A Birthday Party In the Village

               

            Today is Freedom Day in South Africa.  Freedom Day in South Africa marks the anniversary of the first Democratic general election held in South Africa on April 27^th, 1994 after the end of Apartheid.  It is a national holiday and so school is off.  For my first Freedom Day in South Africa, I am at “home” in my village of Phoshiri.  It is a Monday.  After waking far later than anyone in my village this morning (which is both normal for me and which is far from difficult considering most people awake with the sun), I took my soiled laundry into the yard and hand-washed my clothes from the past week.  This is a chore which takes about 2 hours and I have slowly grown to dislike.  On this day however, I minded less the scrubbing and circling flies as the temperature has begun to cool and I feel more rested and settled than I have in weeks.

My host father with a man whose hand I shook

 

                Approximately 1 hour into the washing, my host sister Vivian told me that she was going with the boys Dimurelo & Desmond as well as the other sister Thuso to a birthday party for “my father’s brother’s wife’s daughter” which I subsequently deducted to be her cousin (or at least step-cousin).  I knew by her announcing this that she was inviting me but I didn’t blow my awareness to this fact verbally.  Instead I just smiled and attempted to ask how old the girl would be in Sepedi.  She said she was turning 1.  Her first birthday.  She then asked me if I would like to go.  I tried to act surprised as I pointed to my tubs of laundry and said that I needed to finish washing.  She said that she wouldn’t be leaving until “sometime after 2.”  After I took a second to accept that I was okay postponing my computerized electronic plans for the afternoon, I agreed with a smile. 

As she walked away I wondered what a birthday party for a one year old would entail here in the village of Phoshiri.  Booze?  Cake?  Singing?  Dancing?  It turned out to include all of the above but before I would discover that for myself, I saw my host father come from around the side of the house dressed in a full suit.  “Umm.  Tobella!”  I greeted him with a smile and a look that I was pretty sure conveyed my surprise.  An older proud and respected man, my host father always tries to speak English to me; a task which is clearly difficult for him but something I appreciate.  In fact, more often than not, I will be stumbling over Sepedi to converse with him while he stumbles over English to speak to me.  It’s like two grown men speaking in infant tongue trying to reach some kind of mutual understanding.  There are a lot of strange nonsensical verbal utterances and curious looks exchanged.  I love his efforts though and I’m pretty sure he loves mine.

“Uh.  I say.  I go to the house of the party now.  And you, uh come, after.  With the Vivian.  You finish the, uh, wash.  It’s alright.”  He was towering over me in his pressed suit.  Feeling entirely underdressed in Hawaiian Tropic sandals, running shorts and an old stained tee shirt, I reply “Aie.  Ke tlo go bona ka marago.  Sharp.” which I hope to mean “Yes.  I will see you later.  Good.” 

 

After finishing the laundry and changing into something that falls between clothes- washing gear and fancy full suit attire, I meet with Vivian to walk the dirt road to the party.  Dimurelo, Desmond, Vivian, and Thuso are all dressed nicely with scrubbed shoes and ironed clothes.  I began to wonder what I am getting myself into.  I made sure with Vivian that a sport jacket (let alone a suit) were not required of me.  After all, we were going to a 1-year old birthday party at 2 in the afternoon in Phoshiri Village…

                When we strolled into the yard of the party 10 minutes later, I was relieved to discover most of the other attendees were far more casual than my host father.  There were approximately 50 people at the party when we arrived.  Being the only American (let alone white person) for miles, I have come to accept in rural South African gatherings, I would be the subject of all eyes just for my presence.  This is a fact to which I continually feel I have adjusted only to be taken by surprise repeatedly when it undoubtedly occurs.  This party was no exception and as 100 eyes turned toward me, I just smiled sheepishly and walked toward the birthday girl.  The girl was dressed in a fancy white dress and the table was completely decked out with a veiled table cloth, ribbons, and a large cake.  As I stood watching the surroundings and taking in the blaring South African dance music coming from the rigged speaker boxes, I noticed some young men beckoning for me to join them.  They were dancing and drinking beer.  (Check off the list for booze, dancing, and cake in the first 2 minutes).  I walked over to them and recognized some of their faces.  They clearly knew me and, as always, were entertained to hear me talk (or attempt to talk) in Sepedi.  After yelling over the music to converse with them for about 5 minutes, I joined my host father who had taken a seat on the porch behind the birthday girl’s decked-out table.

