65
You crown the year with your bounty; the tracks of your chariot drip with fatness.
The pastures of the wilderness drip, the hills gird themselves with joy,
the meadows clothe themselves with flocks, the valleys deck themselves with grain, they shout and sing together for joy.

That's from Psalm 65, verses 11 to 13. On Saturday October 2nd, I (Rudy) participated in a 65km bike race from Mbabane to Manzini. I heard about the race after the completing the 40km race back in August. I had heard that the City to City (Mbabane to Manzini) race was a lot of fun, and it did seem like a kick to travel from one major city to another via dirt paths. Besides, I reasoned, it is generally downhill from Mbabane to Manzini (Mbabane is in the highveld, Manzini in the middleveld), so it should not be as exhausting as the Sibebe race had been. This reasoning, though somewhat sound, is like a high school or college student in Ohio budgeting less fuel money going south to Florida for spring break because (surely) going south is the same as going downhill. Though the race did, of course, have an overall downward trajectory, there were some hills. I had experienced a bout of diarrhea the week leading up to the race, and so my stomach wasn't in great shape starting out. At one point I just had to get off the bike and try to use a toilet. I stopped at a homestead and asked if I could use their outhouse. They said yes, and even gave me a roll of toilet paper (though I had some of my own with me). I had more than half decided to find the next official vehicle and ask them to take me to the end. I called Ruth from the outhouse (my, aren't cell phones convenient!) and told her where I was. After my 20 minute hiatus and guzzling some more water, I gave the kid who passed me the toilet paper a big handful of candies (the race organizers did a great job of providing candy, fruit, and drinks at various stops along the way) for his generosity, and I got back out on the trail. I resolved to walk the bike wherever the hills were just too daunting. Suprisingly, I felt better after the rest, and a race offical said there were only two more water tables (where they give you food and drink) to go, and that after the second table it is 7km (about 4 miles) to the finish. Alright, then, I'll try to finish, I decided. I did finish-though it was sweat dripping in the tracks of my "chariot", not fatness! I was nearly in tears of joy by the end, just thinking I would really make it. I bunny-hopped over the finish line in 6 hours, 53 minutes. The winner of the race, a man named Thulani Gule whom I met before the Sibebe race and who gave me training tips for the City to City race via e-mail, finished in 4 hours 2 minutes. My question is, HOW?!?!?!?! That race nearly killed me, and he did it in almost 3 hours less time. I learned later that the guys who are competitive in these races bike 3 hours a day, 3 times a week. Ah, well, that does explain some things. Thulani, who is a great guy, by his victory qualified for a 180km race spread over three days. I asked him what he does to keep his body from quitting on him; he said once you get past the first day, it's not too bad. I suspect he's being humble, or he's some sort of bionic man and he's not letting on about the latter fact.
For the couple of weeks before the race I doubled the length and frequency of my rides, in the hopes of avoiding the huge cramps I got on the previous race. Also, though I entertained no hope whatsoever of being competitive in the race, I hoped not to come in dead last place. I reached my first goal; no hobbling, scream-inducing cramps this time! I failed in the second. I was #22 in a field of 22. Still, I did finish the race, and had a good time along the way, and that was enough. The scenery along the trail was great. It's a funny thing; this country is only the size of New Jersey, and I spend most of my time in the even smaller area between Mbabane and the school, and I like to think I know that small region pretty well. Even so, this path went through areas right in our "backyard" that I never knew existed, and which once again blew me away with their beauty.
On the style side of the event, the first 20 riders to register got a free cycling shirt (you know, those fancy-colored shirts with the three pockets in the back). I was really excited about that, until I saw it: pink and black. The proceeds from the race went to cancer research, and I'm all for that-but I really didn't relish the thought of a pink and black shirt. Ruth was quick to tell me that here in Africa, colors don't make any difference with respect to gender; people would ask us if our children were boys or girls, even though they always wear and dresses. Still, pink...So I took it to the starting point (which was at the bike shop in town) and explained my situation to an employee. "Look, this is a nice shirt, but..." he chimed in "It's pink". He understood! He exchanged that shirt for one with graphics-and colors-I really like.
At the finish line, they had a water slide and other amusements for kids. Ruth and the girls were with our friends the Rugumambaju's there, so everyone had a great time when dad came trundling in. The girls did not have swimsuits, but for their age it is okay for them to just have a shirt and their underwear on; so they brought their dripping selves over to me and gave me a hug when I finished. What a great way to end a great race. I can't wait for next year.

