randomly doodling…
Author Archives: Ginger
About Ginger
FRESH COAT OF PAINT
5.18.12
GROWING UP
The snow outside is blowing by the glass window outside my office window in downtown Chicago. I feel like I’m trapped inside a snow globe and my sun kissed skin is wishing for the hot African sun it left last week. I’m staring blankly at the happy people eating Grande Cheese pizzas on my computer screen, wondering what my legacy in this world will be. I’m confused as I remember my high school graduation, my plans for the future and everything I strived so hard to make happen between now and then. This is exactly what I wanted, but now that I’m here, I feel it lacking. I need to go back to Africa- I did more work there in 6 weeks then my 7 year career in advertising. I spend the rest of the day searching for ways to return, landing on the Peace Corps website… this is how it begins.
It never ceases to amaze me how time flies more and more as you get older. When your a child, you never seem to notice time- age takes forever. Then college comes, and the rush is on to finish, but classes drag on, each semester has endless obstacles. Graduation finally arrives and your tossed into the fishbowl of cubicles and watching the clock, praying for 5 o’clock to roll around. I feel like I have spent most of my life waiting for work to end, a new semester to begin, a promotion to kick in… waiting… waiting… waiting. This year I have stopped waiting, and started living and I haven’t been happier.
I took my first trip to South Africa this week. It was just a night, but it was nice to see the lights of a city. I stopped at McDonald’s for a value meal and fountain soda (which was especially nice), and indulged in endless cups of coffee in to-go cups. I studied each billboard we passed, and was comforted in the frustration of early morning traffic. These things seemed so familiar in such a foreign place. I love Africa, but having little trinkets of home, make it easier for me to admit that this will be my home for a long time to come.
There has been a lot of setbacks in my PC work the last month. My counterparts are here one day and gone without warning the next. Everyone seems to be searching for work outside Swaziland, where they have money to hire. NGOs are all pulling out, one by one, leaving gaps in funding that I can’t fill. No else seems to notice in my community, aside from me. They all carry on with their daily activities and pray that an answer will come to them.
My make is hard at work on her store, which is up, running and providing a sturdy shelter against an uncertain storm. I visited the shop with George, and his nephew a few weeks ago, and we all agreed it could use a little fixing up. All of my friends in Mbabane have been dying to see where I live, and after daily conversations about my frustrations with my work, they are eager to help me with a project. Make’s store is just what we needed. Fifteen friends so far, have volunteered to go on the 2 hour drive to my site, bringing with them some left over paints, bushes and wood so we can fix up Make’s shop. I’m pretty excited about the painting party (to take place on June 16), and feel so blessed to have such an amazing group of friends here.
My friend Kieren also has some painting for me to do this weekend at his parents Buhleni Farms, where they have opened a new campsite. I love his farm, the project is in conjunction with Chasing Horizons, and I always love an excuse to paint! Murals will be painted on the new outdoor kitchen/brii area- my little mark on one of my favorite places in Swaziland 
Monday I am also going to begin a few projects at Swazi Ceramics, the pottery company i’ve been wanting to work with since I got in Swaziland. I’m going to create a few designs for mosaic table tops as well as paint a few designs for the pottery. This will be an awesome project (if for nothing more than preserving my creative sanity) and I’m looking forward to working with the company to further network with the creative people of SD.
I’m also hoping to team up with a few young budding graphic designers here, and teach them how to use the design programs and a few techniques.
A lot has changed in the last year, and its hard for me to believe its already nearly June! So much is going to change in this next year too, I can feel a new adventure brewing already. New friends, new places, new life on a new continent I want to call my home. Stay tuned
I AM AN ARTIST
5.25.12
Hidden just outside the city limits, in a loud, dusty industrial circle sits a little piece of heaven. People painting on freshly fired pottery, wet clay slapping against the wheel, shelves of colorful works of art line the walls. Swazi Ceramics is as busy as a bee hive monday – friday. Busy with creative minds colliding and crafting hands magically coating everything in sight with beautiful images of Africa. I’m standing in the middle of the dust covered room, soaking in the smell of the hot kiln and fresh glaze. I’m introduced to a few people, and told to start designing five mosaic table tops that have to be completed in 3 days- in time to sell at the biggest music festival in Swaziland, Bushfire.
