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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 27, 2009
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?”
“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?”
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
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:
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.
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