TRAVELLING SALESMAN
I am a "homeroom teacher", and a couple weeks back a student from my homeroom said "Mr. Poglitsh, I need to see you." I was a little concerned; no news is good news, and to hear "need" from someone you are in charge of isn't something one looks forward to. So I went over to him and he opened his briefcase (most students have backpacks for their books; this student, Tsepiso, carries a briefcase). "My mother is selling atchar; would you like some?" Inside his briefcase he carried a mayonnaise jar of his mom's home-made atchar. Atchar is a mixture of cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, and other vegetables mixed with hot sauce and other spices; I like to have a bottle on hand all the time, as the girls like their food pretty mild and I like to liven mine up. Not only did he have a jar to look at, but he had a small spoon inside the jar for those who would like a taste. Not being sure whose mouth or hand that spoon had been in, I declined the free sample; but I ordered a bottle on sight, for my gustatory pleasure and to encourage Tsepiso's entrepreneurship. I've nearly finished the jar, and told him so this week; he says he'll have another one for me around next Wednesday. It's a good deal for all.

MOONLIGHTING
I came across Jabulane Gama, the school gatekeeper, repairing some student's school shoes this week. Gama's job is busy at the beginning of the school day and busy at its end; in between, he rings the bell to end one class period and begin the next. It gets slow. So with a homemade awl and some string, he repairs shoes to keep himself busy and bring in a little cash. Good for him.

THREE GAMES AT ONCE, AND REFEREES TO BOOT
A soccer team has 11 players on the field at once. I have 69 Form one (eighth grade) students in my science class. One day this week I reflected that with these 69 kids you could have three soccer games being played concurrently, with a ref for each game. Their classroom measures probably 10 yards by 20 yards; the quarters are pretty close. But they are good kids.

DRY SPELL
Yowee! Last week Tuesday the water pressure was falling off in the science lab sinks. I checked the tanks, and sure enough-no water coming in. While I was at the tanks, a lady informed me that the natural resource people (the ones officially in charge of the community-wide water project) told her they would cut the water off. Why? In order to try to patch the leaks in the filtration tanks. The system has a rectangular tank about 4 feet high, divided into 5 smaller tanks. The middle three tanks have crushed stone in them, indended to catch dirt in the water coming from the source. In order to patch holes, the tanks have to be emptied and dried; hence, no water. Everyone here at the school survived the 4 days without much water, but it was not pleasant. Cooking and cleaning dishes takes on an aspect-water conservation-one does not usually associate with culinary endeavors. We went twice the usual length of time (2 weeks instead of one) between laundry runs. And flushing a toilet used by six people (Jabu is semi-toilet trained, though we have to sit on the potty with her) just twice a day...you get the idea. We were glad for the 100 liter plastic barrel and the rain gutter we have in the back; the odd rain/mist collected there, and we could flush the toilet. The water did come back Friday afternoon; were we all a happy bunch! Really, do not take running water for granted. If you want to see how important it is, just turn off the main valve servicing your house for a day. Then offer a little prayer of thanks for the folks who keep the H2O flowing. Oh, yeah; the natural resource folks decided their job wasn't quite done. From Wednesday to today (Friday), we've been out of water. They say it will come back on today. Fortunately, we've had lots of solid rains, so our barrel is full.

BERLIN WALL
In the past we have had problems with students and community children stealing our peaches. We have also had problems with worms and birds eating our peaches. So, we have 1) sprayed for worms; 2) netted the trees against the birds; and now 3) put up a barbed wire-tipped fence all around a certain area we want protected. The 6 foot high square-welded, narrow-guage fence went up during the last school break. The barbed wire went up on Wednesday. Neither Ruth nor I like building in such security, but neither do we like about half the peaches we have cultivated to go into other mouths without so much as a "please" or a "thank you". Besides, stealing is bad for the souls of the ones who steal; so if the fence provides sufficient deterrent to theft, all the better for them too. One of the old National Geographic magazines the school received as a donation had a story about the "two Berlins" (prior, of course, to 1989); I could not shake the idea of serious barricades from my head as I put the prickly finishing touch on our fence. In addition to the peach trees already in the enclosure, we will put some seedlings of trees for living fenceposts in the area to see how they do. Living fencesposts is small-scale agriculture talk for trees with thorns, or dense trees, or yucky-tasting trees, which keep would-be two and four-legged invaders out of one's crops.

EARTH MOVERS
As I headed towards the garden to finish the fence, Kit said she wanted to go with me. I said fine, then Cubby wanted to come. No problem at all. Cubby carried the wound-up barbed wire, then found a dirt pile next to the fence much more fun. She ran back and got garden trowels, and she and Kit had a great time (over an hour) building what irrigation canals. It was funhearing their excited chatter as they planned and dug their canals. I was once again, struck by the fact that we are in a good place for raising kids. One summer in college, I got to study river otters in southwest Colorado. Another undergrad and I were helping a graduate student finish her master's degree on the otter reintroduction. This "job" entailed long days bicycling beside the Dolores River in a beautiful sandstone canyon, canoeing the same river, and hiking up nearby mountains (like Mount Hesperus) on the weekends. The program also offered a small stipend. My undergraduate colleague and I would occasionally look at each other and say, "Man, they are PAYING us to do this". Though life here also has some frustrations, it also has many "man, they pay us to be here" moments.