I sort through endless bowls of square, rectangle, and triangle tiles, arranging them in a colorful patterns. When everything is perfect, I begin to mix the grout, and stick them down- making sure everything is level as I go. I have never done this before- nothing even close to this, but somehow every action is intentional. A few Swazi artist come over and remark on my speed, and designs. One woman says, “nothing is impossible for an artist.” i’ve never considered myself much of an artist. I like to doodle, I draw mostly on my computer. But this weekend, as I sit in the middle of this bustling art studio, I feel like one of them, and I am so happy to be a part of the club.
When I leave the studio, my jeans are delightfully covered in white smears of dried grout. I take this as a sign of success, and proudly wear them home. The white, among bright spots of red, yellow and blue from painting a few days before make my jeans a canvas all on their own.
Just a few days before I was given the task of painting a mural for the new over-lander campsite at Buhleni Farms. A whole, stark white canvas, sitting, waiting, for me. I was over joyed as a opened a few cans of bright paint and began bushing it on the walls. No plan, no pencil outlines, no clients telling me what to design- just me and a bush. I spent the whole day painting every surface of the building in bright reds, oranges, blues- I must say it’s pretty freak’n beautiful.
On the days I’m not in the studio, or painting epic murals, I design on my computer. My friends have giving me their dinning room, along with a desk and chair for my “office”. I spend my weekends designing logos, brochures, posters for local entrepreneurs, starting new, young businesses in Swaziland. Some days its just me in the house. Others a young neighbor comes over and uses the studio down the hallway to record a few hip hop tracks. Alistair is barely 20 years old, and is an aspiring rapper. He spends all day creating beats and writing lyrics in the little room- he is amazing- no really- AMAZING. At night, when he leaves, Mandla comes home from work, and begins to create his set-list for his weekend DJ gigs. There is always music in this house- the creativity must be contiguous, because I have never felt so inspired.
Last night, I went to my friend Rebecca’s house for a glass of wine and a little “lady-time”. She has been a great friend in the last month and has a few projects from the Global Fund set up for me. She also suggested that I begin teaching Art Classes for kids. She has an adorable 2 ½ year old little girl, who reminds me a lot of Claire (favorite color- pink . She is a creative little nugget, and was so excited at the thought of crafting with me. I may just give it a go.
Sometimes I feel like the whole universe tries to direct you to where you are suppose to be- and it can take years (roughly 28 sometimes). I feel like this little spot, this tiny spec on the map, at the southern tip of Africa, is where the universe wanted me to be. My whole life, every job, every adventure, has lead me here. To be a part of this creative little group. I feel like a part of it all and I have never felt so confident and creative- I feel like I could take on anything. Truly, nothing is impossible for an artist.
MIA
4.3.12 its been a LONG week- not even sure where to start. So i’ll just do this by short stories…
DROP DEAD GEORGEOUS HEELS
A few weeks ago, I was preparing for my weekend in town with my friends at the man cave. I started my thursday ritual of cleaning my hut, washing clothes and dishes in preparation for my weekend absence. I dragged out my large basin for laundry, and pulled out one of the US Postal boxes I use for storage, from under my kitchen “counter”. As I found the soap inside, and returned it to its dusty perch, I noticed something moving behind the box next to it. It didn’t register at first (as I was on my fist cup of coffee), so I just carried on soaping the water and soaking a few items of clothing. Then it hit me… that wasn’t a spider, no- it was much bigger. It wasn’t a mouse, it was too slow. I should take another look. I slowly pulled out the box and a long, sleek, black streak dashed to the space between the cinder block and the wall. “oh crap- thats a black mamba”, I said out loud to myself. My knees immediately started to shake, and I jumped back on my bed. I sent a text to my friend Kelley, hoping that by telling someone what I had just seen, it would sound more real to my brain. I considered screaming for help, but I was alone on my homestead. I pondered running outside, but it was hiding rather close to the door, and I didn’t want it to find another hiding spot.
