Neighborhood Mamba!

Sunday, Feb. 22, 4:30 p.m. – After reading the title of this entry, I imagine those readers who have difficulties with spelling are wondering whether I have participated in a festive latin dance or seen a deadly snake. Read on and find out....

I came out of my house around 3:30 to go to the office and post a blog entry. As I walked up the driveway, I encountered two young campus guards with big sticks. They stopped me and pointed to a small shrub in the yard, under which I saw the the raised head of a black snake. I was actually pleased to finally see a snake although I didn’t appreciate seeing one so close to home. The guards told me it was a black mamba, and assured me it was poisonous. One of them then strode toward the snake and started beating it with his stick. At this abuse, the snake quickly slithered down my neighbor’s driveway (at #12) and into the drainage grate where it disappeared into a hole leading who-knows-where. Now my neighbor on the other side (#16) came out and became very agitated, claiming that the snake could get into our houses and "cause big problems." As he chastised the guards for losing the creature and discussed the mechanics of catching and killing it with other neighbors who'd gathered, the snake began to magically grow in size and potency – although it had looked maybe 5-feet long to me and perhaps as big around as my wrist, it now was 12 feet long, as large as a man’s forearm, and with venom that would be instantly fatal (that part may actually be true). Amazing!

Soon about 15 people were standing around offering advice. Many suggestions were made on how to roust and destroy the poor beast, from pouring acid or strong insecticide into the drainage hole (never mind where those substances might end up) to lighting a fire and smoking the creature out. Finally, someone came up with a piece of old tire, to provide the most noxious fumes; this item, some dry grass and a piece of wood were shoved into the hole and lit. Soon the neighborhood was covered in choking smoke, little of which appeared to be going into the hole. Next, one of the science lecturers showed up with a Nalgene bottle full of some sort of acid (hydrochloric, perhaps). Sone had called her and asked for assistance. However, once she saw the fire and the size of the drainage hole, she declined to pour any acid in. She claimed, for one thing, that the hole was too large for acid to be effective and, furthermore, that the acid could react with the fire to cause an explosion. I appreciated both her scientific knowledge and her caution, which most people there did not share. I was already poised to rush to my house, grab my computer and be ready to speed away in my car should the fire they'd set start spreading through the neighiborhood.

After half an hour or so of waiting for the snake to emerge, it was decided that the animal was either dead or that the hole had led it to another exit (perhaps into my backyard). My neighbor Sone, a giant Cameroonian man (about 6-foot-three and at least 300 pounds), whose drainage grate was the hiding place, is now totally freaked out and claiming that he will apply for a new apartment. He’s sure the snake will appear in his toilet one day soon. (I guess I’ll start turning on the light in the bathroom and checking when I have to get up at night). To his credit, Sone was the only adult who seemed concerned about keeping children away from the snake hole. One little guy, who looked about three, kept riding his tricycle back and forth over the grate until Sone bodily removed him.

As the fire died down, I gave up watching the waiting process and decided to head for my office. The guards planned to dump in some snake muti – some medicine that will make the creature bite itself to death (how horrible!) – once the fire was out. I guess I’ll call my gardener guy, Paolos, and ask him to trim under all the shrubs and maybe cut the grass in the backyard. My neighbor in #16 (the other fervent snake-hater) had explained to me that eliminating snake habitat is the reason his yard is nothing but scorched earth (not his description, of course). I’m not willing to destroy all vegetation, but some precautions now seem appropriate. I’ve been assured that snakes abound on campus; now that I’ve seen one, I guess I’ll try to be more cautious when I’m out walking. Still, I don’t need another paranoia to rival my spider phobia so I refuse to worry too much about it.

The two photos provide a long shot of Sone's drainage grate where the snake disappeared (with my house next door) and a view of a guard minding the fire.

Cairo trip – Chapter 1: Getting there

Warning: parts of this blog entry may not be suitable viewing for the very young, the very old or the very prudish.


I flew out of Matsapha the afternoon of Friday, Jan. 23, connecting with a direct evening flight (9:45 pm) from Johannesburg to Cairo. The only excitement I encountered along the way occurred when the South African Airways ticket counter clerk in Johannesburg, who was handling check-in for Egypt Air, initially refused to let me on the plane. She claimed I should have gotten a visa for Egypt in advance and, barring that, I must produce a letter of invitation to the conference I was attending in Cairo. Unfortunately, I only had printouts of a couple emails verifying my hotel reservation and the ELF meetings – certainly no official invitation. I began to wonder whether I’d dropped the ball in some major way. I’d been certain that I didn’t need to get the visa in advance, but now I was hearing differently. Finally, as I stood there in apologetic confusion and worry, she scornfully shoved the ticket at me with a boarding pass. I thanked her kindly and scurried away, muttering imprecations under my breath. (Later interactions with South African Airways staff would only deepen this impression of profound unhelpfulness.)

