BAD NEWS
A stalwart young man at the outstation church, named Waley Dlamini has died. The cause of death is unknown. He was no older than 30 years. We were told Sunday, April 18th that he was quite sick and was admitted to the government hospital. The very next day, Godfrey Mubiru called us and told us he had died. Pray for his family, including his mother Margaret Khanyile (another stalwart at the church) in a cruddy time.

We knew we wanted to express our condolences to Waley's family, but it seemed too much to take the whole family (including newborn and convalescing mom) to the night vigil. In case I haven't explained in the past, the night vigil is an all-night gathering of friends and family at the homestead, or parental homestead, of the deceased. A church service and singing take place all night, and the burial is close to dawn the next morning. It does afford something like catharsis, and also reinforces the realization that the deceased is really gone. It also makes it possible for people to attend distant funerals, because it may take all day to get to and return from the burial. This way, one can make the trip to the location on Saturday and spend Sunday getting home. Food is provided by the bereaved family, as is accomodation in the form of tents or floorspace inside the houses.

We asked Ruth Dlamini, wife of the former headmaster, what we could do for the bereaved without taking the whole family to the vigil. She mentioned that well-wishers are free to visit the homestead during the week before. This was a good arrangement. We all visited the family on Friday morning; it was as pleasant as such a visit could be. Then Saturday, after returning from Mbabane with Grace, Rudy went to the homestead for the vigil. Godfrey and Xolile Mubiru were there, as were other church members, and we had some pleasant chats in the early evening. Father Maseko, the priest who celebrates Mass at the oustation church once a month, was due at 9PM for Mass. I put my head down on my backpack on the bench in front of me and entered "hibernate" mode: not full sleep, but more sleep than awake. Some time later (I don't know how long), someone appointed by Margaret Khanyile was sent to tell me to go to bed. They had noticed their somnolescent visitor and showed him mercy. They said they'd get me before Mass started. So I was given a full-size bed and thick blanket. Off came my shoes and I slept.

Sure enough, about 9:45PM someone came and told me to hurry because Mass was starting. I was given a bench seat close to the "altar"; nothing as awkward as coming in late and being given the best seat in the house. After that I returned to my hibernation position-only to be told again to go back to the bed! I am a night-vigil lightweight. I set my alarm for 3:30AM and crashed again.

When the alarm went off I returned to the main tent. A few more prayers were said, then the whole crowd (at least 500) went with the coffin to the burial site, about a quarter mile from the homestead. More singing, then the coffin was lowered into the grave. The hole was filled in and then rocks were placed around and on top of the dirt. I was in the group of men moving rocks, bucket-brigade style, from the quarry to the grave. I was struck at the sight of a man with a shock-white goatee involved in the burial. He was burying someone half or a third his age.

After the burial is done and words of thanks are given, things are pretty much over. Folks walk back to the homestead and enjoy a final meal, then begin their journeys home. I passed on the food (I'd already been fed twice), and I'm sure someone else could happily eat my portion. I asked to see Mrs. Khanyile one last time. We wordlessly clasped hands and I gave her a hug, though hugs aren't common here and it was a little awkward. Maybe I needed the hug more than she did. Then off down the road, back to home. I stopped at the outstation church to finish my morning prayers. I've often thought it would be nice to have my regular morning prayers there, but the fact that it's an hour away by foot has, of course, made that rare. Today it was possible and appropriate. After that, I made the hour long trip back home. Having not seen Ruth and the kids (except Grace) for almost a day, it was good to be back. During that walk I met some Jericho church members coming from a separate all-night prayer vigil. We exchanged some words in SiSwati. The main man I spoke with said (in English) "It is nice; you know SiSwati!" This was a cheerful word after a sad evening.

A new group of Peace Corps Volunteers will arrive soon. I'm talking to one of the Peace Corps administrators about participating in a panel discussion with the trainees. I wrote a "panel proposal" in an effort to get my foot in the door. I attach it here. Ruth and I wrote it after getting back from the funeral Sunday.

ADMINISTRATIVE ROULETTE
School closed on Thursday, April 22. I was told by a senior teacher on Wednesday that we would close on Friday. On Thursday afternoon the vice-principal asked asked me if I had passed out report cards (I'm a class teacher this year, which makesreport cards one of my responsibilities). I said no. She said to do it. I asked "What about attendance?" I was thinking that we had one more day of school, and how would the attendance portion of the report card include that if I give them out Thursday? She said we were closing today. I wasn't entirely suprised, but I noted again how fast plans change.