I must take care of this myself. I was amazingly calm as I pulled the bottom cinder block from the wall, and searched the back wall for the black coil that had invaded my house. It jumped at me once, but I was wearing my heeled boots, which give me a extra power boost of confidence when deadly critters are in my presence. I snatched my mop, which was leaning on a nearby wall, and pinned it against the wall. The handle wasn’t very long, and only allowed me to search a small diameter of the floor around me for something to deliver a deadly blow. My fingers dragged along the cold cement floor, eager to find something sharp, or heavy– they arrived on my 5 inch red pumps. I weighted the shoe in one hand, while still pinning the snake with the mop in the other. This will have to do. I could see the head sticking up through the ragged ropes of the mop, so I aimed with the pointed end of the heel. BAAA! BAAAA! BAAA! The snake wavered a bit, like a cartoon character that was seeing a halo of stars circling its head, but managed to escape the grasp of my mop. It was flopping, and flipping all over my floor, jumping clumsily towards the door. It probably would have gone outside eventually, but I had pissed it off now, and I didn’t want it coming back for revenge, so I was going to finish the job. I flipped over the mop and used the handle to fling the nearly dead snake outside my door. It was stunned as it hit the warm, red dirt and I took the opportunity to whack it a few more times with the handle of the mop. It laid there, motionless except for a slight quiver in its tail. With my boots, mop in one hand and pump in the other, I approached to check for signs of life. I lunged weakly at my toes, and I lunged forward with my high heel delivering blows one after another, until it nearly broke in half.
I was jubilant! It wasn’t until I sat on my stoop staring at the dead pile of snake laying in the dirt, that I realized. HOLY CRAP I just killed a BLACK MAMBA!! I broke out my camera phone, and texted all my friends, bragged on facebook. I felt like a real african warrior! I proudly moved my kill to the ledge of my house, so I could show any visitor that happened to stop by. No one in my community could believe it. Even my swazi friend said they wouldn’t have the guts to kill a mamba. It was only about a foot long, but apparently this little guy has enough venom to kill an adult in a few seconds. My friend Mandla was probably right, this day was the closest I will ever be to death in my life. Despite all that, I am still quite prod of myself, and have since completely laid to rest my fear of snakes. If I can take on the most deadly snake in the world with a high heel…. I can do anything.
THIS LITTLE PIGGY SNAPPED IN HALF
Kelley and I were hanging out at the man cave on a friday night when it happened. She missed a step going up to the veranda, and fell straight on her face (sorry sisi). It was only a few seconds before her toe and the arch of her foot swelled up to twice it’s size. We thought maybe it was dislocated at first, and took turns feeling around the swollen area. It was late, so we wrapped it up, elevated it and let it rest on a bag of ice.
The next day we were leaving to Wysdale, my favorite place in Swaziland (you may remember the london bus camp from previous blogs). Kelley was feeling better in the morning and the swelling had gone down some so we figured it was just a sprain and loaded up the 4x4s. By the time we got to the campsite, her foot looked like a purple balloon. We kept her hostage, with her foot up. Kieren, Matthew and I took turns tending to her and showing off our first aid training.
Despite the injury, we had an amazing night camping in the mountains. We ate like kings on the stone brii, fell asleep staring at the brightly lite night sky and woke up to a lazy morning enjoying the last warm rays of summer peaking over the mountains surrounding us.
When we returned home Kelley went to see the PC Medical Officer. A few x-rays confirmed she had broken her second biggest toe, and chipped a bone in her big toe. She spent the week in the “Med Hut”, hobbling around with a cane, and resting. What a trooper.
