Phluxx's space

  It seems quite sensible to the rational man that an airplane has a finite carrying capacity, and excess weight is not a good idea, in a Newtonian sense at least.  Perhaps it is because our forefathers travelled for months by steamship that a tradition of overpacking has been maintained over decades, despite progress in baggage materials and the shelf-life of food.  Seasoned white travellers with their ultra-lite Samsonite are scoffed at, we prefer the family pethi, the trunk still marked with the signs of that first journey on the Truro, kept at the end of the bed ready for the next grand trek.  The smell of Bombil (dried fish, known as Bombay duck in English) fills the air when it is opened, as much an insect-repellant as it is a deterrant to any customs officer who would dare open it for inspection.  "Aaah", cries the matriarch with a pang of nostalgia, her turmeric-stained hands clasped to her bosom.  "The smell of the motherland"

 

The art of Pusch-in is passed down through the generations, and is characterised by the systematic disregard for the basical principle that no two objects may occupy the same space at the same time, with specific reference to luggage.  Relatives, aware of an impending journey, traditionally try to get the most impractical object to challenge the Puscher, and points are given for not only the number of extra objects, but also their size and the potential for incurring a fine or establishing alien vegetation at the country of destination.  Failure to include an object is seen as a personal insult to the party bearing the gift, resulting in an honour-deficit which may take years to resolve.  Teams of specialist Puschers have been established, and may be seen packing with fervour accompanied by the call of "Pusch-in, Pusch-in", and hence the name.

Our childhood games of hide-and-seek were more than just a bit of fun.  There were strict rules of engagement.  Anyone who did not play according to the rules was shunned.  Even worse, they could be left counting while the remaining players secretly vacated the playing area.

 

The seeker had to count out loud, and then confirm that the other players were ready, by calling out:

 

"hier kom ek"  (I'm coming)

 

If the players looking for a good spot had not done so in the alotted time, there was some leniency to take into account the level of literacy and numeracy of the seeker, as this would of course impact on the speed and accuracy of the countdown and indeed in the abillity of the remaining players to understand what he was saying.  They could appeal for extra time, calling out:

 

"Notty"  (pronounced "naughty" and implying that they were NOT ready)

 

Once they were suitably hidden, or a mutually agreeable time had passed, they could say:

 

 

"Kom maar"  (oh well, alright, you can come)

 

I believe one of the more innovative rules, which I believe is peculiar to Cape Town, is the Blinde Spy amendment.  It was designed to ensure accuracy of identification on the part of the seeker, and meant that well-camouflaged or well-hidden players had the benefit of doubt.  If the seeker believed that he had found a player, he had to identify them by name, and if his guess was incorrect, the player could invoke the "Blinde Spy" (translated blind spy) rule, appealing against his capture and therefore resulting in a new game due to a vote of no confidence.

 

I have written before about the way childhood games form a template for social interaction in adult life.  I wonder if the Blinde Spy amendment is a model which could possibly have been put to good use in the Middle East conflict with regards to the American Millitary Intelligence (? a perfect example of an oxymoron) reports on missile bases and chemical factories in Iraq.  An example follows:

 

A:  julle het missiles

B:  nee ons hettie

A:  ja julle het

B:  Wela, blinde spy!  Ons speel weer, en ons kry Kuwait!

 

It could be argued that gossip (or "skinder") has some positive aspects with regards to social interaction.  After all, some relationships are based chiefly on the frequency of gossip-exchange encounters and the perceived quality and authenticity of the stories involved.  I believe that there is a heirarchy of gossip-mongers (or "skinder-bekke") which has developed over years as the art has been perfected by individuals, and as the art as a whole has evolved.

 

The markers of good skinder are       a) level of familiarity with the person involved

                                                      b) perceived authenticity, ie can it be corroborated by more than one skinderbek 

                                                      c)  the degree of immorality of the act which the story purportedly describes.  Note that inter-                                                           region as well as inter-individual  variation in the idea of morality means that really good skinder needs to be skillfully and meticulously targeted.  Telling a 22 year old university student in Rondebosch that her best friend is a lesbian might be a good story, but telling her aunt in Cravenby that she goes out with her non- Indian, non-muslim friend during Ramadan and doesn't wear a scarf borders on creative genius.

                                                       d) audience participation is important as it validates the story at the time of presentation, but also increases the chance of it being is passed on, (see b above)

 

Affirmative repetition, a common linguistic practice on the Cape Flats, can therefore be seen as an extremely powerful tool.  This is probably easier demonstrated by means of a dialogue.

 

 

Skinderbek A:  Sy gaan mos uit in die Pwasa   (she goes out in Ramadan)

 

Skinderbek B:  Pwasa, ja                (Ramadan, yes)

 

Skinderbek A:  Maar weet Bhabi, sonder 'n doek ( but you know sister-in-law, without a scarf)

 

Skinderbek B:  'n doek, err  ( a scarf. yes)

 

Skinderbek A:  is 'n skander, ne (scandalous, isn't it)

 

Skinderbek B:  'n skander, is waar weet Bhabi (scandalous, it's true sister-in law) 

 

 

 

The Italians have their risotto, the Spanish paella, Kokani's have akhni.  Unlike the familiar (to the West anyway) curry and rice, it consists of richly spice meat and potatoes cooked together with rice.  Not to be confused with the more ostentatious biryani which classically consists of layers of meat covered with rice and then left to cook, it has more in common with the Pakistani pulau.  Akhni, frequently served at Indian functions in Cape Town (at least it was, until things went all posh and poncy), is more than a meal served to guests, it could be thought of as the glue which binds the Kokani community.

