I'm with the Team

On Sunday I went with my new soccer team, Kappa Ladies, to their game at Mhlambayatsi. Although I’m not yet registered to play (although hopefully will be soon), I went along as a spectator.

We met in front of Wild Wingzz in Mbabane. Some of the girls wore their white Kappa Ladies polo shirts with blue track pants with a thin yellow piping down the side. Others were in long blue shorts with yellow trim. One forward came in J-lo-esqu zipper overalls and a blue Kappa Ladies shirt. One player brought her son.

Our coach arrives behind the wheel of the team Kombie in a white Gilligan’s hat, blasting music about thirty decibels louder than the Kombie’s speakers can handle. We all climb in. My legs don’t fit, no matter how I maneuver, between the back of my seat and the back of the seat in front of me, so I sit hugging my knees like a frightened child. I have one hip pressed against the outside right defender and the other against the blaring Kombie speaker. We start off, making a quick stop at the Spar grocery store (why we don’t just meet there and skip the unloading and re-loading process as it is just across the way from the Wild Wingzz is beyond me) and are then on our way.

Mhlambayatsi, our destination, is 27 kilometers outside of Mbabane. To get there, the Kombie struggles over hills, down valleys, across rivers, past the dam and between the beautiful rolling vistas of this mountainous and unruly Kingdom. The temperature drops a few degrees as we enter the vast manmade pine forest and finally arrive at the field, about two before the game is set to start.

We sit under a tree to eat lunch. We are each allotted two hot-dog buns and some soda, which my teammates drink from discarded water-bottles found around the field and washed at the tap. After lunch, our coach gives us our pre-game lecture. Using empty water bottles for our team and old beer bottles for the other, he goes through the role of each position on the field. Then, he announces the line up. Each girl stands as her name is called and, as there are only eleven players present today, all the girls (or women, rather) are standing.

Change into uniforms brought by the manager in a plaid plastic tote. Warm-up. Check in with the referees. Whistle blows: game on. Heat, sweat, cheers, half-time, hear sweat, kicks, saves. Whistle blows: game over. The final score is zero/zero. The girls change out of their uniforms and we carry our injured captain to the Kombie. We drive back, blasting music, just as we came.

The coach, who isn’t paid and funds the entire running of the team out of his salary and commitment to social responsibility, is going to help me get a permit so I can play. I can’t wait.

A Joke About Rape

I’m attending UNISWA’s first annual Law Week. I enter the hall and, because I’m white and severely underdressed, people assume I’m some sort of honored guest and attempt to seat me at the high table. It takes me a while to explain, “I’m nobody.” I attempt to be discreet and take a seat in the back. While we wait for the distinguished guests to appear (already they are more than an hour late by the time table I received) some photographers roam through the students and punctual guests taking photos on sophisticated DSLR cameras. A camera man comes up to me as I’m concentrating on my SuDuKo. I am tired and looking like crap from driving all over Swaziland on a hot day in a car with no air-conditioning. He sticks the huge lens in my face and I look up surprised.

“I really don’t want you to take my photo,” I say, scowling.

*Click*

I now noticed that periodically they take the memory card to the computer which is projecting a HUGE image onto the wall above the speaker’s platform. He sinks the photos and then displays them right then and there on this HUGE wall above the speaker’s platform. Everyone is looking at the photos, firstly because they are HUGE, secondly because they are right in front of everyone and thirdly because there’s nothing else to do at the moment. Just as the speeches begin on the platform I notice a GIANT figure of me, scowling, horribly underdressed and chewing on my pen. My head is the size of my dinning room table and my scowl is as large as my arms’ length. It is mortifying.

After speeches by the Presidents of the National and University’s Law Societies, the local Member of Parliament and various school officials (all of the welcoming variety) we now have a break for a performance by a local opera singer – which, in fact, has been the most enjoyable part of the event so far. After the operetta concludes the MC takes the stage to loosen up the crowd for the next speaker by telling the following joke:

A woman was accusing a man of raping her. The victim points to the man in court and proclaims, “This man raped me last Friday night.”