PINKY PAIN
When we returned from camping we were all so exhausted. We were like zombies, dropping all over the house, and wandering through doorways aimlessly. George and I were on dinner duty, but there wasn’t a clean dish in the house- as usual. I stacked the dishes up by the sink until they were towering over me and began the tedious job. After about an hour I was down to the cups- the end was in sight.
I pulled a small cup out of a larger one, where it was stuck, and began to was the inside. With the first soapy plunge into the glass, the sides gave way and shattered. My pinky was caught in the debris, with a large shard sticking straight out of the tip of my finger, right above the joint. Boy, did I scream! Blood was pulsing out of my finger, and I was already becoming light headed. George, who isn’t one for blood, left me at the sink, as I tried to hold it above my head, and under the cold water at the same time. He came running back a minute later with gauze and tape. It took 3 bandages to get the bleeding under control.
The next day I headed (with Kelley and her toe) into the Peace Corps medical office. Stitches were needed, so they sent me to the Mbabane Medical Clinic. It was a really nice building, with floor to ceiling windows, a view of the mountains, new furniture in the waiting area- I was impressed. When it was my turn, they led me into the “minor operating theatre”. This room was a little less impressive, and more like a torture room out of a SAW horror movie. The room was bare, and FREEZING cold. The floor was worn, and the rusty metal cabinets didn’t add any charm to the room. I sat on the operating table as the nurse assembled all of the sharp, sterile tools the doctor would need for my stitches.
The doctor was very nice, and did a good job. Although on more than one occasion he had to ask me to sit back because I was watching the procedure too closely. In just a few minutes I was heading out the door with 5 stitches in my pinky finger, and a huge bandage wrapped over it. Its been over a week now, and my stitches have been removed (although that was WAY more traumatizing- that nurse did not know what she was doing…).
My finger will survive and I will have a nice battle wound to remember why I’m exempt from doing dishes at the man cave.
STRANDED
while my life has been eventful in the last couple weeks, so has life in Manzini. Manzini is the largest city in Swaziland, and the major transportation hub. Basically, if your going somewhere in SD, your going through Manzini. Because there is so much traffic, the city had planned to move all eastbound transportation to a satellite bus rank a few blocks away from the main rank. This plan has been in the works for years, but for some reason or another it was never officially put into action. In the last couple weeks, they have been trying to implement this plan.
Public transport operators are not happy, nor are the surrounding markets that make their money from the travelers… or the travelers that now have to use a secondary bus rank in the same city. Because I am included in this eastbound deboccole, I have been stuck in Mbabane for the last (almost) week. The protests haven’t been violent or threatening in any way to my safety- but transport has basically stopped going east towards my house in Siteki.
A few volunteers have tried to get around Manzini to get home, and spent their day aimlessly traveling around the country and eventually ending up back in Mbabane. I am lucky that I have such amazing friends that have adopted me, fed me, and let me use their washing machine (yes! WASHING MACHINE!). I am a lucky girl
I have been busy, while being stranded. I’m working on a couple new projects, and helping do design work for a couple NGO initiatives. I spent 12 hours in front of my computer just yesterday, listening to Lil Wayne and reuniting with my design skills that I haven’t used in years. It feels good
this past weekend, a proper summer day even graced our presence long enough for a trip to the dam. I spent the day soaking in the sun, swimming, and even spent a few hours tubbing behind a speed boat! Jealous? In summary, sorry I have been MIA, I am alive and well in Swaziland.
treasure hunting….
4-16-12
George and I drove out of Siteki, towards the border of Mozambique in the late morning.. The car was warm from the brightly burning African sun, and I welcomed the feeling of sun-rays on my skin, contradicting the chilly breeze blowing through the open windows. The roads from Siteki where usually barren, a consequence of the strong military and police presence that has been in the major cities since April 11th, due to threats of protests. Army convoys rolled passed, armored, and decorated with soldiers in fatigues carrying their signature AK-47′s. The newspaper headlines have been boasting about the forthcoming protests expected to begin on April 12th, for weeks, but the day has come and gone without any reproach. Leaving the roads on my treasure map, deserted and unblocked.
