Limpopo

The soil in Ha-Makuya is a rich, fawny reddish-brown, and it's not too long after you arrive there that you realize that it's sticking to your face and hands, turning your skin the color of clay. It's not too long after that that you realize that the dirt is not the only thing here with the power to transform you.

I'm up in the Limpopo province, the northernmost area of South Africa, bordering Zimbabwe, Botswana, and Mozambique. It is easily the most rural area I have ever been to in my life.

No sooner have we passed the sign saying "Ha-Makuya Welcomes You" when the smooth asphalt road gives way to a hinterland of dirt roads completely strewn with large rocks. After five minutes of bouncing over the trail, the uneven terrain plus an excess of sherry the night before threatened to separate me from my breakfast and distribute it quite liberally over the back of the van.

Perhaps out of pity, David remarks offhandedly, "The roads are much better than they were last year." I could only grimace.

With roads these bad, it's no wonder the majority of inhabitants don't use cars, but this is more a result of the extreme poverty in the region. The principle employer in northern Limpopo is a mine which is scheduled to close in five years, and unemployment is as high as 90% in some regions, including the village I will be staying at for the weekend. With no cars, donkey-driven carts are not an unfamiliar sight here.

The dominant language up here is Venda, the least-spoken of all 11 official languages of South Africa. While not as widely spoken in SA, Venda also has a small number of speakers in Zimbabwe. "Venda" refers not only to the language but to the tribe and culture of those who speak it, which I'll cover in a little bit.

Since most people up here do not speak English, David has provided us with a translator for the time we spend here. I have, however, been able to pick up a few basic phrases:

Machaloni - Good morning
Masiari - Good afternoon
Matequana - Good evening
Nda - Hello (men)
Ah - Hello (Women)
Novuwa - How are you?
Dorivuwa -Thank you
Ndione - I'm well

There is one other word of particular importance in my case: Makuwa. It means literally, "white thing" or "white object". Many people living here have never seen white people before, and as I crossed the main road one day I noticed that cars were slowing down to look at me. Even after learning my name, one of the toddlers in the household I was living in greeted me every morning with, "Machaloni, makuwa!"

So, yeah, my strategy of "blending in" is done for. Unless I can contract re-vitiligo and turn 7 shades darker before the end of the week, people are going to stare.

Our host for the weekend is an elderly woman named Masindi, a built-to-last Mama Bear if ever there was one. She has lived in the region all her life, though her children and grandchildren have left to find jobs elsewhere, usually Johannesburg. They are back for the weekend, however.

Life in Ha-Makuya can be a bit difficult. The government-supplied water main has been out of order for months, so water comes from a pump down the trail from Masindi's house. Electricity is also an issue, with just one line (also government-issued) that the entire community plugs into. The *ahem* "facilities" are limited to an open-air latrine about fifty yards form the house.

Food here is a simple affair. Lunch and dinner always consists of "pap", which is boiled cornmeal. It is usually served with several vegetable spreads that you can dip the pap in. Breakfast is bread and butter with tea.

Pap is certainly tasty enough, but not exactly what a growing boy needs. Two days in, and I'm so protein-starved that the stray dogs are looking tasty. As if on cue, Masindi asks us that afternoon if we want chicken for dinner. I reply in the affirmative.

"Good," she says. "You can kill it yourself."

Gulp.

I am handed a knife and a chicken and told to slice the head off, which I do with minimal trouble. Except for the fact that I cut too low, which meant I sawed the poor thing's breast off partially.

Sorry, buddy, but you were delicious.

The neck also sprayed blood over my jeans, which has yet to come out. The body and head (both of which were in my hand) squirmed for a minute until we plucked it and threw it in boiling water.

Anyway, after a scrumptious meal, it's time to make pap. This is done by beating dried corn until your arm falls off, and then straining it through a sieve.

Anyhow, after a tearful farewell on the third day, I returned to camp to discover that in my absence bin Laden had been killed. You leave for five minutes, and all the action happens without you.

Stay tuned for my adventures in Johannesburg!