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.