Ironically the mysteries of the internet have ignited this treasure hunt. This blog in fact. People from all over the globe read my blog; some people I haven’t even met- people that stumble upon my life stories from the bush and for some reason keep reading. One particular person happened upon my blog when doing research for his book about a solider who lived in Siteki during the early 1900′s. He has since, requested my help with additional research, as I am just a few miles away from Siteki, and he is in New Zealand.
I am armed with my google satellite maps, and a collection of exchanged emails with questions, mystery locations, names of ghosts from the past and a few scribbled notes in the margins. We are half way to the border, searching for unmarked roads, leading deep into unfamiliar bush, looking for something we are not confident we can identify if we found it. We are pirates on a quest.
We take the only right turn off the main road, and hope that the hand scrawled arrow drawn on the map is where we will end up. We are searching for the remains of the Dupoint farm- you may remember this jem of a pioneer from my blog on the history of Siteki. Driving down the dirt road, we are scanning the tall grass for signs of life, or abandoned life from another century. Driving for 10 minutes and nothing can be seen. 20 minutes, we scan the endless miles of empty mountainsides. We decide to take a turn down some beaten tracks in the grass. The car is low- this will not be an off roading expedition, so we continue on foot. 20 minutes, following tire tracks through an empty field, on the top of a large hill. The view is amazing and I can’t imagine anywhere else in the world where you can see this far in every direction and see nothing but nature. But we are still left wanting, so we return to the car.
We continue, 5 more minutes, 10 more minutes. I say one more hill, George says, lets just do one more after that… we continue on. Then out of no where, for the first time in an hour, a car passes. It feels like we have spotted Moby Dick. We stare at it curiously as it passes, and they stare back. Over the horizon a small village appears, and people can be seen tending to the fields, brightly colored clotheslines blowing in the breeze, silhouettes of cattle down the road. It had appeared like a lost city.
This little village is bustling with activity. School children are gathered at the side of the road watching us drive by. I can’t help thinking we will be the talk of the town for weeks to come- “who are these strangers? How did they find us?” We carry on, still looking for a bit of history to let us know we are on the right track. Its looking hopeless, so we stop to ask a young boy if he knows where the Dupoint house is located. He shyly greets us, keeping his eyes fixed on his fist full of grasshoppers as he is plucks their little legs off. We see another young woman walking down the road ahead and try our luck with her.
George is speaking in Siswati as I sit in the passenger seat, trying to figure out if this jumble of words is good news- then she hops in the backseat. She knows the house and apparently a Make and Gogo are still living there. This is amazing news! Although I wasn’t prepared to talk to anyone today, and I’m a little lost on what information I’m looking for myself- I just wanted a picture of some ruble. The girl directs us down a narrow path, too narrow for the car, so we all pile out and follow her the rest of the way on foot.
When we arrive at the homestead, my heart immediately sinks. Stick and stone shanties clinging to the side of a great mountain side. It looks as if a strong sneeze could send these houses straight off the cliff and into the deep valley at the edge of the yard. The young girl enters the small round hut and greets the gogo- we follow behind her, ducking as we enter the low doorway. An old woman is laying on the dirt floor, covered by several large blankets. She is tiny and frail; I can see every bone in her shaky, outstretched arm as I shake her hand. My heart breaks as I stand over this poor woman, laying in the dirt, in a doorless shack. She barely speaks, and our young guide exits the hut to find the Make of the house. We stand outside, left to stare off at this epic view and mend our hearts, sore with guilt of entitled lives. We leave shortly after meeting the Make, who has no information. Everyone agrees this is the site of the Dupoints, but the history has been rewritten.
On the drive back to the main road, we are silent. The treasure hunt is done for the day. No treasure was found, just a reminder of what to be grateful for. At the highway, a solider stopped us at a road block. He was curious, as all Swazi’s seem to be, about where we were going, and where we came from. George spoke to him for several minutes in Siswati, showing him our maps, and emails. The solider nodded his head, pointed this direction and that. As we drove off, George says he knew where everything was located, and will help us carry on with our mission in a couple weeks. I laugh out loud- of course he does. Its been a strange day, and I’m ready to head home- treasure hunting will have to be continued another weekend.