I arrived in Cairo, bedraggled from flying all night, at 5:45 am, where my next challenge lay in finding an affordable cab to the hotel. The lobby was full of predatory taxi agents who followed me around quoting outrageous fares as I searched unsuccessfully for a tourist information or help desk (see their hopeful faces -- those who didn't flee the camera -- in the attached photo). No help here; I was thrown to the wolves. A South African woman I’d talked to in the immigration line had told me 35 Egyptian pounds (about $6.25) was all I should pay for transport downtown – she was leading a small tour and appeared to be a frequent traveller to Egypt, so I figured her advice was sound. HA! The cheapest those wolves would quote was 60 pounds (down from the initial 80), and once I finally picked one particularly persistent fellow and was led out to his cab, the price suddenly went up to 65 (about $11.80). I tried arguing a bit more, but was no match for that potent combination of male arrogance and Middle Eastern bargaining savvy. Anyway, the actual driver of the car seemed like a nice, non-pushy fellow, so I climbed in and we headed for the island of Zamalek and the Hotel Flamenco (the outside of which is shown in the second photo).

The driver, Kamal, and I tried to converse via his limited English. Of course, he asked me what I was doing in Cairo, whether it was my first trip to Egypt, what work I do, how old I was, whether I was married and had children – the usual drill. He passed back his cell phone to show me pictures of his two children – a boy and a girl, how cute. “How nice,” I remarked, “that you can carry your children’s photos with you on your phone.” Then Kamal told me to keep scrolling through the other photos. “I have other pictures, too,” he said. “Look, I have pictures of feet.” Feet? Thinking this must be some mispronunciation issue (Kamal had earlier pronounced the word 'youth' as 'yeth'), I compliantly continued scrolling. After a few more pictures of his kids, oops, there was one of a nearly naked woman posing seductively in minimalist slave garb. Then, sure enough, along came a whole series of erotic foot shots (bejewelled and painted feet, feet rubbing against other feet, feet attached to scantily clad legs). Oi! I laughed politely and somewhat nervously, handed back the phone, and tried turning the conversation to sightseeing. Kamal then suggested I hire him for the full day, offering to put together a tour of all the major tourist sites. The day would culminate, not surprisingly, in an “expert” foot massage. (That was his other job, he said). Although not at all interested in taking up his offer, I wondered whether the foot massage would be thrown in, gratis (as it obviously would gratify him), or whether (given his “expert” skills) it would drive up the cost of the day tour. I decided not to enquire further, not wishing to encourage his advances. By now we’d arrived at the hotel; I was relieved but a bit regretful to part company with Kamal. I would have enjoyed meeting a nice guy with whom to explore Cairo, but foot fetishes are just not my thing.

Another toyi-toyi, another campus closure

My students are protesting yet again. This time, it’s only the students whom I teach – Humanities Faculty and Journalism students – although I refuse to take any blame in the matter.

The initial conflict started last week with general student demands for an increase in their food allowance, which apparently has not changed in years and years. That was somehow dealt with, although I don’t know what transpired. Then, the Humanities Faculty students petitioned the administration to gain easier access to earning a teaching certificate. Apparently, teaching is about the only option available to Humanities graduates, but they must spend an extra year earning the teaching certificate and admission to the certificate program is limited. Thus many graduates either can’t get a job or end up teaching at lower pay without the officially required certification. Next, the JMC students joined with the Humanities students with their own degree-related complaint. JMC students are protesting the administration’s delay in implementing the promised change from a 3-year diploma program to a 4-year degree program. The department has long been finished with curriculum and course planning for this change, and two stakeholder meetings were held for input from local employers. But the administration and university senate keep dragging their feet, calling for yet another stakeholder meeting (followed by that, they’ll no doubt demand a shrubbery – if you don’t get that reference, watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail, it’ll do you good).

So, I’ve had no classes this week; however, as classes have not been officially cancelled, I’ve had to show up every day and wander hopefully to my designated classroom in case students should show up. Unfortunately, one room in which I was to hold four class meetings ended up being the space where the Humanities students met to discuss their plans. So that room was unavailable, and the students I was supposed to be teaching were meeting in it. My JMC students showed up for one out of the three hours we’re scheduled to meet. Most of the time, they’ve been parading around campus, singing protest songs and brandishing bamboo branches (they sing quite well—in fact I will try to posting a sound file or two). Unfortunately, on Thursday morning (just before I came to my office – good timing!) some of the toyi-toyi-ing students acted out at the administration offices. They broke a couple windows, scattered papers and mail on the ground, and threw around potted plants (I’ve attached a photo of the debris, which no one seemed in a hurry to clean up).

