Holiday Travels: Ngwenya Mine and Ngwenpisi Gorge

      1st term ended April 17, so we did some traveling within Swaziland each of the 2 weeks between terms, on the other days meeting high school students at the nearby refugee camp.

THE OLDEST (OR 2ND OLDEST) MINE IN THE WORLD

      The first week of break we went with our young friend John Koffi to Ngwenya mine, described around here as the oldest mine in the world (actually, John did some research afterwards and found there is one in Egypt that is older, so,OK,  2nd oldest).   43,000 years ago the San bushmen, the only inhabitants then of southern Africa, hollowed out a cavern the size of a small living room on the top of the mountain to the left of us in the picture below; here we are in front of a modern iron ore open pit, now abandoned.

The bushmen were mining hematite, for color in painting themselves and on their rock drawings, suggesting the importance to them of that decoration and art work.  We spent 3 days with John, thinking through issues and steps in the coming years, staying at a favorite Peace Corps backpackers hostel.

TUTORING AND MEETINGS AT THE REFUGEE CAMP

     We  met with the high school students from the refugee camp most days when we were home over the break.  After one session Katherine WhastApped one of the students suggesting a writing project (we try to suggest them frequently to those who might benefit), and she received this reply:

Good morning Catherine,  thanks alot for every single words that you guys keeping on telling me, because they build something in me that contribute a big change in my academic and personal life.  Thank you very much and i will do the writing.

   The writer is one of the Form 4s (juniors) whom we have just gotten to know this term, a quiet, thoughtful  19-year-old from the Democratic Republic of Congo; I think he started English about 5 years ago.

        Even more than Swazi high school graduates, refugees in this country are stuck in a desperate limbo, because there is no funding for them to attend college in Swaziland, and it is difficult and expensive for them to travel elsewhere.  To try to understand their alternatives we set up meetings at the camp with a young woman who has studied scholarships available to graduates from Swazi high schools, other than financial aid from the Swazi government.  She was due at 8:30 in the morning; we told the refugee students we'd meet them at 8, just to prepare, and we came in to find they'd been meeting since 7 that morning, going over plans and expectations of each other: e.g.,  "use formal language when you ask a question."  We regularly tutor about a dozen high school students from the camp, but there were 25 kids there, nearly every student in the Camp from 6 grade up. 

        After the first speaker we were joined by the US Embassy's Consul, who handles applications of refugees to enter the US, to talk about that and generally about the (many, many) issues with refugees traveling and trying to establish themselves in more favorable economies.   We left at 11 with the US Consul for lunch Katherine had prepared at our hut because we wanted some face time with the Consul; we learned later in the day the kids continued meeting and de-briefed for another 2+ hours!  So that was around 6 hours of meetings for these kids; they are a determined  crew, trying to find an exit strategy.  

NGWEMPISI GORGE

       This week we took a trip we'd been thinking about for a year, to a lodge built into a cliff face high above a remote gorge at the end of a rough 15 kilometer dirt road, in the hills on the west side of Swaziland.  Several people whom we reached by phone assured us they handled reservations for the local community association that ran the lodge and all would be ready for our arrival, but when the taxi we'd hired to take us from the nearest khumbi rank 40 km away reached the lonely homestead at the end of the road, the Make (mother) there who handled the Lodge had no idea we were coming.  But, not to worry, no one else was at the Lodge that night and she assured us all was in order: gas for the stove; water; even hot water for showers!  And the paraffin lanterns and blankets we would need (winter is coming on, and it gets into the mid-40s at night up in the hills) would be brought down in a few hours.  And the taxi driver promised to come back for us at 11 the next day.  We hiked 40 minutes and maybe 800' elevation loss into the gorge and then found the water not working, and no fuel for the shower heater.  But the blankets arrived later in the afternoon and I found the lanterns in a nearby hut for a security guard (which raised some questions in our minds, but, I guess we're glad to have security). 

 We hiked down to the river. On the way we met a man carrying a sack, which he said contained "leaves" he had harvested, no doubt dagga, the hot and (in my opinion) low potency marijuana which some claim is Swaziland's major export crop.

       Back at the lodge we watched for birds.

  Katherine developed the annoying habit of exclaiming she'd seen a purple crested turoco when I was looking the other way; she got some good views, I think I saw him once; we've seen him before, at other game reserves, but I'd have loved to see him again.  On one porch of the lodge we sipped wine we'd carried

and then had dinner. 

       The next morning we watched the dawn from the rocks above the lodge

 and from a high rock we managed to text our taxi driver to confirm he was coming for us; he called right back and promised to meet us at the school near the homestead.  We hiked out of the gorge and the driver was early, picking us up on our way to the school.  I don't want to seem cynical, but I've heard "Oh sure, I'll be there tomorrow" from lots of Swazis and been disappointed, and there appeared no other way we could have got back to a traveled road - we saw one other vehicle (going the wrong way) on the whole length of the road out, so this was a great end to our trip.  

       It was interesting to think of looking forward to getting back to our homestead to get clean, and comfortable, and safe, and to be in control.  Just as we get set to leave, we are settling in.

