And let me show you a picture or two of a second Eden.
This is Malandela’s, which is where the famous music and theatre venue House on Fire is located. I first visited the week before Bushfire, an annual African music festival. It is impossible to convey the beauty and the peace of this place. It is sacred soil, holy, there is no other way to describe it.
When you come to Swaziland (you must come, really you must), stay at the bed and breakfast here in the Malkerns. If I weren’t working all the way in Mbabane – and if I weren’t on a volunteer’s non-existent income – I’d be living here.
Friday
The best weekend Swaziland has ever produced began inauspiciously. On a chilly Friday morning I stumbled blearily out of bed at 6am, hit on the geyser and dove back into my warm cocoon for a little longer. If I hadn’t been running so late getting ready that morning, all speculation about the following would have been resolved one way or another.
By the time I actually ran my bath, it was already 7.20am. I looked out the bathroom window, and noticed idly that there was a young woman standing just outside the security gate to my apartment complex, her back to the road, looking through the gate into the complex. She looked cold. I had my bath, pottered about with breakfast and went back to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The girl was still there. Still just a metre or two outside the gate, still watching the apartment complex. I checked, it was 7.50am. She’d been there for at least half an hour.
I thought that was odd, so I started keeping an eye on her through the window while I finished getting ready. After a few minutes, I saw her take out her mobile phone and seemingly text someone.
(Maybe, thought my “Don’t be so paranoid!” voice, she’s getting a lift from someone in the complex, and they’re running very, very late.)
A minute or two after, a young man walked up to her. They didn’t greet (I couldn’t hear, but body language tells you some things), instead they just conferred. He had his phone out too. Then he moved away again out of sight.
The girl kept standing there.
At that point I phoned Jackson, outlined what I was seeing, and said “I’m sure this is mad and paranoid, but I have a really bad feeling about it. Would you mind picking me up?”
(Jackson: “It’s good to trust your instincts about a situation; every time something’s happened to me I’ve had a bad feeling beforehand and ignored it. Besides, they aren’t very subtle, if someone’s got a bad intention they’ll usually telegraph it. Stay where you are, I’ll come get you.”)
While I waited for Jackson, I went into the kitchen to wash up. 10 mins or so later when I went to continue my reconnaissance of the girl, she was gone. It was about 8.15am. I don’t know what time she got there, but if I first saw her at 7.20 and she was already cold, and she left sometime after 8am, she was standing there for a very long time.
For context to my paranoia: I’m the only white person that lives in this neighbourhood, and pretty much everyone around knows where I stay. Until that Friday, I’d been walking to and from work every day for a fortnight, routinely leaving in the morning between 7.30am and 8am. And I couldn’t – and still can’t! – think of an innocent explanation for the girl’s behaviour.
Anyway. Jackson and I got to work, we explained to people what had happened (which caused some fluster, especially since they’d already heard on Monday about my almost-mugging the Saturday before. Many utterances of “shame” and “sorry” – the standard Swazi response to bad news).
Jackson said, “Listen, I’m pretty sure your apartment’s safe, but we need to have a think about you walking to and from work. It sounds like there might be people looking out for when you’re vulnerable alone out on the street.”
“See, this is why I think I’m just being paranoid - why on earth would anyone spend so much time watching my place?”
Jackson: “You forget that a lot of people are out of work. They really have nothing to do all day and so why not spend a couple of hours sitting in front of a house. Just keep an eye out for strange behaviour from people on the street when you’re leaving the apartment. Try to make sure you aren’t coming and going at predictable times."
“But work hours are predictable. I’m supposed to be here at 8am everyday, and that girl was outside from at least 7.20am.”
“For work, I can pick you up, and I or someone else can drop you home.”
“I can’t walk anymore?! I don’t want to be completely dependent on people giving me lifts! What about exercise? – or –or basic freedom of movement! I don’t want to be locked into my apartment, afraid to go out the gates!” (I was distressed, I was seeing the bars of a cage descend – I refuse to be some helpless little animal locked up in a hutch for its own protection, scratching at the walls.)
“You’re right, it’s not good. Leave it with me Becs, I’ll see what I can do.”
*
Later that day, I was presented with the keys of one of Save The Children’s cars, for me to drive to and from work (and for personal use outside office hours, at my expense). Subject, of course, to (Jackson: “Don’t drive by yourself at night”).