ROOIBOS BATH
As you might imagine, some dirt ended up where it should not have-including in Cubby's hair. After the girls and I had finished our respective jobs, I noticed a considerable amount of dirt in Cub's hair. "Cub, did you know you have a lot of dirt on top of your head?" I asked. "Yes", she said. "How did it get there?" I continued. Cub got a smile on her face and said "Kit put it there; she said she needed to move some dirt, and there was no where else to put it." Naturally, Cubby washed her hair before dinner. I said it looked nice, but either someone mentioned it or I smelled something different in her hair. Turns out she used some of the same water (heated in the teapot) that had steeped a liter of rooibos (South African-style) tea earlier in the day. Cub knew this going in, and wanted the tea-treatment shampoo. It was a Celestial Seasonings selection (thanks mom and dad!), and had a hint of Madagascar vanilla in it. I suspect this could fall into the category marked "Hillbilly haircare".

WEATHER STATIONS
As mentioned above, we have had lots of solid rains recently. The wet season has begun! It is sobering to realize that the livelihood of many of the people in this area depends, each year, on good rains. So even though it is worrisome sometimes about whether we will be able to get to town on a Saturday, we never really begrudge the rain; rain means food.
K.C. Dlamini, Mr. Mavuso, and I were standing near the assembly ground right before school early this week. A medium mist was falling, and no one was sure if the students would gather at the outdoor assembly ground (as they usually do) or go to their individual classrooms (as they do in rainy weather). K.C. said "This isn't a very heavy rain. We (meaning he and I) are good weather detectors", indicating our increasingly bald heads. We all laughed, and I added "Your time is coming, Mavuso!" Mavuso is about 10 years behind K.C. and I. "It already has begun", Mavuso replied, indicating his receding hairline. This is the first job I have been in long enough (8 years at the end of this year) that I have been able to watch my colleages (and myself!) significantly age. I notice more grey hairs among them, and more aching joints in me.

POLICE ESCORT
Last Friday afternoon Kit stepped barefooted on a piece of rusty metal. Western, high-strung parents that we are, we were worried about tetanus. The next day Kit and I went to the Mbabane Clinic to see if she should get a tetanus shot. She had received some of her shots a couple years ago, but her immunization card was confused as to when her last tetanus shot was (no credit to us, keeping her records up to date). We saw Dr. Wasswa, the MD who delivered her, and he indicated that the next shot in that series is no longer given and since the puncture was not deep, Kit should be fine. We left relieved.
On the walk back to town, a police car stopped us. The officer in the passenger seat asked who we are, where we are going, what we do in the country, etc. I couldn't decide what was going on, but I kept smiling and answering politely. As long as they did not ask us to get into the car I was happy. They didn't, and we parted. When Kit and I had completed our errands in town, we hurried to the bus rank in the hopes of catching the noon Shining Star bus out of town. We arrived in time, but Shining was not there. We stood in the (long) line for the Nsukumbili-bound kombis for 20 or so minutes, and then my distaste for long waits ending in half-chances of getting transportation kicked in. "Hey, Kit" I asked, "want to take that kombi to Mbuluzi and see what we get from there?" Took a little convincing, but she went for it.
We quickly and comfortably arrived at the end of the paved road. We walked for about 10 minutes at the most when a police car came down the road. It was the same two men we had met earlier in the day, and they stopped and had us get in. They saved us a GREAT DEAL of walking, and we had a nice conversation about how long and why we live here. The driver was especially friendly.
They dropped us off about halfway to the school, at major junction in the dirt road. We walked for about 10 more minutes when we heard the sound of a heavy diesel engine behind us. I told Kit I was not sure if it was going to town or coming our way, and I had no idea what kind of vehicle it was. But much to our happy suprise, 30 seconds later Shining Star bus came over the horizon! We trundled ourselves on, took our big, spacious seat, and enjoyed the rest of the ride home. Travelling without one's own car carries a real sense of adventure here. I don't know what it will be like to live in the US again and drive our own vehicle. We had better come up with some lively en-route entertainment. I guess you're not supposed to pick up hitchhikers in the US anymore. Too bad. It would be nice to return the favor, even vicariously.

Have a good day,
Rudy for the gang