Birthday, Running Buddies, and a Lost Cell Phone

Birthday: 67!

       We celebrated my 67th birthday with pizza lunch at the only restaurant in the dusty shopping town 25 km from us, with a volunteer from our group (left) and a volunteer in the newer group who was visited by her husband,  from their home in Alaska.  They were just back from seeing the game in Botswana, at Chobe. 

Both volunteers live near the town where we met them, but the visiting husband had rented a car, so they drove us back to our site, after a big grocery shopping binge - a true birthday celebration!

Running Buddies

      Last week  I started off on my customary run. A slender dark  figure raced out to join me - Bonkhe, age 12,  4th grade last year at the "poorer" school nearby.  We only teach grades 5 and 6, and Bonkhe was very proud to tell us at the end of last school year that his teacher was sure  he would be promoted to grade 5, where we would teach him.  Alas, when the new school year started in January, it turned out he had failed English, which automatically precluded promotion, but he still makes a point of greeting us at school, and around the community.

        Bonkhe kept pace with me on my run 2 weeks ago, and, on our way back, which was slightly uphill, his pace pushed me a little harder than I would have chosen had I been alone.  I do yoga stretches at the mid-point turnaround of the run; I don't know the siSwati word for that, and Bonkhe doesn't really get the point, but he imitates my triginashina (spelling?); the one-legged holding the foot by the butt stretch eludes him.

      When I started my  run earlier this week I hollered for him and he immediately came sprinting to the path, and we ran well together.  I've taken to running shirtless so as not to trash a shirt; they already know I'm odd, so going around shirtless can't be that much of a shock by now.  1/2 way through the run Bonkhe pulled off his shirt, but he was careful to put it back on when he returned to his homestead.

      Oh, perhaps I should mention, the first time Bonke ran with me, he ran barefoot.  I run in expensive REI "trail running" shoes, more like low cut boots, now a little bedraggled.  And I've used pliers to pull an acacia thorn out of those boots, that came all the way through to my foot.  This week when Bonkhe ran out to join me he was running in crocs, more like bedroom slippers.  Seemed to work just fine for him.

Here he is with other kids from the surrounding homesteads. 

CONDOM PRACTICE AT THE HIGH SCHOOL

             Last week, with the help of one of the smart young science teachers at our high school,  we  arranged to give condom use demonstrations to each of the science classes - she thought it important to get to the students before they went on break.  Two girls have dropped out in the past 2 weeks because of pregnancy - pregnant girls are not allowed to attend school.   We reached all 420 students at the high school, giving all the boys a chance to put male condom on model penises (slightly larger than life size (at least, I think so!)), and the girls a chance to do that one, and the same for a female condom on our model of female genitalia.

           It is well we now have 2 weeks of break;  you relate differently to a student after you explain to him or her that after climax they must firmly grasp the base of the penis while it is still stiff, holding onto the condom, now full, before sliding it out of the vagina, to be sure the condom does not slip off.    We got some questions that seemed to have been searching for an answer for a long time, and some students were very serious; others were silly, the way teenagers working with plastic penises and vulvas are bound to be.

       Here are our models in our dish rack after we cleaned them up after last use.

THE PURLOINED CELL PHONE

         We each teach a section of Form 4 (junior) English language once a week at the local high school, and we assigned them homework of taking a book out of the school library and reading it and writing a report over break.  Here they are thronging the library. 

PIC

Unfortunately I did not keep watch over my backpack and my cell phone, with 2 years' worth of phone numbers, has disappeared.  This is a common occurrence, so, as instructed, a day later I filed a police report in our local shopping town, 15 miles away.

     The police were very responsive and helpful, and quickly took a statement, but whoever trains the Royal Swazi Police has been reading too many British detective novels;  I don't recall saying, as part of my statement "On that fateful day" (seriously) nor would my description of what I wrote on the board in my Form 4 section's room ("I lost my cell phone in the library - there's a reward!") have been phrased that I "immediately raised an alarm."

      As instructed we went from the police station to the phone company office nearby, who sent us back to the police station for another paper, which we obtained after paying about $US 1 at the nearby Department of Revenue office and taking that receipt back to the police, who now said we needed to go to Manzini, to the main phone company office, to initiate tracing the phone.  When we got there 2 days later the phone company said we needed another kind of paper from the police back at the station where we'd filed the original report. We tried the Manzini police, who also said to go back to our shopping town for that paper and bring it back to the Manzini phone company.  But we're giving up on that official process; the phone company estimates it takes months to trace a phone, once the paperwork is in order!  A teacher at the high school is going to call the girlfriend of another teacher, because the girlfriend works at the phone company and, with information from the police report, may be able to get the tracing done in a few days. 