Jackson came out with me for a test drive, and was very polite about my seriously rusty driving skills (such as they ever were). He also took me to a small shop where we acquired me a small spray can of mace, and renewed confidence for moving about the street on my own.
(When I got home I thought I’d better test spraying it to see how hard you depress the button. I sprayed it in my kitchen area, and sneezed on entry for the next three days… I need to hone up my street skills.)
*
Like with the previous Saturday, I was determined not to be spooked. I did not like the idea that my risk calculation for walking on the street was no longer just of opportunistic muggings but now had to include targeted and planned attacks. But what can you do? You can’t live your life in a cage. So later that day I walked from home into Mbabane town to catch a ride with my new ex-Peace Corp friends to a Moroccan-themed fundraising dinner in beautiful Emulfini. All my valuables – including my tiny lady’s can of pepper spray – were tucked discreetly into my bra and detectable only by feel (which seemed sufficient; if I was in a situation where someone had felt out my pepper spray I’d say its use was warranted).
It was the first time since the day I arrived in Swaziland that I’d stayed out anywhere past 7.30pm. It was liberating to have escaped the four walls of my apartment after dark, and wonderful to meet more people, to eat food I had not prepared myself, to drink wine (again, only the second time since arrival) and to hear live music.
Swaziland’s most famous singer-musician was playing at the dinner – Bholoja! So great a star in Swaziland that he is just Bholoja, no other name needed. Just as Sibebe is the Beer of Swaziland so too is Bholoja the Singer of Swaziland; both are the Pride of Swaziland. Give me Sibebe and give me Bholoja, and one has a happy Swazi.
Most of Bholoja’s songs were storytellings in siSwati, so I could pick up the odd words but not much more (something about a house, and there’s a child and his mother and father, and I think the child is going on a journey… ). His voice was deep but somehow like a pan pipe in its tone, and even without enough of the language to understand all the lyrics the meaning and the sense of each song was powerfully expressed. Quite a few of his songs were comic, and for these he would give his mixed audience some of the lyrics in English too. One of my neighbours at the table was also translating for us. One of my favourites of the funny ones was called “The Soldier” –about a young man exhorting all others “to condomise for Swaziland!”
*“Condomise” is so well-known from the HIV/AIDS awareness campaigns that it’s become a parting catchphrase, kind of like “be alert but not alarmed”. Eg, a Swazi man jumps out of combi, he says goodbye to his friends. As the combi pulls out, one of his friends shouts out through the window “Hey bhuti, you forgot something… Condomise!” First Swazi makes rude gesture.
Good times.
I got home round midnight, feeling very happy with the world.
Saturday - the day of Adventure!
The Saturday was glorious. The plan was simple. In the morning, I would pick up Lwazi from Mbabane, and then we would drive together to Manzini and visit the markets, then head to Malandela’s for lunch, and then stop off to have a look at the Malkerns Country Club, as she is thinking of using it as her wedding reception venue in a few months’ time. It would be the first time I had gotten further out of Mbabane then Ezulwini – I was excited.
Lwazi, by the way, is a young Swazi lawyer working at Save The Children. She and Jackson form the legal team, which has lately doubled in size to include myself and a recent University of Swaziland graduate. Lwazi is beautiful, clever and a wonderful talker. Her rapid-fire siSwati exchanges with any man that tries to be fresh with her are delightful to watch, and the breadth of her English vocabulary would put many wordsmiths to shame. She is vivacious and unflappable – which is an excellent quality in my driving companion!
We had agreed that we would have an Adventure that day, and the Adventures began early, with me muttering about the other drivers for the first ten minutes and yelping and laughing every time a combi whizzed past us with inches to spare on the big hill down into Ezulwini. (Laugh in the face of death; it’s the only way.)
Luckily, Lwazi thought my inability to see Swaziland speed-bumps was hilarious rather than frightening, although her loss of confidence was great enough that she started translating the road signs for me too, “That sign means there’s a speed bump coming up.”
Me: “Where? Where?”
Lwazi: “Here!”
(We hit it at speed. Something inside the engine of the little car twanged and groaned.)
Lwazi and I: “Wooo! Adventure!”