11:30 a.m. – I just learned from my department head (Dr. Uyo) that the senate has met and decided to close the university. That means all students – even those from other faculties who have continued attending classes – must leave campus. Many students live on campus, too, so they’ll have to travel to their homesteads. Supposedly, the senate will meet on Tuesday to discuss re-opening options, but as the short break officially begins next Friday, it’s unlikely that campus will reopen for just a few days and then close again. Even if it does reopen, say on Wednesday, those students who have travelled a long ways away won’t want to come back for just a couple days of classes. So it looks like I have a two-week break coming up. I may die of boredom.

11:45 – I’ve just been told that the closure announcement is imminent and that there are quite a few students and police amassed near the admin building. I’ve been listening to the students chanting and singing, so I know they are feeling emotional. I’ve been advised to go home rather than risk getting stuck in my office if any rioting should occur. So, I’m heading home. I’ll try to post this later. (The last pic I’m attaching to this is a flyer from the student association urging all students on campus to support their colleagues in JMC and Humanities. Viva Humanities! -- has a nice ring to it…)

New Year's day - a few more photos

This last entry about New Year's is just to include a few more photos of the homestead and life thereon.

First are photos of two of the dwellings -- the round thatched dwelling is a typical Swazi home but the other type is also common on homesteads. The third photo is of some of the local girls washing lunch dishes. As you can see, there's no running water and the job has to be done outside. Finally, there's a pic of the latrine, which of course I utilized. Aside from the interesting wattle and daub construction, it's the same as any latrine in Alaska (although here there's no need for a styrofoam seat).

New Year's at the homestead

Although much of the conversation during our visit was in siSwati, I still enjoyed watching the interactions and wandering around to take photos in the heat. I ended up buying one of the grass mats that Gogo makes and sells to try to support this large group. I also contributed a little money towards paying for seed and for a tractor to plow more of the homestead land so Gogo can plant and sell more maize. I hope she’ll have help. In the photos, one can see that there are many children and not many able-bodied adults on the homestead. I think that’s pretty much the norm in rural areas, partly because people who can earn a living move to the towns to do so, and partly because so many adults are dying of AIDS and/or related diseases like TB.

Photos attached include a shot of the homestead and one of laundry and maize; a picture of the young, hip urban visitors playing with a laptop they'd brought along; one of the aunties and others conversing around the loom; a picture of Gogo weaving a mat.

New Year's Day at the homestead

The drive to Siteki took about an hour, then we travelled a half hour of dusty gravel road before arriving at Gogo’s homestead. She was happy to see so many visitors (probably around 20 of us in three vehicles). Many of the cousins, aunts and uncles from the area had also gathered to visit with the urban folks and to eat the lunch we’d brought. Sharon had cooked chicken and rice, while Desiree’s group had prepared pap (cornmeal mush). Plus, we’d brought meat to barbecue (or “braai” as it’s called here). We were a little worried that we wouldn’t have enough food for everyone, as so many had showed up and no one local seemed willing or able to contribute to the meal. But, we rationed out the food and ended up having more than enough. Sharon also brought Gogo some staples for her pantry.

The photos attached include a view of the homestead neighborhood (so to speak); Sharon and her Gogo dancing for joy soon after we arrived; the men preparing a fire for the braai; Sharon and her sisters serving up lunch from the bed of the van; a very hungry dog (most dogs in Swaziland are skin & bones) hoping for scraps -- I gave it some, of course.

New Year's Day

I did nothing on New Year’s Eve other than watch TV then try to go to bed before midnight (the first time I’ve been pathetic enough to do that). I knew I had to get up early as I’d been invited by Sharon to go with her and more of her family to visit her grandmother (known as a gogo in siSwati) who lives outside the town of Siteki. Unfortunately, people started setting off fireworks around 11:45 and kept going with the noise until after 1 am. Fireworks are legal; I even saw them for sale in the grocery stores.