NSUKUMHILLBILLY
You situate yourself during a bereavement visit (see above) so that you cannot see the butchering of the cow which will be eaten at the funeral. Your 7 year old daughter tells you later that she was right at the fence of the corral, watching the whole thing.
Hillbilly

While listening to a cd with the kitchen door open, you hear something on a song you have not heard before; was it a subtle engineer's addition on the cd you had not noticed before, or was it a cow lowing outside? You're not sure, but you are sure you're a
Hillbilly

PHOTOS
Visit http://poglitshphotos.blogspot.com for photos of the new baby Jabulile.

Have a good day,
Rudy for the gang
more newsletters at http://africadispatch.blogspot.com

CHIPMUNK'S ARRIVAL

So Ruth and Grace spent the week from Easter Sunday to Friday in Mbabane with our Finnish friends, the Ilomaki's. This was a good arrangement, because it allowed Ruth some well-deserved rest and Grace some variety. Grace had a great time with Sara-Maria, the Ilomaki's daughter of roughly the same age.

On Friday afternoon Cub and Kit and I took a kombi to Mdzimba High School. The Mubiru's met us there and all of us went into town. Susanna Ilomaki took Ruth and I to the Mbabane Clinic, and the Mubiru's took Cub and Kit back to Mdzimba with them. Dr. Wasswa met us at the Clinic and said he expected me earlier in the day, so he didn't want to try to start anything that would end up with a birth in the wee hours. Ruth and I went back to the Ilomaki's for Friday night and returned, per the MD's orders, at 6AM on Saturday. A special thanks goes out to Susan Rogers for being willing to take us to the Clinic late Friday night, should Chipmunk have decided to show up a little early.

Ruth took some hormone tablet at the rate of one an hour from 7AM until about 11. During this time Ruth had intimations of labor, but nothing serious. We had a great time just sitting and reading, sharing the occasional anecdote with each other from our book/magazine. After an internal exam at 11, things got more interesting.

After the exam Ruth's contractions got stronger, longer, and more frequent. Seemed like it was time to call Dr. Wasswa and move to the delivery room, but the very nice Zimbabwean nurse wanted to keep waiting until it was really time. Ruth knew things were happening fast and said (between episodes of prolonged and voluminous groans) that for the sake of the fast-approaching baby and for the peace of mind of the C-section delivery mother on the other side of the screen, we should go to the delivery room. We finally convinced everyone it was time to move, and not a moment to soon; Ruth's water broke before she transferred from her bed to the delivery table (I got to help in that; fill in where you're needed, I guess), and Dr. Wasswa and the nurses got their gloves on just (barely) in time to take Chipmunk in hand. Dr. Wasswa was in scrubs a grand total of probably 20 minutes. The nurses kept saying "Don't push!", and Ruth kept saying "I'm not!" and "The baby's coming!". When the nurses did tell her to push, it only took one to get Jabulile out (at 2:20PM). The nurse, Lawrencia, smilingly said we should name the girl after her, since this daughter had given herso much trouble.

The transition time from maternity ward to delivery room had a funny moment. When we finally decided to move Ruth we pulled back the curtain separating Ruth's bed from the woman's next door and I stood looking into our neighbor's face. What do to say to a complete stranger when you are standing over your wife is in the late, very loud, stages of labor? "Hello there!" seemed to fit the awkward bill. All in all, it was a happy ending. "Jabu" weighed in at 3.9 kg (8.5 pounds), the largest of our children yet.

LONG FACES AND SHAKING HEADS
Not everyone was as pleased as us with another girl, though. I occasionally meet with young man interested to prepare him for entering the Catholic church. At the end of one of our sessions before the birth, he prayed very earnestly that this child be a boy. We all know that's settled at conception, but he was so sincere I didn't want to remind him of that fact. I ran some errands around town on Monday after the birth. When I told the folks at the shoe repair place that this was our fourth daughter, one guy in the shop sadly shook his head. Having a son is very important in Swazi culture, and so far we have not fit into that cultural mode. The receptionist at the Clinic said she has an uncle who has 10 daughters; he "kept on trying for the boy" but never got him.

One group of ladies, however, was very pleased with our daughter. Upon telling two grandmother-age women at a curio shop that the latest child is also a daughter, one of them said "This child is from God. If you had been asking and asking 'God, please give me a son', He would have given you that son. That son would have been yours-and he would have given you no end of trouble. Instead, this girl is a gift from God." That's how we feel.