Lwazi: “That sign means the left lane is ending – that sign means there’s a bridge – that sign means cows ahead.” (It was a picture of a cow. I suppose the kind of person who can’t see speed bumps might not understand that.)
Of course, for all my complaints about driving in Swaziland (see my earlier post), I should own up. I got booked for speeding within 5 minutes of leaving the highway and getting into Ezulwini Valley. There’s a bit of an economic crisis underway in Swaziland, and the government is struggling to pay its employees’ wages, let alone anything else. So, there’s been a lot of regulatory activity by traffic police lately. It was a fair cop though – I got clocked at 78km/h in a newly 60km/h zone. Oops.
The police were concealing their speed camera in a bus shelter on the opposite hill. They got every single car on that road – speeding is pretty endemic! When they waved our car over, I had a moment of trepidation. I’ve been told I shouldn’t drive alone at night, in part because of hijackers, in part because of the police. I’ve read so many stories about police brutality against political dissidents in Swaziland; I know Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch are currently on the case. And now I was about to have my first interaction with them.
But hey, friendliness is always the best option, and it’s my natural inclination anyway.
I hopped out of the car, smiled at the two or three policemen gathered round the speeding camera. I noted an immediate softening of their body language when they realised they were dealing with a young white woman. “Sanobonani bobabe Officers, ninjani?”
(Instant big smiles from all of them!) “Siyaphila, wena unjan?”
“Ngiyaphila!” (big smile back). Two turned back to the speed trap apparatus, the third was clearly delegated to deal with the caught.
“You speak siSwati!” he said.
“Cha, not yet - ngifundze siSwati.”
“You are learning! That is good. Where are you coming from?”
“eAustrale – Sydney!” (Low whistle in response.) “I’ve been here for two weeks now. I’m staying in Mbabane, this is my first time driving out into more of Swaziland. It’s such a beautiful country.” (My biggest smile and genuine, he seemed a very nice policeman.)
“Ah sisi – your first time driving in Swaziland and you are caught speeding!”
“Was I speeding? Oh no!” (Innocent concerned face, touch of horror at the prospect I have broken the law.)
“Yes, let me show you.” (Clear speed camera footage of my definitely speeding car.)
“Oh no, I’m so sorry. I must have been too fast coming out of the 80km zone. I am still learning the roads – I will be much more careful from here.” (Hopeful that will be it.)
“Alright sisi – if you go to the officer in the car over there you can pay him your fine and he will give you a receipt.”
(Damn!)
“How much is it?”
“60 emalangeni.” (Not too awful.)
(Ah well, it was a fair cop.) “I see. Ngiyabonga babe Officer, sala kahle.”
“Hamba kahle. Drive safe!”
(Here is a picture of my First Ever Driving Ticket in any jurisdiction, with some of the other spoils of the day.)
I got back into the car with Lwazi. “That wasn’t so bad. They’re really nice!* I think I was this close to talking my way out of it too.”
“I’m so sorry. You got ticketed when I was your guide. Sorry. And look! Shame. They’re packing up the camera now, if only we’d been five minutes later.”
“No no – I was speeding, I can’t complain about getting caught. And hey – adventure!”
“Adventure!”
* A few days later I was reading an investigative article into deaths in police custody in Swaziland. The article was centred round a recent inquiry into the death in custody of a man arrested during the April protests, apparently for wearing a pro-democracy t-shirt. He was charged with a crime that statutorily denied bail. He asked the court to take him into corrective services custody while he was prepared for trial, as he feared for his life if he was kept in police custody. The night before he was due to be transferred out of police custody, he purportedly committed suicide by hanging himself with a sheet in the toilets. What made the scenario so much more sinister was that the killers hadn’t really tried to make it look like a suicide. The man was hung several metres from the nearest toilet or furnishing from which he could have jumped.
When I read about that article I thought about those nice policemen at the speed camera – are they totally separate from the police involved in those deaths? Are the police that orchestrated that night-time “suicide” friendly nice men during the day? It’s hard not to feel that Swaziland itself is dichotomised between night and day – danger and safety, corruption and cohesion, predator and protector.
*
Back to the best Saturday ever had in Swaziland.