Cinderella
CINDERELLA
4.12.12
In the early hours of morning and when dusk falls there is one consistent sound that can be heard echoing through my homestead. “BONEGIELE!” It is the sound heard, like a door bell, when someone enters our front gate. It is the name shouted from the house when dinner is being made, or when dinner is being cleaned up. When washing needs to be done, or the yard swept. It is the first name I learned on my Tikhuba homestead because it is said more than any other name- more than any other siswati word I hear.
When I first arrived at this house 9 months ago, I was confused by this child that seemed to carry the burden of the entire household. I would play Uno with Hacheema and Bulunda while Bongeliele sat nearby with a mountain of laundry. My house would be filled with neighborhood children watching movies, while Bongeliele ducked in and out tending to dinner on the fire. I often wondered why she seemed to have so many chores, while the other kids spent their days playing, but I had never heard her complain.
Bongeliele is 16 years old and is in form 4 (11th grade). She is my Make’s “grandchild”, which really means her niece. Bonegiele’s family lives in the next town over, but can not afford to pay for her school fees, which is about 3,000 rand every 3rd month, so my Make has taken her in. Make pays for her education, and in return Bongeliele helps around the homestead. I have often wondered if she feels jealous of my little brother and sister for their opportunities at better schools, and their lack of chores in comparison. My siblings, and even extended family, don’t see much hope for her- they call her slow, and stupid and are constantly putting her down (SD is not much for positive reenforcement sometimes) But Bongeliele is nothing but grateful for the opportunity to learn and repay Make for her generosity.
It has taken me a while to warm up to her, mostly because she always seems to be working. However, lately we have found ourselves in each other company more and more. Hacheema is living in Siteki to attend school, and Bulunda is now in Zambia. It’s just Bongeliele and me. I still don’t get the opportunity to chat with her for long, so a few weeks ago I decided we would start a book to write letters to each other. This would be a place where she could write about her feelings, troubles, dreams etc, and ask me questions without being self conscious.
I received the book back for the first time today with 10 pages neatly scrawled out. She talks about the problems her country is facing with teenage pregnancy and what she can do to help. She also talks about HIV and the high death rate among young people. She wants to get tested herself and has asked me to go with. I was a little flabbergasted at the depth of her letters, and her insight into the problems around her.
I am so excited about this small little project. Bongeliele is a smart, driven, hard working young girl, and I think this book will be a good way to encourage her to be an example to her peers and empower her to overcome the many obstacles in her life. I think this will also be good for me. I so often wish for projects where I can see change happening– I can already see a change in Bongeliele I may not be building wells, or starting clinics but I hope, through this book, I can offer some kind of inspiration to my little Cinderella.
She also wrote a letter to my family, as follows:
Dear Zethu’s family,
Hi! Zethu’s family how are you, I hope you are fine like I am and your daughter, Zethu. I write the letter to greet you, and describe our homestead.
Here at home we enjoy living with Zethu and we also like her. Zethu here at home, she is very helpful to me, because she teaches me a lot of vocabulary and their meaning.
I wish to visit you one day. Thank you for the Christmas present that you gave us last year, they were very beautiful and we enjoy them. Thank you very much. I also like to thank you for the wools that you gave me, they were very beautiful. Now I have already made a beautiful hat with it.
Here in our homestead we use to fetch fire wood to make fire in order for us to cook. Sometimes we teach her how to cook on fire. Now she knows how to cook some Swazi food.
I hope when she is back, she will cook for you Swazi food and I hope you will enjoy it. It is very delicious.
Yours sincerely, her Swazi sister,
Bongeliele
winter is comming…
4.3.12
INTO THE WOODS
The morning sun crept into my window, warming my bare skin after a cold night. The yellow rays were a welcome greeting after a weekend of rain, and cold wind, reminding us winter is on its way. As we sat on the sunny veranda, sipping our freshly ground, Starbucks, coffee we knew today mustn’t be wasted. We had a car for the weekend, and nowhere we had to be; a sunday drive would be perfect.