Mom and baby are doing pretty well, with some not-unusual experiences. The baby is a voracious eater. Before Ruth's milk came in we had to supplement with sugar water. Her milk did come in (in a very large volume), and baby was happy; now that production is back down some, the baby's a bit crankier. She also seems to have her days and nights reversed-an unhappy but realatively easy problem to fix. Cold wet washcloths on head and chest are just the thing to keep a drowzy baby lively! Those of us of a particular vintage may remember Steve Martin's "cat juggling" portion of his stand-up routine. In certain phases of extended screaming/crying, Jabu sounds just like the cats Steve Martin impersonated. "Sure, the jugglers are singing 'La cucaracha, la cucaracha' and the cats are going 'me-OWWW! me-OWWW!'" Ruth happily stayed in the house both Saturday and Sunday (17 and 18 April) and slept lots. She's thinking that next week she'll take the kombi to church and make the short walk from the bus-stop to the church, and after a couple weeks of that try walking to the church again. Thanks to everyone for their prayers and thoughts.

Rudy for the gang

SUCCESS!
I'm writing on Tuesday morning, March 30th. Yesterday the boy's
soccer team played their final regular season game. They needed to
win in order to go on to the next round. Going on to the next
round is something they have not done since at least our arrival
in 2003; I asked some other teachers who have been here longer,
and none of them could remember the last time they did this. Even
though they played their worst game of the season, they still
managed to score 3 goals and concede only 1. So, they advance! At
the final whistle a substitute player and I lifted the coach into
the air (we don't have the money for the big barrel of Gatorade
for pouring over the coach, and I don't know if there is a
cultural precedent for that anyway). So now, as far as we can
tell, they face Lobamba National High School this Thursday. We
lost 2-0 to Lobamba last year, though we dominated the second
half. Lobamba won the national title last year. Still, I (and I'm
sure the team) nurse a quiet hope that they can pull off a
victory. In this second stage, it's win or go home. We shall see.
I promised the players that if they won, they'd get another team
dinner. We will follow through on that promise-as long as the baby
doesn't come first, and if that happens, we'll make it up to them
later.

IDENTITIES, MISTAKEN AND OTHERWISE
In class last week a student called me aside and asked a history
question. "Did you know Martin Luther?" "No", I said, "He died
when I was still very small. But my mom heard him speak." "He was
Lutheran", answered the student. "Well, yes, he was Protestant,
but he was a Baptist, actually". Short pause, while the sense that
things weren't quite clicking started to settle in. "Do you mean
Martin Luther or Martin Luther King?" I asked. "Martin Luther".
"Oh, well, no, I never knew him, and neither did my mom. He died
about 500 years ago." Context is everything.

I was at the Post Office last Saturday, picking up a package
(thanks, Tui! The stuff was a hit!) Another white man was milling
about, looking like he knew what he wanted to do but didn't know
how to get it done. I suggested that he just find someone behind
the counter and ask his question. I heard him speak, and his
American accent was unmistakable (yes, folks, you do have an
American accent; it sticks out here like your most exaggerated
imagination of an Australian accent). After a couple minutes'
conversation, it came to light that he is Holland Roberts, a Peace
Corps Volunteer who came to Swaziland in March 1991, with the
group immediately after the group I came in. He married a Swazi
woman and has been here for these past 19 years. They live near
the border gate near Lundzi. Maybe sometime we'll get up and visit
he and his family during a school break. The rest of his business
that day at the Post Office concerned getting a package out of
hock; sadly, it looked like the package had been "inspected" and
the fear was that something had "gone missing".

I was walking down a school corridor a couple days ago and a
teacher asked me to come in. He said that one of the students in
this class had said that I said I had seen a ghost. I rubbed my
chin and thought "Where on earth do these crazy stories come
from?" The student quickly said "No, not this Sg'coko, the one on
the radio". As Peace Corps Volunteers we were put in homesteads
for 10 days to get the real feel of rural Swazi life. Those
families gave us names; mine was Bongani Dlamini. There is a radio
broadcaster with the same name, and his nickname is S'coko
Siyancinca ("Hat full of fat"; long story). My nickname around the
school is Sg'coko. Hence the mixup.

HIGH SCHOOL RECORDS
I visited the education department in town last week in the hopes
of securing a letter that will help us get our residence permits
for another year. The lady at the desk said I needed to get a
graded tax clearance certificate (don't ask me what it is; I
suppose it proves I'm not on the run from the Swaziland IRS) and I
needed to submit a copy of my high school diploma. I launched into
a mildly amused, mildly annoyed diatribe, explaining that I
graduated in 1986 and I wasn't really sure where my diploma was;
but that if they wanted, I could use a computer and generate any
number of fancy-looking diplomas and certificates, complete with
watermarks. She said that is the reason they now want copies of
high school diplomas: people are fabricating certificates, and
they want to know exactly which high school in the country they
graduated from. When I told Ruth, and she nearly died. She
scrounged around our "important documents" box and found a copy of
my grades for each of my 4 years of high school, and in the top
right corner it said "graduated 1986". So, back to town a few days
later with that document in hand. The lady complained that it
looked more like my scores than a diploma (true enough), but I
pointed out the "graduated 1986" in the top corner. She took it,
though I think she would have preffered a diploma copy. I later
told our headmaster and another teacher/administrator, and they
both said they had no idea where their diplomas were, and added
that if people can fake university diplomas, why wouldn't they be
able to fake high school ones? Anyway, the lady said we'd be paid
in April; this seems optimistic, but it would be nice. Still gotta
go back for the residence permit letter.