Lwazi and I made it to Manzini without any further encounters with the long arm of the law, although we did have a few near-misses with combis, large trucks, and on one shameful occasion, the kerb. I was so busy keeping an eye on a killer combi behind me that I didn’t see the road ending sign. (It’s amazing she’ll still get in a car with me, really.)
Manzini is the commercial capital of Swaziland, and is Swaziland’s biggest town. It’s also Lwazi’s first adopted home (like almost all Swazis, she has a “home home” which is where her family lives and where she grew up. It’s out a bit past the Malkerns). Manzini is where she first started working as a lawyer, and when we arrived we bumped into a dozen people she knew before we’d gotten 100 metres out of the carpark.
Manzini is several degrees hotter than Mbabane – unsurprising since we were no longer at such elevation – and much more humid too. The town had a pleasant bustle about it, and a density of population that felt a bit more like home. So many of Swaziland’s 1 million people still live in the rural areas – even Mbabane, the capital, is very quiet. (Quieter even than Canberra on a long weekend.)
Lwazi led me past a mall, a church, assorted street shops, a free HIV/Aids testing stall, numerous more of her Manzini friends (ranging from a dapper lawyer with a white-girl fetish [Lwazi promised to bring me back to him when I had a better tan] to a street vendor gogo). Suddenly we were at Manzini Markets, a collection of small stalls in a square in town. It was brilliant having Lwazi there – she could explain certain types of goods being sold to me, for example I kept seeing a kind of pinafore dress with deep pockets everywhere. Apparently it is a dress given by a groom’s family to the bride-to-be, and it is the dress she wears in her married life. Lwazi was also an excellent buffer to the constant male approaches. She’d gracefully rebuff the hordes that came after her with a smile and dramatic wit, and when men approached her asking her to ask me out for them, she’d sympathetically but firmly tell them “Sorry, she’s promised to my brother.” We browsed about the place and both acquired various spoils from the vendors (see picture above).
The sun was baking hot, and tan and sunburn were coming along nicely by the time we decided that lunch was a biological necessity.
We returned to our trusty little car, Lwazi fortified herself for more of my driving, and we set off for the Malkerns. She wanted to show me Malandela’s.
Within five minutes of leaving Manzini, Lwazi’s phone was ringing. Her friend “I can’t believe it! I just heard that you were in Manzini, but you didn’t come to see me?” That’s Swaziland.
Malandela’s is amazing. God’s place, seriously. After the stolidness of Mbabane and the chaos of Manzini, the serenity of Malandela’s was wonderful. The lushness of the grass made me realise how long it had been since I’d walked in a park. There are very few green areas in Mbabane and they are all hotspots for muggings and assaults!
The open-air theatre venue.
Lunch at the farmhouse restaurant was perfect. Freshly made Irish soda bread, and a perfectly cooked whole trout stuffed with spinach.
I wandered about the gardens and the House on Fire venue, climbing into whimsical towers, reading the verses strewn about the architecture.
It was the most extraordinary place. It made me incredibly excited for Bushfire, which was to be held there the following weekend.
The final stop on our agenda was the Malkerns Country Club, close by Malandela’s. Lwazi is getting married in August, and she wanted to walk about the club and decide if this, this is the place where her reception should be held.
By chance, we arrived in the middle of some kind of fair. Small children were playing on a jumping castle, and hordes of predominantly white Swazis (they exist! A small group of descendants of 19th century settlers) were arranged in groups about the place. A band was playing. Lwazi swanned into the main hall and stood and looked at the surroundings, the outdoor verandah perfect for band and dancing, the child-friendly facilities. “Yes”, she said “This is my wedding venue!” We then decided to look around the fair.
After some bemused observation, we concluded that it was some kind of corporate event, since all the groups were arranged under Swazi company names. There were traditional Swazi cooking pots all over the place, nesting on fires. We wandered arm-in-arm around the place, and were swiftly spotted by a group of Swazis dancing to the band. They greeted us and pulled us into their circle. They explained that it was a Corporate Cooking Cup, and each group was competing to make the tastiest food. They gave us a taste of theirs - delicious.