We headed north out of Mbabane, towards Mhlambanyatsi. The scenery quickly changed outside my window as we followed the highway around sharp bends and up steep hills. Houses disappeared into the distance, and rolling hills with huge grey boulders dotted the expanse of green landscape for miles in front of us. We were only a few minutes from the city when trees began to rise up on the horizon. Tall, skinny, pine trees reaching high above the hills, and creeping closer and closer to the road until eventually we were surrounded. A tiny path of road splitting a deep forest, and hiding the sunlight with the dense branches overhead. The smell of pine saturated the inside of the car, mixed with the dried leaves, pine needles and black dirt of the forest floor it reminded me of fall in the states. The crisp cool air added to the feeling, and I found myself wishing for hot coco and apple pie.
George has been wanting to take me here for months, and as we entered the small secluded community I immediately understood why. Mhlambanyatsi is like no place I have seen in Swaziland. Trees lined the streets creating tunnels with little pockets of light shinning through the leaves. The paved roads, and landscaped lawns of the houses gave the feeling of a suburb. There was an area in the center of town for a store, post office, police station, hair salon and all the essential necessities of a small city. I felt like this charming little place had been picked up from some country community in the states and hidden away in the forests of Swaziland for safe keeping. It was magical. George was like a little kid as we continued to drive through town, and deeper into the woods. Smiling as he pointed out landmarks and retold memories from the time he spent here with his family and friends- talking a mile a minute.
The pavement eventually gave way to unmarked dirt roads as we slowly navigated our way through the dense woods. George tells me this area was started in the 1950′s by King Sobhuza. The forest supported a large timber export initiative, but with the dawn of the computer age, many of the jobs here have been replaced by machines. The forest still stretches on for miles, and as we drove through, we saw pockets of the forest that have been cut down and small sprouts of new trees could be seen peaking out through the ash and barren ground. I remembered from my Peace Corps training that, deforestation has become a problem in parts of Swaziland and I was happy to see new trees replacing the harvested.
We traveled over an hour down the bumpy dirt roads through the forest, listening to a mixed CD of 90′s music, singing at the top of our lungs, enjoying the sunshine warming the inside of the car, and the cool breeze flowing through the open windows. When the road came to an end, I wondered briefly where it was that we had arrived to. We had not passed a living soul in over an hour, and the unmarked roads didn’t seem to have anymore of a destination then we did. But George carried on, down a trail, covered by grass and brush as tall as the car. I was a little nervous as we blindly drove on, but then we stopped in an open field at the bottom of the most beautiful waterfall I have ever seen. High above the field, streaming off a slippery black rock, the double waterfall spilled into the river below, and disappeared behind the trees lining the field. We climbed up the huge rock at the base of the falls, to get a better look. The view was breathtaking. Our car below was just a spec in the vast landscape. The tall, yellow grass waved to us in the breeze. A few of the trees were beginning to change color for fall, and the rest were so many shades of green I could not begin to imagine how to paint them all. I wanted to stay on this rock all day listening to the sound of the waterfall and gazing out onto this landscape, trying to convince myself that this view is real. That something so beautiful exists in the world. But the sun was already sinking lower in the sky, and we had to start our journey back to the hidden town before dark settled in.
On the way home we stopped to greet Georges brother and I spent a little while playing with his niece Jade. She is 3 years old and adorable. I am happy around small children, they remind me of all my nieces and nephews at home who I miss so much. Being an aunt is one of the greatest things I have experienced in my life, and I am grateful I can still have opportunities to feel like a part of a family even when I am half a world away from home.
As we headed back towards Mbabane, down the highway, we could see the city lights up ahead. At night a few hundred homesteads scattered throughout the valley, make Mbabane look like a big city. The whole day has reminded me of my home in the states in some way, but Swaziland has also become my home now. Two totally different worlds; its seems strange sometimes that I am happy living in both.