Still, I got up around 6:30 am to make it to Sharon’s apartment in Manzini by 7:30. Once I arrived we hung around waiting for sister Desiree and her children (and children’s children). Desiree apparently shares Aunt Hazel’s and my father’s sense of timeliness. She’s really not concerned with punctuality. 8:00 am came and went, then 9:00, then 10:00. I was wondering why I hadn’t slept a couple more hours. Finally we got the explanation that the driver who’d been hired to take part of this big group had broken down on another, early morning job that he thought he could cram in before our trip. Finally, we headed downtown to Desiree’s apartment to wait some more. Some of the young folk in Desiree’s party – those in their teens and twenties – had been up partying most of the night, and they were at least as cranky as I was. The driver and his “van” finally showed up after noon. I’d been planning to ride in the hired van, feeling very grateful that I didn’t have to drive this time. To my surprise, a “van” here is a pickup truck; what I would call a van is a kombi. Well, I really wasn’t prepared, either mentally or wardrobe-wise, to ride for an hour and a half in the open bed of a pickup truck. The small children, however, were excited at the idea and piled in. I managed to find a seat in Desiree’s car, and Sharon squeezed into the cab of the van.

The attached photos show the children piled into the van waiting to leave Manzini and the 20 km or so of gravel road leading to the homestead.

I Speak for the Trees

On New Year’s Eve – December 31, 2008 – I went for my usual walk around campus which passes two different types of mango trees, one by the dorms and one by the IDE building. I was horrified to see that the mango by the dorms had been decimated – nearly cut down. Two out of three trunks on this tree had been cut down. At least a hundred green mangos lay strewn over the ground and there was a big pile of branches that were also covered with leaves, mangos and a few birds’ nests. A couple of campus guards came along, and the female guard, especially, seemed as shocked and disappointed as I was. She was looking forward to picking ripe mangos from this tree and was disgusted that it had been chopped down before the fruit could be picked and used. I don’t know why the administration here has been ordering so many trees destroyed. Since I came here, I’ve seen at least five big trees chopped into bits and carted away – first a big shade tree near the admin building, then a giant palm tree in my neighbor’s yard, then another shade tree near the dorms, a gum tree by the chapel (photo attached), and now this mango. I think two trees may have been chopped down today, as some of the fruit on the ground looked like avocados. There may be another stump under the pile of branches. I apologized to the tree and carried away a few green mangos to try to ripen at home. It was a sad end to the year.

P.S. As I'm posting this entry so late (thanks to Internet problems & laziness), I can, unfortunately, report another needless tree elimination. This one was a lovely frangipani tree at the end of my street which had been flowering for months. I would always pick up a few blossoms on my way by, so I could enjoy the fragrance as I walked. In this case, apparently, the inhabitants of that house were afraid their small children would climb the tree and fall out of it. Good grief! How about just watching your kids...?

Christmas, chapter 6

On Friday, the day after Christmas, we mainly relaxed. The kids had a great time playing (so many other kids!), while the adults hung out and visited. In the afternoon, I headed out for a photography-oriented walk, thinking I'd wander about in solitude. But no – I was soon set upon and accompanied by a pack of girls, which was actually a good thing. I spend more than enough time alone as it is, and I got some fun photos of silly girls. One photo shows them gathered around the grave of a young horse, as one girl (either Sharon's Shemine or Zanela's older daughter Flossie, as both are pretty dramatic) had claimed she saw the grave "breathing." Scary stuff…

On Saturday, the Pearl and May's groups had to leave, so Sharon and I dragged our girls away from this children's Eden and headed back to Manzini. I'd had enough of the peace and quiet and of the much cooler temperatures we'd found in the mountains. I was glad, though, that I'd seen Bulembu and met the children and Sharon's family (part of them). It was a nice break from my apartment in Kwaluseni and the stifling heat of the Manzini area.

Christmas, chapter 5

Before lunch on Christmas day, I accompanied Sharon to another children's home run by two Anglican nuns from the UK. We got to sing one Christmas carol (an unfamiliar version of "The Holly and the Ivy") and watched the children open their stockings and gift bags. This place must have many church and corporate sponsors, as it had loads of gifts to distribute. For some reason, I found the atmosphere homier here, or at least more to my liking. I'm certainly more compatible with British folk than with South Africans, whom I find a bit pushy. Also, the Anglican approach to life and religion felt more comfortable than the proselytizing testimonials I encountered at ABC ministries. Certainly all the people running the homes seemed dedicated, but the missionary zeal grew a bit wearing.

One photo here is a distant shot of the Anglican girls' home while the other is of the girls receiving and opening their many gifts.

