Zulu for a Day

When planning our month in Manguzi, we did not expect to stick around for any of the weekends.  There is so much to see and do nearby, and none of us knows when, or even if, we will make it back to Africa.  Once we laid eyes on our rondavel and learned that the small number of shops nearby are actually not even open on the weekends, we became even more determined to escape as often as possible.  This past weekend, however, we were disappointed to find that everything we had wanted to do was booked. It looked like we were going to be stuck for the weekend.

Lucky for us, it turned out that the biggest Zulu festival of the year was this weekend.  It’s called the Amarula Festival and it is thrown by the Tembe tribe of Zulus.  The amarula is a fruit that grows on trees in South Africa.  Apparently, at around this time every year, the Tembe king declares that the fruit is ripe and ready to be turned into an alcoholic beverage.  (I would be more specific if I could but, even after tasting it, I’m not sure whether it falls in the beer, wine, or liquor category.)  He then sets a date for the festival and members of the Tembe tribe come from far and wide to join in the celebration.  The nurses were talking about it all week.

So, Saturday morning, the four of us and one of the dietitians headed out with high hopes, but really no idea what to expect.  We saw our first truck-full of debauchery at a gas station about two minutes from the hospital and figured it must just be one big party and a good excuse for getting drunk.  On the half hour drive there, we passed several trucks with no less than 15 people in the bed.  When we put on our blinker for the turn onto the back road to the festival, one of these trucks was in front of us.  They all looked perplexed for a minute, and then when we actually completed the turn and continued to follow them, they broke out in laughter and cheers.  That perhaps should have clued us in to what was to come.

We parked and set off to find the enormous tent the nurses had described.  What we found was thousands of Zulus surrounding a fenced in stage upon which the Tembe king was speaking.  We were hardly inconspicuous seeing as we were THE ONLY white people there, and our arrival caused some head turning and whispering.  Inside the fence were a group of men, women, and children all dressed in beautiful, traditional tribal costumes.  Though I couldn’t understand a word the king was saying, I could tell he was a captivating speaker.  He had an impressive presence onstage and a booming voice which was frequently echoed by cheers from the audience.  About two minutes after we arrived on the scene, a security guard asked us to come into the fenced off area.  She said a man on the other side wanted to see us.  We weren’t too sure about this idea, but we didn’t want to make a scene while the king was speaking, so we followed her.



Hundreds of people outside the fence listening to the king



On the other side, there was a tent we hadn’t paid much attention to up til now.  The man led us inside and asked us to please find a seat.  It took a few minutes with each of us gathering our own bits of information, but we discovered that we had been invited to join in a feast.  It was a different crowd inside than out.  They were all well-dressed, educated, and comparatively very wealthy.  There were not a lot of empty seats left so we each ended up at different tables.   After talking to my neighbor at my assigned table for several minutes, he asked me if I knew who I was sitting with.  Of course I had no idea and I told him so.  He then informed me that all the men I had been making silly small talk with were the presiding chiefs of the Tembe tribe.  Humbled and feeling a bit awkward, I continued to eat my meal (which was quite delicious) with them for the next two hours.  I later found out that my neighbor was actually the prince!! Something he had failed to mention, but gave a bit of explanation to why he kept asking me if I wanted to be the new Tembe princess. J

The Tembe chiefs

During our meal, there were a variety of Tembe songs and dances performed on stage.  It was quite amazing to watch everyone do the traditional dances in full costume.  I could have watched all day.  One of the men at my table told me that, at any given time, there is only one person who is allowed to sing for the king.  To me, this singing sounded like really fast talking, but apparently it is a great honor.  As this particular singer is getting old, he is currently training a young boy who will take his place after he is gone.  It was really incredible to see the Zulu people (many of whom I may have seen at the hospital or clinic) in their element, to be a guest in their culture, rather than the other way around.  I think, by the nature of our work, we are forced to spend much of our time feeling sorry for the Zulu people ; it was a refreshing change and a privilege to see the people and their culture celebrated as it should be.

Me and one of the Zulu men in full traditional dress

After the formal celebration ended, things got a bit crazier! Despite the fact that this was supposedly the Amarula Festival, we had yet to see any amarula…just lots of people displaying the effects of it.  Brett and Bryan decided it was unacceptable to leave without a taste of this mysterious drink, so we went off in search of it.  Now, you would think, that as the namesake of the festival it would not be hard to come by.  In fact, it required quite the treasure hunt.

The farther we walked from the stage, the drunker people got.  I used my extensive ten word Zulu vocabulary A LOT in the next hour.  EVERYONE wanted to stop us and talk to us.  I’m not sure if they found our presence amusing, exciting, or if perhaps we were just a novelty that everyone wanted to say they had met.  Regardless, we were very popular that afternoon.  Not only did people want to talk, but they wanted to dance (and teach us the moves), share drinks, and take pictures.  My goodness did they ever want to take pictures.  It didn’t matter if they were man, woman, young, old, drunk, sober…everyone was grabbing us and pulling us into the pictures on their tiny cell phones.  I don’t exactly know what you would google to find it, but I’m pretty sure you might now be able to find us on the internet.  

Some of the less sober members of the celebration

Eventually, we stumbled upon the Holy Grail, or rather the world’s largest barrel of alcohol, on the king’s property. It was roughly 12 feet tall and 8 feet in diameter with a line at least 30 people long extending from it.  Everyone in the line was holding not cups, but 5 gallon jugs to fill with amarula.  Bryan and Brett got in line and quickly got singled out to come to the front.  The line was less than happy about this so they filled their jugs quickly with what looked more or less like dirty water.  They both took a big swig, and after seeing their reaction to this, I did not feel the need to sample it myself.  One of the girls actually spit it out hoping that no one would see.  As we walked back to our car, the people we passed were in progressively less sober states of mind.  Not wanting to drink anymore amarula, and not sure what the everyone’s extreme interest in us would become with the addition of large amounts of foul-tasting alcohol, we decided it was time to go.

The keepers of the Holy Grail

The moral of the story, I guess, is that amarula is not all it’s cracked up to be, but the festival is pretty impressive.  The day as a whole was an interesting glimpse into a culture that, until now, I had experienced only from the outside.  It really made my time here come full circle, bringing me from complete foreigner to participant in local culture.

Bryan and his precious (or not) Amarula

The weekend was otherwise unremarkable.  It pretty much rained the whole time and we spent far more time than desired in the rondavel, leading me to coin the term “rondavel fever.” We did tackle making smore’s last night which was amusing and delicious.  We used sweet biscuit crackers, chocolate bars, and flavored marshmallows.  Bryan was quite impressed with himself because he managed to use both matches and charcoal that had been rained on all weekend.  Not two minutes after he got the match lit (in the toaster!!) it started raining again. L So we moved the grill under our VERY small awning and the four of us sat around it toasting marshmallows on butter knives.  And the moral of that story is that, no matter how badly you try to mess it up, the combo of marshmallow, chocolate, and sweet crackers is ALWAYS delicious!

Chocolate+marshmallow+fire=just like home :)

Only 3 more days in Manguzi, then a weekend in Durban, and off to Spain!! I’ll try to get one more post up before I leave here.  Miss you all!