Tim Conibear: Butter the soul
The spiritual enrichment of cultural exchange.
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A good friend of mine once told me that the great plains of Africa are like food for the soul. We’d often stay up late and talk about the importance of soul and imparting it in all that you do and all who you meet. You could argue we enjoyed indulging our inner hippy, indeed you could argue that what follows here is merely an extension of those wine sodden evenings, but now, sitting in a little farm house on the plains of Africa, sandwiched between two pretty looking right point breaks, I think of my friend, as I talk to another. And I appreciate what she told me, as it’s bought me here.
Here’s a little story for you. An Englishman, an Irishman, an Australian and a Xhosaman take off into the plains of Africa in search of something a little different. There will be waves. That we know for we checked beforehand. Some of us can surf, others are learning and some can’t really swim. There will be lonely dirt tracks, big skies, empty beaches and everything necessary to speed the drone that city life has beaten into our country bones away. But then, we knew that too. And again, it’s why we came. None of us are city folk: all born in the country, in England, Ireland, Tasmania and Transkei. But for now, we live in Cape Town for our differing reasons and are rewarded by the challenge and the wonder of meeting people from very different walks of life on a daily basis. This trip is our reward for enduring the city, for being open to one and other and taking advantage of the opportunities that come our way. It’s a chance for cultural exchange, to take some time to strengthen friendships and a chance to learn from one and other. It’s food for the soul of a different nature.
We begin as we emerge from the township of Masiphumelele. We wind our way through the streets and away from Thomas’ small shack. Thomas is my friend and a partner in the children’s charity we run. He last left Cape Town in 2008, en route to a family funeral in George, crammed into a communal taxi for seven hours. Before that, he can’t remember the last time. ‘We’, on the other hand, leave Cape Town every weekend, in search of adventure in the sticks. We’ll maybe give a hitcher a quick lift down the road, but these weekend journeys were ours. And that was a rut that needed fixing.
From Masi, it’s a five-hour drive east, to our destination somewhere on the Southern Cape where a lonely farmhouse waits. We climb out of False Bay and soon enter the wilderness, brown and barren, tall and wide, and we settle in. As we drive, we talk honestly and openly, as friends and often laughing, and we start to understand one and other. Some issues are harder than others, some truths embarrassing and others funny. We talk about religion, HIV and AIDS, and sex. We talk of immigration, ethnic and minority violence, our childhoods in the developed and underdeveloped worlds, and about girls, relationships - both good and bad.
As we arrive in the bush, we unpack and unwind as we look to escape the trappings of the city. Thomas makes for the TV and is immediately disappointed by the lack of cable, which he does not possess at home. He sighs and makes do with a warm bath, a similar luxury, and emerges an hour later with a grin. We go outside and wax up his new board. He smiles as he looks out into the bush, “No barb wire, no fences, I wonder if I can come here on honeymoon?”
That night we eat well - homemade burgers and bread on the fire - and play cards. English games, Irish games, Xhosa games, all in good humour, all of us cheating when only we know the rules, and we talk all the while. It’s dark and the stars are out, a gentle wind in the walled garden creates a soft rustle of leaves. “Ay, too quiet. House music?” Soon there’s a beat and the house is rocking. “Much better,” we all laugh, and a new conversation starts.
And so it goes for the couple of days we spend on the farm. There is no peace or quiet, just a constant beat that keeps us all dancing. At meals Thomas leads us in a prayer, before we sleep Thomas reads a verse from his bible. At the beach, we lounge and wait for the waves to show. Thomas passes out on the rocks, breathing in the sea air, we follow suit once we’ve smothered ourselves in sun block - much to Thomas’ amusement. When it’s flat, we drive and we stop often, wasting money on petty purchases while Thomas keeps his cash for precious airtime to call his girlfriend. It’s funny how much money we waste when we have it. And again, we talk.
One of my closest friends once told me a sad story that recounted the loss of a fellow soldier. As he went to say goodbye all he found was a body that bore no semblance to the person he once knew. Limp and lifeless, their soul had gone and he realised where we find ourselves.
It’s only when you spend time together that you realise that most of our differences are material, skin deep. We’re all just skin and bone, and that counts for so little. What am I getting at? It’s so rare that we give people our time. We are quick to judge, too selfish to see past the obvious and find the person inside. We see colour, we see creed, we see wealth, we see poverty, we see beauty, we see ugliness, we see so many things that matter so little and make such grand judgements on people we don’t even know. There is nothing we cannot learn if we share, if we bare a little of ourselves to see someone else.
We should appreciate each other for our differences. Difference is no bad thing and we don’t need to close ourselves off to it. How boring would the world be if we were all the same? We should embrace our differences for its there that we find our souls, our individuality.
We should be a little more selfless in what we give to one and other, and give each other time - it costs nothing.
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Butter the soul (text) by Tim Conibear is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
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