Dave and Dad are…
Gonna be beaten with sticks!
See that guy’s stick? Yeah, beaten with that.
Welcome to Swaziland, the country where we were perpetually in danger of being beaten with sticks. Now the only reason we had Swaziland on the itinerary is that my visa expires tomorrow and I have to be out of the country. Then, on the 19th, in theory anyway, I can just reenter on a new visa. It’s all really a big pain in the ass but I had huge hassles with my visa going all the way back to April and in June when I switched over to a student visa the idiots at Home Affairs decided to cut it off three days before my flight back home (despite the inclusion of my ticket information in my application). It was such a huge pain in the ass though that I couldn’t bear to go through it again when instead I could just go to Swaziland for a couple days.
Of course I hadn’t figured on all the trouble getting over the border. For starters, other than Canada, I’ve never gone over a border in my own car before. If its overland it’s been a bus or train where the customs process is sort of worked out for you. Here we managed to go to the wrong window twice, miss some paperwork, not correctly pay the car fee the first time, and totally forge the BIG FUCKING ZULU SHIELD in the backseat. Of course the guy searching our car didn’t miss it in the backseat and informed us were supposed to declare it. Probably because they were afraid we’d use it for the long time Zulu pastime of “Swazi bashing”. Luckily before we sweated this too long he established that we didn’t plan on reentering SA through his border post so our return wouldn’t be his problem and he waved us on.
This was essentially the same reaction the BIG FUCKING ZULU SHIELD elicited on the Swazi side of the border. But eventually we made it through and were welcomed to the world’s last functioning monarchy by…a long string of KFC signs. They love KFC here. The King endorses KFC here. And some of these signs are really sexually suggestive and disturbing.
KFC eyesores aside, Swaziland is beautiful. Gorgeous views, hills, forests, roads not full of potholes, little traffic. Dad and I were pretty instant fans. And in a country the size of my first NYC apartment we made good time across it, stopping at a joint called Manlandela for lunch.
It offered us our first exposure to Swazi beer WHICH IS LIGHT YEARS FUCKING BETTER THAN THAT SWILL THEY CALL BEER IN SOUTH AFRICA. Seriously, how is it possible that Zambia, Zimbabwe and Swaziland all have much better bottles than SA and yet don’t export a drop of it to help out thirsty grad students in Cape Town? SADC is clearly a failure.
The artsy/craft/bar/club complex thing that Manlandela’s was part of was a pretty interesting mix of styles. Local Swazi crafts in interestingly Antoni Gaudi-esque buildings next to a similarly designed nightclub loudly promo-ing its Michael Jackson memorial party. We limited ourselves to the nice outdoor bar with the gorgeous views of the Swazi countryside.
Then, after dumping our stuff at the hostel, we ventured into Mbabane, the capital and largest city, where we ate at Pablo’s in honor of my mother. (Hi Pablo!)
We made it this far all without a single threat of being beaten with a stick. But all that changed fairly rapidly. You see, it appears our arrival in Swaziland coincided with Incwala. Incwala is, and I quote from Wikipedia, “The most important cultural event in Swaziland…held on the fourth day after the full moon nearest the longest day, December 21. Incwala is often translated in English as ‘first fruits ceremony’, but the King’s tasting of the new harvest is only one aspect among many in this long pageant. Incwala is best translated as ‘Kingship Ceremony’ : when there is no king, there is no Incwala. It is high treason for any other person to hold an Incwala.”
Here is the story about today’s ceremony from the next day’s Times of Swaziland.
During Incwala is the only time of the year where people can go into the royal grounds (about three minutes down the road from our hostel) and it features a lot of traditional (and vaguely Zulu looking, though don’t say that to them) dancing with very Zulu looking (though don’t say that to them) shields and sticks. The hostel lady had asked us if we wanted to go watch the ceremony when we checked in, but not knowing what it was we declined. Sitting in Pablo’s though reading about it in the paper it sounded a lot more interesting. It’s not like we had anything else planned for the afternoon anyway right?
