RIDE WITH ME TO MANZINI

No sleeping in today, even though it’s Saturday, because I have a meeting to get to in Manzini, so I’m up at the usual week-day time, breakfast trying not to wake Debbie (couldn’t be done if we were still in a rondeval), then I step into the sub-Kalahari humidity and begin melting. As I cross a quiet and deserted campus, I am greeted by “Whirling Dervish” who is SO Happy to see me and clings to me in an eternal hug. Leaving campus, the guard (yes, our palace is in a gated community) grins at me and there is much genuflecting, hands in prayer position, and we exchange the customary siSwati greetings. I’m passed at the top of our driveway hill by a runner and the aroma hangs heavy in the humid morning air until he is 200 meters ahead of me. Starting into town, I meet three fierce looking young bucks, dressed poorly, who fan out as I approach. It’s intimidating if not a little fearful. I smile and say, “sani bonani, bobhuti”, and they all break into smiles to say, “yebo, babe”. In-country seven months now, we don’t know if they are laughing at our accents or pleased with our attempts at siSwati.
Bomake are already on the road into town with heavy loads on their heads, babies strapped on their backs, and everyone is walking about half my pace.
When I get to the bus ranks, the conductors urge me toward the khumbies and I walk purposely past them to find a bus to Manzini. I sit a few minutes through the usual shouting, whistling, and horn honking, until it begins leaving promptly but, as usual, stops just beyond the bus ranks to pick up passengers who are operating on Africa time and couldn’t board in the ranks. I am momentarily amazed because the bus is nearly empty and there is NO MUSIC. Two young girls stare at me in curiosity. We get a beautiful view into the broad, green valley as we start down the high Siteki grade and I can see the route of the road as it cuts straight through the middle bushveld. The buses have a window bar right at eye level which prevents easy viewing. The two girls continue to stare at mlungu, so I take out my Newsweek and settle in for the remainder of the ride—interrupted by an SMS from Debbie giving me a grocery list to the interest of the girls. The temperature noticeably rises as the day begins and we drive through the lowveld.
When we pass acacia trees and the bus begins laboring to go uphill, I give up my struggle to focus on Newsweek and don my clip-on dark glasses to view the scenery, the south end of the Lubombo plateau in the distance. This causes the girls to look at me with amazement.
The trip has taken longer than the usual 75 minutes because of frequent stops to pick up passengers and I realize most seats are now filled.
The acacia change to eucalyptus and it’s time to prepare to transit the Manzini ranks, so I distribute my money among my pockets and close my portfolio. As I exit the bus, I hear a few calls of “umlungu” and I’m not sure if they are taunting me or warning me of an approaching bus which I must dodge because vehicles always seem to take the right of way. I’m barely on time for my meeting which, being Americans, begins promptly.
After the meeting and lunch with PCVs, I walk back through busy, bustling Manzini, thread my way through the bus ranks and board a baking bus and get the last seat that a young mother offers me by putting her baby on her lap. It is an aisle seat about a third of the way back and following me are a few hundred more people who pass me hoping to find a space in the rear of the bus, and each time someone passes, I get bumped by boxes, bags, babies, boobs or butts. I get to Siteki in time to satisfy Debbie’s shopping list, then walk home with the groceries to find she is making eggplant parmesan and a green salad which we enjoy with a South African wine. After the rigors of a day in Swaziland, I find the comforts of home.