Thebe Mabanga
Upon selling his company for a cool R3,5- billion, information technology entrepreneur Mark Shuttleworth noted that university life was about “partying, booze and sex. Repeat if necessary.” The highlight of this cycle is definitely orientation week, enjoyed last week by more than 50 000 first years at 21 universities across the country.
There were still signs of it this week at the University of the Witwatersrand, with the odd banner and sodden pamphlet strewn across the wet lawns as students trudged on to the real work of university study. O- week is designed to welcome new students and prepare them for varsity life, but for most it is the best fun they can have with half their clothes on.
It has grown from a small occasion for registration – a chance to get advice on stress and time management – to a full week’s razzmatazz.
At the centre of all the frenzy is a set of established rituals. One of these is the pub crawl, a tour of the campus’s 12 pubs, with lunch and unlimited booze thrown in for a small charge.
Wits University’s Jubilee Hall, an all- female residence, has by far the most bizarre ritual. New entrants used to be required to kiss a life-size frog dummy, presumably to turn it into a Prince Charming. This was until late 1998 when, during the exam period, one resident who had grown disillusioned with varsity life – and men – decided to slit the damn thing’s throat. She had obviously missed the stress management sessions.
The residences are also popular for their parties, which serve as a build-up to the week’s big bashes. Jubilee Hall co-hosts its party with Ernest Oppenheimer Hall, a male residence in Parktown. The obvious intention is to allow freshmen to explore adolescent chemistry. Trouble is, trying to chat up a timid-looking chick in a mandatory royal blue residence T-shirt, navy blue jeans and white sneakers – all new – and topped off with braces and thick glasses might start off as an ego boost, but you soon realise it is a futile exercise when she blurts out something about a curfew, a call from her parents and a boyfriend in Mmabatho. Give her time: the braces will make way for a cigarette, contact lenses replace the glasses, jeans make a good graffiti billboard, and the boyfriend in Mmabatho … boyfriend? What boyfriend?
Advertisers have realised the potential of this event. The big banks and anyone who has something to sell to the student market (mistakenly assumed to be rich and intelligent) use the opportunity to display their wares. There is this catchy ad for the fencing club. It is sponsored by … let me see … ah, the Mail & Guardian.
Another popular form of sponsorship is T- shirts. Various clubs and societies sell these to raise funds. Some clubs will never be heard of again until the end of the year when they host their annual balls to raise more funds. Of the students that get recruited, only a handful will help carry out club duties during the year when the reality of lab sessions, tutorials and exams hits them.
At Wits, most of these promotional activities are supposed to take place on the library lawns. However, this year the rain washed out three of the five days, thereby ruining two months of careful planning. A disused, soft drink-sponsored broadcasting stall formed the backdrop of a depressing scene that comprised deserted marquees and a waterlogged pitch. All stalls had to be moved indoors into the Senate House concourse and Central Block, and most clubs made the best of a less than ideal situation.
The problem with this arrangement was that the mountaineering club could not erect its wall so we could become gladiators, the radio station could not broadcast since there were banks and offices nearby and the wine-tasting club ran out of samples.
But for many of the exhibitors, it worked: this year, like every year, the media organisations and the sports codes scored impressively.