4.4.12
THE CHILI INCEDENT
Tuesday started like any other day. Woke up, made my morning coffee and began working on my to-do list. Chasing Horizons will be going to a tourism expo in May, and I have to make a brochure, T-shirts and check on the progress of the website. This will be a huge step for the business and we have all been working overtime to be prepared. By my third cup of coffee, I realized I should probably eat something substantial. I decided I would bath, and then search for something to make for lunch.
After a slightly cold bath, my hut smelled amazing. Lush soaps linger in the air, and I was happy to feel clean. I slipped on a tank top and searched my empty pantry for something suitable to fit the bill. I have been spending so much time traveling around Swaziland lately, groceries for home haven’t crossed my mind- and my bare shelves staring back at me confirm my need. Hidden in the back corner I spotted a can of Trader Joes turkey chili my sister had sent in a care package last month. I had completely forgotten about it! The overcast skies outside, and the chill in the air inside my hut make this the perfect day for such a treat.
For the last couple of months I have noticed a change in my portable electric stove, that has progressively gotten worse. I haven’t thought much of it, just adjusted my cooking habits to avoid getting a shock when I have to use my stove. For example, I always cook with sleeves, so I am able to pull them over my hands and hold on to the pot when stirring, and likewise, pull them over my hands so I can hang on to the fork that is doing the stirring. It is sometimes annoying, but I have become accustomed to a small jolt of electricity when trying to cook.
So I thought nothing of it when I opened my last can of TJ turkey chili and then began pouring it into the small aluminum pot sitting on my stove. I was careful not to touch anything as I poured, and held the can a good distance from the pot. The possibility of the electric current traveling up my delicious chili, into the can, through the bare hand that was holding it, down my right arm and straight to my knees that immediately buckled, did not cross my mind. However, that is exactly what happened. The thing about being electrocuted is your limbs actually buckle and lock. My fingers were securely locked around the can and my legs gave out. As I staggered around my small hut, trying to will my legs to work and my fingers to release from the can, the contents were being flung to every corner of my house. When the charge of electricity had completed its circuit around my body, my hand violently released the nearly empty can, at the far wall, distributing the last few puddles of chili in a lumpy stream that was now dripping down my wall.
I landed in a heap on my cold cement floor, literally shocked at what had just occurred. I looked around at the scene laid before me. Quentin Tarantino could not have created a more bloody massacre. Curtains, walls, shelves, rugs, even my grass roof contained lumpy chunks of turkey chili, dripping clumsily towards the floor. It looked as if a small animal had entered my hut and exploded, but it smelled delicious. I didn’t know how to react at first, is this funny? Sad? Am I pissed? Then the tears set in without warning. Laying on my floor, looking at the last of my food scattered over every surface of my house and me, all I could do was cry. I wanted to tell someone, but whenever I tried to put it into words I would laugh. All I wanted was some chili. Now I’m dirty again, and my whole house is saturated with the smell of my favorite canned chili from home and my stomach is growling.
After a good 30 minutes of me sitting in the middle of my house, chain smoking through laughter and hysterical crying, watching chili seep from every surface around me, I started to clean up. I could hear my friend Honey outside and decided to ask if she knew anyone that could fix my stove. Within a few moments there was the local fix it guy at my house, unscrewing my stove. After 4 hours, we could not find a problem- although it did catch on fire twice. We gave up when the sun went down, and he put the stove back together. I don’t have anything else to use, so I have since returned to my “sleeve” method, and am now deathly afraid of canned food. I spent most of the morning re-cleaning and bleaching my hut, but I can still smell the remense of the chili murder clinging to the fibers of my walls.
When I thought about the “challenges of the Peace Corps”, and all the possible ways I could die here… deadly snakes and spiders, steep cliffs, insane public transport, any number of microscopic worms etc… I never thought about death by canned chili. Life is full of surprises- and they hurt like hell!
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