewithal, would have phoned Obama to tell him what a crime his American citizen was committing. Ask me sometime about the vegetarian hotdogs and the story about my cunning avoidance. On Tuesday, I will attempt to introduce mama and Zola to Tacos. I may also treat them to mom’s chocolate chip cookie recipe depending on the availability of the ingredients and/or a pan.
Xoxo,
Judy