Swaziland

Hidden atop a high pass, known as Pigg's Peak, the Kingdom of Swaziland is proving difficult to get to. 

I chose the most rewarding route up, but I'm having to earn it...  the lovely asphalt switchbacks changed after the Bulembu border post, and has become pitted forestry tracks covered in a layer of that bull dust / fesh-fesh power that tests the best.  I was a little worried whether the new tyres would bite, but they are so I'm making steady progress up the dozen kilometers to the top.  That border guard was on the money when he grimaced and described this road as 'just the worst!'. 

The tricky ascent finished, I enjoy a fine view over the new country: a sweep of hills, covered with well managed fir tree plantations - not the landscape I'm expecting.  This is more Alaska than Africa. 

I turn due south through the hills.  The road is surprisingly empty so I lean on the throttle a bit and skim across the highlands, flinging the air aside as camber and corner dance into line.   The general speed limit in the Kingdom is only 80kph on main roads, but I adopt a Nelson-like miopia towards the inside ring of numbers on the speedo. 

Daylight will fade soon and I'm in a hurry.  I must get to a second border post because my departure from South Africa was stymied back at Bulembu: there was no Customs Office to officially stamp out my Carnet de Passage (for the bike).  Of the options open to me, the best requires a short detour to a more significant border post - the one at Ngwenya.  Paper work completed satisfactorily, I now have just enough time to reach Mbabane, and then to my hostel, in the Ezulwini Valley, ten minutes further on.  

The descent of Malagwane Hill (last of the jumble of granite mountains in which Mbabane is tucked) is dual-carriage way down to the wide valley floor and silky smooth.  Being late in the day, it's free of crawling lorries and reckless minivan taxi divers, so I concentrate instead on the lovely tight bends.  It's great having some good road-rubber on the bike again for stretches like this. 

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Sickness lays me rather low the next day, so I take it quietly.  I shuffle up to a local cultural village, which puts on a show for the tourists.  And it was pretty good, too - just listening to the harmony of the African singing is beautiful, and watching the drum-driven dancing thrills the small crowd.  Welcome to Swaziland!

My Rough Guide has this to say:

'Although South Africa's influence predominates, Swaziland was a British protectorate from 1903 until its full independence in 1968, and today the country offers an intriguing mix of colonial heritage and homegrown confidence, giving the place a friendlier, more relaxed and often safer feeling than its larger neighbour.'

Well, maybe.  There are alot of armed, edgy police around, and I don't detect anything obviously 'British' during my short stay - other than driving on the proper side of the road (mostly).

Execution rock, from afar

Far more interesting is the information I glean in the cultural village, most of which concerns 19th Century history: the huts, the wives, the rituals and the gruesome penalties for criminals (forced to jump to their death from the nearby mountain: 'execution rock').

More modern information comes from the newspapers I peruse over breakfast.  Seems the king still has plenty of wives, but keeps losing his ministers in road traffic accidents.  And it's the only country in southern Africa not practising multi-party democracy, so that's awkward.  Teachers are on strike about their pay deal, but His Majesty invited everyone - as in, the whole nation - to come round to his place and talk about it.  Small country, strange ways, eh?

Twenty-four hours later, Monday morning, I'm feeling much better.  But I remind myself that this is 'Afri-caaah' and health issues need to be taken seriously.  Rather than ride on, I pay a visit to the nearby Mozambique Embassy and pick up a 30-day visa: it's 60% cheaper to do it this way, if you've got time, rather than purchase the visa at the border. 

A bad case of 'Swazi shin', doctor

With health on the mind, I also find an obliging pharmacy.  They sort me for a more bespoke brand of anti-malaria pills, and also hand me a self-treat cure course of pills - for emergency use.  (Local strains of malaria resistant to particular drugs mean that I should always seek local health centre treatment if I suspect I've caught malaria.  However, as the frank pharmacist explained, if you take too long getting there and then wait around for blood tests.... it might be too late.  Better to hit the disease quickly with a 'likely' cure, and then use additional medication later, if and when the tests come back.)  This is a refreshing, no-nonsense approach. 

 

I spend the rest of the day handling various administrative tasks that are hanging over me a little.  It was a productive effort, but internet costs out here are very expensive and I couldn't help feel a little frustrated.   Plate spinning from afar is a constant challenge, and with intermittent communication it's harder still.

I work out some frustration early Tuesday morning by climbing the small mountain (hill?) that rises behind the backpackers.  It's barely an hour up, but affords superb 360 degree views of the area.   Pity I only brought the camera phone... and an even bigger pity the batteries are now flat.  Doh.

On my return, I pack my tent and ride east, to the border.  I've not seen very much of Swaziland - barely registered the cities, ignored the museums, scorned the adrenaline activities, and snubbed the king.  The game reserves are untroubled by my lens, and the sugar cane fields remain off-camera.  Yet, I leave wanting to see more.  It's a repeating theme of my journey and I guess I'll have to come back one day.