In my state of fear, disorganization and disillusionment before leaving California for Swaziland, I attempted to fool myself into thinking I was ready by making some superficial preparations. Because the US State Department allows Fulbrighters to ship two boxes of “education materials” to themselves through the diplomatic mail, I loaded up a box with anything I could find: old text books from college on African history (none of which proved to be useful), two books on botany for general interest, and a Scrabble board. I also packed a three-ring binder with some articles on traditional justice in East Africa.
Now that I’m in Swaziland reading “educational material” that is actually useful for my research, I wanted to organize them in my binder. So, I went to look for a three-hold-punch. I checked the school supply section of the three main supermarkets in Mbabane and Ezulwini to no avail. Likewise, the two book stores also did not carry this elusive device. I decided to drive to the industrial side of town where you can find most anything that is sold in Swaziland from under-the-table mechanics to bulk garden tools. I tried two bulk stationary stores and left disappointed. In the third shop told me they didn’t have three-hold-punches, but they had four-hold-punches.
“Okay,” I said, “do you also have four-ring binders?”
They didn’t. They had two-ring binders. I bought a two-ring binder and doubled back to the supermarket to purchase a two-hole-puncher. Now that my organizational infrastructure was complete, I was ready to begin accumulating relevant articles from the Swazana section of the University library, but this too, proved difficult.
The Swazana section of the library is off limits to casual browsers, can only be accessed by a librarian, and its books are considered “Reference” and cannot be checked out. Therefore, in order to take information of this kind out of the library you must make a copy. The only way to make a copy is to use the copy machine that is inside of the Reference Section. The only way to use this copy machine is to purchase a copy card, with which to pay for the copies. The only way to purchase a copy card is to pay for it at the accounts office.
I walk to the accounts office. The sign on the window tells me the hours of the accounts office are Monday through Friday from nine in the morning until five at night with an hour for lunch at one. It is twelve fifteen and the office is closed. The security guard tells me the accountant will be back after lunch. I am annoyed and leave. I return the next day at eleven. The accounts office is closed. The security guard tells me the accountant will be back in fifteen minutes. At one, I leave, annoyed and without my copy card. I arrive the next day at nine. The account is there (praise Jesus!) and I purchase my card. Then, I take the receipt to the librarian who stamps the receipt and gives me my copy card. I can now make copies.
So now I have a tow-ring binder full of copies of articles on the traditional justice system in Swaziland. I just have to get around to reading them.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
The King’s Birthday and Other Political Matters
Swaziland is an anomaly politically. Indeed it is this very reason that I am able to do research at all. I found Swaziland particularly interesting because it has a state sanctioned dual court system of formal Roman-Dutch style magistrate’s courts as well as traditional Swazi National Courts which arbiter on smaller matters as well as matters of the euphemistic Swazi Law and Custom. But the dual court system is the least glaringly intriguing aspect of Swaziland’s government. Going around Swaziland this month it is impossible to ignore that it King is celebrating his 41st birthday.
Although less extravagant than last years “40/40 Celebration” which commemorated the King’s 40th birthday as it coincided with 40 years of Swazi independence, this year’s celebration also was quite an affair. On every light post (working or not) between the airport at Matsapa, the industrial center in Manzini and the capital in Mbabane hangs a banner with the King’s face smiling out alternating with the traditional Swazi shield and Spear. The newspaper on Friday included a 52 page “King’s Birthday Supplement” that followed the king from birth through his recent meeting with Mugabe and the recently ousted president of Madagascar, Ravalomanana.
The entire newspaper is littered with large ads by various Swazi and foreign companies and organization expressing fond birthday wishes for the King.
But despite the adoration, the King doesn’t really seem to be the greatest guy. Despite his expensive taste in cars, his affinity for polygamy and ability to take advantage of every photo opportunity with foreign leaders (including a constant parade of businessmen from Kuwait and Dubai) the King doesn’t seem to be too involved in the country’s politics, which seemed to have steamed up of late.
The King signed a new constitution into effect in 2005. There is a 30 member Senate, 10 of which are elected by the House of Assembly, 20 of which are appointed by the King. The House consists of about 75 members, 10 of which are appointed by the King. Of note, the constitution also provided from free primary education by 2009. Well, here we are in 2009 and the protestors (some being beaten by police and some beating the police) on the streets are a good indication that this has yet to be achieved. A union took the government to court over this discrepancy and the High Court ruled that the government indeed legally did need to provide free primary education. The government responded by issuing a press statement in the newspaper effectively saying, “We’re trying. Hold tight ‘til 2015.”
Another issue that tends to make the news are the sinister activities of various groups outlawed by the Suppression of Terrorism Acts. This includes every political party. Although we joke about the destructive behavior of politicians, very few can be deemed terrorists – unless you’re in Swaziland. Here outlawed parties’ leaders are jailed, and as one case currently being heard at the High Court insists, tortured. It sounds faintly reminiscent of an old party called the ANC and a man named Nelson.
