The mountains of Songimvelo are as ancient, as worn and weathered, as an old woodcarver's hands. They rise above the South African veld, tier after tier of yellow-green hills studded with aloe and thorn trees.
Among these mountains in the Kangwane homeland live the native African Swazi, poorly educated, mostly illiterate, speaking little English. Despite the lack of what we consider civilization, or perhaps because of it, using only a few simple hand tools the carvers of Songimvelo create a wide array of lush, sensuous sculptures.
On our trip into the mountains, I am skeptical of what we will find. In the towns we pass the most elaborate houses are simple squares of mud-plastered walls. I cannot tell whether the underlying structures are made of cement blocks, clay bricks, or just built-up earth. The roofs are sheets of tin held down with rocks. No plumbing or electricity is in evidence.
How can this grinding poverty produce anything of artistic value? At our first stop, however, I am forced to re-examine my American prejudices. On a wood table in front of several small huts, an array of wooden and soapstone animals are arranged in a neat row. My companions and I squabble good-naturedly among ourselves about who will purchase which. I pay 25 Rand for the impala I select, the equivalent of about $8.50 U.S.
A white pickup truck--bakkie in South Africa--pulls up. In it are buyers from Johannesburg. Originally from northern Namibia along the border of Angola, they tell us, they now run an export company. They tell me they ship carvings from Songimvelo, from Zululand, from Malawi, to American and Italy and Israel. I ask one of them what kind of wood the carvers here use most often, and he tells me black wattle.
"In other places they use teak and ironwood," he says. "Ironwood is a blackish wood. If you polish it or put oil on it, it gets very dark. Teak wood is more to this type of color, lighter. I prefer the teak. I always tell the people, 'You must look for the most color in the piece of wood, in one sculpture, and you must put all of that in.'"
He points to a pile of nondescript limbs and branches and stumps lying to one side. I have paid little attention to that pile until now, thinking it was firewood; my American prejudices are showing again.
"They use the dead trees, seasoned wood," he says.
With the arrival of the exporter, the door to one of the little buildings is opened. One of the carvers starts bringing out a fantastic array of sculpture, everything from long-necked giraffes to fanciful faces captured in tree branches. Inside we find more small animals carved in both wood and soapstone.
While the Namibians are examining these treasures, I wander over to where a young man is working. Speaking through an interpreter, I ask his name and how long he's been carving. He says his name is Johann Nkomyane. He turns out to be an apprentice; he's been working for only three months. An old man was teaching him, he says, but the old man has moved to another area. Johann says he is working on a meercat, a small predator. The interpreter is unable to understand what kind of wood the animal is made from. We thank Johann and move on.
Under a small grove a trees, another carver is making chips fly off a limb between his knees. The interpreter asks how he begins a project. After a lengthy discussion in Swazi, the interpreter says, "He cuts it green and shapes it a little and lets it dry."
I ask for this carver's name also, and how he chooses what to carve. Another lengthy discussion ensues while the chips fly.
"His name is Mandla Shongwe. What he carves depends on what the shape of the wood looks like," the interpreter says. "The wood tells him."
Mandla says he works with only one kind of wood. He calls it "rabbit-ear;" the interpreter is unable to determine any other name for it. I note that on many of the carvings, the hooves or horns are dark while the rest of the wood is light.
"How do you do that?" I ask through the interpreter.
"In the fire," Mandla replies in heavily accented English, clearly amused that this white lady from America doesn't know.
"How does the wood tell you what's in it? Do you see the animal?" I ask.
"Yes, sometimes," he replies. "I sit and look at it, and it tells me something. But sometimes it comes different." He holds up a long, slim branch.
"Look at this one. This is a giraffe. But you have to force it. The head is OK. But the body is not right. There is supposed to be a branch here so that the body will be a bit longer."
He points to where the giraffe's haunches should be.
While we are talking, the importers are loading their bakkie. Giraffes, old men, a stump covered with faces all disappear into the back. My companions call me, and I excuse myself; we have other stops to make today.
I wonder if Johann and Mandla have any concept of how far their carvings will travel in the next few weeks, before they find a home in the corner of someone's living room in Israel or Italy or America. In the end, I take away the impala and some small soapstone animals, including an exquisitely detailed bush pig. I hold the carved impala in my lap as we drive away. I already know where I will put it in my office. Every time I see it there it will remind me, will call me back, to the hills of Songimvelo.
Copyright (c) 1997 Carolee Boyles-Sprenkel. All rights reserved.