Christmas, chapter 4

On Christmas day, I helped Sharon prepare food she'd bought and brought for a special lunch meal for workers at the infant house. We (mainly she) cooked chicken in a sauce to serve over rice, plus coleslaw, beetroot and potato salads and roast potatoes. Unfortunately, a couple of the workers weren't very appreciative, complaining that we didn't serve enough meat (Swazis love their meat!). Never mind that the food and labor were donated. Zanela and Pearl had also purchased and prepared desserts – trifle, vanilla custard tart and fruitcake – so really there was plenty of food. Perhaps the complaining workers were just annoyed at having to work on Christmas Day. As far as I could tell, though, Christmas is a religious observance kind of holiday here, not a big family get together. Some people put up Christmas trees, but gift giving isn't required or even expected, at least not in the excessive way we do it in the U.S. And a big
Christmas dinner is also not the norm. I also found it surprising that we were not invited to any big church services for the holiday even though the children's homes we visited are all church-affiliated in some way.

Christmas, chapter 3

The children's homes Zanela works for are operated by ABC Ministries, which I think is South-Africa based. Zanela lives in and supervises the infant house and the ministry managers (owners?) live with and supervise care of the older children. ABC is now certified to work with some international adoption agencies – this is a new development for Swaziland, which has resisted allowing children to be adopted from outside the country. Actually, the Swazi government resists the whole idea of "orphans" and children's homes, as it claims that virtually all children who lose their parents can be cared for by extended family. Unfortunately, just as in the States, the available extended family may be dysfunctional, uncaring or just too poor to provide adequately for another child. Abortion is illegal in Swaziland, so quite a few babies are abandoned or even killed. Although HIV is not automatically passed on to the child, a number of the children
(and staff) are HIV-positive and taking ARV medication. Sometimes the government runs out of ARVs and only issues patients half their required dosages. This despite the fact that the U.S. government has already plowed millions into AIDS prevention and treatment programs through PEPFAR, with more promised. But I digress...

The photos attached were both taken at the ABC infant house. Zanela and I appear in one, along with most of the little ones.

Christmas, chapter 2

Bulembu is a very quiet place; it once hosted an asbestos mine, which closed down in 2001, basically destroying the local economy. There is still logging in the area, though, and several children's services agencies have moved in to take advantage of the cheap housing and peaceful surroundings. In addition to children's homes, the main agency in the area, Bulembu Ministries, also runs a lodge, a craft workshop/giftshop, and is establishing bee-keeping and honey production for the displaced workers who stayed in the area.

Christmas in Bulembu

Sharon Singleton (whom I met at the UNICEF workshop) invited me to spend Christmas visiting Bulembu, which is a tiny, semi-abandoned town outside of Piggs Peak. Sharon's sister Zanela works at an orphanage there, and for the last few years, two other sisters and Sharon have met there to visit and to help out a bit. I was happy to have an invite, as my trip to Burundi over the holidays had been cancelled at the last minute. Plus, I liked the idea of doing something to help some of the many orphaned or disadvantaged children in Swaziland.

Around 1 pm on December 24, I picked up Sharon and three young girls (Sharon's 8-year-old daughter Shemine; her cousin's orphaned 11-year-old daughter Lindelwa, who also lives with Sharon; and 15-year-old Hloniphile, whose current guardian had just died and who had no place to stay over the holidays – she may end up a long-term ward of Sharon's as well). I hadn't expected three girls so had overpacked my own belongings to an embarrassing degree; plus, we also ended up transporting bags for Sharon's sisters who were taking public transport. We crammed everything into the trunk and onto the girls' laps and headed out.

The drive to Piggs Peak took a little more than an hour, with another half hour or so of gravel road to Bulembu. Driving through the countryside, I was struck by its similarity to Bosnia – the road winds over and around hill after rock-strewn hill, with terraced farms and forests interspersed. Of course, here one sees round thatched huts and small shacks of wattle and dab construction; in Bosnia, tall cement block structures, relieved by the occasional crumbling medieval fort, are the norm. The last mile was the worst – that section of road had once been tarred but is now just a patchwork of potholes. Once in the village, we met up with Zanela, who gave us keys to the house we would stay in. It was quite a large house and we filled it with three adults and five children (my car-full plus Sharon's sister May and her two children). Sometimes, more girls stayed as well, as Zanela and Pearl (the other sister) have two each. The only boy child
present was May's 15-month-old, Ziggy, who either was not feeling well most of the time or just likes to cry a lot (especially at night). The house was OK although not well equipped (no towels and inadequate cooking utensils); plus there were daily battles against the kitchen cockroach population.

Pictures attached to this entry include one of the outside of the house we rented, a shot of Sharon cooking in the kitchen, a view of the gravel road and scenery from the drive into Bulembu, and a distant shot of some of the many identical and mostly-deserted company houses left over from the mine.