I'm just going to pretend I know what you're saying.

I sincerely hope that things go well today for Da'. He deserves a break after the past few years of all this shit. (I know that is not how it works, but I can hope.) It's about 15:00 here, which means it is about 9am in NY--this is one of those moments I wish I was not so far away. Or at least somewhere on the same continent. Everyone who isn't already doing this; please keep my dad in your thoughts and prayers and ritual sacrifices, etc.

And here's the blog entry meant for the 13th...

8/13/09

I've had to redefine my views on boredom since coming to Swaziland. Often I would complain that there was "nothing to do," and after moping around in my boredom, go off to see a friend, or give myself an excuse to go out driving. Meanwhile, there was consistent internet access, all the cooking supplies I could even need, parents who aren't at all painful (actually quite delightful) to spend time with, television and a dvd player with a collection of more seasons of X-files and British sit-coms than I could watch in a week, and an extensive library. Or in Delaware, there was a PS3, countless books, music, very walk-able streets, and obviously, John.

After extensive moping, I've found that there are just as many things to do here if I just stop feeling so bloody sorry for myself. I suppose what made me fully come to terms with my issues in dealing with boredom when I found that after sunset, I am basically confined to an empty house unless/until I a) start learning the language, b) find some friends with a car, c) get over my aversion to telephones and call Kim, or d) have a sex change and beef up so that no one will think about mugging me.

None of these are actually impossible (and while it would be nice to be able to whip it out and pee whenever I like, D is not an attractive option at all), but they will take some time. In the meanwhile, books, yoga, aerobics, and cooking are my main activities after dark.

So, the bus park. It is a large parking lot with one long fixed structure that is about 10 feet wide and stretches through the middle of the chaos. Here park what may be over 100 khambies and a handful of full-sized buses. Along the small islands of concrete, pedalers set up baskets and round plastic tubs of sweets, fruits, and chips. Others wander around with their tubs, selling them to the people waiting in the khambies. The buses do not leave on any discernable schedule; they leave when they are full. There is quite a lot of waiting that goes on. In the structure, some people sit and wait. It seems that if a khambi is almost full by the driver or money-collector cannot find a few last people to fill it, these people are waiting to ride for free.

If you have at least 20 rands to blow, you can take one of the taxis. Musa said that if people were in a hurry and could afford it, that’s when they used the taxis. I forked out about 150 rands to Musa for a ride to Ezulweni and back. I don't plan on doing that again-- it was one of those spur of the moment ideas that was not so brilliant in retrospect. But I like Musa. He takes me to the Ministry on days when I'm late for 25 rands. I get the impression that the cost is quite jacked up because of my appearance, but I've come to expect that. Perhaps next time I'll mention that he probably makes more money than I do at this point.

Mostly, I travel by khambi. I caught one to Corinte today for 4 rand. It is a little town above Mbabane, and more like the real Swaziland I've been searching for. Many of the houses were made out of the brick-red clay that is found here, with sticks serving as support and thatched roofs made out of palm leaves. There are other, more Europeanised structures as well, but they were usually the stores or community centers.

The khambi driver and the gentleman who collects the money seemed a bit confused about why I only wanted to drive up there and back, so I just said that I was a writer. That seemed to placate their confusion (a bit, at least). They just exchanged that look that I've always interpreted as "I dunno, she's mhlungu. They're all crazy."

The driver wanted to know if we had mountains and stones in NY like the ones in Swaziland, and I said that we had mountains and stones, but nothing like they have here. Along the side of the road, between houses and huts there were gigantic beige-colored boulders, some of them smoothed and then others jagged. It is the closest to the untamed mountains that I have been; I can't really count Mbabane because it has been covered over with the city. From Corinte, I could see the jagged crevices of the boulders protruding from the mountains. There were some houses that were built on the mountain across from the one we drove on, but not many. Only those that could find a flat area could build there, and it looked like most of the spaces had already been taken.

There were children playing near the last khambi stop. There were four children who were in charge of a small shack made out of dark wood, with a little counter where they sold candies to people waiting for the khambi. Some smaller children played nearby, dressing up with tinsel jewelry, the green, red, and gold garlands that are often put on Christmas trees. There was an old couple yelling at each other, and a crowd around a convenience store, listening to someone relate some sort of gossip. People would attempt to talk to me, but sadly, unless they want to know if I am "fine," "tired," "thirsty," or "American," I couldn't really keep up my end of the conversation. I'm getting pretty good at smiling and nodding at the right moments, apparently.

The past few days have really made me want to overcome this language barrier—I can barely hold conversations with people, and it is utterly frustrating.

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