I dig nudity. But this is an overdose

2013-09-02 13:15

It’s Saturday. It’s 11am. I have this weird, swimming feeling in my head. It’s something like seasickness. But very different.

Truth is, I’m boobsick. For the want of a better word for the syndrome. I’m surrounded by breasts. Literally thousands and thousands of them.

Truth is, I’ve had enough. I never thought I’d say this, but if I never see another boob, I’m cool. Or OK, at least until I get back to Durban.

The Croc and I are in Nongoma. It’s the annual Reed Dance Festival. There’s girls and young women from all over the province pouring into the tent city downhill from King Goodwill Zwelithini’s Noykeni Palace.

They’re here to carry ceremonial reeds signifying their purity for the king.

All dressed up in traditional gear.

The Croc’s in his element. His hard drive with all his work from the last reed dance got jacked at the January 8 gig by one of the comrades.

He’s gone snap happy. Me, I’m battling. I’m stone cold sober, courtesy of a dose of antibiotics and a temporary booze ban.

Not even a hangover to numb my senses. Everywhere I look, there’s breasts. I start freaking out. I’m socialised to see breasts as part of sex. These are breasts in a totally different context.

I dig nudity. I'll get my gear off at a second's notice. Especially if there's an ocean around. There's pictures of my naked white ass all over Facebook. I've even been nailed for naked bodysurfing. This, however, is an overdose.

There’s security everywhere to keep the perverts out. Turns out they’re needed. Early in the day some muppet decides he wants to record the maidens bathing at the river. He gets caught and ends up in the Nongoma cop shop.

There’s rows and rows of maidens delivering reeds to the king. There’s a legend that if a maiden isn’t a virgin, the reed bends when she reaches the king. Some of them look nervous as they head up the hills to the king’s pad.

There’s another legend that the women who look after the maidens provide muthi that stops men from becoming aroused when they walk past.

The king pops out, greets them and retires indoors. He’ll only be out again in the evening, after Peggy Nkonyeni turns a beautiful cultural event into a cut-rate ANC rally. Classy stuff, Peggy. I’ve had enough. I stagger downhill to where the ordinary hustlers are doing business.

Outside the main perimeter there’s a mad kind of market going on. Crazy tent photo booths with tropical beach background for pictures for Facebook.

Chicken dust. Crazed airtime vendors with loudhailers offering discounted airtime for virgins.

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