“It was not me,” exclaims the man in an attempt to defend himself.

“But it was,” insists the woman.

This goes on, back and forth as no one can provide evidence or alibi to move the case along. Finally the defendant tries a new course.

“Alright,” concedes the man, “I did indeed rape a woman last Friday night. But I am not so sure it was this woman here who is accusing me. You see,” continued the man, “The woman I raped that night passed gas – that is to say farted – during intercourse. Could that be this woman.”

The woman leaps up shouting, “Ah that was not me, that was not me.” And the man was acquitted.

The audience burst into laughter and the speaker on Human Rights and the Law took the stage. He opened with the question “Do Gays have rights?”

The Police are Hitting on Sarah

Sunday afternoon saw Sarah and I at Veky and Dave’s for a braai. I enjoyed the meat, the guacamole and hearing about Peter and Hilda’s eight month drive from Cape Town to Holland with their two small children. I was a bit annoyed, however, that some time between leaving my house and eating at Veky’s I had lost my cell phone. For those who know me, this will come as no surprise.

Sarah and I set off at about 8 o’clock and I was driving. We wheeled up and down the hills leading from Veky’s as I expertly maneuvered gears manually. As we created the intersection into Mbabane city center, I tried to down-shift too low, heard a crunching of gears, quickly rectified the problem and came to a stop at the red traffic light.

When the light turned green, I couldn’t put the car in gear. Something had gone terribly wrong and we were stuck. We decided the best thing to do would be to push the car to the side of the road. I rolled down the window through which to steer, and we began pushing it backwards toward the curb. Suddenly, the car gained momentum. Sarah and I had underestimated the power of our strength combined with inertia. I ran after the car, jumped in the front seat and slammed on the brakes just before it hit a white sedan parked behind us. Needless to say the car was still sticking out halfway into the lane.

The next step was to find someone to come help us. As my phone had recently been stolen, Sarah was our only hope. Sarah did not have the number of anyone who had been at the braai. Luckily, she had met someone working in HIV for PSI. She’d jotted down his number as a possible contact for her research. She called him:

“Uh, hi Dom? This is Sarah…..we just met, like 10 minutes ago.”

Dom had gone home and didn’t have Dave’s number, but walked over to Dave and Veky’s and had Dave call Sarah back. He was on his way.

While Sarah was arranging this, a police van had pulled over and three officers gotten out. I assumed they came to inspect why a Fiat Station Wagon was parked halfway into the traffic lane with its hazards blinking. But that wasn’t the case:

“So where are you from? Are you married?”

I concocted an elaborate story that I was married for five years and lived next door to Sarah and her boyfriend. When asked about the whereabouts of my wedding ring, I pointed to my tattoo and explained my husband and I had matching tattoos. I don’t think the officers bought it, but at least they determined that I was too strange to pursue. To make the story more believable, I knew Sarah and I both couldn’t be married, so I mentioned that Sarah had a boyfriend, a large over sight I later had to apologize for. The police swooped in on her like hawks. It was rather uncomfortable and the imaginary boyfriend did not even faze them.

“I don’t care if you have a boyfriend,” one officer stated. “I asked about a husband. I want to be your husband.”

Eventually the officers got the hint. Went into the shop, bought some beers and drove off. They were immediately replaced by a crazed, fasting Roman Catholic named David who cased us up and down the sidewalk with wild hand gesticulations. Finally Dave arrived to rescue my car, diving it in forced first gear, dripping clutch fluid, to the mechanic and then giving us a ride home.

Miliwane By Myself

This weekend, as my housemates were all in South Africa on various errands – running a marathon, buying flowers for a wedding, and getting drunk – I was left to my own devices. And, now that I have a car, I decided now would be the time to explore. After plucking through the Swazi tourist magazine I’d received from the Embassy, I decided to head over to Miliwane Nature Reserve, the oldest nature reserve in Swaziland.

