Teresie Hommersand grew up near Stavanger, a city known as the oil capital of Norway. She remembers eating supper every evening off plates with the logo of the national oil and gas company on them. Somehow she became the "green sheep" of the family. She has lived in Uganda, Oregon, and Australia. Learn more about her 13,700 km ride going from South Africa to Norway and her charity crowdfunding campaign on her Facebook page and Instagram.
(This is her fourth journal entry for us)
(This is her fourth journal entry for us)
When
traveling in a country different to one's own, certain things one come
across might seem peculiar - to say the least. When cycling, because you
meet people you most likely otherwise would not meet and travel on
roads you otherwise would not find yourself on, one is likely to
discover more things that make one scratch one's head, laugh out loud
or get chills down the spine...
For
instance, the other day a conversation topic turned to names. What
do people call their kids in Malawi? I don't find strange names like Gift, Precious,
Memory, Admire and the likes, but what I learned is that there's a new
trend in what to name kids - namely after new technologies.
Now, you have kids running around called Machine, Internet, or Headset! My absolute favorite is Missed Call!! Although Call Me Back comes pretty close too!
Another
thing that may to many seem weird or incomprehensible is the level of
superstition that exists in some of these countries. I was reminded of
it one late evening, sitting on a cement porch, 40km short of the
border between Zambia and Malawi.
That
afternoon I 'pulled in' at a Maize depot, asking if I could pitch my
tent for the night. It was a first for the guys working there, but they
said "Yes. Of course!" The security guard that was going to be there that
night showed me where to erect my tent and invited me to join him for
dinner.
"No. Thank you." I said.
He insisted, saying I should save my pasta and can of baked
beans for the next day. Even though I really wanted my delicious carbs
and protein (mmmm), there was something about this man that made me feel
like I could not say no. So, when the sun
had set and everything was covered by the dark, I found myself eating
nshima and eggs (with a bit of a crunch) on his cement porch in the
flickering candlelight. We talked about everything and anything. He told
me I had just missed one of the biggest traditional celebrations in the
country– a festival where people from all over– the president included–
come to see... The Masked Men's Dance.
"When they put on their masks," my host told me, "they take on a different persona. They become animals."
But
this is not the only time these men wear masks he continued. They are
part of a group, a group that recruits members in the rural villages.
Boys between the age of 12 and 15. They are being taken away for
months at a time, schooled in the rules of the group at a remote graveyard. Why?
Because the kids that do not graduate end up six feet under. Here they are introduced to black magic. Seeing men being cut 'bleed' honey and
buzzing bees. Putting fellow aspiring graduates in a bag. Tying it and
beating it with a stick until it's red. Opening the bag and seeing their
friend jump out without a bruise. Certainly no blood.
There are rules for which roads people are allowed to use. If they find someone
on one of the roads that people are not suppose to be travelling on, they will take them and make them part of the group - that is if you know you're not
suppose to be travelling on this road. But what about if you don't know?
Like me? When I'm cycling? My host said that these people are both good
and bad. Good in the sense that they won't do anything to you, if you
are not aware of being on the 'wrong' road. They will even help you
along.
It's
a secret group. No one is suppose to know who its members are. They do
not address each other by name or refer to each other in a way that
means that they know who the others are. And here I am sitting alone with
this guy, whose telling me all this, only able to see the white in his eyes
and his teeth in the weak light from the candle. Then he leans in, looks me in the eyes and says "I am one of them". I suspected it all along. There was
something about him.
'You're not suppose to tell meeee!' I jokingly
exclaimed.
Then he laughed and took it back, leaving a bit of
uncertainty with regards to the truth... The next day, as I got back on
my Soma Saga, he wished me a safe trip... Needless to say, I
never saw him again, or any masked men...
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