CHECKERS VS. SPANKIE THE PANKIE
I'm now writing from town. We are in town for the Easter weekend,
staying at the church. The sisters let us stay in a guest room
during times like Christmas and Easter.
To keep the kids busy, Ruth bought a coloring book and a checkers
set. Grace wanted to play checkers, but as the game was entirely
new to her, I beat her.
After getting ready for bed, an impromptu game of "Spankie the
Mankie" developed. "Mankie" is one of the nicknames of Hope, our
3rd child. I don't know how she got this nickname; it seems
nicknames increase exponentially with each kid. Anyway, this game
consisted of the girls stiking their backsides in my vicinity, and
me trying to slap them. The game of course is getting close enough
to dad that he takes a swipe, but not so close that you get the
flat of his hand across your butt. I think the final score was a
draw; though Hope liked to somersault towards me and take multiple
swats-laughing all the time. As for the popularity of checkers vs.
"Spankie the Mankie": butt-slappin' won, "hands down".

FOLLOW THAT CAR
You've seen enough movies to have heard that line. On Thursday the
soccer team played Lobamba National High School. They beat us 3-0,
though we had our chances. I really think our school has
potential; it just needs to be refined. I think our current coach
can do it, if we can keep him over the years.
After the game, we sat four about an hour waiting for the food to
come. Mr. Khumalo did eventually deliver the goods, we chowed,
then it was into town to get transport back to the school. I was
under the impression that there'd be a kombi in town chartered for
us, and that it would be a smooth transition from the back of
Mavuso's pickup truck to the kombi.

Wrong. Welcome to the adhocracy. I read a book by Tom Peters
called Re-Imagine. In it, he suggests business by the seat of the
pants, chucking protocol out the window, and making it up as one
goes along. I wonder if he has ever worked a year in such a
situation, and if he would still advocate it after this
hypothetical 1'year internship. Seems a lot of logistics here ifts
Peters' adhocracy idea.

Anyway, I got out of the pickup, Khumalo pressed 13 Emalangeni
into my hand, and said "Try to find a kombi". I went to the bus
rank and glanced at my watch. 3:55PM. Hmmm, Shining Star bus
leaves at 4. That would be nice, as I could read my latest First
Things magazine as I travel.

There was Shining-leaving the rank. You and I have also seen
movies where someone chases a car on foot. So, that's what I did.
I would keep the bus in sight a while, then it would go over a
hill and I'd lose it. I'd weave around a couple other pedestirans,
then see it again.
Finally, it got into a flat section where I was afraid I'd lose it
for good if I didn't get some real speed. I saw a small pickup
truck at a red light, put my cap in my hand, and knocked on the
window. The guy rolled down the window, I hurriedly explained my
desire to catch that bus, and asked if he could take me to it. He
said "Hop in".
We had a nice 5 minute conversation as we got ahead of the bus. We
agreed there's more money and action in South Africa, but it's a
more dangerous place. I have since reflected that that is very
true; I would never dare the thing I had just did in Johannesburg.
He dropped me at the top of the hill, Shining came by in 30
seconds, and on I jumped. The bus was packed with people and their
Easter groceries, but after 30 minutes I could sit and enjoy First
Things.

After getting off the bus, I actually met 2 players from the high
school team. They had indeed caught a chartered kombi; it had
simply left from another place. Time from leaving school to
returning, to play one 90 minute soccer game? 8 hours. Experience
along the way? Priceless.

NSUKUMHILLBILLY
While sitting on a bus waiting to return to school, you tell the
family you're going to take the banana peels and drop them in the
trash can just outside the bus. Your two elder daughters want to
go with you; "I'm only going to the trash can", you tell them. "We
want to go!" they reply, in the tone of voice that indicates a
second refusal may result in tears. They happily accompany you on
the 30 yard round-trip to the trash can. Not just a trip to town-a
trip to the TRASH CAN too!
Hillbilly

In the course of your girls taking a dip in the backyard
above-ground swimming pool (the plastic black barrel used to
collect rainwater off the roof), you hear/join the following
conversation:

Cub: Did you pee in the tub?
Grace: No.
Rudy: Don't do that!
Hope: I did; twice.
Grace: No wonder the water is so warm!
Hillbilly

Have a good day,
The Poglitsh's