Despite all the political hiccups, the stadium at the trade fair grounds in Manzini were packed with people baking in the sun to celebrate the King’s birthday. Men showed enough thigh beside there animal skin loin cloths to make this girl blush and every other woman wore brightly colored cloth tied around her shoulder, usually with the King’s face on it. I stood in the sweltering heat, pressed against several other sweaty bodies listening to the King, in full military uniform, make promises to his people.
Although less extravagant than last years “40/40 Celebration” which commemorated the King’s 40th birthday as it coincided with 40 years of Swazi independence, this year’s celebration also was quite an affair. On every light post (working or not) between the airport at Matsapa, the industrial center in Manzini and the capital in Mbabane hangs a banner with the King’s face smiling out alternating with the traditional Swazi shield and Spear. The newspaper on Friday included a 52 page “King’s Birthday Supplement” that followed the king from birth through his recent meeting with Mugabe and the recently ousted president of Madagascar, Ravalomanana.
The entire newspaper is littered with large ads by various Swazi and foreign companies and organization expressing fond birthday wishes for the King.
But despite the adoration, the King doesn’t really seem to be the greatest guy. Despite his expensive taste in cars, his affinity for polygamy and ability to take advantage of every photo opportunity with foreign leaders (including a constant parade of businessmen from Kuwait and Dubai) the King doesn’t seem to be too involved in the country’s politics, which seemed to have steamed up of late.
The King signed a new constitution into effect in 2005. There is a 30 member Senate, 10 of which are elected by the House of Assembly, 20 of which are appointed by the King. The House consists of about 75 members, 10 of which are appointed by the King. Of note, the constitution also provided from free primary education by 2009. Well, here we are in 2009 and the protestors (some being beaten by police and some beating the police) on the streets are a good indication that this has yet to be achieved. A union took the government to court over this discrepancy and the High Court ruled that the government indeed legally did need to provide free primary education. The government responded by issuing a press statement in the newspaper effectively saying, “We’re trying. Hold tight ‘til 2015.”
Another issue that tends to make the news are the sinister activities of various groups outlawed by the Suppression of Terrorism Acts. This includes every political party. Although we joke about the destructive behavior of politicians, very few can be deemed terrorists – unless you’re in Swaziland. Here outlawed parties’ leaders are jailed, and as one case currently being heard at the High Court insists, tortured. It sounds faintly reminiscent of an old party called the ANC and a man named Nelson.
Despite all the political hiccups, the stadium at the trade fair grounds in Manzini were packed with people baking in the sun to celebrate the King’s birthday. Men showed enough thigh beside there animal skin loin cloths to make this girl blush and every other woman wore brightly colored cloth tied around her shoulder, usually with the King’s face on it. I stood in the sweltering heat, pressed against several other sweaty bodies listening to the King, in full military uniform, make promises to his people.
Friday, April 17, 2009
How to Run a (Half) Marathon and Get a Private Tour of Robben Island without Even Trying
Cape Town in beautiful. The coastline curves, loops back on itself, points, bends, and does its best to obscure your sense of direction. Majestic Table Mountain rises up behind the city – or is it in front – and keeps the encroaching urban areas in check with forbidding gorges and overwhelming inclines. And Cape Town is indeed the “Rainbow City”. The colorful slag of the coloured community rings out in thick accents from the beeping minibus taxis careening dangerously towards town. The clicks of Xhosa rattle off of the flicks of fingers braiding invisibly small brides outside the bus station. Afrikaans ankles, sturdy and sun burnt plod along the Waterfont. White-robed men streaming from the mosque stand out against the pastel pallet of rows of Bo-Kaap houses. And always the mountain stands watch over the city and the sea beyond.
We came to Cape Town to run the Two Oceans Marathon, billed as the most beautiful in the world. There are two options: a 56 kilometer ultra marathon that is indeed beautiful and does indeed offer views and salty air of two oceans and a 21 kilometer race which snakes through the suburbs, never seeing an ocean. I participated in the latter after months of not training. In fact, since signing up for the race I ran a total of two times, both for less than 40 minutes. As I had hoped, youth, arrogance and the need to use the bathroom pushed me to the end. I completed the race, despite the lack of bathrooms along the route. I am not a runner.
The museums of Cape Town were interesting: we saw huge gold earrings from West Africa at the Gold Museum and haunting ash portraits at the National Gallery; we learned about the snow sculptures in Hardin, China at the Jewish museum. We climbed Table Mountain, scrambling up rocky Skeleton Gorge, up ladders, and across the table which reminded me of a boardwalk through wetlands. We bargained for jewelry in the market, swam with penguins, kayaked with a seal and had Turkish coffee with an old woman. It was all very pleasant.
We also went to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela, Walter Sissou and other ANC leaders were incarcerated for almost two decades. Having just read Mandela’s autobiography, I was eager to see the places he had described in his book. Once on the island, tourists are supposed to proceed to buses for a 45 minute bus tour of the island where they are locked in close proximately to a babbling guide who talks more about how South Africans love Abba than about the island. After about 10 minutes by courage companion risked embarrassment and proceeded to disembark, just as the tour guide was explaining that in Mexico they speak Spanish and in Mozambique Portuguese. We began to walk back toward the prison on foot, when a white pick-up truck with “Agriculture” stenciled on the side stopped to ask what we were doing.
