Why Swaziland? Because it's there.

The sign said, “Mahamba.” The road looked more like a dirt track for logging trucks than a thoroughfare to an international border. The rain had picked up, it was nearly dusk, and the red clay road looked like it could send our car sliding into the forest. Obviously, we abandoned the N2 and turned down the unnamed road.

Ten harrowing kilometers later, we found ourselves at a border post between Swaziland and South Africa. The differences between the countries was immediately apparent; South Africa had multiple customs officers and computerized systems. Swaziland had a lady with a large notebook. We had an uneventful crossing, and headed off into the very dark Swaziland night. When we finally arrived at our farm cottage, we discovered the cause of the darkness: very inconsistent electricity supply. We watched while the electrical transformer blew itself up, sending up blew sparks and then shuddered on again, giving us just enough electricity to cook a late dinner and fall into bed.

We woke up in time to say hello to the large peacock who had come to see what we were having for breakfast - farm fresh eggs and milk - and goodbye to the man with the machete who had guarded our cottage overnight. Then it was off to see Swaziland. Or more accurately, off to buy Swaziland. We were staying in the Malkerns Valley, which has some lovely craft boutiques, all supporting the local community, especially women and people with AIDS. People were so warm, and the racial tension of South Africa isn’t as formidable a presence in Swaziland, making for a relaxed day. We bought pretty things, ate lunch at the Finnish Consulate, which looked suspiciously like an art gallery and cafe, and hiked to a waterfall.

The next day, the prospect of running through pineapple and sugarcane fields even enticed Natty to join me on my run. Unfortunately, we had been warned to watch out for snakes, so we spent as much time staring at our feet as we did admiring the lush fields. After saying goodbye to our peacock and our guard, it was back to Durban, another stamp added to our passports.

Breakfast at our cottage.

Oh, Paul Simon!

Incredible performance space.

Cycads and sugar cane.

Lunch at Finnish Consulate. 

Mind you, this was in the middle of nowhere.

Traditional Swazi huts.  Different from the pointy Zulu thatched huts. 

Our peacock.  He was scary. 

We ran here.

The farm.

More farm.

These put our mean Middletown wild turkeys to shame.

National soccer stadium.  Doesn't exactly compare to the World Cup venues here. 

Swaziland's Olympic training complex. 

Enough said. 

Informal Markets of Durban

At the center of Durban lies a labyrinth of informal markets, peddling everything from pirated DVDs to baboon heads. The Early Morning Market, a sprawling vegetable market, has been in existence there for a century. When the municipality threatened to tear down the entire place and build a mall (South Africans LOVE their malls), the Legal Resources Centre, where Natty is working, stepped in and defended the informal traders. The markets serve a vital role in the life of the city, providing affordable goods, significant cultural wares, and most importantly, jobs. Although in recent years safety in the markets has improved, it is not generally considered a safe area for outsiders. Natty’s work arranged a visit through a new non-profit that supports initiatives for the traders and leads tours of the nine distinct markets. While we were waiting for our guide, we heard a fight breaking out nearby; people starting sprinting towards the action, shouting and egging on the fighters, and we decided we were glad to be part of a tour.
When our guide showed up, so did eight white women in their seventies. We thought we were having a private tour, and groaned at the thought of joining this crowd of nervous-looking tourists. But it turned out they had lived in Durban all their lives. Post-apartheid South Africa is a complex place, and often, the same organizations that serve tourists provide white South Africans with a chance to look over the barriers erected by apartheid.
Our first stop was the Friday Bead Market. It was a buzzing place, with women and children and jewelry sprawled on the ground. We practiced our Zulu and earned some smiles and some perplexed looks. I’m not sure we’re always saying what we think we are saying. We continued through the Herb Market, and through the clothes market. Pinafores, the bright dresses reminiscent of the turn of the twentieth century, are worn by many Zulu women as important cultural markers. It seemed like the market could have clothed the entire female population of the Zulu nation. The highlight of the tour for Natty was the Bovine Head Market. Translated: raw cow heads hanging around, then scooped into a big pot with dumplings and cooked. Delicious. The tour ended with a loop through the traditional medicines market, where we wove through piles of monkey skulls, dead birds, and piles of strange-smelling plants. No cures I wanted to try!
As we left, it was difficult to imagine the vibrant markets being replaced with another undistinguished shopping center. We’re gaining confidence in the city, and we plan to go back to visit on our own soon.

The Drakensburgs

The first 250 kilometers took two hours. The next 25 kilometers took two hours too, as we bounced along the dirt road, dodging small children running after us, demanding, “Sweets! Sweets!” Martha the pediatrician cringed as we all wondered how many white people had tossed candy out car windows at these kids. Finally, we pulled into Injusuthi camp, nestled between a river and soaring cliffs in the northern part of the Drakensburgs. Having been cramped in the car, I dashed out for a run, and with the sun setting over the dramatic peaks, it made the “Top Runs of All Time” list.

The next morning, we set off in a drizzle, full of optimism that the fog would lift soon. An hour and a half later we arrived drenched at one set of caves tucked into the cliffs. You couldn’t see more than twenty feet ahead of you, which makes traversing narrow paths carved into steep mountain slopes lots of fun. With my mom as a fearless leader, we struck back out into the fog. She continued to call back to us, “Oh, I’m sure we are on a path. Definitely sure,” until we could no longer even find a place to put a foot on this so-called path. I was soaked and shivering, and we headed back along the vertiginous trail. As we headed back down to camp, the fog finally lifted and we could see the stunning valleys below.

Luckily, the next day dawned clear and dry and we joined a guide, Zizi, for a hike up to see San cave paintings. Along the way, he informed us of the importance of making sure you have good descriptions when you set off for hikes; eland (antelope) trails are often more worn than human paths, making it easy to lose track. Ah-ha!

It was a beautiful hike, although I’m fairly sure Zizi made up a good deal of what he told us about the cave paintings. We drove him back to his village afterwards, and when he reappeared in his leather jacket, faux-diamond earring, and Nikes, we hardly recognized him. Along the way, he explained aspects of village life. One of the fascinating dynamics he explained was how the community had been slow to receive development assistance from the current government, run by the African National Congress, because they had mostly been supporters of the Inkatha Freedom Party, another more radical anti-aparthied party, during the struggle.

It was a wonderful trip and Natty and I plan to return to the Drakensburgs soon.