Mdumbi

We walk across the bare, gray and windy hill with beautiful views of some bays with beaches, dunes and hills beyond. The rondavels (African huts) look strange in this almost Scottish picture. A woman hangs up her laundry on a line while the wind blows but it also rains a bit. Her drunken husband is sitting against the hut while some skinny street dogs are barking in the street, but they remain standing sensibly under the awning.

The old woman comes out her house to see what's going on; when she sees that they are seven whites with umbrellas, packed against the rain, she goes back inside. We leave the gravel road and walk past some other houses via a muddy grass path. Our guide explains us how the village came into being and how everyday life looks like here. The dog also comes along and enters totally wet at the house where we apparently go inside. We announce our arrival and it appears that the family is still eating while lying down on reed mats on the floor.

Some of us sit on the mat while a wooden rickety bench is conjured up. The piece of aluminum on the ground has totally escaped me, but I almost squeeze it together when I put my heavy butt on it. We meet three generations of women sitting together on one side of the round clay hut. One has some creme on her face so she does not burn while the youngest girl (later we would hear that she is not yet twenty) has a child who is taking most of the attention. Grandma has a scarf as a turban on her head and appears to be as good as blind. We are presented one by one and what else does the woman have to answer that we have such beautiful names. In the meantime I am looking around me and I see a small old wooden box with some empty pots of paint on which apparently things are stowed away.

There are some spears on the men's side and the rest of the hut is almost empty. Grandma gets some extra clothes - apparently she is cold.

It is raining even harder than before when we walk back to the hostel and I am happy with my coat and umbrella. Yet we walk wet past the shop where three drunken boys are sitting outside. We walk inside and it’s hard to see because of all the smoke from marijana cigarettes. I look at the almost empty shelves to see what I can buy here - do I really need something?

We buy all the beers he’s got – 5 bottles. In the hostel everyone is reading in his books/travelguides or is listening to Tracy Chapman who apparently has been on "repeat" all day. Me and the Dutch couple are taking our place in the back of the garage where there is an old pool table and some old benches. We hear the rain pooring down on the roof and feel the draft coming in. There is an old couch that we put a little closer to the fireplace where a lot of stuff is hanging to dry.

Miraculously, all balls from the game are still there and we drink our beer when it is suddenly half past seven and our food is ready. Yesterday it was fish balls with a potato cake and rice; tonight we get fried fish with rice and some salad. As hungry wolves we attack our plates and everybody shuts up. Meanwhile, outside it’s still coming down in buckets and I wonder if my tent can handle all this water. We also decide to open the wine and most people join in. At half past ten, after we have drunk the two bottles, we break up. The dark ladies who have entertained us tonight in the garage with drums, song and dance are going to bed too. On my slippers I slither to my tent which apparently still stands. I pull it tight again when I brush my teeth while I think of all "offers" to sleep elsewhere last night.