Before we new it, the driver of the truck, a brick layer and plaster worker who has lived on the island for over 11 years, was driving us through the bush on the island. We sailed past the airfield and snuck underground into the loading hold for ammunition for a World War I era gunship. We spotted reindeer as we rode down Lover’s Lane where wardens’ wives would come get their kicks with other wardens’ wives’ husbands. We saw the primary school which is still in use, the lime quarry where Nelson Mandela’s years of toil under the harsh reflection of sun against lime dried out his tear ducts and thousands of abalone shells strewn along the jagged coast and among the various ships’ wreckage.
Lastly, we walked through the prison and saw the cells where the political prisoners were held for their time on the island. Nelson Mandela is a tall man, and even I could not have lain down in the cells except for diagonally. It all seemed so surreal, a fresh coat of paint on the prison walls and a line of tourists all stopping at one cell, like all the others in the hall, to snap a photo of a woolen blanket on the ground. It seems ironic to pay tribute to the ANC, PAC and other political leaders as South Africa’s elections draw near. The ANC is still around, and will probably have its leader, Zuma, win the election just as it had Mandela before. But a cloud of haze hangs over the elections, the party and the man and more and more South African’s lament the political situation and the slow crumbling of a nation that stood so proud to hear Nelson Mandela’s speech when released from the island in the nineties.
My feet are tired and my clothes are dirty. My wallet’s lighter and I’m further from accomplishing my research goals. But I’ve seen Cape Town from the top of Table Mountain, more than 9,000 miles from home and for that I’m grateful.
We came to Cape Town to run the Two Oceans Marathon, billed as the most beautiful in the world. There are two options: a 56 kilometer ultra marathon that is indeed beautiful and does indeed offer views and salty air of two oceans and a 21 kilometer race which snakes through the suburbs, never seeing an ocean. I participated in the latter after months of not training. In fact, since signing up for the race I ran a total of two times, both for less than 40 minutes. As I had hoped, youth, arrogance and the need to use the bathroom pushed me to the end. I completed the race, despite the lack of bathrooms along the route. I am not a runner.
The museums of Cape Town were interesting: we saw huge gold earrings from West Africa at the Gold Museum and haunting ash portraits at the National Gallery; we learned about the snow sculptures in Hardin, China at the Jewish museum. We climbed Table Mountain, scrambling up rocky Skeleton Gorge, up ladders, and across the table which reminded me of a boardwalk through wetlands. We bargained for jewelry in the market, swam with penguins, kayaked with a seal and had Turkish coffee with an old woman. It was all very pleasant.
We also went to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela, Walter Sissou and other ANC leaders were incarcerated for almost two decades. Having just read Mandela’s autobiography, I was eager to see the places he had described in his book. Once on the island, tourists are supposed to proceed to buses for a 45 minute bus tour of the island where they are locked in close proximately to a babbling guide who talks more about how South Africans love Abba than about the island. After about 10 minutes by courage companion risked embarrassment and proceeded to disembark, just as the tour guide was explaining that in Mexico they speak Spanish and in Mozambique Portuguese. We began to walk back toward the prison on foot, when a white pick-up truck with “Agriculture” stenciled on the side stopped to ask what we were doing.
Before we new it, the driver of the truck, a brick layer and plaster worker who has lived on the island for over 11 years, was driving us through the bush on the island. We sailed past the airfield and snuck underground into the loading hold for ammunition for a World War I era gunship. We spotted reindeer as we rode down Lover’s Lane where wardens’ wives would come get their kicks with other wardens’ wives’ husbands. We saw the primary school which is still in use, the lime quarry where Nelson Mandela’s years of toil under the harsh reflection of sun against lime dried out his tear ducts and thousands of abalone shells strewn along the jagged coast and among the various ships’ wreckage.
Lastly, we walked through the prison and saw the cells where the political prisoners were held for their time on the island. Nelson Mandela is a tall man, and even I could not have lain down in the cells except for diagonally. It all seemed so surreal, a fresh coat of paint on the prison walls and a line of tourists all stopping at one cell, like all the others in the hall, to snap a photo of a woolen blanket on the ground. It seems ironic to pay tribute to the ANC, PAC and other political leaders as South Africa’s elections draw near. The ANC is still around, and will probably have its leader, Zuma, win the election just as it had Mandela before. But a cloud of haze hangs over the elections, the party and the man and more and more South African’s lament the political situation and the slow crumbling of a nation that stood so proud to hear Nelson Mandela’s speech when released from the island in the nineties.
My feet are tired and my clothes are dirty. My wallet’s lighter and I’m further from accomplishing my research goals. But I’ve seen Cape Town from the top of Table Mountain, more than 9,000 miles from home and for that I’m grateful.
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