                A woman carrying a baby strapped to her back with a towel (the common method of carrying infants here) danced by us smiling.  She yelled something to my host father while looking at me.  My host father then turned to me and said “Uh.  She says she wants you to go with her and dance.”  I laughed and said “Ha ke rate go bina,”  (I don’t like to dance)  but it was of little use.  She was extending her hand while dancing and I realized that at least a dozen people were looking at me smiling.  I stood up with a smile and followed her out of the porch and joined the crowd of men (several of who were comprehensively intoxicated) to make a fool out of myself.  I turned my legs and tried to follow the electronic reggaeton beat.  Of course, it was actually pretty fun and I soon found myself laughing.  (Though not as much as the crowd of young women and men I caught laughing at me).

                As the afternoon progressed, I began to feel like a celebrity more than I think I have ever experienced.  It’s not that I’m not used to being the object of fascination in my village as I think Peace Corps training and my months of disparate experiences in the village adequeately prepared me for that feeling.  It was just that it was a bit amplified on this day.  I am confused as to why this would be other than more alcohol being consumed by the party-goers and my dancing.  After this dancing, I tried to reclaim my seat next to my host father but a handful of very inebriated older men were lining up to shake my hand.  I smiled and shook all of their hands and tried to reply appropriately in Sepedi but it was rather difficult to understand their slurred words.  I turned to my host father for interpretation.  To my surprise, he pointed to one of the drunkest men who was repeatedly shaking my hand and said “he says that he loves you.”  I looked at the drunk man and my host father’s interpretation made sense.  The man was bending down pumping my outstretched arm and smiling.  To say the least, it made me feel a bit awkward.

The celebrity feeling reached a climax when an old camera was produced to, I thought, take  pictures of the cake and the birthday girl.  Instead, I found my host father saying “they, uh, want you take photo with them.”  Sure enough, when I looked back at the man with the camera, he was motioning me to come to the table for a photo.  I was then handed the birthday girl in her dress and without having a chance to comprehend what was happening, I reactively cradled her in my arms.  She immediately started crying.  Hell I couldn’t blame her.  I wouldn’t want to be held by a stranger in the middle of a huge party.  I looked out and people were smiling and the camera was shooting.  I tried to smile but the baby girl seemed unequivocally miserable and it was, afterall,  her birthday, so I handed her off to the woman next to me and tried to return to my seat.  “No.  They ah, want another one.”  I looked around and sure enough, baby number 2 was being extended to me.  I took her as well and smiled for the photo.  This continued to happen for about 5 babies in succession when a mother appeared with her small son.  The boy looked to be about 5 years old and came up to my waist.  I put my hand on his shoulder and looked at the camera for another photo but the mother tapped me on the shoulder and then picked the boy up from under his armpits and handed him to me.  “Really?”  I thought.  “Really?  Why?”  Without verbally protesting, I awkwardly held the young boy and smiled for another picture.  I thought “this is ridiculous.”  I also felt bad to be at this birthday party and be the subject of all these pictures.  The birthday girl had stopped her crying and as I looked at her, I was relieved to see she was content in her chair oblivious to the photo shoot going on behind her. 

I also felt a bit used.  Why all these pictures with me?  Was it merely because I am the foreigner?  The American at the party?  Or is just because I am white?  I gathered that it was probably a combination of those factors and a myriad of other subtle things and then came to terms with it.  Taking a picture with me seemed to make these mothers happy.  After all of the photos ended, I tried to ask my host father “why all the pictures with me?”  He conveyed that they all wanted to have their pictures with me to put in their homes.  “For years.  They don’t want to forget you.”  I bemusingly told him that I was not leaving and would be around for another year and a half.  He then asked with a look of concern if I minded taking the photos.  Disarmed by the question, I instinctively replied that I didn’t mind.

 

And considering it now, I realize I truly don’t mind.  As I sat on the chair next to my proud host father as cake was cut and the music continued, I realized that this afternoon I could swallow the uncomfortable awkwardness of feeling undeservedly watched.  I needed to enjoy the novelty of the situation.  Although I wanted nothing more than to blend in, people were happy to have me at the party and I should be happy for that.  Before arriving, I imagined there would be moments like these in the village.  However, it’s just not something you can prepare for or react to comfortably until after it has passed. 

A unique experience marked by feeling both distinctly alien and wholly welcomed.

And something I won’t easily forget.

 

~ by Andrew Bernish on April 27, 2009.