So, in what would prove to be a very fateful decision, we decided to go check it out. After finishing at P-lo’s we drove down and joined the long queue of cars to get into the royal grounds. We got increasingly nervous as we got closer and closer to the gate where big Swazi’s with guns were checking each car. They seemed as dubious about us when we made it up there and I wasn’t sure they would let us in (and wasn’t sure I’d have a problem if they didn’t). Eventually the soldier and I established that we could go in as long as we didn’t take a single photo, if we did we’d be beaten with sticks. While these reasonable parameters were being established, a guard was uh, explaining, to my father the consequences of not taking his hat off, though those consequences seemed less being beaten with sticks and more shot with that big ass machine gun currently tapping on his window.
I didnt take these photos, cause you know, I’d be beaten with sticks
Now being waved in, the Old Man and I’s keenly attuned sense of peril was rising, as was our comprehension that we had absolutely no idea what was going on, what the rules were, or how best to avoid our ignorance resulting in us being beaten with sticks.
I parked the car. Nope, have to park facing out (or you’ll be beaten with sticks). Nope, don’t put your hands in your pockets (or you’ll be beaten with sticks) Nope, cant wander that far this direction (or you’ll be beaten with sticks). Cant wander too far in that direction (or you’ll be beaten with sticks).
You may think I am being facetious but that might only be because I haven’t properly established our surroundings. Out of the car we found ourselves near the king’s kraal, or rather kraals, the large collection of native huts surrounded by tall stick fences. Roaming in and around them were hundreds if not thousands of Swazi men in one of three categories: 1) those dressed in traditional warrior attire complete with shield and sticks; 2) uniformed police armed with sticks; 3) uniformed army soldiers armed with sticks (and, in some instances, guns). I would say they three groups were in roughly equal numbers.
Then there was us, two very clueless, very out of place guys from a log cabin in Illinois. (Oh, there were three other white people there but we lost sight of them almost immediately after parking and they appeared to have a guide with them explaining everything. And they had sticks too. The bastards.)
So really the chances of us being beaten with sticks seemed pretty high, specially as we had ABSOLUTELY NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA WHAT WAS GOING ON, WHERE IT WAS GOING TO GO ON AT, AND WHAT THE FUCK WE WERE SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN WHATEVER IT WAS OCCURRED.
Eventually after risking being beaten with sticks one too many times we decided to sort of hang out in the shade of a kraal fence and act nonchalant, you know, try and act like we belonged. I do not think this worked.
I probably shouldn’t have stolen these images from Google. I expect that’s probably a stick-beating offense too.
But they did leave us alone for a little while, allowing us to speculate on what ultimately was going to happen, why some of them kept climbing to the top of a small dirt mound to blow on an ancient and severely dented tuba, and the disconnect of seeing men dressed in full, traditional Zulu looking (though don’t tell them that) warrior attire clip blackberries to their loincloths. It was hysterical (but we didn’t laugh cause we’d probably be beaten with sticks.) You just can’t overstate the fear of being beaten with a stick when you are surrounded by thousands of strong, fit, Zulu looking (though don’t tell them that) warriors each carrying one if not two sticks. At one point a little kid walked by carrying a bunch of the sticks and we briefly hoped he was gonna give us some (as if giving me and the Old Man our own sticks would in any way shift the balance of power remotely in our favor) . I suggested going back and getting the BIG FUCKING ZULU SHIELD but the Old Man was convinced they’d be able to tell it was Zulu not Swazi. (And then we’d be beaten with sticks.)
Eventually, with nothing happening, we were debating whether going back to the car and trying to leave would end with us being beaten with sticks when a couple policemen set up two portable metal detectors in the middle of the open field in front of us. This apparently was a sign things were starting, as almost immediately thereafter the large contingent of soldiers (all with sticks) on the opposite side of the field let out a roar and ran into the narrow opening in the largest of the kraals. The police force followed suit.