Lwazi and I kept wandering through to the other groups, tasting their food where it was offered. It was odd, with one or two exceptions the white Swazis we spoke to were conspicuously chilly in their attitude to the two gatecrashers, especially by contrast to the hospitable and welcoming Swazis. One of the exceptions, a 50-something chap who was somewhere between jolly and lecherous (which I suppose is the definition of avuncular), was only too delighted to give us a taste from his pot. Alas, it transpired that he was making seafood. The food poisoning capital of the food groups. Lwazi and I were committed – we politely ate a mussel each and a prawn. (No ill effects suffered – we unfairly maligned that gentleman.)
We made our way back to our original friends, the Swazi group. They were dancing again when we returned, so Lwazi and I joined their circle, dancing with new friends under foreign skies. The sun was setting in pinks and violets over the cane fields and meadows. The stars began to come out. Still we danced. It was joyful - surely nothing could make this day more perfect.
And then fireworks began to burst overhead.
*
Sunday
On that Sunday I was up and out of bed before dawn’s rosy fingers had finished pulling away the night. I was booked to go white water rafting with Swazi Trails. (Unremunerated plug: Swazi Trails is a brilliant local business that organises adventure activities with local guides through different parts of Swaziland. They voluntarily pay a percentage to the local communities in which they conduct their activities. When you come here, get in touch with them.)
I drove down to Ezulwini valley and joined up with the group. Six of them were those McKinsey employees from around the world, another was one of my ex-Peace Corps pals, and the ninth was an older American woman from Colorado who had happened to come by Swazi Trails that morning to see if anything was on.
Our eclectic mix drove out to the Great Usutu River. Our principal guide was an amazing young Swazi named Bheki (pronounce “Be-gi”). He gave us a safety briefing as the five rafts were inflated, including tips on what to do if we capsized or fell into the river going down a rapid (try to hang onto the boat, go down feet first, float on your back), how we must never try to stand up in the river, and the importance of not falling in near crocodiles.
I shared my raft with a cool girl from the Netherlands, we quickly picked up a good paddling rapport. The opening section was very calm and easy, perfect for us to practice or learn balancing and basic paddling technique.
Bheki mucked about in a kayak alongside, sometimes entertaining himself in the easier sections with the odd roll, or nipping up alongside our raft and drenching us with water with a quick flick of his paddle, flitting away again before we could get him back.
The river took us through the most beautiful landscape. Usually nothing could be seen on either side except trees, bush and wildlife. In some sections the river ran through channels of rock, beautifully formed from long centuries exposed to the river. Sometimes the clatter of tin cans could be heard in the distance, signifying cows and villagers – the tin cans are tied to the cows to help the herders locate them. Occasionally we would come across rural women washing clothes in the river, or children playing and washing on the shore.
The rapids were tremendous fun. We went through several sections, starting off fairly easy and concluding with a tough triple waterfall with a strong swell. Bheki would always go down first, then film or take pictures of the rest of us coming through.
On the toughest stretch our raft made it down the first drop, then the spin of the water reared the boat up onto its side and I fell out, almost in slow motion. (My look of confusion and surprise was caught on camera for the ages.) I caught onto the rope on the side of the boat and floated the rest of the way down. Luckily no scrapes or bumps on the rocks, and I could keep afloat easily enough. It was quite a nice swim really! I tried not to think about the risk of bilharzia.
At the bottom we pulled the boat in next to the rock walls of the river and I climbed up the rocks then back in.
My rafting partner was a bit jealous – she had wanted to swim for the entire trip. We kept an eye out for a salubrious spot. Just when we thought we’d found one, a few bends further down the river, Bheki waved to us, put his finger to his lips, and then pointed. A crocodile was lying on a sand island in the middle of the river, sunbaking in the afternoon sun. Everyone stayed in their rafts.
The day came to an end just before sundown, sitting by the bank of the Usutu drinking Sibebe. It was a pretty awesome experience.
*
I returned to Mbabane that evening flush with excitement at the Swaziland that had begun to open up to me. What a difference having a car made to my independence, what a difference leaving Mbabane made to my feelings about Swaziland! The beauty of the Ezulwini and Malkerns valleys, the rivers winding down toward the lowveld through dramatic landscapes, the climatic changes and perceptible changes in mood throughout the regions of the country…
By the end of my second full weekend in Swaziland, I had begun to discover the wonder of the country in which I have placed myself. Several weekends on, that wonder has only deepened. The Kenyans might not think Swaziland is the “real” Africa, but it is an Africa which is vivid, immediate, and thoroughly under my skin.
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