HOW TO GET A SON
I have mentioned that Swazi reactions to the birth of our fourth DAUGHTER were mixed; many people wanted us to have a son. This topic arose recently at the local "7-11", where we buy bread, tomatoes, onions, and the occasional candy. The mostly-female crowd was saying something about ematjobo, which is an animal skin worn by men like a loincloth (though another piece of fabric is worn between the ematjobo and the body). I was guessing they were asking if I had any ematjobo of my own (which I do), or if I had a child who could wear them (meaning, did I have a boy). Then somehow the pieces fell into place. What they were saying is that I should don some ematjobo before Ruth and I begin an evening of nuptual pleasures; this would help get Ruth and I a son. When I got it, and when they saw that I got it, we all laughed like fools. The Swazis have a dry and subtle sense of humor sometimes; in light of the recent burial of Waley Dlamini, this sense of humor was a welcome relief.

HOW TO DRESS LIKE A SWAZI
I have posted a photo of me wearing my traditional Swazi clothing, and a brief description of the different articles of clothing, at http://poglitshphotos.blogspot.com/2010/05/how-to-dress-like-swazi.html
I do not have every piece of Swazi clothes, but what I do have is there on display.

TMAN1989
While moving stones man-to-man (like a bucket brigade) onto Waley's grave on April 24, I noticed something written on a young man's jacket. For some reason, casual shirts and coats here often display strings of incoherent letters and numbers as decoraton; they don't really convey a message. I think some of them come out of China. Anyway, this man's jacket had "TMAN1989" on the left chest. I looked twice to see if I had read that right, and I had. "Tman" was the nickname of a high-school All American soccer teammate of mine, whom I held and continue to hold in high regard (friend, you know who you are even as you read this). "1989" caught my eye because it feels to me that the 1980s are still recent-when of course the went down on that decade 20 years ago. The juxtaposition of two familiar "blasts from the past" with burying a young man in rural Swaziland was dizzying and comforting at the same time.

WORK LIKE MAKE MALINGA
"Make" (pronounced "mah-GAY") is the Swazi word for mother. Make Malinga was my homestead mother during my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and our family enjoyed her on our occasional visit to the homestead until her death in 2004. My Swazi father married another woman, and she is also very kind. This week we spent 4 days at the homestead, helping harvest the corn and taking some family photographs, since this "new" wife recently gave birth to a son (maybe we should ask her for some tips on how she got a boy...).

She and Ruth had some agriculturally-oriented discussions. Soon she wants to grow lettuce; she can get 300 seedling lettuces for 66 Emalangeni, and sell each bunch for E2 in one month: E600 gross profit, E534 net. She told Ruth that Abner (her husband, my Swazi dad) said there is money to be made in farming, so work like Make Malinga. Make Malinga always had something growing, and the homestead always had money. My "new" make also wants to meet the needs of her two children (clothes, school fees, food), and so she intends to keep her land under production. It is encouraging to hear this, and it was good to be reminded of Make Malinga.

MAMBA MOMENT
I was burning the trash recently when Mr. Stan Mamba, resident handyman genius, came by and asked me for some help. He had been keeping a white sedan for some people because someone related to the homestead would occasionally lose his sanity and start throwing rocks at the car. That person is back to normal and working in Mbabane, so Mamba wanted to put the car at the gate so they could come collect it. He asked me to get in the car and steer it while he towed it to the school gate. I said "sure". We reached the cars and I noticed that they were hitched together by a nylon rope, rear bumper to rear bumper. I said "Mamba, we're going to tow this car backwards?" "Yes", he answered. I put my hands on my hips, my head on one side, and a grimace on my face to communicate something like "Mamba, you have got to be kidding me; don't you do anything by the book?"