Miliwane is not too far from my house, just down the main road through Ezulwini, on the right hand side before getting to the Malkerns turn-off. I turned off the road onto a dirt road, littered with pot-holes. Entrepreneurial young boys stood with shovels, filling in potholes in return for a few coins. After three kilometers of bouncing down the road I reached the entrance, paid a two dollar hikers fee, and proceeded to the Rest Camp, where the hike commence.

Just on the drive in I was stunned. The planes open up at the base of Execution Rock, and Zebra, warthogs, Springbok, Kudu and other four-legged grazers looked up nonchalantly as I passed. I crossed over a narrow dirt damn with a sign reading “Fishing Prohibited. Stay Away From Edge. Crocodiles.” At the rest camp, I put a dollar deposit down on a map, chose the two and a half hour Hippo Trail, and set off. Just me, my water-bottle, a map and the nature reserve.

As I walked along, I surprised a family of warthogs along the trail. Mom and her four children stopped, and stared at me. I stood still. I was so close to the family that I was both excited and nervous. I have seen the YouTube video where the warthog beats the crap out of a lion, and was keenly aware of how alone I was. But as I took a step forward, the warthogs skirted away through the tall grass.

Walking by myself through the reserve was exhilarating. To be so vulnerable, far from any one else, alone and among strange beasts was frightening. I walked over streams and through thick vegetation, taking down at least a half dozen spiders’ webs with my face. I surprised some Guinea Fowl along the trail and a crocodile surprised me, sunning himself of the banks of Hippo pond.

About halfway through the hike I got lost. This time I was legitimately frightened. I wondered back and forth along the trail for about half an hour, trying to find which way to go. Finally, I had a revelation: I was not walking around the circular trail in a clockwise direction, but rather, counter clockwise. Luckily, I was alone, and avoided embarrassment at this mistake.

When I finished the hike, I returned the map and got in my car just as clouds were gathering dense and foreboding over the valley. I drove out through the gate, trading the zebra and impala for goats and cows. By the time I got home, darkness had fallen and the sky had opened up. Rain sloshed down in unrelenting baseball sized drops as thunder deafened and lighting flashed, lighting up the whole yard. I say in the corner of the glass-walled living room, watching the lighting touch down in the valley, and then watch the electricity slowly flicker back on.

Morning Commute

Now that I have a car (a soccer-mom Fiat Station Wagon), I am going to miss my morning commute. Usually, I will walk down my road to the bottom of the hill where is intersects with the main road slicing through the Ezulwini Valley. I position myself between the puddles to avoid getting soaked in murky water and wait for a Kombie. The Kombies are easy to spot from a distance as they are incredibly slow and are usually belching thick black smoke.

I never have to wait long, and, as Mbabane is a major destination, usually the first or second Kombie that stops is – as they say – going my way. It cost me just under 60 cents to get into Mbabane and after struggling up the hill on the main highway, we descend into the city, circle the bus station and enter on the far side.

The bus station is a feat that defies physics. The long, lumbering Kombies weave with surprising agility through each other. People snake through the honking giants, unhurried. I try to imagine an aerial view of the station, in fast-forward. Like an alien Tetris game or a child shuffling cards rudimentarily for “Go Fish.”

The public transport system n Swaziland – and many other African nations – is quite ingenious. A true student of the free market, the Kombie-system is holey privately owned, moderately regulated, for Keynes’ sake, by the government. The Kombie-system works of the simple supply and demand model: Kombies choose their route, obviously going to where they make the most money and thus where most people want to go. It behooves the driver to be efficient, as the more passengers the Kombie delivers, the more money they make.

However, the system is not totally flawless. The US Embassy, in the “Welcome Kit” I received, rates the “Safety of Public Transportation” as “Poor.” Under a section titled “Post Specific Concerns,” the Embassy states:

The use of public transportation by Americans is not recommended. Mini-bus taxies [Kombies]…should be considered unsafe. Many of these vehicles fail to meet minimal safety standards and drivers frequently overload the vehicles and travel at excessive speeds. Fatal accidents involving these conveyances are very common.

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.