Swazi Socialite

On Friday night, the two Cypriot boys and I went off to Café Lingo, a recently opened spot in town that boasts live music on Friday nights. Tonight a special “Guitarist Extraordinaire,” Nanando, was billed to play. I had seen the advertising banner hung by the main intersection in town. Because of the special performer, we had to pay a cover. As the doorman stamped the back of my hand, I noticed a small brown dot, about the size of an eraser on the back of my hand. As I tried to flick it off I discovered that some unseen body part – teeth perhaps, or claws – was stuck in my skin, extracting, like a tiny American Red Cross nurse, drops of my blood. I pinched it and pulled it off my skin, a bit disgusted, and entered Café Lingo.

At some point in the evening I met Sky, a journalist from the Swazi Times and her group of fashionista friends. I suspect they are part of the royal family as they wore Channel, carried Gucci bags, drove new Mercedes and went shopping “all over the world.” They drank shots of tequila and bottles of wine. Their droopy, drunk eyelashes and petite frames soon convinced my Cypriot companion that, at one in the morning, the night was still young.

We drove the 25 minutes to Manzini and pulled into a crowded parking area, littered with tipsy or downright hammered revelers. Mention this infamous spot to anyone in Swaziland and they’ll have a story to tell. Tinkers. A sweaty outdoor dance floor crowded with those who party and those only sober enough to lean against the wall, bleary-eyed. My companion joked, “Let’s see who gets stabbed first.”

As we’re getting ready to leave, at a quarter to four, Stella decides we all need hot dogs. DRUNK FOOD – the ubiquitous, great bringer together of partiers around the world. In Scotland we went in search of a late-night kabob shop to satisfy our bellies swimming in booze. In San Francisco, as club goers are evacuated from dingy hipster bars in the Mission at two in the morning, they gather again at sizzling carts to pay four dollars for a hot dog wrapped in bacon. And at Tinkers in Manzini, they order four sausages, covered in condiments and chilies and stagger back to their car.

The next evening I went with my land-lady’s son to a braai (barbeque) for a friend’s birthday. The son had shot an impala a few days earlier and it would be roasted over a spit in celebration. To prepare the Impala, its head had been removed as had its innards. To kill any adrenaline built up in the animal, about three liters of Coca-cola are injected into the carcass over a few days. Then, holes are cut in the fleshy parts and stuffed with garlic. The outside is covered in olive oil, spices and – in this case – apricot jam. Not salt is used as it sucks the moisture out of the meat.

We arrived around eight and at this point the impala has been roasting, spread across a large iron spit over two barrels of coals, for just under ten hours. A knife is stuck in the flesh and those of us hungry enough can help ourselves to a piece of juicy thigh or crispy apricot skin.

Some of the guests, volunteers from a nearby backpackers, remark that it’s hard to eat meat when you can see the charred animal right in front of you, turning on a spit. But I disagree. I think, to know where your meat is coming from – instead of some faceless ground beef, frozen at Safeway, from an auction block of some factory farm, force fed grain and prodded into a pen – is much better. This impala was an adult male who’d been grazing on bush grass and running freely across the National Trust Land. It died quickly, albeit shot in the head, and was roasted with care and enjoyed! Very much enjoyed.

The Battle of the Butter

Yesterday morning I accompanied my hostess to her usual morning coffee date in town. “There is nothing else to do, so why not have coffee with my friends,” she explains in a thick Greek accent, fumbling for her cigarettes. Her ‘international’ coffee circle consists of two Greeks, a Turkish woman and an Israeli woman, all who have lived in Swaziland for almost 30 years. The women sit a foot lower than me at the table, with ample bosoms resting on the table-top and a veritable rainbow of dyed hair.

The Turkish woman is dripping in gold and crystal jewelry and the Israeli has a self-diagnosed “sickness” for diamonds. She reaches into her bag to produce her latest acquisitions: two diamond and white-gold rings (one square-cut and one baguette) that were recently brought back from Johannesburg. The conversation turns to safe deposit boxes in Israel, Turkey, Cyprus, where jewelry is stored for future generations.

The women smoke and drink cappuccinos. My hostess has ordered some toast. “Sissy,” she calls to the waitress, “Half an hour! I order toast and it has not yet come.” The waitress explains they are out of butter.

“I can’t believe it,” the women exclaim. “Why has she not told us when we ordered,” “Why has she not gone to buy some at the other shop,” and “We must tell the owner his servers are useless.” The waitress is brought back and lectured on the faults of not having butter.

Then the Israeli, who has been in the bathroom, returns and the situation is explained to her in heavily accented English. Each woman in turn adds an explanation of disgust in her mother tongue.

“I don’t believe it!” exclaims the Israeli. She calls the waitress back. Another lengthy lecture and an explanation is demanded.

“The shipment has not come,” the waitress explains.

“Let it be,” sighs my hostess, lighting another cigarette. Five minutes later, two thick slices of toast appear with jam and – what looks to me like – butter.

“Margarine!” The women gasp. An outrage to say the least. They have sworn off the coffee-shop and vow to take their coffees somewhere else. The rest of the breakfast is spent comparing the inadequacies of margarine to butter. Today, we went there for coffee again.

First Impressions

I flew to Manzini on a 30 passenger plane that swayed down the runway and took off into drizzling clouds. From the air, in peek-a-boos in the clouds was green, sparkling fresh-from-the-rain green. Valleys of bright green flowed down from mountains of deep green; mountains that don’t come sharply to a peek, but amble at the altitude lazily; mountains dotted with rocks, the ancient geology’s last stand against the new blanket of green vegetation. We landed in the drizzle, an hour late, and I was met by Andreas and his dotting Greek mother’s Mercedes.

T Minus One Week

For the next 10 months I’ll be living in Swaziland, trying to complete a research project of which I have only a vague outline and attempting to justify giving up my sweet life in San Francisco surrounded by friends, public transportation and a constant supply of electricity.

Swaziland is a small kingdom about the size of New Jersey found in southern Africa. Although it has never been a part of South Africa, it is almost completely surrounded by the county, with a small border with Mozambique as well. The CIA World Factbook tells us that Swaziland’s main exports are “soft drink concentrates, sugar, wood pulp, cotton yarn, refrigerators, citrus and canned fruit,” but a more thorough search may tell you that the export that generates the most income, is marijuana.

Swaziland has been independent (from Britain) for 40 years, is ruled by a King, and has a dual justice system of courts and traditional justice systems. It is the latter that the United States Department of State deemed worthy for me to study for the next 10 months at their expense.

With a week to go, I have yet to secure a letter of affiliation from the University of Swaziland, on which my entire grant hinges. I have yet to ship my research materials to Swaziland, and I have yet to consider packing. I have, however, acquired a fashionable pair of tie-dyed sneakers, so at least I’ll arrive in Swaziland in style, if unprepared.