I got in the driver's seat of the white car and got ready to steer the thing by whipping my head from left to right over my shoulders to make sure I kept it pretty much following Mamba (I'm not coordinated enough to use the rear view mirrors for such a task). The tow went pretty well for about 20 yards, then Mamba stopped; I don't remember why now. The car was facing down a mild slope, so he suggested I try to roll-start it. I failed, and he said that the engine has some problems. We changed the towing configuration to a more "traditional" one; Mamba's pickup in front and pulling the white car BY THE FRONT BUMPER. Mncobi Dlamini, son of a teacher, and Grace (they are roughly the same age) climbed in the bed of the pickup. We began the tow a second time and got within about 20 yards of the gate. We stopped again, and Mamba said he thought I would try to jump start it again. I apologized; I didn't know he wanted me to. We switched cars, so now I was behind the wheel of his pickup and he was in the white one. Sure enough, mechanical prodigy Mamba got the white car moving under its own power.

We drove out to the road and he said he wanted to drive it around to recharge the battery, but not so much because he feared it didn't have very much gas. I asked him what he wanted me to do (as in "What if you run out of gas?"). He asked if I had my cellphone on me, and I said no. He said I should follow him. So we ran down the road to Entfubeni Primary School. Zipping down our dirt road in the backside of nowhere, it was like being Bo and Luke Duke of the Dukes of Hazzard. Upon returning to the school, Mamba spoke with someone who knew where the owners homestead was (Mamba apparently didn't). Mamba decided to take the chance on getting the car back to its proper homestead. So we set off again, me following him. He had to ask directions a second time, but apparently got it right. He drove the car on a branch road (more like a glorified path) and disappeared. Mncobi, Grace and I waited in his car on the main road.

The weather grew threatening, with lightning and booming thunder approaching. Sound travels 1000 feet per second in air, and a mile is about 5000 feet. If you see a flash of lightning and start counting, and every 5 seconds marks one mile from the lightning. The length of time between flash and thunder crash kept getting smaller. I asked a boy standing by if the Maseko homestead (to whom the car belonged) was far or near. He said it was near. So I decided to stay where we were, figuring Mamba would return the car and zip right back. But more time passed, and I started to worry: maybe the homestead is quite a distance down that branch road, and maybe Mamba expected me to follow him and pick him up. I didn't like the idea of him getting caught in a torrential rain with lightning, and I had just thumbed through a copy of the book Lone Survivor about a team of Navy SEALs in Afghanistan in 2005. I decided I would go back after my friend, and take what came. Just as I edged the front of the pickup onto the branch road, Mamba came jogging out. He climbed into the passenger seat (which also held Mncobi and Grace), and away we went back to school. He said he had to finish off the formalities with the owners; I had wondered as much. With a blinding storm accompanied with lightning on the way, customs are customs and the traditional details had to be covered. But, all's well that ends well.

Interestingly, Mamba did not get behind the wheel to drive us home; I expected him to. We know of almost no circumstances under which anyone here lets anyone else drive their car. Whether he meant it or not, his not asking for the keys was taken my me as a silent vote of trust and friendship. I appreciated it.

BARBIEWORLD
"You've come a long way, Barbie." The clever folks at Mattel have figured out that little girls like to watch movies and in a world of ever-increasing computer power, they have moved the impossibly-proportioned Barbie doll into her own full-length animated movies. Friends in town own some of these dvds, and we borrow them occasionally. To her credit, Barbie is no longer concerned only with her late-model pink Corvette, her ski chalet fantasy home, and her next date with Ken. In these films (which are often adaptations of classic tales like The Nutcracker and The Prince and the Pauper) Barbie shows integrity, devotion to duty, bravery, and kindness. Our three older girls watched a recently-borrowed Barbie movie 3 times in a week, and are still reciting songs, dialog, and plot developments. This exchange recently took place:

Cub: "Ann Elyse and Erica-I remember the names!" (these are the two main characters in The Princess and the Pauper)
Grace: "I don't remember the names, but I do remember the clothes."

Welcome to my world-welcome to Barbieworld.

NSUKUMHILLBILLY
You apply the "3 second rule" to guava consumption: if you break open an unusually soft guava (which are often the sweetest ones) and for 3 seconds don't see worms crawling around inside (often the cause of the softness), then you eat it. You might still get some worms, but you won't know if you did.
Hillbilly

Your children find a magnificent but dying moth near your door. Your eldest daughter turns it into a barette (see photo blog).
Hillbilly

Have a good day,
Rudy for the gang