It's interesting how ritualized siSwati is. (Perhaps English is too and I'm merely accustomed?) When one passes another in the road, one always, always greets. Most of the time, even if you don't know the other person at all, you greet. "Sawubona," to one person, "Sani bonani," to more than one (or a particularly respectable one). They answer, "Yebo," ("yes") and you say "Unjani?" or "Ninjani?" ("how are you?"). To which they always say "Ngikhona / sikhona," or "Ngiyaphila / siyaphila," ("I'm here" or "I'm healthy"). If you choose to continue then you ask, "Uyaphi?" ("where are you going?"). If you choose to continue past that then you can say "Liyashisa," ("it's hot") in summer or "Makata," ("it's cold") in winter. To which the polite response is "Yebo, liyashisa kakhulu!" ("it sure is!") even if it's not particularly hot at all (or cold).

I have this conversation at least ten times every day. Because I am an impatient American, I often skip straight to "Unjani?" Less formal, but it does the job, and won't offend unless it's the chief or something.

...

It was slow in my community today, so slow; even slower than is usual, here, partly because of the holidays. At least it wasn't terribly hot. I took a nap in the late afternoon and woke up around 6.30, took my daily malaria prophylactic. I wanted to go for a walk, but in Peace Corps we're trained to be terrified of that kind of thing. Never go anywhere alone, unless you know the route well and there are lots of people. Never, ever go out after dark. I spend so much time sitting still; the Swazis say, "ukhuluphele" -- "you're doing well, you're getting fat." Not quite fat, and maybe they're exaggerating out of politeness (fat's a Good Thing), but I'm certainly too sedentary. I had to walk. It wasn't dark yet. And the community knows me pretty well, now, so how dangerous can it be to walk in a new direction from my homestead? Just for twenty minutes? As long as I'm back by dark?

The earth here is red -- deep red -- brick-red. The dirt roads are all red, practically glowing in contrast against the dusty yellow-green fields and scrubby small trees. My area is bounded in distant romantic cliffs and mountains. The wind was strong today; it wasn't even close to hot, by 6.45; my hair blew across my face and streamed behind me. I went in a direction a host sister once told me was dangerous. "The last Volunteer used to walk along that road, in the fields," she said. "But it's dangerous."
"How?" I asked.
She shrugged.
"What do you mean?" I persisted.
"I don't know, it's just dangerous," she said.
"So I shouldn't go there, then?" I asked. She shrugged again.
Conversations with Swazis often go like that.

At a crossroads I saw a boy with a wheelbarrow twenty feet away, accompanied by a small sisi (girl), and waved. He waved back, asked how I was.
"Ngiyaphila."
He shouted something I couldn't hear.
"Angiva," I shouted back. ("I don't understand.")
"You look like an angel," he cried. The girl was hopping on one foot, giggling.
"Ngiyabonga," I shouted. ("Thank you.")
"I love you!" he said, which is normal; at least this one didn't ask me to marry him.
"Ncesi," I called back. ("Sorry.")
The girl was in paroxysms of laughter.

I was reminded of another man who mistook me for an angel. I was reminded of the song "Nobody Needs to Know," from the musical The Last Five Years; a betrayal, that song -- dislikable lyrics, but the melody's so beautiful.

The fields are very empty along that road. That's probably why my host sister said it was dangerous -- there'd be no one to hear me scream. I passed three Swazis walking abreast. "Ninjani?"
"Siyaphila," they chorused.
One turned to watch me and asked, "Uyaphi?"
I smiled. "Just walking."
They laughed and shrugged me off.

Over a year ago I talked to one of my oldest friends, Ed, about whether I should come to Africa when the Peace Corps called -- that, or try to hold out for a region I actually wanted, like Asia. I already knew Africa was the place they intended to send me, and I knew it would be risky to hold out for someplace I really wanted, because PC disdains such preferences and judges applicants negatively for having them. I remember that I was drunk. I was on the edge of crying. Ed said, "I think you should go to Africa," and I said, "Why?"
He said, "Because I think Africa will make you a better person."

An orange-legged round insect the size of my palm darted into the road, dug, darted back into the bush. I passed one of the skeletal bushes with white wooden thorns several inches long and paused, touching the thorns, pushing my fingers gently against the points.

Singani sami -- my boyfriend -- Rob and I trade text messages every day. Last night, in one flurry, I noted how much I appreciate it that "I always feel sure that you listen to what I say & interpret charitably." He wrote back: "If I ever felt anyone deserved a charitable interpretation, it's you, a creature of love and madness, even desperation." And tears came to my eyes.

I'm falling in love. With the many-shaded red road, with the dusky mountains and white thorns. With slowness and ritual greetings and text messages thrown into the ether, like messages in tiny bottles. This love doesn't quite feel -- natural? It doesn't feel unavoidable; it doesn't feel like lightning or an avalanche or an inferno. I am not overwhelmed. I'm walking into it slowly.

I joked to all my friends before I left that within six months I'd either develop Stockholm Syndrome or go home. I've got it now; I'm falling in love; I have no choice. But I wouldn't have come here if I wanted a choice.

I'll just paste it here, because I doubt that the "Times of Swaziland" is going to get on my case. It's worth glancing at the original for the comments though. This mirror has some good comments too.

It's from the Letters to the Editor section:

Sir,

My name is Willard Windsor a resident of New York, United States of America.
I was born in Swaziland in 1964 and I left your beautiful country with my father when I was three years old.
My mom stayed on in Swaziland until 1986, and when she came back to the States she told me that if I wanted a happy life I should marry a Swazi woman, as they know how to take care of their husbands.

I didn’t listen to her then but I’m willing to listen to her now.
I am coming to Africa for the soccer world cup next year and I would like to use that opportunity to visit Swaziland as well, and hopefully meet and marry my new wife.

So I am hoping that you will publish my request for women who would like to marry me to send me emails so that I can communicate with them and make a proper choice before coming for the world cup. Briefly about myself; I’m a VP for Acquisitions at an Independent bank in New York City.

I am a divorcee and I have a 12 year old daughter. I’m looking for a woman between the ages of 20 to 40, and I’m not too picky; I just want a woman with a good heart to help me raise my daughter and take good care of me. I make good money so my wife will not need to work or worry about finances. So please publish my details in your newspaper and help me meet my future wife.

Willard Windsor.
willardwindsor@aol.com

The editor responds:

Windsor,

My immediate thought to your request is that I hope it is a genuine interest you have in our women. I also do hope that you are not just looking for someone to keep you busy during the month of the world cup. Having said that, it obviously lies with all the women who will show interest to make sure they know what they are getting themselves into.

Otherwise, let’s appreciate what your mother told you, it goes without saying that she is very right. We have beautiful women, who were raised right, and who I am sure, are intelligent enough to see through certain cons. Good luck, and may all those who will be interested tread carefully!

Editor.