I spent a wonderful six days in the rural community of Ezinqoleni, 90 minutes drive from Durban. I was visiting Vusi Zulu (pictured, at left), the leader of Uhlelo Olusha, a top isicathamiya group in Durban. When he's not in the city, he lives in a small house on a heavily potholed dirt road in this little community. Various family members are just across the street, and there's always some cousin or another popping in to say hello. Even without visitors, there were 6 of us in the three room house: Vusi, his wife (called maPhewa or just Mams), two kids (Abongile and Skhanyiso), a cousin, and me. Vusi and I slept on a mattress on the floor, while the women and kids slept on the bed.
Singing is part of the glue that holds traditional Zulu culture together, and everyone can and does sing. Vusi is a talented composer and a great choir leader (with the proper high voice to fit the bill), so when he's in town, his house is the site of regular gospel choir rehearsals. Most of the guys within a several kilometer radius show up around 6:30 and sing for a good hour or more. I got a crash course in Zulu gospel music, isicathamiya, and the traditional ceremonial songs that people could remember. I also learned a whole lot about what life in a poor rural South African village is like-- the richness of Zulu culture that is still very much alive, and the awfulness of government services, which are improving slowly if at all. I'll try to relate a few of the more memorable scenes.
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Partway through Thursday evening's gospel choir rehearsal, Zama (Vusi's wife's half-sister) came and pulled Vusi out of the room. A few minutes later, he came back and beckoned me out. Mams' grandmother was very ill. They were afraid that an aunt, long suspected of witchcraft, had done her in. The only possible way out was if we went immediately to fetch the traditional healer or sangoma (pictured, at right) to go lift the curse. It was 9pm and dark, but we hit the road. "When I was growing up, I didn't believe there were such things as witches," Vusi told me along the way. "But here there really are. You are lucky to live in the US where you don't have to worry about such things."
We waited nervously on a dark road for the sangoma to collect her medicines and walk up to the road. Then, with me doing my best not to kill us all on the potholed, rutted roads, we set off for the patient's house. We arrived to find a silent room-- twenty relatives seated pensively around the perimeter with a mattress on the floor that supported a pile of blankets. The grandmother's head could just be seen, poking out of one end of the pile.
The sangoma set to work-- she had the witch tell her side of the story. Some of the family later grumbled that she had left out certain incriminating details, like how she'd sent one boy on an errand to the store in order to be alone with the grandmother. Having heard what she needed to, the healer took an array of powders and liquids out of her bag. With the occasional shout, she mixed this with that, took a pinch of the other and poured something down the patient's throat. She then called for a basin of water and started giving her patient a bath. At that point, Vusi and I were called out of the room. Somehow, our hosts had found out we'd come without eating dinner, and we were given a plate of baloney sandwiches ('polony' in Zulu) and a bottle of Fanta. After eating, I lay down for a quick nap-- it was already past the time we'd normally be asleep, and I could feel myself drifting, something I didn't want to be doing on the drive home.
By the time I woke up from my nap, the healing was over and had been pronounced a success. I drove her home and Vusi and I went home and collapsed into bed-- Mams stayed behind with Skhanyiso to look after her grandmother.
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The next day was supposed to be devoted to a fishing expedition with the rock-solid bass from Vusi's choir. The weather intervened, however, and I awoke to the familiar rattle of rain against the tin roof. It wouldn't have mattered, though, as Vusi suddenly remembered that it was his brother's day in court. He has been in jail for a month, accused of beating and robbing a man in his home. Vusi was going to be a witness for the defense-- his brother had stayed in his house that night and wasn't anywhere near the scene of the crime. I drove the winding, potholed dirt road into town, hurrying as much as was safe, since the court was supposed to start at 8:30AM. We got there around a quarter to 10, and waited half an hour before the court started hearing any cases. Vusi's brother was number 9 on the docket. 1-8 were an assorted mix of people posting bail, people requesting legal aid attorneys, but no actual cases resolved. The Indian judge heard testimony and communicated with the defendants through an interpreter, who also translated proceedings into Zulu for the assembled audience.
After all the wait, our case was a bust-- in his last appearance, the judge had directed Vusi's brother to request a public defender to represent him. He had done so, but still hadn't been assigned a lawyer. The judge summarily delayed his bail hearing until March 13, and dismissed him. It was over within two minutes, and we dejectedly filed out of the courtroom. I was shocked and more than a little angry. What kind of government could arrest someone, hold him for 3 months without even a chance to post bail, and try him through an interpreter in his own country?
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