Then, regiment by regiment (we are pretty sure they organized by regiment) those dressed as traditional warriors followed. But first they all ran through the two freestanding metal detectors in the middle of the open field. You know that scene in Blazing Saddles, where they set up the tollbooth in the middle of the open desert to delay the oncoming bad guys from coming to destroy the town? We’ll that’s pretty much exactly what this looked like. (“Somebody go back and get a shitload of dimes!”)
Once through this surreal security procedure each regiment yelled and ran into the kraal with their sticks. As the number of people left outside dwindled to almost zero the Old Man and I looked at each other with increasing apprehension. Should we follow them in? Should we make a break for the car? Should we stand here perfectly still and hope their eyesight is based on movement? What course of action is least likely to end with us beaten with sticks?
Luckily it was at this point that just about the only two other people still left in the field approached us. They were, predictably enough, a traditionally warrior dressed TV CAMERA CREW, and they wanted to interview us about what we thought. Which allowed us to finally ask, “What the hell is going on exactly.”
So it turns out that this is a big day of dancing (which we knew) and that it was starting right now inside the king’s kraal (which we surmised), and that the king was not only going to be in attendance but would be dancing (which we were vaguely expecting) and that we could watch (which we had been told) but not unless were also participating in the dancing (which we were definitely NOT told).
This news dropped on us with the sudden shock of one of those Swazi sticks across the head. To his credit, the Old Man, who was clearly the key person of interest to the camera crew, soldiered on through his interview, while I tried to disassociate myself without looking like I was trying to disassociate myself.
They seemed really interested in foreigners participating, though you’d think if they wanted us to be part of it so bad they wouldn’t keep threatening us with sticks, and when they finished and headed into the kraal we had a decision to make, and make quickly. We could either A) go and join the dance or B) get the fuck out of Dodge.
There were certainly arguments to be made for the former. How often does one get the chance to dance for (much less with) royalty? Could we ever expect another such opportunity? How interesting would it be to witness this? How hysterical would it be to see the Old Man do a Swazi war dance? How limitless was the potential for ridiculousness? How great a story would this be (presuming we lived through it)?
Man, I get nervous just looking at this pictures. So many sticks.
You can imagine how persuasive I found some of these arguments, especially the latter ones. However, on the flip side there was the whole we’re gonna get beaten with sticks argument. There was also the consideration that if we bought into this we’d have to go all the way, there is definitely no chance of us, two of five white people in that whole armed kraal, sneaking away unnoticed halfway through the ceremony when the Old Man’s knees gave out or when we felt our chances of a stick beating were rising.
Ultimately, after a quick but heated debate the flight beat out the fight and we legged it for the car. It’s a decision that even as we quick stepped nervously to the auto I knew we would regret long term, and maybe if we’d had a few beers in us, or at least sticks of our own our decision would have been different. But the idea of 4-5 hours, shoulder to shoulder with armed warriors who all knew the dance steps, waiting for the inevitable faux paus that would end with us beaten with sticks just seemed too stressful.
So we fled, almost assuredly bringing shame and dishonor on our tribe and our ancestors, but ensuring the possibility that we’ll at least have descendents. We washed ourselves of the shame back at Manladela’s and let’s just say it took a lot of Sibebe to cleanse ourselves fully.
But at no point were we beaten with sticks.
To clarify, and to further demonstrate how far afield you and I were, what the guy with the machine gun at the gate of the king’s kraal actually told me was “Take off your headdress.” By which he meant the baseball cap I’d bought a week back at Umlani Bush Camp.
I was absolutely sure at the time that we didn’t want to be dancing in front of the king. But, yeah, at this remove, I keep thinking what a rare opportunity we missed. If we had lived, of course.
Finally, I want to second the part about Swaziland in general being a gorgeous, welcoming country. And in case anybody reading this is interested in souvenirs from southern Africa, save your money for Swaziland. Some of the craft shops in the Ezulwini Valley, where we spent most of our time, are world class.
This is a marvelous piece of narrative. I’m glad you weren’t beaten with sticks, but wow.
Actually, I secretly wish you, David, not so much you, Mike, were beaten with sticks because that would result in the penultimate David story! Don’t tell Jeanne.