The Wheelbarrow

“Don't you want to come to our braie?”

I sleepily think: when, where, why, etc. as my brain tries to comprehend who I am talking to on the phone and what exactly is a braie. It's one of my principals and she's referring to the South African equivalent of a bbq. I will never get used to the way a South African villager forms a questions: as if I've already said no and they're trying to convince me otherwise.

“Yes I will come.”

The next day I find myself in a taxi with all the teachers of my key school: I'm sitting not paying much attention to what is being said since I can't decipher the language, when a brake takes place and they convert to English. This is my cue that something involving me is about to occur:

“Makobo, I'm going to buy you something to drink. What would you like?”

“I don't care.”

“Cold drink?”

“Yeah, cold drink is fine.”

“What about a beer?”

“No, I don't drink beer.” (I know this is a lie, but I'm trying to project an image of moral goodness to my colleagues)

“You won't drink a beer?”

“No.”

“Well, you are the only one in the taxi.”

Laughter ensues. Next thing I know my teachers are arguing. The only thing I can pick up from their bickering is it's about sparkling water. I still wonder what it is about sparkling water that could cause such a stir.

The ride progresses. We stop by a store to pick up meat. One of my teachers comes back with a “snack” to hold him over until we eat: fish and chips and hot dog buns. He proceeds to put french fries and fried fish in the folds of a hot dog bun and eat his sandwich. He does this with six hot dog buns. I find this, not only strange, but also surprising as I now expect him to combust. Then again I find many food choices to be extraneous. For example, choosing between french fries and toast to complement your omlette at breakfast seems out there. I have not fully adjusted to South Africa yet.

As we drive out of the parking lot, an Afrikaner girl bends to clean her shoe. Her already low cut pants dip even further exposing half of her rear. I am struck with her need for a belt. Laughter ensues.

Eventually we reach our destination which I discover is called “The Wheelbarrow.” Each time I go to a new place I think to myself: this must be the most beautiful place South Africa has to offer. Yet, each time the beauty only surpasses itself, and I can only think to myself the magnificence of nature.

I think we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. It looks like Fiji. The place in incredible, I have been transported into a rain forest: there are tropical gardens with giant palm trees. Lacy emerald fronds provide a canopy from the sun and later the rain. Vines tinged yellow and pea soup green climb the muted red brick buildings. Bridges run over small ponds filled with lily pads. Branching from the tree are long extensions of scarlet berries. I feels like we have a chandelier over our stone table. Sporadically placed throughout the area are small fenced enclosures with bright tropical birds: parrots, canaries, peacocks. The birds closest to us are blue bodied, gray feathered, with bright red eye patches. The flowers are incredible: lavender, magenta, sapphire, opal, sunset pink. I think of The Secret Garden as I lay across a reed mat staring into the canopy. I believe, if I received a proposal at this moment, I would say yes just so I can say I got married in this place.

My teachers begin cooking. We are having chicken and beef. I find it surreal to watch a chicken head grilling next to a steak. I don't like my meat to resemble animals. I prefer when I can pretend it's a potato. I'm a bad carnivore.

They make “snack mix” to munch on. A plate is filled with cheetoes, chips, peanuts, raisins, and mints. I find this combination discouraging. I abstain from the snack mix.

My principal wants to walk through the gardens to take pictures. I join her and we see more natural beauty and a few strategically placed pots and statues. The corniness only slightly detracts from my overall impression of the place. At one point my principal asks me:

“Do you want me to shoot you?”

“No, not particularly, it might be painful.”

Laughter ensues as she poses me under and frond and snaps my picture.

We return and eat, all of us, off of about four plates. I definitely get a sense of community sharing.

After I walk to the cafe on the premise in an attempt to get a cup of coffee. The first woman I meet only speak Sepedi and Afrikaans. I want detailed coffee; this is not going to work. She points me in the direction of an English speaking waitress. I attempt to get a mocha. My request is lost on her. I ask if they have any type of chocolate coffee drink. She looks at me like I'm insane. I explain to her that I'm American which seems to justify to her my eccentric notions. I settle on asking if can get a cup of coffee with cream and sugar. For the equivalent of about a dollar I walk out with a cup of coffee complimented by brown sugar and whip cream. I look at it this way: it has caffeine, if it tastes okay it can only be a bonus.

Eventually, it starts raining. We move under a thatched roof gazebo as I contentedly write and my teachers moat about boredom.

Our braie ends while I gasp at the beauty of the double rainbow hovering over groves of banana trees. It is a sensational, fabulous, awe inspiring sight. I suddenly believe in magic, leprechauns, all that is good on earth, and world peace. I want to be a forest nymph bathing in the colors. I can barely get my teachers to solicit a glance. I refuse to allow them to detract from my enjoyment.

In the end, we take the taxi while they dance to the blaring beat. I can't stop laughing. The self-proclaimed big mama's are transformed into young girls on the hip hop floor. Life makes me smile.