Easter in Maputo

        Over Easter weekend we took the last vacation of our PC service, and our last trip out of the country until final departure.  (We are not allowed to take vacation during our last 3 months.)  We went to Maputo, capital of neighboring Mozambique, traveling 1 1/2 hours first by khumbi and then a lucky hitch-hike to the border, then 1 1/2 hours by chapa  (their khumbis, equally crowded and hot) to the bustling, sprawling, crowded city known until independence in 1974 as Lourenҫo Marques.   Fueled by offshore oil,  Mozambique had the highest GDP growth rate in the world in 2014, although its people would be quick to say the country's wealth  is not shared - inequality is an issue for our time.   A civil war from 1977 until 1992, partly fueled by neighboring Zimbabwe before that country's independence in 1980 and then by the dying South African apartheid  regime's efforts to install friendly regimes in its neighbors, tore Mozambique apart, sending refugees across the border, including up to 20,000 to neighboring Swaziland, prompting construction of the UN-sponsored refugee camp near us.  (That camp is now down to around 320, most now from Central Africa; its funding now comes through Caritas, a Roman Catholic charity, although the UN High Commissioner for Refugees participates in "governance" of the camp.)  Civil wars are bad for game animals, and the few tourists passing through MOZ go to nearby Kruger in South Africa and occasionally even Swaziland, to see wildlife, but the MOZ coastline with endless white sand beaches on the Indian Ocean and snorkeling are a big draw.

       Most PCVs in SZ get to MOZ, especially over New Years, but they generally by-pass Maputo on their way to the splendid beaches 6 hours drive north, replete with the required complement of bars and other amenities for young people.   Although I like beaches well enough, 6 hours for nothing but beach and bars is a little much, so we stayed in Maputo for 3 nights, doing some shopping, sightseeing, and luxuriating in hot showers (I took 3 one day), ensuite flush potties, and unusual food that we didn't have to prepare ourselves.

        Our guide books to MOZ, the PC, and comments from friends, had all warned us of rampant crime in MOZ, with a small frail elderly white couple presenting an especially inviting target.  The father of one of our students was shot over Christmas, and a PC couple were held up at gunpoint at a beach resort over New Years by a man wearing a police uniform.  We left at home everything we could not easily replace, traveling very light.  We were, however, never  threatened in the least, and found the people uniformly helpful, pleasant and welcoming.  Portuguese is their official language, but we could fake it a little with our few words of Spanish; many of the people we encountered had a little English, and one of the dialects in southern MOZ is similar to siSwati, so we mostly managed to communicate.

         Maputo is a southern African city by a harbor, but similarities to Cape Town end there. Maputo is hard for a tourist to navigate, with rubble- and rubbish-choked sidewalks crowded with parked cars, few street signs, little visual appeal, and limited tourist amenities.   The mix of southern African, Portuguese, and Indian cooking, especially with sea-food, had great potential, and we did some fine eating, but there were also disappointments, attributable partly to language difficulties: twice I ended up with canned tuna when I thought I had ordered fresh fish!

              Our tiny boutique hotel was clean, pretty and well-located, between Karl Marx and  Vladimir Lenin Avenues, on Patrice Lumumbo Avenue.[i]   Here we are in the beautiful garden with Chiara, from Turin, Italy, who worked as a UN project manager in Lusaka, Zambia, with whom we had dinner one night.

She told us of the tough deals imposed on host countries by Chinese (Peoples Republic of China; e.g., mainland) companies extracting minerals, and the resentment of host countries

                The weather was nearly perfect, with mostly sunny days and gentle sea breezes.  We found the best fabric store in town on the 2nd pass, with help from 2 friendly Portuguese ladies,

and we caught some craft fairs.   

            One day we ended up in a vast, crowded, dark market, where we were so out-of-place I heard a woman mutter the Mozambiҫan derivative of umlungu, siSwati for "white people"[ii],  as we walked past; she had a good laugh when I responded in my fractured siSwati.

That would have been a good place to purchase a wide variety of herbal remedies and animal body parts, but we passed.  There were no taxis or tuk-tuks in sight when we exited and somehow we ended up going in the opposite direction than we wanted on the crowded chapa we thought would get us back into the center of the city, but other passengers showed us where to get off to get a tuk-tuk back to familiar turf.

     Here is the view of the Indian Ocean from the nicest hotel we saw, where we did not stay.

     We returned home with mixed feelings, happy to be where we know the language and customs and feel safe and oriented; when we got off the khumbi at our stop, nearly everyone there knew and greeted us, by name and enthusiastically.   But we were sad to leave behind the shower, cleanliness and quiet (of our lovely little hotel), varied food, cotton sheets and towels . . . .

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[i]           After Portugal changed governments in 1974 and the new regime abruptly withdrew from MOZ, taking all professionals and skilled workers back to Portugal, Russia stepped in to help the new government; hence the street names, which feature nearly every failed European political philosopher,  as well as many from the plentiful selection of African despots.  The Russians' heavy-handed ineptitude and rapacity were deeply resented and they were  unregretted when they, too, pulled out abruptly in 1991, with the collapse .of the Soviet Union.

[ii]         It has been much debated among PCVs whether a black volunteer, or one of Asian or Hispanic heritage can be umlungu,  but the Swazis definitively settled that in favor of inclusivity; Americans, of whatever ethnicity, are the color of money, so all PCVs are umlugu.