 

  It is painstakingly prepared in massive cauldrons over open fires, so that wood-smoke permeates the dish and adds that touch of magic which is so difficult to replicate in the home kitchen.  Each ingredient is carefully chosen not only for flavour, but for it's emotive content, serving as a subliminal message, evoking age-old archetypes.  The smell of akhni on an open fire directly targets the limbic system of anyone who has ever tasted it, inducing a sort of umbilical whiplash, taking them straight back to a time and place when they were comfortable, accepted, and at home. 

 

Fatty cuts of mutton work better, as the fat coats the grains of rice as they cook, binding flavour to them.  Aromatic green chillies and coriander are an essential ingredient, and the addition of potatoes needs to be carefully timed to ensure that they are cooked, but do not disintegrate before the rice has completed it's cooking time.  Some people swear by yoghurt, for added flavour and as a meat tenderiser, but I am more familiar with the version of the dish in which it is omitted.  Cumin, garlic and chilli make up the bulk of the flavour, whilst turmeric, cinnamon and cardamom make more subtle contributions.

 

The perfect accompaniment to a a steaming plate of akhni is undoubtably dahi, consisting of yoghurt blended with chillies, coriander and garlic.  Some old school akhni afficionados may remember the stuffed aubergines which were served as a side dish.  We called it "bozaar", but others had different names.

 

Biryani may be the food of kings, to feed your guests so they may feel like royalty, but Akhni, the country cousin, makes your guests feel like part of the family.

 

"Chicha, bring nog aartappel!"

Umesh was a pioneer, ahead of his time.  I'd never heard about house music till he let me listen to a recording on his tinny speakers.  My brain was not ready for it yet, and the repetitive four-on-the floor beat overlaid with camp vocals remained as mysterious to me as the recipe for Apa's Chana Magaj.  While he was trying to explain the difference between  Acid House and disco, my classmates brought in mix tapes they had made by leaving a casette recorder running in a club and spent study sessions carefully drawing playboy bunnies on their canvas bags and arguing about the exact size of DJ superfly's fingers. The quality of the recordings was far from adequate, but they were happy as long as they could hear the bass, to "klop it", while the DJ could be heard (vaguely) trying to get his voice heard over the music:

 

"mumble mumble mumble TONIGHT!

mumble, Jerome your mother's in the foyer

mumble TONIGHT!"

I do not understand to this day why DJ's at the time insisted on trying to sing along, telling us to "Jack your body", or "tay tay tay tay take or leave us".  Vocalists get paid rather well to do what they do.  Leave it to them.

 

The arrival of the CD meant that the quality of sound improved dramatically, but actually owning a CD player was beyond the reach of most of the kids at school.  Having a recording from a CD was something cool, whilst actually owning a CD elevated your status to something approaching minor deity.  One of the first CD's I heard was by Chris Rea (on the beach) at my friend Yogi's house. His brother had quite a collection which included Michael Franks, whom I've never heard from since and Sade whom I thought was gorgeous.  Some of the posh girls still listened to Wham!, although I still can't understand how we never figured out that George Michael was gay even after we saw him dance. 

 

Choice of hairstyle was dictated by the musicians at the time- the mullet was king, but the curly perm with the obligatory wet-look came a close second.  Girls often opted for the androgynous quiff favoured by the new romantics like Duran Duran or the untamed mousse-mane with the hat-behind-the-fringe look to go with the plastic Madonna bangles.  Party-wear was clashing colours, tights with bubble skirts for girls or pastel Miami Vice suits with sleeves at half-mast for boys.

Ah yes, the eighties.  So glad to have been there, so glad they're gone.

Let me start by saying that I don't think I would be as comfortable or confident at doing a wedding speech as the more established MC's (who, it may be argued have a stranglehold on the vocation).  I will therefore not be too critical about the actual delivery, but choose to focus on the content of the speech at an Indian wedding in Cape Town.  Note that I refer to the speech in the singular, because I do believe that there is just one speech, having been passed down the generations with only the occasional variation.  (Regular subscribers may remember the concept of memes)

Some of the recurring themes and stock-phrases below may illustrate my point.  

"respected elders, brothers and sisters, beloved children..."

"it gives me great pleasure.."

"without further ado... (frequently erroneously "further adieu")

 

The introduction usually paves the way for the guest speaker, whose arrival at the podium is usually heralded by the sound of scarves being repositioned from the neutral position (ie on the neck) to the position of humility (ie on the head) executed by women in the audience with military precision. ("No, Chand-bibi, you have to wear a scarf, even if it's in your neck!")

 

The main purpose of the main speaker seems to be to inspire feelings of guilt and cultural inadequacy:  women and men are constantly reminded of their roles in society and how they are failing to fulfill them.  Women especially are targetted for not being better wives, and husbands for "not teaching and looking after your womenfolk".  The topic of divorce is a common thread in the wedding speech, as is filial obligation.  Bollywood movies are increasingly used as a template for emotional blackmail, used to justify actions and attitudes between the married families (ref to the great indian wedding part one).  The movie Baghban, for example, has been cited as "something every family should see!" by MC's at recent weddings, which usually inspires mutterings of "it happened to Amitabh, it can happen to us" from the members of the audience.  (Let me just digress for a moment to say that Baghban is crap, an awful movie with dismal acting, and no purpose other than to rake in the rupees of prospective mothers-in-law who, after watching it, will develop an unhealthy fear of their future daughter-in-law..)     A healthy dose of hellfire and brimstone are added to the mix, and served as an appetiser before the main meal.